by Scott Sigler
When she’s done, people applaud. The kids scream with delight. They ask her to tell the story again. Blushing, Bello agrees.
Once is enough for me.
I walk outside. Night is falling. Bishop is at the base of the ramp, his axe in his hands. A spider stands on either side of him, guarding the shuttle.
For a few moments, I just watch him. He’s dressed in his black coveralls. I take in his broad shoulders, the way his neck muscles flutter when he turns his head. He hasn’t been to Smith’s white coffin to have his numerous scratches repaired. Under that black fabric are scars that bear witness to our struggles.
I think of the way he looked in the Garden, when he stood under the bright lights with nothing on but tattered pants. I think of how he looked when he threw my spear at the pig. I wanted to touch Bishop’s skin then. At the pool, I did. I’d like to touch him again, kiss him again…
I shut my eyes, give my head a hard shake. Now is most certainly not the time for such thoughts.
I walk down the ramp and stand next to him.
“Good evening, Bishop.”
He’s staring out toward the Observatory.
“They should be back,” he says. “They should have been back an hour ago.”
His voice is heavy with dread. The emotion is contagious. I was so busy watching Bello, trying to find the truth, that I forgot a trip to the Observatory is much faster on spiderback than on foot. Coyotl, Muller and Beckett should have already returned.
A cold feeling thrums in my belly and chest. I missed something, but what? My brain is trying to make a connection—not the muddy sensation of recalling Matilda’s memories, this is something else. I missed something new, something that has nothing to do with my creator’s life.
“Go after them,” I say. “Take a spider, with Bawden and as many kids as you want.”
He starts up the ramp. “And if they aren’t at Bello’s ship, how long should I spend searching for them?”
With Bishop and Bawden gone, Farrar will be the only older circle-star we have left—just Farrar and twelve-year-olds to defend the shuttle. That’s not enough. I think of when we ran out of the Garden and abandoned Bello. It was a hard choice, and I hated myself for it, but it was the right choice.
“If they aren’t there, then come back without them,” I say. “As fast as you can.”
He runs into the shuttle. I stand where he stood, looking out toward the Observatory. Please, let them be all right.
Moments later, Bishop runs down the ramp, Bawden and two young circle-stars behind him. Only Bawden carries a musket. Muller had one as well, which means Bishop is leaving three muskets here.
In seconds, the four of them are mounted and on their way. I watch the spider scurry over the vine ring, then sprint down the darkening streets. Out ahead of them, no sign of Coyotl and the others.
There’s something about Bello’s ship I missed, but what? I can’t put my finger on it. She’s a Grownup, I know it. It’s time to lock her up. Just because I won’t act like Matilda doesn’t mean I can’t do something—time to stop being so nice.
Pounding steps on the ramp behind me. O’Malley, in a panic.
“Em! Get in here! Aramovsky is calling for a new vote!”
I turn my back for one moment, and he does this? I’m almost glad, because he’s moved too soon—many follow him, but not enough. He should have waited until hunger swayed more people his way.
I stride up the ramp and into the coffin room. Aramovsky is talking, turning, his arms outstretched, doing what he does so well. But he will lose this vote, then I will use that victory to block him from making another. He’s finally made a mistake.
And then I see Bello—she’s standing right next to him, whispering when he pauses. She notices me, stares at me, a cold hardness in her eyes. No tears this time. She smiles, sending a chill through me.
Aramovsky steps onto a closed coffin. He spreads his arms, and his voice booms.
“Someone has to speak out loud what all of us are thinking,” he says. “Do we need new leadership? The majority of us—the people from Deck Four—never got a chance to vote at all. It’s time to fix that.”
He locks eyes with me.
“It’s not that Em didn’t do her best,” he says. “But perhaps the job of leader is too much for a circle, too much for an empty, too much”—the corners of his mouth turn up in a grin of victory—“for a slave.”
