by Scott Sigler
Uchmal’s vine-covered walls loom before us, much taller than the trees of the jungle ruins. We filled in the holes that Barkah’s people used to crawl under the walls. We rebuilt the Water Gate that blocks anyone from entering the city via the river flowing in from the jungle. Our gates are always closed, always locked from the inside. Hundreds of thousands of Springers live in the jungle ruins around us—we can be friendly, yes, but we also have to be careful.
The most important repair, though, was to several ancient tower cannons. Borjigin and his engineers have fixed four of them so far. These weapons possess terrifying power. As our bracelets are to Springer muskets, the tower cannons are to our bracelets. If the Belligerents—or any other Springer tribe, for that matter, including Barkah’s—ever try to assault our city, the tower cannons will blast them to bits.
Even from outside the walls, I see the massive Observatory rising up from the city center. It is the biggest building in Uchmal. I wonder if it might be the biggest building in all of existence, the biggest that has ever been. It is so tall its shadow stretches beyond the wall and into the jungle.
The road ends at the East Gate. Towers, built into the wall, rise up on either side. One tower flashes with a gleam of reddish light—the morning sun reflecting off a long, silver tower cannon.
“We should be close enough,” Victor says. “Try using the jewel?”
I sigh. “Jewels haven’t worked in a while.”
“I could try, if you like,” he says. “Can I do that for you?”
He’s got that look on his face again—so eager to do something for me.
I pull out a communication jewel from one of my many pockets and hand it over. He nestles it into his ear and taps it twice.
“This is Victor Muller, calling to the East Gate, over?” He waits. I see him squint, trying to listen. “Sorry, can’t understand you. Say again?”
We found the jewels in an Observatory storeroom. They don’t have much range, but from this distance we used to be able to communicate jewel-to-jewel with someone at the gate. Lately, the devices haven’t been working that well. No one knows why.
The East Gate is the same one we went through the first time we left Uchmal to see what the jungle held in store for us. As we approach, the massive metal doors slowly swing outward. They are oiled now and open smoothly, without the piercing metal screeches they once made.
Barkah had thousands of Springers waiting to welcome him home. We have only five humans—two halves, along with three circles.
Borjigin is one of the halves. In the past year, he’s grown taller and even more handsome. He spends most of his time outside, fixing things, which has tanned his skin and sun-bleached the long black hair he wears in a knot atop his head. In one hand he holds his messageboard, the little flat computer he’s never without.
He is one of many who have put away their tough black coveralls in favor of actual clothes. He wears blue pants and a long-sleeved orange shirt. The shirt’s color is so close to that of Barkah’s jacket I assume both garments were made in the same place. Borjigin wears the same shoes as I do, though, as almost everyone does—tough black boots left for us by the Grownups.
Standing with him is Tina Schuster, one of our three young halves. She also holds a messageboard, but wears something very new for my people—a dress. The white cloth fits her nicely, ripples in the same slight breeze that caresses her long blond curls.
Dresses seem so strange. So impractical. Tina is all arms and legs, still growing into her body, but the dress looks pretty on her. I wonder how I would look in one. Would I like it?
More importantly, would Bishop?
As Victor drives our spider through the gate, he points to his ear and shouts down at Borjigin.
“When are you going to fix these stupid jewels?”
Borjigin frowns. “As soon as we figure out what’s wrong with them. It’s not just the jewels”—he holds up the messageboard—“these won’t connect with the Observatory computer unless we’re right next to the building. We’re working on it.” He glances up and down the column entering the city, a worried look on his face. “Where’s Bawden?”
I point toward my feet, where Bawden lies hidden behind the spider’s thick metal ridge.
“She’s down here, wounded but stable.”
Borjigin touches his cheek, mimicking where the bayonet point sliced me.
“That’s a nasty cut,” he says.
My fingertips trace the spot, draw forth a slight sting. I’d forgotten about the wound. Maybe I’m so used to being hurt by now that I don’t think anything of it.
