by Scott Sigler
None of us have sat in that throne. None of us ever will.
Spin, Gaston, Halim and I walk down the stone corridor. I hear noise coming from the Grand Hall. Loud conversation. Laughter. And…is that music?
We reach the entryway. One step inside, and I stop cold.
This huge room is full of people and Springers. So many of us, here, maybe all of us.
I think everyone has bathed, even those who fought with me against the Belligerents. Bodies washed, hair combed. Most of my people wear Springer-made clothes instead of the familiar black coveralls.
And our Springers…hundreds of them, all dressed up. Long robes of fine cloth, in so many wonderful colors. Hems and collars trimmed in bits of gleaming glass. Buttons of polished metal etched with intricate patterns.
Everyone looks so nice.
The music stops.
All heads turn to stare at me.
Gaston starts to clap. Spingate joins him, then Halim…then everyone.
They are applauding. Applauding me.
My face feels hot.
“What’s going on?”
Borjigin slides out of the crowd. He wears a new blue outfit, beams with pride and joy. He takes my hand and leads me into the Hall.
“People, let’s hear it for our leader! Let’s hear it for Em!”
They clap harder. They hoot and holler. I see smiles from Bishop, Opkick, the shuttle kids, Victor…I must be the only person who wasn’t in the know.
“Borjigin,” I say, “what is this?”
He pulls me in for a hug. “It’s a celebration of your triumph in battle. A way for those of us who did not fight to thank those that did. I had it planned all along as a ceremony, but when you told me we didn’t lose anyone, I turned it into a party!”
He leads me around the room. There are tables full of food: meats and cheeses, pastries, a whole roasted Omeyocan piggy sitting on a huge silver tray. Candies and treats. Platters full of unwrapped grain bars from our food warehouse. The Springers consider those a delicacy. I see another table topped with a pile of small black circular cookies, also from the storehouse, and standing next to that table, of course, is Farrar. He smiles at me, chewed-up cookies caked on his teeth. He always did have a sweet tooth.
There are exhibits, too. Kalle is behind a pedestal, its glowing display showing some kind of wiggling worm thing. I see three shuttle kids with instruments: one with a harp of some kind, one with a brass trumpet, one with several small drums set up around her. Two displays of paintings—not Springer paintings, I’m shocked to see, but human ones. A table where black-haired little Bernice Walezak is talking to a dozen people. She wears white robes, smiles like an angel.
Borjigin sweeps his arms wide, a gesture that includes the band, the people, the food, the exhibits…everything.
“Important things happened while you were gone,” he says. “And there were some things happening while you were here, but you were too busy to notice. I wanted to take a moment and bring all of these things together, so you could see that you’re fighting for far more than just survival. Art, science…this is the culture we’re all building together. Building because of you, Em. Because of your leadership.”
All this attention, all focused on me. I’m grateful, but I hate it.
Borjigin finally seems to notice how uncomfortable I am. He looks at the people gathered around.
“We have about an hour,” he calls out. “Then most of us need to get back to work. Eat, drink, learn and enjoy!”
The crowd applauds again, maybe this time more for him than for me, then they return to what they were doing. The music starts up. The room fills with the sounds of conversation.
I’m used to being the center of attention, but not like this. I’m embarrassed. I’m also very touched.
“Borjigin, you shouldn’t have done this.”
He laughs. “You never ask for anything for yourself, so I took it upon myself to show you how much we appreciate what you do. This celebration isn’t just for you, of course—take a look at your soldiers.”
Victor is tearing into a plate overstuffed with steaming piggy meat. A bandage covers the burn wound on his head. He’s eating and laughing, talking to Louise Bariso, one of our halves. Bawden is in a wheelchair. The plate on her lap holds a small roasted animal. I recognize it—the same animal Visca found right before he was killed. How I miss him. Maria and Lahfah are laughing and dancing together in front of the little band, along with a young circle-star girl named Ines Darzi. They’ve all traded in their dirty jungle rags for long scarves of all colors that flow in time with their movements.
The people who fought with me, human and Springer alike…just a few hours ago they were putting their lives on the line. Now they are playing, laughing, enjoying this moment like there is no tomorrow. With the Basilisk coming in, maybe there isn’t a tomorrow. They should have fun while they can.
We all should.
Borjigin is clapping in time with the band.
“They’re wonderful,” I say.
“The Springers made the harp,” Borjigin says. “We found the trumpet and the drums in a storage room. Tama, Robert and Karen have been practicing their instruments for weeks.”
Tama Church, Robert Williams and Karen Benson are all circles. I had no idea our people could be musicians.
I point to the paintings.
“And those?”
“Axel uses paint provided by the Springers,” Borjigin says. “Crystal uses charcoal. They were both hiding their art away, like they thought it would get them into trouble or something.”
I shake my head. Axel Shepherd and Crystal Gilbert—both shuttle kids. And, both circles.
“You said there were important discoveries?”
Borjigin takes my hand and leads me to Kalle’s pedestal. She waves everyone away so she can focus solely on me. She has such a sweet smile. Unfortunately, what usually comes out of her mouth is anything but sweet.