The word hangs in the air, pressing down, pushing at locked memories. I see hundreds of faces go blank. I see eyes widen and heads nod. For everyone, even the kids, the mention of that word opens up flashfires—they know.
Gradually, all eyes turn to me.
The things I’ve done right, they suddenly don’t matter. My leadership, keeping the group together, getting us off the Xolotl, learning the mysteries of Omeyocan, making contact with the Springers…none of it matters.
In an instant, with a single word, they see me as something different than I was. They see me as less.
I have to stop this, right now.
“I’m not a slave,” I say. “None of us are. Just because the ring on my head says I’m Service, or the double-circle says Aramovsky is Spirit or the half-circle means O’Malley is Structure doesn’t mean we have to be those things. We make our own choices!”
I look to O’Malley for support, hoping he will back me up, but he just stares at me, openmouthed, like I said something wrong—something horribly wrong.
“Spirit,” Aramovsky says. “Structure…Service. I just now remembered what the symbols mean, but you…you already knew.”
Bello’s little grin. She told him. She knows the symbols’ meanings because she’s a Grownup. She told him what to say.
Nearly three hundred people are staring at me. A hundred different lies jump to my brain, but none of them make it to my tongue. There is a brief moment where I can say something, deny that I didn’t keep information from my people, and then that moment is gone.
I am convicted by my own silence.
The eyes glare at me now. Even Spingate’s, her expression somewhere between betrayal and outrage. Not telling me the truth is the same as lying to me, I said to her.
I’m guilty of the same thing.
And everyone here knows it.
Things are falling apart.
Bishop and Bawden returned empty-handed—no sign of Beckett, Muller, Coyotl or the spider. Fear rages through the shuttle, fueled by Aramovsky instantly screaming to everyone that the Springers have taken our friends.
I feel lost. Did Barkah take our people? Bello’s ship was near the Observatory, a place Barkah has been before. He was so angry when her ship came down—maybe he lay in wait, knowing that my people had been there once and might come back again. If not him, could other Springers have attacked?
Aramovsky said the disappearance of our people was further evidence of a lack of leadership, and that we need a vote, immediately. Bishop argued against it, so did Spingate, saying now wasn’t the time, but they were shouted down.
I stand on the stage and tell people why they should vote for me, but my confidence is gone. Even though I hold the spear, our symbol of leadership, my words sound hollow. As I speak, I look to O’Malley, seeking some kind of guidance—the expression on his face tells me I have lost before the votes are cast.
I should have told everyone about the symbols. O’Malley talked me out of it. It’s not just that people now remember circles were slaves—which is damaging enough by itself—there is also the fact that I knew something everyone wanted to know, deserved to know, and I didn’t tell them.
They don’t trust me.
I wouldn’t trust me, either.
When I step off the stage, Aramovsky steps on.
I see Spingate talking in hushed tones with Gaston, Johnson and Ingolfsson. Is Spingate going to try for leader? I hope so. Anyone is better than Aramovsky.
But as soon as he begins his speech, I realize no one can beat him. Most of the kids gaze up at
Aramovsky with wide-eyed adoration. Out of the nearly three hundred people in this room, only sixteen are teenagers.
Only now do I understand the significance of those numbers. While I was out searching for food, exploring, looking for Bello’s ship, Aramovsky was quietly campaigning. The only reason he didn’t call for a vote sooner was that he wasn’t sure if he could win. I got us off the Xolotl, after all, and kept us alive all this time. I think those facts convinced many of the kids that I was best for the position.
Then Bello gave Aramovsky what he needed—a way to make some of my supporters change their minds. Bello is obviously a Grownup, but I have no proof, and right now no one in this shuttle is about to take me at my word.
Aramovsky finishes with a passionate statement that basically becomes an I told you so. He warned us about the “demons,” and now three more of us are gone. He says we must not wait for the Springers to pick us off a few at a time, that if we want to be worthy of this great gift the gods have given us, we need to “be strong in the face of evil” and “drive the demons back to hell.”
