by Scott Sigler
Kalle smiles.
“It’s safe to eat,” she says.
At least Visca didn’t die for nothing.
“I saw that pile of fruit,” Kalle says. “We should go back for it.”
Bishop shakes his head. “With as many people as we have to feed, that little pile won’t make any difference. We have a fruit for Spingate to study, but it doesn’t matter if we don’t get it back to her.” He spreads his arms, indicating the jungle. “Besides, we don’t even know where we are.”
Everyone looks to the surrounding trees, as if one of them might suddenly tell us directions. We sprinted through the jungle for I don’t know how long. Visca was our tracker, our guide.
Bishop glances up at Coyotl, who looks so gallant standing tall on that machine’s back. Bishop walks to one of the other spiders, stands between two gore-splattered legs.
“Hello, I am Bishop. First name, Ramses.”
He remembers his name? Ramses. What a beautiful word.
“We need to get back into the city,” Bishop says to the spider. “Can you take us to the landing pad?”
The spider’s body lowers until the metal belly clangs lightly against the broken tiles.
Bishop moves closer. On the side of the spider, I see three metal rungs…like a ladder. He steps onto them, swings a leg over the yellow and brown ridge, then stands tall atop the machine’s back.
Parts of the Xolotl only worked for certain people. Parts of the shuttle only work for Gaston, for O’Malley, for Smith, for me. These machines…they answer to the circle-stars.
“We’re going home,” Bishop says. “Everybody, mount up.”
Three spiders stride through the jungle. Long legs keep them above the dense underbrush. Their yellow, brown and green coloring fades into our surroundings. They rattle, whine and vibrate in a way that doesn’t seem right. If the machines were newer, not so beat up, I imagine they would be as silent as the circle-stars they were made for.
The ruins pass by. Blurds of all sizes buzz through the canopy. Some trees grow impossibly high, their wide, dark-yellow leaves drinking in the light. The same vines that cover the city’s buildings dangle from tall branches. Late afternoon sun filters through, making leaves glow with a fuzzy warmth.
The beauty of Omeyocan takes my breath away.
The dense underbrush gives way: we find ourselves on the bank of a wide river. Tall trees rise up on either side, forming a deep, living, yellow chasm that borders angry water. Blurds skim the surface, dipping in to snatch up this planet’s equivalent of tiny fish.
Ahead of us, the riderless spider doesn’t slow. Long legs plunge in and the machine turns downstream. The spider that Bishop and I ride follows, metal body half-submerging, leaving us just a bit above the roiling surface. It’s almost like riding in Grampa’s canoe during summer vacation.
Grampa’s canoe.
A Matilda memory. I remember Grampa’s laugh, his stubbly face. The canoe was red, and always smelled of old fish. It seems so real…like it isn’t Matilda’s experience at all, but mine. How can that be? I was created on a spaceship.
And yet…I remember how Grampa liked to tinker with old, useless antiques he called watches. He liked to show me the little bits and parts inside that fit together just so.
If Grampa were here, maybe he could fix these rattly machines.
I glance behind us, at the limp-legged, whining spider that carries Coyotl, Kalle and Borjigin. Like me, Kalle looks everywhere for any sign of the purple fruit. Does it grow on trees? Perhaps on a kind of smaller plant we haven’t seen yet? Borjigin’s eyes are closed, his head nestled against Coyotl’s neck. Coyotl’s arm is around Borjigin’s shoulder, but he stares straight ahead, eyes scanning the riverbanks.
The way they sit together…
Like Spingate found Gaston, I think Borjigin and Coyotl have found each other.
I wish Bishop would put his arm around me like that, hold me tight. It would be nice to relax into him, not have to think about all the things, all the time.
“See any fruit?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Neither have I. After Smith looks at you, we can take the spiders out and cover more area. But if we don’t find the fruit, Em…”
He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. If we don’t find the fruit, we need to find the Springers again—and this time, we will be the ones attacking.
I wanted to talk to them, to make peace, but they ambushed us. Unprovoked. We did nothing wrong. They started this fight, not us. We’re out of food and out of options.
If it’s war they want, they messed with the wrong girl.
Ahead, the city’s vine-covered walls rise above the trees, stretching in either direction from the river that cuts between two towers. White spray rages up from twisted bars and bent grates that perhaps once prevented anything other than water from passing through, but judging by the amount of rust, that was ages ago.
