by Scott Sigler
Ants. We’ve never seen those ourselves, but we know them from our progenitors’ memories. It’s hard to see individual ants…they kind of blend together. But a bunch of them, moving in the same direction, that makes ant trails far easier to see than the individual ants themselves.
“People use the Spider Nest and the food warehouse all the time,” I say. “And there were people walking to and from the residential areas. Maybe the Basilisk chose its targets based on foot traffic, assuming the busiest places were the most important?”
“Except they didn’t hit the Observatory,” Spingate says. “It has more traffic than any other building.”
She’s right.
“So much for my theory,” I say.
“Hypothesis,” Spingate says.
I glare at her, annoyed. “What?”
“A hypothesis is an attempt to explain something. A theory is what happens when you test the hypothesis and confirm it is accurate.”
Gaston rubs hard at his face. “Theresa, must you be such an annoying know-it-all?”
She snarls, is about to yell at him, but I cut her off.
“There was no damage to the Observatory?”
Borjigin shakes his head. “Not a scratch.”
The puzzle pieces refuse to fit. My frustration builds. What am I missing?
“There’s only one reason to not target the Observatory,” Bishop says. “They don’t want to destroy it—they want to capture it. To do that, they need to land troops. We’ll have to fight them in the streets.”
“Or shoot them down,” Gaston says. He looks at Borjigin. “How many tower cannons are operational?”
“Four,” Borjigin says. “But we were working on two more that might be salvaged.”
Gaston shrinks down the map, showing us the whole city. “We can mount them equidistant around the wall. That gives us the best chance at hitting incoming landing craft, no matter which direction they come from.”
Bishop rubs his hands together. “Gaston’s right, Em. We need those last two cannons online.”
“Make it happen, Borjigin,” I say. “Take whoever and whatever you need.”
He nods. “I’ll get it done.”
“There’s something else strange about the bombs,” Spingate says. “I sent Cathcart out to collect data on crater depths as well as the distance impact debris was thrown. The biggest crater was just over three meters deep. I won’t go into the math right now, but based on the explosive power we observed, that indicates the impact of an object about twenty-five centimeters in diameter, assuming it was something about the density of iron. Ometeotl, show the animation I made.”
A flash from the blue dot representing the Basilisk; a pale blue line streaks away from it.
“We think the alien projectiles were rocks or metal of varying density layers,” Spingate says. “When these balls hit the atmosphere, they started to burn up.” The streaking blue object turns white. Tiny flames flare up, leave a growing tail behind it. “The atmosphere slowed them some. Most meteors break up while still descending. These did not.”
As the white streak descends, the display of Uchmal zooms in closer. In seconds, we’re looking at a wide area around Visca Spire. The streak hits nearby, causing a billowing explosion of fire. A shock wave races out, rippling the street stones and hammering nearby buildings. A smoldering crater marks the impact site.
Spingate arches her back, making her belly stretch out a bit farther. She sighs with fatigue. She’s still got three months to go, but I get the impression carrying a whole extra person inside of you can wear a girl out.
“Here’s what I don’t get,” she says. “If the aliens had used bigger projectiles, they would have done exponentially more damage. I mean, a projectile just twice the size would have destroyed dozens of city blocks and made craters over six meters deep. Why didn’t they use bigger projectiles? Why did they go easy on us?”
“Easy?” Bishop can’t believe what she just said. “Twenty-four of us died.”
His count includes both the human and Springer deaths. That bit of respect isn’t lost on Barkah.
“Easy was the wrong word,” Spingate says. “What I mean is, why didn’t we have far more casualties? If the aliens really wanted to wipe out Uchmal and everyone in it, all they had to do was throw bigger rocks.”
I feel a familiar buzz at the back of my head. The size of the rocks…it’s one of the missing pieces I need. I know I don’t have enough information to see the big picture, not yet, but four things stand out: the shuttle, the Observatory, shallow craters, they only attacked parts of the city where we go the most.
I look to Barkah.
“Did any meteors hit Schechak?”
“No hits,” he says. “No in city, no in jungle.”
The aliens weren’t attacking the planet…they were specifically attacking Uchmal. But why do that and not hit the Observatory? Why wouldn’t they attack Uchmal’s largest building, where most of our people live and work?
I stare at the map. What am I missing? I need to get up high, as high as I can, and see if my eyes can show me something this map can’t.
“Everyone, get back to your jobs,” I say. “I’m going to the peak.”
I climb the circular metal steps that take me to the Observatory’s top layer. The walls glow soft white around me. Just above, I see a bit of the sky, mostly hidden by a large stone slab supported by four golden poles.
When we first climbed the Observatory’s three thousand steps, that slab was flush with the Observatory’s top layer. The slab supported a tall pillar decorated with Bishop-sized symbols of the Grownups: circle at top, then circle-star, double-ring, circle-cross, half-circle and gear. Aramovsky pressed his hand to a palm print inside that gear: the platform rose up on those poles, revealing this staircase that led down into the gargantuan building.