During the thunderous applause, I glance at Spingate. Her head droops: she knows there’s no point in giving a speech of her own.
Opkick asks for other candidates. When no one volunteers, she calls for a vote. A simple show of hands, just like the vote on the Xolotl when I became leader.
She calls my name and she counts out loud. I don’t know why she bothers; not even fifty hands go up.
She calls Aramovsky’s name. Hands shoot up instantly. Even though over three-quarters of the kids are circles—like me—most of them vote for him.
He has won. He is our leader.
With that change comes a feeling of hopelessness. All the bad things that have happened so far are nothing compared to what will come next.
Opkick calls us both to the stage.
It takes every bit of will for me to meet Aramovsky’s eyes. He’s not smiling, which shocks me. He looks resigned to his new duty, as if it is a terrible burden thrust upon him rather than something he’s worked for almost since we first woke up.
“Em, we wouldn’t be here without you,” he says. “I want to say—and I think everyone agrees—thank you for your leadership thus far. You got us off the Xolotl, got most of us down here safe. Everyone appreciates that, but now that we’re on Omeyocan we face a different set of challenges. The people have spoken.”
He holds out his hand toward me. I reach to shake it, then I realize what he wants.
My spear.
I feel my face flush red. I look like an idiot. My hand falls to my side.
My fingers tighten on the spear shaft. I don’t want to give it up. I want to hit him. He will lead us to ruin.
Kill your enemy…
It would be so easy to stab him, just like I did the Springer in the jungle…
I glance to the shuttle doors. I see Bishop standing there, hands gripped on his axe. His eyes silently tell me that whatever I do, he will back me up.
Farrar wears the same expression. So does Bawden. All three are ready to fight for me.
I don’t have to give up leadership. I can have Aramovsky and Bello locked up. If the circle-stars are behind me, I can stay in charge.
Attack, attack, always attack…
Aramovsky’s hand is still out, empty and awkwardly hovering in midair. I see a flicker of fear in his eyes. He knows I could ignore the vote, imprison him, maybe even have him killed. I still have the power.
Matilda had power, too. She used it. Look what happened to her people.
I am not Matilda, and Matilda is not me.
I hand Aramovsky the spear.
He takes it. His fear vanishes. He’s won. His mouth doesn’t smile, but his eyes do.
Aramovsky gestures to the floor, asking Opkick and me to step off the stage. We do, leaving him alone to tower over us all.
“As your new leader, I must put first things first,” he says. “The Springers have food. They had their chance to share it with us, but they chose the path of evil. They have what we need to live—so we will take it from them. Bishop, Farrar, you will drive the two spiders we have left. Take Borjigin to the spider nest. Schuster, Bemba and Zubiri, stand up.”
Zubiri stands, as do a boy and another girl, both halves. Aramovsky is sending a combination of symbols: science and management.
“Borjigin, these three are your assistants,” Aramovsky says. “Take them with you. I’ve talked to Bemba and Schuster, they think they remember working on machines. And Zubiri is our smartest young scientist—better to have her with you, solving problems that come up, rather than wasting her time in the lab. Why would we try to research a cure for red mold when we can just take food from the Springers? You will all work together to fix any machines that can be fixed. Bishop, choose three young circle-stars to go as well. Take all the remaining muskets. The rest of us will seal up in the shuttle for protection.”
Borjigin walks to the stage, his hands together at his chest. He’s almost in tears.
“What about Coyotl?” he says. “And Beckett, and Muller. Aren’t you going to look for them first?”
Borjigin and Coyotl have grown close in such a short time. Aramovsky’s expression of sympathy is so real I almost believe it. He bends slightly, leaning toward Borjigin.
“The gods decide our fates,” Aramovsky says. “Don’t worry—if Coyotl is worthy, the gods will return him safe and sound. Your duty is to give us an army of machines. And when they are ready”—he stands tall, raises the spear high, his eyes widen and his lip curls up—“we will go to war!”
