Alight

by Scott Sigler

  “Twelve days,” Borjigin says. “If we stretch it.”

  I feel some of the pressure ease out of the room. A bubble of calm sets in: we’re in bad shape, but we’re not going to die tomorrow.

  Then, that bubble bursts.

  “It’s worse than that.”

  Spingate. She’s standing in the back wall’s open door. She must have been on Deck Two, maybe in one of the labs. She holds up a white package: CRACKERS.

  “This came from a bin we opened when we landed, not even two days ago.”

  She waves her bracer above the package.

  The jewels flash orange.

  “Contaminated,” she says. “Enough to make us sick. Maybe even enough to kill us. Everything in the open bins is contaminated. We have to assume the only safe food is in bins that are still sealed. Even those might go bad.”

  I look at Gaston.

  “How many bins did we already open?”

  He hesitates before answering. “About half of them.”

  We have, at most, seven days’ worth of food left. Not enough time to farm. Maybe enough to learn to trap those small animals, but how many of those would we need—every single day—to feed three hundred people?

  Gaston looks nervous, like he thinks the crowd is about to attack him.

  “Not my fault,” he says. “We didn’t know about the mold.”

  Beckett stands up. The tan-skinned redhead has said almost nothing since my group merged with Bishop’s, but he’s suddenly so mad he can’t help himself.

  “Why did you open so many bins, Gaston?” Beckett points to the gear symbol on his own forehead. “A real scientist would have tested first, made sure there was no reaction from the environment!”

  Gaston huffs. “You’re a real scientist?”

  “I wouldn’t have ruined half our food!”

  Grumbles of agreement, even a few shouts—Gaston couldn’t have known, yet people blame him anyway.

  This room is growing angry, fast.

  Bawden points at some of the new kids. “The food would last longer if it wasn’t for all of these new empties.”

  The coffin room falls quiet.

  That word again.

  O’Malley was embarrassed he said it. Bawden is not.

  I don’t know the names of all the Xolotl kids, but I recognize their faces. On their foreheads, symbols: circles, yes, but also circle-stars, half-circles, gears, circle-crosses and a double-ring. On the foreheads of the new faces, though, I see only one symbol.

  The empty circle. Like mine.

  I scan the crowd, find O’Malley. I know full well he already counted.

  “Are all of the new kids circles?”

  He nods.

  What does that mean? An entire shuttle full of my people? No, everyone here is “my people.” In only one other place were all the symbols circles: the countless massacred bodies in Bishop’s section of the Xolotl.

  I see some people my age glaring at the new kids. The children sense this sudden hostility. They lean into each other, hold each other, eyes flicking from one black-clad person to the next.

  Can we really be capable of turning on each other this fast? We’re not even hungry yet—what will happen when we are?

  “Bawden, that word is off-limits,” I say. “Don’t use it again.”

  She sneers. “It doesn’t mean anything. Their circles are empty. And you can’t tell me what to do.”

  A metal-on-metal gong reverberates through the room, makes everyone jump. All heads turn toward Bishop: he has smashed the flat of his red axe against the red wall. He stares straight at Bawden.

  “Em is our leader,” Bishop says. His voice is calm, but unforgiving. “That means she can tell you what to do. She got us this far, didn’t she?”

  Bawden stares at Bishop as if she’s ready to fight him, but he isn’t being aggressive. He’s asking her to cooperate, not ordering her. That seems to make a difference.

  She looks at me. “Fine. I won’t use that word anymore.”

  Not an apology, but it’s something.

  How can we know a word is bad, but not know why it’s bad?

  Aramovsky stands on a closed coffin.

  “We shouldn’t fight each other,” he says. “The mold is our biggest threat. And its red color is no coincidence. It is punishment from the God of Blood, because not enough of us have accepted his divine way.”

  Spingate shakes her head. “It isn’t a punishment, you idiot. It’s biological.”

