Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(62)

People murmur their approval. I usually disagree with Aramovsky, but this time he’s right. The Springers attacked us once—they will attack us again. If I want to save lives, we need to kill our enemy, we need to be forever free.

Aramovsky puts his arm around my shoulders, keeps talking to the crowd.

“Em knows what must be done. She killed one of them. She will lead us into battle, we will win this war, and the gods will be—”

Splat—the purple fruit hits his face, spins down to the floor, where it lands in a wet pile.

He stares, stunned. Smelly juice drips from his skin.

In the following silence, Spingate growls her words at Aramovsky.

“Battle? Kill them all? You superstitious idiot.” She casts her glare about the room. “And all of you, blindly agreeing with anything he says. Are you stupid? We can’t go to war with the Springers—we need them.”

Aramovsky’s arm slides away from my shoulders. As it does, I can feel his hatred, an almost physical thing.

“I thought you knew math,” he says to her. “There is only so much fruit. It’s us or them.”

Spingate rolls her eyes. “You want to wipe out an intelligent race that could show us how to survive? The red mold isn’t the only threat here. What about poisons the purple fruit won’t purify? What about the snake-wolves, or other predators we haven’t seen? How many people in this room need to die before we understand what’s safe and what isn’t? The Springers know how to survive on Omeyocan—we don’t.”



Her words chisel away at the vengeful feeling in my chest. She’s right. We’ve only been here a few days. There could be more dangers. Without someone to guide us, each lesson we learn might come from someone getting hurt. Or worse.

Coyotl bangs his thighbone against the shuttle wall. He’s standing with Borjigin, both of them looking over the crowd of smaller kids in front of them.

“They killed Visca,” Coyotl says. “We could have killed them first, but we didn’t! First chance they got they attacked us. Aramovsky is right—they’re demons!”

Spingate shakes her head. “They’re not demons.”

“You didn’t see them,” Borjigin says. “They’re horrible to look at.”

She screams her answer: “We probably look horrible to them! We have to find a way to communicate—we can’t just march into the jungle and slaughter them!”

“We can,” Aramovsky says. “We must. On the largest building in this city stands a statue of Em, of our own leader. It is a sign from the gods that she is destined to lead us to victory!”

Aramovsky smiles at me, eyes blazing with intensity. He wants me to embrace this “destiny.” But it’s not a statue of me: it’s supposed to be Matilda. The way Aramovsky says it, though…it’s hard not to wonder if he’s right. Matilda isn’t on Omeyocan, I am—can’t old things take on new meanings?

“The Observatory has signs, too,” Spingate says, staring at me. I’m suddenly the object of a battle between two powerful people, each trying to sway me to their way of thinking.



“Remember those signs, Em?” she says. “Should we make them all come true?”

The images of death, of torturing gears and halves. Murder of people like Spingate, Gaston, O’Malley, Zubiri, Borjigin.

“Of course not,” I say. “But that’s not the same thing—the Springers aren’t like us.”

Spingate shrugs. “How would we know? You said there were children. Families. Sooner than you think, we’ll have families, too. Our children will inherit Omeyocan. What kind of a planet do you want them to have? One of war, or one of peace?”

Our children? That’s crazy. We’re not old enough for…

No, we are. Spin and I, Bawden, Smith, Johnson, Cabral, Opkick, D’souza…we all have the bodies of young women, not kids. And those of us that are kids won’t stay that way for long.

A little girl hops on top of a coffin: Walezak, Zubiri’s quiet friend.

“We should destroy the demons, before it’s too late,” she says. Her face contorts with rage. She pounds her fist into her palm as she talks. “Aramovsky is right—this planet was made for us. If we want it, we have to show that we’re worthy! Kill them all! Kill them all!”

Half the room erupts in roars and cheers.

So much hate on Walezak’s little features. It shocks me, disturbs me. She should be playing with dolls, not calling for slaughter. But she has a double-ring on her forehead. Like Aramovsky, she was made to preach religion.

Spingate waves her hands above her head, demanding the crowd’s attention.

“War isn’t a game,” she shouts. “If we try to solve this with violence, it won’t just be Springers that die. We have a few guns—the Springers have more.”



She points at the circle-star girl holding the pitchfork.

“What about you, Marija? Will you die from a bullet in the face?”

Spingate points at Borjigin. “Or you? Maybe a knife in the belly, a wound so bad even Smith’s coffin can’t fix it, so you die slow, screaming for help that no one can provide? Is that worth fighting our ugly enemy, Borjigin?”

Borjigin’s eyes are wide. He doesn’t answer.