On top of the towers, I see long tubes that resemble the ones on the spiders’ backs. Weapons. Once upon a time, I bet those protected the city. Now they are just rusted junk.
The spiders stick to the river, easily walk by the water-gate’s remnants. Past the wall, Uchmal’s four-sided buildings—abandoned, but not destroyed. The buildings are smaller here than they are around the landing pad, but they get bigger the farther in we go.
We hear the waterfall long before we see it. When we turn a bend, there it is before us. The river just drops away; beyond it, open air and an amazing view of the city. The Observatory soars higher than any other building, so obnoxiously large it makes the rest of Uchmal look small and weak.
We pass by the switchback steps that Spingate, Coyotl and Farrar climbed. Like the spider that chased us then—or we thought was chasing us then—our three spiders don’t seem interested in tackling those steep steps. Off to my right, I see the pool where Bishop saved me from falling, where he held me, where he kissed me. If he remembers that moment, he gives no indication: he stares straight ahead.
I’m pretty sure the landing pad is southwest of us, but the spiders are heading due west.
“Bishop, where are we going?”
His brows knit with worry. “I don’t know. I told them to go to the shuttle. Maybe they’re heading to their nest.”
We now know it’s not a “nest,” but the word still works.
“Should we get off?” I ask. “Find our own way back?”
He considers it, shakes his head.
“Your wound is worse than you think. The less you walk, the better. We’re still getting closer to the shuttle, just not heading straight for it. Let’s stick with the spiders for now.”
—
Three spiders stride down the middle of a narrow, vine-choked road. On their backs ride five tired, hungry people.
Bishop guessed right—up ahead is the nest building. It is a strange construct, and big. Not as large as the Observatory, of course, but easily bigger than the food warehouse. Vine-covered, like all the rest, although it’s not a ziggurat. If anything, it reminds me of a really, really big version of…
…no, that can’t be right.
“Bishop, what does this place look like to you?”
He turns his head left, then right, taking it all in. “It’s long and narrow. It’s the only one I’ve seen with a curved top. I guess if it wasn’t covered in vines, it might look a bit like…”
His eyes go wide. He stares at me, astonished. “It looks like our shuttle.”
I nod. That’s what I thought, too. It’s a hundred times larger, so large I thought it was a building, but beneath a deep blanket of vines is the same streamlined shape as the ship that brought us down to Omeyocan.
We approach. I see lumpy piles of vines, some in the street, some closer to the nest. We pass one: it is an unmoving spider, blanketed by plants and moss. In places, little flowers jut from it, petals in shades of red and yellow. Tiny blurds buzz in and out.
How long has it been since this spider stopped moving?
>
Our mount walks past it toward a wide, open archway in the ship-shaped building. Blackened metal lines the archway’s edges, like there was once a door here that was melted, ripped down and burned.
The unmanned spider enters first. We follow it in, Coyotl right behind us.
This building…it’s cavernous. Huge girders soar above. Attached to them, machines that haven’t moved in years. Here and there, holes overhead, rusted-out spots with dangling vines and sunlight cascading down.
Rust is everywhere. Rust and wreckage.
Unmoving, five-legged spiders are scattered all over. Some sit in an endless line of small, cozy stalls that seem to run the length of the building, nestled in like we were in our coffins. Some spiders on their sides, some on their backs, legs curled in as if they were real spiders, dead and dried up.
And in places, pieces of spiders. A rusted abdomen attached to a rack on the wall here, piles of ruined and useless legs there, stacks of metal tubes over there.
I think of Grampa’s watches, all the little bits needed to make them run.
“Those are spare parts,” I say, pointing to the pile of legs, the stacks of tubes. I gesture to the whole building. “This was some kind of factory, I think. A place to fix spiders that stopped working.”
Our mount strides into an empty stall. On either side are metal racks packed with equipment that seems long since dormant. Moss grows on everything.
The spider lowers to its belly. Bishop steps down. He reaches his hand up to help me. I don’t need his help…but maybe I want it.
I take his hand in mine. His skin is so warm.
Stepping over the ridge, I try my best to slide down gracefully, but as soon as my boots land on dirt and dead vines, my legs wobble; I’m weak from the long ride. I take one step, and they give out. I fall fast, but Bishop is faster—his big hands cinch around my waist. I hear my spear clatter to the ground.