“Sorry those godsdamned jungle rats burned our crops,” she says.
I can’t even guess how many hours she invested in developing that cornfield. I don’t blame her for being angry, but at the same time I don’t need her racism.
“Kalle, we have guests,” I say. “Can you mind your language, please?”
She huffs, then glances at Lahfah and a few other Springers.
“It’s just a word, Em,” she says, but not as loud. “Words can’t hurt you.”
“They can’t? Tell that to those who died in Aramovsky’s war. Besides, the Springers aren’t rats.”
“Close enough for my taste.”
“You’ve never even seen a rat.”
She laughs. “But I remember what they look like. Don’t you?”
I do. I didn’t at first, but when some people started calling the Springers jungle rats, I looked it up on one of the Observatory’s pedestals. Once I saw it, I “remembered” it, meaning that Matilda knew about rats when she was a little girl. The only memories that are truly mine are the ones that came after I woke up in my coffin, in the dark, screaming and fighting for my life.
“I’m glad you beat them,” Kalle says. Her tone is slightly more respectful. “Did you kill them all?”
“No, not all.”
“Too bad.”
I don’t bother telling her that those who survived will probably all die at the hands of Barkah.
She waves her hands above the pedestal. An image sparkles to life—it’s the purple vine root. We use its juice to neutralize the toxic mold that makes all food on this planet poisonous.
“I finally had a breakthrough with this thing,” she says. “Magnify.”
The image zooms in on one spot of the root as if we are plunging into it at high speed. What looked like smooth skin is actually marked with tight wrinkles. We dive further, through those wrinkles, into the flesh itself. Tiny dots appear, which grow into irregular cubes packed in together.
“Those cubes are plant cells,” Kalle says. “Increase magnificat
ion.”
The cubes seem to expand. I see that there are dots in the middle of each one, something at the center of the cell. Then I see movement—something long and thin, sliding between the cubes.
I point at it. “What is that?”
“It’s a microorganism. I first saw them months ago, but assumed they were just a pest of some kind. My recent experiments, however, show that the worms secrete a manganese compound that kills the mold and neutralizes the mold’s toxin.”
Borjigin nudges me.
“Told you things happened while you were gone,” he says.
I stare at the image while my brain catches up with what Kalle just said. I don’t understand all her words, but I think I get her meaning.
“So it’s not root-juice that makes our food safe to eat,” I say, “it’s worm juice?”
Kalle nods. “A disgusting yet accurate way to describe it, sure.”
“Does this worm thing eat the root?”
“No,” she says. “I believe the worms eat waste from the plant cells. Without the worms, in fact, I think the roots would die, killing the vines. Do you know what the word symbiotic means?”
I shake my head.
“It means that two or more organisms are interdependent. Sometimes it means two species live in close association that may be—but is not necessarily—beneficial to each other. What we have with the roots and the worms is called obligate symbiosis. Do you know what that means?”
She’s really starting to annoy me.
“Obviously I don’t.”
She shrugs. “Who can tell with you? You’re always so full of surprises. Obligate symbiosis means the two species can’t survive without each other. Without the worms, the vines die. Without the vines, the worms die.”
Borjigin is excited, and getting impatient.
“Tell her the best part,” he says.
Kalle points at the image. Her fingertip touches the worm, sending up a little cloud of multicolored sparkles.
“I think I can modify the worms so they become symbiotic with our corn,” she says. “And our turnips, and all of our crops. The mold isn’t just toxic to us, it’s toxic to the plants the Grownups sent down here. That’s why everything we grow looks so sickly. If I can get the worms to live symbiotically with our crops, we’ll be able to grow our own food.”
Despite the unknown threat orbiting us high above, despite the dangers lurking in the jungle, for the first time we have real hope at permanent survival on Omeyocan.
“How long will it take to make it work?”
Kalle shrugs. “I couldn’t say. Years, maybe. From what I’ve learned so far, I’m sure I can do it, but it’s going to take a shucking long-ass time.”
Borjigin frowns at her.
“Kalle, language. You know Em doesn’t like that.”
She grins at him. “They’re just words.”
Maybe they are, but I’ve had enough. I can only take Kalle in small bits.
I walk to the paintings, admire the work. It’s really quite impressive. My people can make art. I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.
Walezak is leading a few people in prayer. I’m not crazy about religion, but I do notice her robes are white—not red, like Aramovsky wore. Her message sounds peaceful and positive.
I glance at Borjigin.
“You left Aramovsky in his cell, right? And Bello?”
He nods. “I wouldn’t remove either of them without your permission. You know that.” He looks around the room. “Aside from them, the only ones missing are Zubiri and Okereke. No one could find them. They knew about the party. Zubiri was looking for parts for the Goffspear—maybe she found another hidden room.”
I’m glad at least someone is still working.
“Make sure Aramovsky and Bello get some of this food,” I say. “But no—”
“No plate or utensils for Bello, I know,” Borjigin says. “I’ll see to it.”
