Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(61)

“So what?” Bishop’s words are a growl. “Em needs Doctor Smith. The sooner the better.”

I would have expected Borjigin to shrink away from Bishop, but the boy stands tall.

“I think I can give the spiders new orders,” he says. “I need a few minutes, and Coyotl’s help. The spiders can get us to the shuttle faster than if we’re on foot.”

Borjigin is nothing like the stammering coward he was in the jungle. He’s confident, believes in what he says.

“Make it quick,” I say.

Coyotl and Borjigin run to their spider and get to work.

Bishop wants to disagree, but we’re back in the city, and I hold the spear—it’s my turn to give the orders again, and I’d much rather ride instead of walk.





Smith said I had a “flesh wound.” Nothing serious, at least according to her. I was in her coffin only long enough to make sure the bleeding had stopped, long enough for Spingate and Gaston to take a quick look at what we brought back. There isn’t time for anything more right now—decisions have to be made.

My people are once again packed in the coffin room on Deck One. I stand on the makeshift stage with Gaston and Spingate, who each have something important to say when I am finished. So many emotions on the faces that look back at me, a mixture of pride, disgust, respect and doubt, of love, fear and anguish. We are too many to all think the same way.

I tell my people what happened. The snake-wolf, the Springers, our run through the jungle, the spiders, the “nest” that must have come from the Xolotl, and—of course—Visca.

Many of the younger kids are crying. This is their first experience with death. Even if they weren’t close to Visca, they knew who he was, and they know he is never coming back.



The young circle-stars don’t cry, though. They now wear black coveralls and hold weapons of their own: axes, machetes, shovels, hammers…one girl even holds a pitchfork. While Bishop and I were gone, Farrar was getting them ready.

Good: when we fight the Springers again, we will need everyone.

After I finish, Gaston explains how the Springer guns work. He says they are muskets, primitive versions of the Grownups’ bracelets. The fabric that goes into the barrel is an explosive material. When it ignites, the barrel channels the explosion, drives a metal ball out fast enough to kill. Maybe it is “primitive” in Gaston’s opinion, but it makes our weapons look worthless in comparison.

“Em and the others brought back five muskets,” he says. “Each one is handmade. The parts aren’t really interchangeable, which is strange to me. Maybe they don’t have factories that can mass-produce these. There is enough ammunition to fire each musket seven times. Beckett and I think we can use the shuttle to make more ammunition. Maybe even more muskets, but we’re not sure yet.”

Gaston steps back, his lecture finished. The people look terrified, and I don’t blame them—there are monsters in the jungle that can kill us before we can even see them.

Spingate holds up the bashed purple fruit. She trembles with excitement.

“We tested it on the contaminated food,” she says. “The juice of this fruit kills the red mold.”

A roaring cheer rips the air. People grab at each other, unable to contain their joy. Gaston hugs Spingate, squeezes her and slaps her on the back so hard she winces and laughs.

If we can find enough fruit, we have an entire warehouse of food—years’ worth, enough to keep us alive while we learn to farm and hunt. Everyone is hungry, but now there is hope.



Aramovsky clasps his hands together and looks skyward.

“It is a miracle,” he says. “We are delivered.”

“Hardly,” Spingate says quickly. “We only have this one fruit. We need many more so we can experiment, find the best way to use it. If this was really a miracle, we’d have all the food we wanted, wouldn’t we?”

Aramovsky grins. “It’s not a miracle that on the very day we run out of food, we discover fruit that will let us survive? It’s not a miracle that we suddenly have guns and war machines? The gods provided tools of salvation—that doesn’t mean they’re going to do the work for us.”

He steps onto the stage. I see O’Malley bristle: he doesn’t like this. Well, that’s too bad. Whispering in my ear isn’t going to stop our enemy.

“The demons murdered brave Visca,” Aramovsky says. “May the gods welcome him home.”

In unison, half the crowd repeats his words: “May the gods welcome him home.”

A chill runs through me. How did they all know to say that? So many, speaking at once…it calls back Matilda’s vague memories of being in church. While I’ve been looking for food, how many people has Aramovsky talked to?

“They’re not demons,” Spingate says. “They’re intelligent beings.”

“They attacked us, for no reason,” Aramovsky says. He points to the fruit in her hand. “And they could have given us the secret to survival any time they liked. They did not because they are evil—they want us all to die.”

Grumbles of agreement. Heads nodding.



Even though he’s talking about demons and gods, is the core of what he says so wrong? We did nothing to the Springers.

“Now we have weapons,” he says. “We must take the spiders into the jungle and destroy the demons. The only way we can be safe is to wipe them out.”