  “I see,” Aramovsky says. “Well, since it’s biology, I’m sure you already have a cure.” He smiles. “You’ll cure this before we run out of food, right, Spingate?”

  Her face wrinkles with rage. She rightfully blames him for waking these kids up in the first place.

  “Science doesn’t work that way,” she says. “It’s a process.”

  Aramovsky looks around the room, playing to the crowd.

  “She can’t promise us when she’ll find a cure, or if there even is a cure. See what happens if you put science over faith?”

  The package of crackers smacks into his head, making him wince in surprise.

  She puts her hands on her hips.

  “When you put science over faith, you save lives,” she says. “Those crackers that just bounced off your thick skull? If you had eaten those, you’d be dead. My science revealed that before anyone got hurt. Why didn’t your god tell Farrar not to eat the contaminated food? Does your god want everyone to die?”

  Aramovsky’s eyes narrow. “Not everyone, Spingate.” He stretches out his long arm and points a finger at her. “Just those who deserve it.”

  Around the room, roars of outrage—and some of approval.

  I slam the butt of the spear down on the makeshift stage. The plastic thonk isn’t as impressive as Bishop cracking his axe against the wall, but it quiets the room.

  Spear in hand, I step off the stage and stride toward Aramovsky. People scramble out of my way. I stand in front of him, not hiding my anger.

  “Did you just threaten Spingate’s life?”

  “Of course not,” he says. “I was merely answering her question.”

  “You pointed at her when you said it.”

  He speaks loudly, making sure everyone can hear him: “My apologies. I see how that might have looked.” He faces Spingate, bows. “I would never threaten your life. Only the God of Blood can decide who lives and who dies.”

  He stands straight again, looks down at me. “Just like only the gods can decide who leads.”

  My skin prickles. Is he challenging my leadership? That thickness in my chest again…my temper, surging. I control it, but barely. I lean close to him, whisper so quietly he has to bend forward to hear.

  “If anything happens to Spingate, I’ll hold you responsible.”

  Aramovsky glances at my spear. The blade is only inches from his face. He wants it, wants to stab me with it.

  Bishop clears his throat. “Aramovsky, let’s take a walk.”

  The tall boy’s face goes blank. He looks around the room, as if searching for someone who will help him. Everywhere he looks, people stare at the ground. No one wants to cross Bishop.

  First Bawden, now Aramovsky—Bishop is making things worse. People will think I can’t handle problems on my own. I want to tell Bishop to be quiet, but if I say something now it will just cause more confusion.

  “Now, Aramovsky,” Bishop says. “A word, please?”

  Aramovsky swallows, smooths out his new black coveralls. He walks to the door, trying to look like this doesn’t bother him. He and Bishop exit the shuttle.

  The coffin room is quiet, tense. No one knows what to say. How did things get out of control so fast? The only noise comes from Spingate. She’s crying a little—because she’s so angry, I think. Gaston stands next to her, rubbing her back. Some people are looking at her like she did something wrong.

  O’Malley steps onto the stage.

  “That’s all for now, everyone,” he says. “As soon
as we have more information, we’ll share it.” He steps down, walks to me, whispers: “Can I see you in the pilothouse?”

  O’Malley is better at these situations than I am. Maybe he can help me figure out what to do next. I follow him to the pilothouse. He closes the door behind us.

  The pilothouse walls are solid black. Perhaps this place only comes to life for Spingate or Gaston. It hits me that if anything happens to them, we won’t be able to take the shuttle anywhere. Beckett is a gear…could he fly it?

  O’Malley leans against a wall. “Aramovsky is a problem.”

  “Wow, Chancellor, you’re really observant.”

  He says nothing. His expression remains blank.

  I take a slow breath. I’m so mad at Aramovsky I want to attack everything and everyone.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I can’t believe he threatened Spingate.”

  “While you were gone, he was talking to people. He wants everyone to follow his religion.”

  I feel my teeth grinding. “He doesn’t even know what the religion is. The God of Blood? Doesn’t sound familiar to me, at all. I think he’s making it up as he goes along.”