“Doc Smith is waiting at the Observatory, ready to tend to the wounded,” Borjigin says. “What other casualties do we have?”
I shrug. “Other than Bawden, just a few minor wounds.”
Borjigin smiles in amazement, both pleased and surprised.
“No one died? Did the Belligerents run away or something?”
“They tried,” Victor says before I can answer. “But Em’s plan worked perfectly! Fifteen Springers captured, another eighty-three killed. They burned the corn crop, though.”
Borjigin shakes his head. Schuster taps something on her messageboard, perhaps a little too hard. The engineers have worked tirelessly on our food and water supply. Not a week seems to go by without the Belligerents destroying something we need for survival. Perhaps now, after our victory, that will change.
Food is our biggest long-term problem. While we can eat native Omeyocan plants and animals, they don’t give us the nutrition we need. If that was all there was for us to eat, we wouldn’t starve right away, but eventually we would starve. Most of our diet comes from prepackaged food the Grownups sent down centuries ago. Those stores were poisoned by the mold, but vine-root juice kills the mold and neutralizes the toxin. There is enough packaged food to last us years. If we don’t find another solution, we’ll be in trouble when that supply runs out.
The Observatory held several chambers full of carefully preserved seeds from our “home” system—wherever that is—but no instructions on how to make the plants survive Omeyocan’s animal and insect pests, or flourish among this alien water, soil and air. The gears have been working hard to turn those seeds into crops. We’ve had little success so far. The cornfield was the closest we’ve come to an actual harvest, so of course Borjigin and Schuster are angry.
I really like Borjigin. He has a brilliant mind for managing this city, and when it comes to working with machines he is the best on this planet. He’s everything a half should be—but he’s not my half. I would give anything for O’Malley to be here waiting for me instead.
Today, like every day of my life, I miss that boy with all my heart.
“I’ll take Bawden straight to Doc Smith,” I say. “You close the gate and make sure everyone gets food, water and rest, all right?”
Borjigin nods. “Oh, and Bishop called an all-hands meeting. Everyone is to report to the Grand Hall in an hour.”
Maybe Bishop wants a group debriefing or something. I’ll worry about that later. Right now I need to get my friend to the hospital.
“Victor,” I say, “take us to the Observatory.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The spider quickly speeds up. Pointy metal feet clack-clack-clack against the street’s flat stones.
Our city has changed so much. We’ve cleared away vines and repaired buildings. Ziggurats rise up on both sides of the wide street, as do square and rectangular structures. Borjigin tells us this place was made to hold three million people. Perhaps even more. We’ll never clear away all the plant growth—that would take forever—but the areas that we use have been restored to their original grandeur.
So much progress. We have a long way to go and the work will never end, at least not in our lifetimes, but I am so proud of what we’ve accomplished.
We pass the Spider Nest, the huge ship that originally brought the spiders and the construction machines down from the Xolotl. We cleared away the vin
es that hid the ship’s silver hull. It will never fly again—too many holes and the engines have long since rusted to junk—but now it gleams and shimmers with reflected sunlight.
As our spider races by, I see machines going in and out of the Nest: a truck carrying a load of excavated dirt and rocks; a spider wobbling madly on two damaged legs; a long four-legged machine that we use to cut down trees and bring back logs.
We pass a side street that Kalle, the gear primarily responsible for our food research, has turned into a garden to grow experimental crops. She has dozens of small plots like this spread across the city. This one holds turnips, I think. Like the corn, these plants don’t look good. The leaves are shriveling, turning brown. Stems sag slightly, as if the plants can never quite get enough water.
The best-looking part of this small plot is Kalle’s “scarecrow.” It’s a pressure suit from the shuttle that would supposedly let people go outside—into the blackness of space, if you can believe it—and fix problems on the shuttle’s hull. The pressure suit is tied to a cross. It’s supposed to scare away blurds that like to nibble the plants. Judging from the chewed up leaves, I don’t think it works very well.