The kids who voted for him jump and shout and cheer. They were afraid…Aramovsky gives them a way to attack what they fear. I wonder how many of these cheering faces will soon be dead.
I should have stabbed him when I had the chance.
Maybe I’m not the leader anymore, but I can’t let this happen.
“Aramovsky!”
My voice echoes off the shuttle walls, loud enough to cut off the cheering. He looks at me, annoyed and impatient. I’m ruining his moment; I won’t quietly go away.
“Yes, Em?”
“We can make peace with the Springers. No one has to die.”
He looks to the ceiling and sighs. “We just had a vote. Everyone heard your speech, yet they voted for me.”
“We don’t know how many Springers there are,” I say. “There could be thousands, all with guns. Even with the spiders, we won’t come out unscathed.” I look around the room, pointing at individuals. “You might die. And you. And you. And—”
The spear butt hammers down, rattling the stage.
“That will be enough!”
Aramovsky doesn’t hide his rage.
“War is dangerous, but the God of Blood will protect the faithful,” he says. “It is better for some of us to fall in battle than for all of us to starve.”
People are staring at me now, annoyed that I won’t shut up. It’s truly over: Aramovsky has their hearts and minds. I need to get it through my head that he is the leader.
But maybe I can try one more thing.
“It will take some time to repair any broken machines,” I say. “While that’s happening, let a few of us go talk to the Springers. If we can get them to show us where the food is before your army is ready, then no one has to die, right?”
All eyes swing back to him.
Aramovsky’s face twitches with hatred. It hits me—he wants war. If it isn’t for food, he’ll come up with some other reason. His upper lip twitches. He wants to kill me, right here and right now, but he can’t; if he ignores what I’m saying, he’s obviously passing up a chance to keep everyone alive.
And then how many votes would he win?
I pour on the pressure.
“The Springers might kill me,” I say. “But if I can save the lives of any of our people, I will take that risk.”
I’m leaving him no choice.
The smile slowly returns to his face. “Your bravery is a b
lessing to us all. Go, then—see if the gods will help you stop the bloodshed. Leave now, right now, because when we’re ready to attack I will not hesitate. Every minute counts.”
That was easier than I thought it would be. Could I have been wrong about him wanting war? Maybe there is a decent person in there after all.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. I look to Spingate. “Let’s go.”
She flashes a glance at Gaston that is as loud and clear as a gunshot: Don’t try to stop me. She starts toward the shuttle door.
“No,” Aramovsky says, the word a sharp command. “You stay, Grandmaster Spingate. We may need your brilliance to repair the spiders, and”—he lowers the spear tip so it points at her belly—“we can’t risk the next generation.”
Her fists go to her hips.
“You can’t tell me what to do! I have the right to go where I want.”
Aramovsky shakes his head. “You gave up that right when you became pregnant. Do as you’re told, or I will have you escorted to your lab and confined there for your safety and the safety of the baby. Guards?”
Forty young circle-stars jump to their feet, stand at attention. Black coveralls, weapons in hand—what they lack in size they make up for in numbers.
Spingate is furious, surprised, devastated. She looks around the room. No one stands to defend her. Even if Bishop, Bawden and Farrar wanted to protect her, they would be instantly overwhelmed.
Bishop was away from the shuttle almost as much as I was. All the while, Aramovsky was quietly whispering in little ears. I thought all the young circle-stars followed Bishop, but I was wrong.
For a leader you are wrong-wrong-wrong quite a lot, are you not?
Brewer’s words. How right he was.
Little Kalle stands, steps forward from the crowd.
“I’ll go with Em,” she says. “I’ve been in the jungle already, I can help.”
Aramovsky smiles down at her, benevolent, as if he’s actually an adult with worldly experience and Kalle isn’t just a few days younger than he is.
“My brave child, Em must go alone. She is the one who has spoken to the Springers. She knows she has no special knowledge that we need here, like you have. And she knows she’s not a soldier, needed to defend us. This is the best way she can serve us all, and I salute her for it.”