  “He doesn’t care about truth, Em—he cares about power. Your power.”

  “I don’t have any power.”

  O’Malley shakes his head. “You do. That’s why you’re the only leader for us. That’s why you’re the only leader for me.”

  “Watch him,” I say. “Really watch him this time. We can’t let him do something else to make things even worse.”

  O’Malley comes closer. There is a hunger in his eyes. I see his gaze flicking all over my face, like he’s trying to take in every part of me all at once. He reaches out, gently holds my shoulders. Even through the coveralls, his touch sends a tingle through my body. He smiles, which chases away my thoughts of anything but that smile.

  My breath gets short. What is he doing? I try to tell him to stop, but the words won’t come out.

  He pulls me closer.

  “Em, you’re so beautiful.”

  He said the same thing on Deck Three, when he was looking at Matilda’s face.

  “Because my bruises have healed, right? Now I’m pretty enough for you, is that it, O’Malley?”

  “When we’re alone, you can call me Kevin.” He leans closer. “You were the first thing I saw when I woke up. You’ll always be pretty to me.”

  I want to be mad, but I can’t. So I’m healed up now, so what? This isn’t Matilda’s face—it’s mine.

  O’Malley is so sure, so confident, but I’m confused. Bishop likes me. I know he does; he kissed me. Now, though, it’s like he doesn’t want to be near me. O’Malley leans in. He’s moving slowly, giving me plenty of chances to pull away if I want to.

  I don’t.

  His lips meet mine. It feels…delicious. As good as it felt with Bishop, but different. Does every boy kiss different?

  O’Malley’s fingertips caress the back of my neck. I can’t think of anything but him, his lips, the way he smells, the feel of his hands on my body.

  Unlike Bishop, O’Malley wants me and he’s not shy about it.

  Bishop…

  Our kiss almost got Spingate killed.

  I shove O’Malley. He stumbles back, surprised.

  “Don’t ever kiss me again.” I try to sound hard, but my words come out as a cracked plea.

  He smiles. “I won’t. Until you ask me to.”

  Anger floods in, washing away the confused feelings.

  “That’s not going to happen,” I say. “Now get out.”

  His smile widens. So stunning, and yet there is something off about it.

  “As you wish, Empress.”

  He leaves the pilothouse.

  I close my eyes, try to calm myself. I didn’t want him to stop, I admit it, but who does he think he is?

  I don’t know. But I know what he doesn’t think he is—he doesn’t think he’s a leader. He’s not like Aramovsky in that way, or even Bishop. O’Malley is comfortable being at my side, giving me counsel, providing the information I need. Not once has he challenged my leadership. Not once has he stepped in because he thought I couldn’t handle something.

  But just now he was so…aggressive. Not physically, he was emotionally aggressive.

  When I opened his coffin and looked at his face for the first time, I had never seen anything so beautiful. Since then, I’ve experienced so much more: spaceships, cities, ruins, stars and moons, blood and death, love and tenderness…

  …and through all of that, Kevin O’Malley is still the most beautiful thing I have ever known.

  He kissed me.

  He wants me.

  I don’t know if I can be mad at him. I don’t know if I can be mad at Bishop, either. I don’t know what to think about any of this.

  A shake of my head, a rub of my face. Push those thoughts away, Em—there are more important things to worry about. We need food. There are people who survive in Omeyocan’s jungle, who obviously know what to eat. For us to survive, I have to find them.

  And that means tomorrow, as soon as it’s light, we have to go outside the walls again.

  The sun is about to rise. Most everyone is still asleep. I am in the pilothouse with my friends: Spingate, Gaston, O’Malley and Bishop. And, unfortunately, Aramovsky.

  I don’t want him here, but what choice do I have? If he’s with me, he’s not talking behind my back. And as much as I hate to admit it, he’s smart. I won’t ignore good ideas just because they come from someone I don’t like.

