Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(64)

Too many voices. Too many opinions.

I raise the spear over my head.

“Enough! I’ve made my decision. Only two people are going—the leader, who has the authority to speak for all of us, and the scientist, who can understand what we see.”

Spingate’s eyes meet mine. We are bound together in this. We were the first of our people to awaken. We found each other before we found anyone else. If we are to die trying to stop a war, then we will die as we began: together.

“The Observatory,” I say. “We’ll go there.”

She shakes her head. “I think this city is our territory, and the jungle is theirs. We need to go to them as a gesture of good faith. Can you take us to the clearing where Visca died?”

I remember the way Visca examined the trail, the surrounding plants, the footprints. I watched him carefully. Maybe I couldn’t find my way from the old fountain to that clearing, but—just like he did—I can follow the path from the gate to the first fire pit, then to the clearing where he died.



I look at the boys who don’t want us to go—Aramovsky, O’Malley, Bishop and Gaston—and I thump the spear butt lightly against the stage floor.

The decision is made, and it is final.





It’s just me and Spingate.

The fire pit was once again empty. I managed to pick up the same trail Visca followed. I figure we’re about an hour away from the clearing where he died.

We ripped a piece of white fabric out of a coffin and tied it to the end of my spear. O’Malley’s idea. Maybe the Springers won’t know it’s a symbol of peace, but it will make us visible a long ways off—we want them to know we’re coming.

The spiders are ours, and because of that, the city doesn’t seem as dangerous. Spingate and I rode on a spider with Bishop and Coyotl to the now-familiar gate. Bishop again insisted he come with, and again I said no. The two boys will wait for us at the gate. If we find another way in, I’ll send runners from the shuttle to bring them back.

Spingate seems so different now. This isn’t the giggling, frightened girl I woke up with. Is she changing because her memory is returning? Is it her relationship with Gaston?

I don’t know. And if she does, she’s not very talkative.



We have no idea if this will work. I think I’m right about Visca’s symbol, but can’t be sure. Even if I am right, the Springers might kill us anyway. I killed one of theirs, after all. If they recognize me, what will they do?

I have to try, though. If we don’t get food, I think Aramovsky will force a new vote—a vote I will lose. My people will want a new leader. I can’t blame them for that; they want something good to happen. I tell them the truth. Aramovsky will tell them what they want to hear, and for that he will win.

If he does, there will be war.

The sun is high overhead. A strong wind drives dark clouds our way. Blurds whiz by, their split-second shadows sometimes passing over our faces.

Spingate finally speaks. She stares straight down the path when she does.

“I thought you were going to take us to war,” she says. “I thought you were going to follow your violent nature.”

Does she think so little of me? Can’t she see what I actually did, not what she thought I would do?

“Violence is not my nature.”

She stops suddenly, finally looks at me. There is fire in her eyes.

“It is.” She points up. “We saw it on the Xolotl.” She points back toward the city. “We saw it on the Observatory steps.” She puts her fingertip on my chest. “And now we’ve seen it from you, when you killed that Springer.”

I slap her hand away.

“The deaths on the Xolotl belong to Matilda, not me, and so does the Observatory. And as for the Springer, you weren’t there. I had to kill to survive.”

She huffs. “Did you? Because from what Bishop and Coyotl and Borjigin said, it takes the Springers a long time to load their weapons. Why didn’t you just run away like Bishop did? Why did you go back to kill?”



(If you run, your enemy will hunt you…kill your enemy, and you are forever free.)

I went back because my father’s words are always rattling in my head. When things overwhelm me, I listen to those words. They make me act like a puppet. Spingate is right—maybe I didn’t realize it at the time, but I went back because I wanted to kill.

The sky darkens. Clouds close in.

I spot movement up high in the treetops. I stop, stare. Is there something behind the thick yellow leaves?

I point. “Did you see that?”

Spingate looks, concentrates, but shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “It was probably just an animal.”

The first drops of rain plunk against the jungle canopy. Then the skies open up—a light drizzle one second, a total downpour the next.

Spingate lowers her head and raises a hand to block the rain, but I ignore the splashing on my face—I keep looking.

Then it moves. Half my size, perhaps, the same yellow as vine leaves. Long, thin legs launch it from the treetop. Arms stretch out: something darker between the arms and the body, not wings, but skin, skin that catches the air and lets it glide. The small creature plunges through more vines and it is gone.

Spingate was right—it’s just an animal.