I get a plate. The piggy is delicious. Farrar gives me some cookies for desert. He is all smiles and laughter. Everyone is having so much fun. Yes, the alien ship is close. In a couple of days, we could all be at war. That’s what makes this happy moment even more precious.
This is what we are fighting for.
Someone pushes through the people on my right. It’s Zubiri.
“I found something,” she says.
The brilliant gear has grown. She’s almost as tall as I am. Zubiri is still young, but her beauty already rivals that of Spingate. Dark-brown skin, darker eyes. Her black hair is a soft, curly cloud. She is one of the few who prefer the same outfit we were born in: white button-down shirt and a plaid skirt. We found thousands of those outfits in Observatory storerooms, in all sizes—her clothes fit perfectly.
For all her beauty, though, there is no hiding the damage this world has done to her. Her left sleeve is rolled up and pinned closed just above her elbow. She lost the arm in Aramovsky’s war. Smith has done wonders repairing Zubiri’s ruined face and broken teeth, but the girl will never get her arm back.
“Hi, Zubiri,” I say. I tilt my head toward Victor. “Are you and your boyfriend going to dance?”
She starts to shake her head, stops when she glances at Victor. He doesn’t seem to notice she’s there. Her eyes cloud over for a moment, shimmer with wetness, then Zubiri finishes that paused shake of the head.
“No time for that,” she says. “I’ve found something very important. I need you, Spingate and Gaston to come with me. Right now.”
Zubiri is worried. And maybe more than a little afraid.
I glance at Borjigin, not wanting to spoil his party.
He sighs. “Well, I got you to enjoy thirty minutes of fun, which is better than nothing. Go, I’ll get everyone back to work in a little bit.”
I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek.
“Thank you,” I say. “I really mean it.”
And with that, I gather up Spingate and Gaston.
We follow Zubiri out of the Grand Hall.
From the outside, the size of the Observatory boggles the imagination. It’s a thirty-layer ziggurat. Each layer has a hundred steps. Each step is as high as my knee. Standing next to this building, we feel like gnats. Standing atop it, it feels like you can see the entire world.
From the inside, the Observatory seems somehow even bigger. The hallways twist and turn, sometimes in random directions. We’ve had people get lost not just for a few minutes or a few hours, but for days. Ometeotl is able to provide some maps, but—like so many other things the computer should know—much of its memory about the Observatory has been erased. Opkick set up strict rules about who can go where, when, and with whom, just to make sure someone doesn’t vanish for good. She’s been trying to estimate how many hallways there are, how far they go, and she’s still not sure. Many rooms await behind hidden doors—there is much here we have yet to discover.
So it doesn’t surprise me that Spingate and I have followed Zubiri for thirty minutes through the stone hallways, and we still haven’t reached her new discovery. Gaston went back to the Control Room, worried that if he’s not paying constant attention to the alien ship it might somehow do something we’re not ready for.
Zubiri won’t talk to me as we walk. I’ve asked four times what’s this about; every time she opens her mouth to speak, she seems to choke on the word. She’s not crying, but it’s easy to see she’s biting back heartbreak—heartbreak she thinks I caused.
What did Victor say to her?
So I follow her. I’m exhausted and I still haven’t changed out of the clothes I wore for ten days in the jungle. I smell. I want to go home. But Zubiri has long since earned our respect. If she needs me to see this now, then I see it now.
We’re on the tenth layer. We turn a corner and I see Okereke standing halfway down the hall. He’s been waiting here this whole time? No, not waiting—guarding.
Zubiri walks up to him, stops.
“Open it,” she says.
Oker
eke nods. He presses a small discoloration in the stone wall. Something clicks. A horizontal chunk of stone pops open. In the space behind it, a row of black symbols on a white background: circle, circle-star, double-ring, circle-cross, half-circle and gear. Okereke taps these in a pattern, so fast I can’t follow it.
A wide, hidden stone door swings open without a sound. I wonder how many hundreds of times people have walked right past it, not realizing it was there.
Zubiri enters the room. Spingate and I follow her. Okereke remains outside.
On the far side of the small room is a green metal rack. On that rack, at waist height, are five wide spaces. The first space on my left is empty. The next four are filled with gleaming, golden, six-sided objects. Matilda’s memories flashfire the shape—like a pencil, but flat on both ends. They are big enough for me to fit inside if I tucked up tight. The rack was clearly designed specifically to hold these objects.
There is no dust on the golden surfaces. No dust in this room, either. The door must have stayed sealed shut for centuries until Zubiri figured out how to open it a few hours ago.
Spingate seems to recognize these things. Whatever they are, they frighten her. She stares at the golden objects as if she knows what they are, but speaking their name out loud would somehow bring a nightmare to life
The two smartest people I know are quaking in their boots.
“Enough of this,” I say. “What are these things?”
Being in the presence of these objects seems to chase away Zubiri’s heartbreak. Most of it, anyway. Whatever Victor said to hurt her, it pales in comparison to this new reality.
“I’ve been working on the telescope nonstop,” Zubiri says. “Crawling around inside of it, trying to figure out why we can’t see out of it. The computer memory was wiped, that’s why we don’t understand how it works, why we have to figure it out for ourselves.”