We approach the open space where Huan Chowdhury works. He’s our budding archaeologist. Uchmal was built upon the ruins of a destroyed Springer city, which itself was built on top of yet another city built by yet another race of aliens—the Vellen—who appear to be gone for good. Digging through the layers can tell us about those that came before us.
Huan started his work by going down the open shaft in the Observatory’s Control Room, where O’Malley and so many others died. That shaft is surrounded by a red metal wall. We’ve come to call it “the Well,” because it looks like one. Huan studied the layers of the shaft for a few days, even found a natural tunnel complex at the bottom, but said it felt “too spooky” down there and refused to explore any further. He asked me if we could knock down a small building instead, so he could excavate below the foundation and continue his research. I approved—he’s been digging in this spot ever since.
Huan’s job is to learn all he can, see if he can identify why at least three races came to this very spot and at least three more are on the way. We have many mysteries to solve, but right now that is the most pressing one.
He sees our spider. He waves as we pass by. Victor and I wave back. Huan has brown skin and a bright smile. He’s always smiling.
I am so proud of him. He isn’t a gear, like Spingate and the other scientists, and he isn’t a half, like Borjigin and the other city managers. Huan is a circle—like me. He was bred to know nothing, to do what he was told. He was bred to be a slave. And yet here he is, doing an important job, quickly becoming our expert on the subject. Whenever one of my people goes beyond the duties expected of their caste, I know there is hope for our future.
Unlike the jungle roads, Uchmal’s ancient streets are straight and smooth. We named the big east-west road Yong Boulevard, after the first of us to die on the Xolotl. The north-south road is named Latu Way. Both roads lead to one place: the Observatory.
Even after over a year of living in this city, I’m still stunned by the size of this towering ziggurat. Many of us live inside. It has thousands of rooms, as well as our hospital, storerooms, prison and the all-important Control Room. The thirty-layered Observatory offers more space than we could ever need. Borjigin tells me it could house two hundred thousand people with ease, a city within a city. The Observatory is so large that we haven’t fully explored it—to this day, we’re still finding new rooms and the interesting things left inside of them.
Wide streets surround the Observatory. We’ve cleared them of plants. Borjigin insisted on that, saying that a fire could spread across the vines that cover almost everything in this city. He wanted to make sure such a blaze wouldn’t reach the Observatory. Flames couldn’t really hurt the building, of course—it’s a mountain of stone—but the project gave the shuttle kids something to do. It took them over a month to complete the work. I have to admit, it does look very nice to see the vine-covered Observatory surrounded by neat, clean streets.
Our shuttle sits in the wide plaza just south of the Observatory. Gaston and Opkick have spent countless hours working on the shuttle’s computer, trying to see if there’s any history in the system’s memory. So far, nothing. They discovered the shuttle has a name, though—Ximbal, which apparently means “to journey” in some ancient language. It’s unlikely Ximbal will ever move from this spot, because we used the last of the fuel in its tanks to get it here. Unless we learn how to make more, Ximbal will never fly again.
Most of our people are on the plaza, working. Many wear black coveralls, but more than a few wear colorful clothes: shirts, pants, jackets and dresses made by the Springer factories. I see a spider—number 01, Bishop’s spider—sitting idle, along with a few small wheeled vehicles and a hulking, beat-up black truck we’ve nicknamed Big Pig. The truck’s front end kind of resembles a pig’s snout. Big Pig’s flatbed is surrounded by thick metal walls, and each of its black wheels is taller than I am.
Before we reach the plaza, Victor brings our spider to a stop.
“Em, do you want to visit the memorial? I’ll take Bawden to Doctor Smith.”
The memorial. The twisted metal X where we buried the remains of those who died in the Observatory fire. Victor is asking if I want to visit O’Malley’s grave. It’s been too long since I’ve been there, but there’s much to do. The dead can wait a little longer.