Bishop holds me upright like I weigh nothing at all.
“Are you all right?”
I feel dizzy, and not just from blood loss. He’s staring at me, concerned.
His dark-yellow eyes, locked onto mine…
“Yes,” I say. “I think I’m all right now.”
He sets me on my feet, but doesn’t let go right away. He holds on a moment too long. He’s smiling.
I smile back.
Then, as fast as the moment came, it’s gone. Bishop blinks a few times, slowly releases me, takes a step back. He looks like he wants to say something—something I know I long to hear—but instead he calls out to the others, his powerful voice echoing off the rust-eaten walls and ceiling.
“We can’t stay here long! Em needs to get back, so take a quick look and let’s go.”
He picks up the spear, hands it to me. I’m suddenly so tired. Bishop was right—my wound is worse than I thought.
We have to get back to the shuttle, I know this, but I can manage for a little bit more. This place…it’s important. It is the answer to a question, I just don’t know what that question is yet.
Kalle walks over, her little head tilted back. She turns slow circles, taking it all in.
“A factory,” she says. “Amazing. It had to come from Xolotl, just like our shuttle.”
“Hey! Come look at this!” It’s Coyotl, his voice echoing from farther in the building. He’s with Borjigin, who stares upward, mesmerized.
We walk to join them. Once again, my spear is less weapon, more cane.
Coyotl is gawking up at the curving wall, his head tilted so far he has to take a quick step backward to keep from falling on his butt.
He points. I crane my head, look. Nothing but more rust and vine-covered machinery. I start to ask him what he sees, then the image clarifies.
The thing I’m looking at, up high…it’s the top of a machine that stands on the ground. A moss-speckled machine shaped roughly like a person, a giant person made of rusted blue metal. One arm ends in a wide, thick scoop, the other in a huge, three-pincered claw. In some places I can see right through the giant to the rusted-out wall behind it.
Borjigin is nodding, mumbling to himself. I’ve seen this enough times to know what is happening to him—a flashfire.
“A builder,” he says. “It’s…it’s a Besatrix Terraformer. Model C-4. I…” He looks at me, confused. “I’ve seen these before. But I haven’t. I couldn’t. My creator…I think he helped design Uchmal. He knew how to operate these machines, how to maintain them. Maybe even repair them.”
So the halves can do more than whisper in a leader’s ear and count food. As organized and methodical as they are, I suppose it makes sense they would be the ones to design cities. I’m surprised they operated these machines themselves, though—but perhaps something so complicated couldn’t be left to a simple empty.
Borjigin looks down the length of the building, nodding, eyes hovering on more giant machines. Each one he sees makes him mumble gibberish I don’t really understand: what the machine is called, what it is supposed to do. It’s nice that he remembers, but it doesn’t matter—these machines are dead. Some are squat and look more like small buildings than people. Some have scoops. Some have great spikes. Some have saws so big they would neatly slice our shuttle in half. Some have wide, walled, empty areas that could hold a small mountain’s worth of dirt and rock.
Borjigin laughs. His eyes dance with delight and with life, his fatigue forgotten for the moment.
“That’s why we haven’t seen anyone in this city, alive or dead,” he says. “The Grownups didn’t build Uchmal—these machines did.”
Bishop shakes his head. “But the Grownups had to tell the machines what to do, didn’t they? Where to go, what to build?”
“Yes, but they could do that from up there.” Borjigin points a slim finger skyward.
His words overwhelm me. When the Observatory said we were the first people to set foot on Omeyocan, I thought it was wrong. It wasn’t. We’ve searched hundreds of buildings and found nothing. No Grownups, no bones, no sign of anyone ever having been here before us.
The machines built Omeyocan. Matilda and her kind have never come down.
That means the Observatory was telling the truth. It is a place—the only place—where we can get actual answers. Was it also telling the truth about Matilda? Was her rebellion made of murder, or did her actions actually save lives?
My knees give out: only the spear keeps me standing.
Bishop cups my elbow. “Em, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say. It’s a lie. He knows it. My shoulder is killing me. If I don’t get to the shuttle soon, Bishop will have to carry me yet again.
“We’re leaving,” I say. “We still have hours of walking before we reach the landing pad.”
Borjigin shakes his head. “Give me a few minutes. I’m guessing the spiders are programmed to come back here after a fight.”
“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 D
eck 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.