  We stand around Gaston’s map. Somehow, the area shown seems smaller than before.

  “We all know how much trouble we’re in,” I say, concentrating on not looking at Aramovsky when I do. “You are the people I trust to help me make decisions. I think we need to send a party to the fire pit.”

  “But a spider was in the jungle,” O’Malley says.

  I nod. “It was also inside the city walls. If it’s a threat no matter where we go, we might as well try to find the people who know what food is safe to eat.”

  Spingate hugs her shoulders. Everyone else looks rested. She looks like she hasn’t slept at all.

  “It’s not just the spider,” she says. “We heard many animals. And the people who made that fire might be hostile.”

  We’re desperate. If they are hostile, can we take food from them? How far are we willing to go to survive?

  “We should focus on the mold,” Spingate says. “The labs on Deck Two have scientific equipment, and pedestals with instructions on how to use it. I’m studying the mold, trying to find a way to neutralize the toxin. I worked on it all night.”

  No wonder she’s so tired.

  “Brewer knew about the mold,” I say. “Is there any information about it in the pedestal’s memory?”

  She shakes her head.

  “How convenient,” Aramovsky says.

  I shoot him a glare, but he ignores it, continues.

  “You and your cure, Spingate. How long will it take?”

  She shrugs. “Maybe ten days. Maybe twenty. Maybe never.”

  “Keep working on it,” I say. “You can do that while the rest of us look for other solutions.”

  Gaston gestures to the countless buildings laid out on the map. “We’ve only looked in the warehouse, right? Other buildings could have uncontaminated food. We need to search them. And as far as we know, there are people in this city, we just haven’t seen them yet.”

  He drags his fingertip through the map, leaving a glowing line from the dot that represents the shuttle, through the streets we used to reach the warehouse, then to the waterfall. I see his point—we’ve explored only a tiny portion of this city.

  “The warehouse bins were sealed,” O’Malley says. “The mold got in anyway. If we find more food, odds are it will be in the same condition.”

  “Still worth a try,” Gaston says. “We should explore.”

  Maybe that’s dangerous, too, but there are a lot of us. And Gaston is
right—we have to try everything.

  “We’ll send teams to search buildings around the landing pad,” I say. “We’ll assign lookouts, keep the teams close enough that they can run to the shuttle if the spider is spotted. We can do that in addition to sending a team to the fire pit.”

  O’Malley crosses his arms, purses his lips in thought. “There are thousands of buildings. If only there was a way to see if some were more important than others. Gaston, the landing pad had to have power to rise up, right?”

  Gaston nods. “I think it has its own small power plant. Nuclear, probably. When the shuttle came in range, I think the power plant activated.”

  O’Malley opens his mouth to speak, but Gaston cuts him off.

  “Before you throw out your genius idea, O’Malley, I already asked the shuttle if it could detect other buildings with power. It said that capability had been erased—like almost everything else I’ve asked it.”

  O’Malley puts his hands on his knees, bends so he’s looking down the north-south street at eye level. “Maybe the shuttle has bad memories like us. Maybe it’s recovering them, just like we are. Ask it again.”

  Gaston rolls his eyes. “All right, fine, O’Malley. Let’s do it one more time, just for you. Shuttle?”

  “Yes, Captain Xander?”

  “Highlight any buildings or areas that have power.”

  A small circle lights up below the shuttle icon, and so does one other spot—the massive ziggurat at the city center.

  “But…wow, it worked,” Gaston says. “O’Malley, I take back half the bad things I’ve ever said about you.”

  This seems strange to me. It was almost like O’Malley already knew what the shuttle would find. Did he remember an access code for the pedestals on Deck Three? No, that can’t be—he would have told me right away if he had.

  “Let’s test our luck,” Gaston says. Then, in an overly sweet voice: “Shuttle, love of my life, my true north, do you know what that building is?”

  “Yes, Captain Xander. That is the Observatory.”

  Bishop’s face wrinkles. “What’s an observatory?”