“No, thank you. Take us in.”
Victor parks the spider by the Observatory’s main entrance. This entrance was once sealed up tight and obscured by thick vines.
As big as the ziggurat is, we’ve found only two other ways in. When we shut all three doors, the place is impregnable. We’ve laid in large supplies of food and water. That’s why I make everyone live either inside the Observatory or close to it—if the Springers were to break through Uchmal’s gates, all of my people can shelter inside for months, if not years. Borjigin installed Springer war horns across the city, a system he calls the “emergency warning system.” If that goes off, everyone is trained to run for the Observatory.
My people are walking in and out of the building. They look like tiny insects scurrying around a huge hive.
Opkick walks toward us, messageboard in her hand. She’s followed by Kenzie Smith, our circle-cross doctor. Okereke and Kishor Jepson, both circles, follow along carrying a metal stretcher. Opkick is pregnant. Her swollen belly strains her white shirt. I’ve only been gone ten days, but she looks much bigger than the last time I saw her.
“Hail, Em,” she says. “The boys will get Bawden down after Doctor Smith takes a look at her.”
I wearily descend the ladder. Smith reaches for the first rung to start up, looks at me, then grabs my jaw. She doesn’t do it hard, but her grip is firm—this is Smith’s way, to move a body however she likes, to see what she wants to see, never asking for permission.
“This cut is bad,” she says. “Go to the hospital, tell Francine to fix you up.”
“I will. Just take care of Bawden first.”
Smith gives my shoulder a quick squeeze, then scrambles up the rungs. That’s the closest she’ll ever come to showing me real emotion, I suppose, so I’ll take it.
Opkick, on the other hand, has no problem expressing herself. She hugs me tight. I hug back, careful of her belly.
“The baby isn’t going to break, Em.”
I laugh, embarrassed. “I know, but you’re so much bigger!”
She smiles wide, rubs her free hand across her stomach.
“Smith says it will be any day now. We’re so excited.”
Okereke is grinning, and with good reason—he’s the father. He’s short, but thick with muscle. He has the darkest skin of any of our people.
Smith climbs down from the spider, rubbing a hand through her brown hair.
“It’s safe to move Bawden,” she says. “Put her on the stretcher, but
do it gently.”
Okereke and Jepson scramble up. Victor helps them gently lower Bawden, who is still asleep. They put her on the stretcher and carry her into the Observatory.
“It was close,” Smith says to me. “If that puncture wound in her shoulder had gone a bit lower, it would have pierced her lung. She wouldn’t have made it back alive. Why did you get so close to the enemy? Is something wrong with all those guns you adore so much?”
I’m exhausted. I’m not about to explain my strategy or what went wrong.
“Just take care of the wounded, all right?”
Smith stares for a moment, not hiding her contempt. She thinks proper leadership would mean we don’t fight at all. When we do, for whatever reason, she always thinks the fault is mine.
“Get your face looked at,” she says. “Don’t wait or it could get infected.”
She walks into the Observatory.
Victor drops down, laughing lightly.
“Not exactly a hero’s welcome, Em.”
I shrug. It never is.
“Forget her,” he says. “We won. Everyone worked well together. No one died. I’m lucky to serve under you.”
He puts his right hand on my left shoulder, the circle-star’s gesture of respect. I do the same to him, and look up at his dirty face.
“You did well,” I say. “If not for you, Bawden would be dead. I might be, too. I’ll tell Bishop personally.”
At the mention of Bishop’s name, Victor’s smile fades.
“You’re going to see him right away, aren’t you.”
A statement, not a question.
“I am. Aren’t you going to see Zubiri?”
Victor shrugs. “Sooner or later. Don’t forget that Borjigin told us to go to the Grand Hall. I’ll see you there.”
With that, he jogs into the Observatory, spear in hand, slung rifle jostling on his back.