I feel the morning heat even before I finish the climb. Maybe two hours until the reddish sun is directly overhead, and already the day is the hottest we’ve had in weeks. I step between the golden poles and onto the top plateau. The first thing I notice is the large carbon symbol engraved across the stone beneath my feet. I always notice it, because O’Malley was the first of us to see it. Even though we still don’t know its full significance, it always makes me think of him.
This spot truly is the top of our world. I can see forever. The sweltering sun bakes mist from the yellow jungle ruins. The tallest trees look like grass. Uchmal’s city walls and buildings are like a child’s toys.
Snow-capped mountains rise up to the west. To the north, the lake that feeds the river flowing into our city. To the northeast, the crescent-shaped clearing where Aramovsky fought the Springer king, where I defeated the Belligerents. The clearing has a black smudge in the center—the remnants of Kalle’s cornfield.
All of it, from north to west to south to east and back again…this is my home.
The lake…
Sometimes when I see that blue surface, I have the tiniest bit of Matilda memory. A red canoe. My grampa, smiling, laughing. It should be a happy memory, but it isn’t. It bothers me.
I push the splinter of memory away and walk to the plateau’s edge. Far below, I see the plaza, a thumbnail-sized tan square. On it, Ximbal is a tiny gleam of silver. No damage to the shuttle or the plaza. If I believed in the gods, I’d thank them for that miracle. Although, if gods were real, then I’d have to ask them why they let the attack happen in the first place. The best “miracle” would be no attack at all, wouldn’t it?
The area all around the Observatory is untouched. Beyond that, though, I see the attack’s carnage.
Beautiful Uchmal, the stone city built for the Birthday Children, is pockmarked and ravaged. The residential area is ripped apart like fresh-turned farmland. Bits of buildings stick up like cracked brown bones. Rings of black surround each crater, where flames were hot enough to dry out the wet vines and set them ablaze. The slightest breeze stirs blackened ash into tiny, spinning whirlwinds.
; Down there, nine of us died.
Down there, a flying stone ripped away Halim’s throat.
Down there, somewhere, is my spear.
I want it.
Maybe the wood shaft burned up. Maybe the blade melted. I don’t care. I will find it. Even if it is a melted lump of metal, I will have Borjigin hammer it into a new weapon—a weapon I swear I will use on the aliens who did this to us.
Matilda destroyed the Springer city. She killed thousands. Maybe millions. I know that if there really are gods, if there is justice, her descendants might have to pay for her crimes. I know this, yet I don’t care; the Birthday Children did nothing to deserve such punishment. We are not responsible for the actions of those who came before us. If we must suffer for our own sins, so be it, but we will not give up our blood for crimes committed by others.
Something about the bomb craters bothers me.
Why didn’t they attack the Observatory?
If the aliens destroyed the places where we walked the most, congregated the most, why wouldn’t they hit the place where most of us live? It makes no sense.
I look up at the stone slab. A rope ladder dangles from it. I climb. When I reach the top, I see three boys lying on their backs, eyes closed. Nevins and Peura are gears, scientists like Spingate and Zubiri. Harman is a circle. Like me. I’ve spent a little time with him. For lack of a better way to say it, he just isn’t very smart. He’s here to help the other two, to be their assistant.
Nevins couldn’t be more skinny, while Peura has steadily gained weight since he awoke. Both boys have straight black hair and chocolate-brown skin. If it wasn’t for the difference in their bodies, they could be mistaken for brothers. Harman is already taller than I am, thick with muscle. When he’s full grown, he’ll be a red-haired giant, bigger than Farrar, maybe even bigger than Bishop. The poor boy burns so easily, though—he’s going to be feeling the effects of this little nap all over his small nose and freckled face.
The thick pillar lies on its side. When I first saw it, I thought it was stone. I was wrong. It’s some man-made material—tough and strong, but hollow.
The contents of the pillar are spread about the slab: bits and pieces of disassembled machinery. Those bits once made an antenna capable of communicating with the stars. Some of the parts are shiny, almost new, but many are melted blobs. Tangles of colored wires are spread out like spilled wax. This collection of pieces is a puzzle, yes, but not the kind of puzzle I could ever solve.
“Having a good nap, boys?”
They lurch to their feet so fast I’m surprised they don’t pee themselves. They look terrified, as if I am a hurukan and not a girl that is barely taller than any of them.
“Em,” Harman says. “I…we…there was thinking and we…and you…”
He’s stammering nonsense. Not the smartest of the three, but at least he had the courage to actually speak.
“I need this antenna fixed,” I say. “Now, not later, not after you’ve had a nice rest.”
They look at each other, frightened anew.
“But Grandmaster Spingate told you,” Nevins said. “She said she did. We can’t fix it. We can’t.”
I point to the spot where they were just lying.
“So you think you can just go to sleep instead? People are dying, you lazy fools!”
They shrivel in place, shoulders hunched, eyes cast down. Maybe they’d rather have a hurukan sneak up on them than face me when I’m angry.
“We were trying to think,” Peura says. He has a communication jewel in his left ear. His voice is thin and light, little different from the wind that usually whips across this tiny plateau. “Zubiri told us to do that from time to time. To stop and just think. We’ve done everything we know how to do, Em. Some of the parts are broken for good. It’s just…well…some things can’t be fixed.”
I think of Halim. He was broken, too. His parts could not be fixed.
Yelling at these boys isn’t going to magically make them smarter.
“So you were thinking,” I say, lowering my voice, making it softer. “Did you think of anything?”
The three of them shake their heads as if they are one body.
“We need help,” Peura says. “Can Zubiri help us for a while?”
If the telescope really is a weapon, I can’t spare Zubiri from that project, not even for an instant.
“I guess you better lie back down for a while and think some more,” I say. “I don’t care what Spingate told you. Zubiri is busy. You three need to fix this antenna. Everyone’s lives depend on it.”
I don’t know if that last part is true or not. Reaching the Xolotl and letting Bello talk to her friends might make a difference; it might not. If it could possibly help our survival, though, these boys must find a way.
There is always a solution. Always.
“Get back to work,” I say.
I turn toward the rope ladder, then pause. The cityscape seems to shift. The buildings are already tiny bumps to my eyes, yet they change, they blend together into a shapeless brown mass.
The craters…
How could I have not seen it right away?
The shape isn’t perfect, but now that I’ve seen it I can’t unsee it: a wide circle with the plaza at dead center.
The meteor attack didn’t avoid a specific building…it avoided an area.
Peura rushes to me, tugs on my sleeve. He’s holding his left pointer finger against his communication jewel in his ear, as if he has to focus hard to understand what he’s hearing.
“Spingate wants you in the Control Room,” he says. “Zubiri fixed the telescope!”
The elevator stops. I step out into a Control Room alive with activity. A glowing image of the Observatory hovers above the Well. It’s an image I’ve seen a hundred times, but there is something new: halfway up each side, on the ninety-degree corners, are glowing orange dots.
Spingate, Zubiri and Gaston are standing on the platform. Spin adjusts her sling; little Kevin is fussing, crying softly. Spin whispers something comforting, but the baby doesn’t stop.
I quickly walk past the students at their pedestals. No lessons today—each display shows some part of the Observatory. I catch glimpses of a weapon I have not seen before, boxy and tan with a long black barrel sticking out of it. No, six barrels, all bunched together.
I step onto the platform. Spingate looks up from her work. She’s afraid; something has disturbed her right down to her core.
“Zubiri did it,” she says. “Or Ometeotl did, because of the attack—Zubiri isn’t sure yet. The telescope is working—we have visuals on the alien ships. All of them.”
Her words hang in the air. I glance at Zubiri. She nods slightly. I’ve waited months for this—we all have.
I point to the floating Observatory.
“Then why are you showing that instead of our enemies?”
“The attack activated systems we didn’t know existed,” Gaston says. “Those orange dots are antimissile batteries. Opkick and the halves are examining them now, seeing if any of them still work. If the aliens bombard us again, we might be able to hit their meteors before they impact, break them up so they don’t cause as much damage.”
I feel a rush of mixed emotions—hope and excitement that we might be able to defend ourselves against the next strike, anger that these systems sat idle while nine of my people died.
“Why didn’t they activate during the attack?”
“I did not know they existed, Empress.” Ometeotl’s voice echoes through the room. “The orbital bombardment overrode some of the programming blocks that were put into my system long ago.”
I’d give anything to find out who screwed up the computer’s memory. I don’t believe in torture, but for that person? I might make an exception.
“All right,” I say. “Show me our enemy.”
“You need to see the Xolotl first,” Gaston says to me. “Theresa, put it up on the main display.”
He isn’t asking Spingate, he�
��s commanding her. In Ximbal’s cockpit, where his authority is unquestioned, this is what he sounds like. I’ve never heard him use that tone with her anywhere else. She obeys instantly.
“On main display,” she says.
The air above the Well sparkles to life. Multicolored flecks gather and glow, swell to blobs, then shrink, rush together and take shape.
A cylinder.
Copper in color, pitted, scratched and gouged all along its length.
I think of the drawing Spingate made in the dust, so long ago, when she said we had walked in a circle.
The part of the cylinder facing Omeyocan ends in a flat, squashed cartoon face surrounded by a ring of small images I can’t quite make out. It reminds me of the Mictlan symbol stitched into our black coveralls and our red ties. Just past the cartoon face, a tiny tube sticks out of the cylinder, ending in a small sphere. The sphere is barely a speck compared to the Xolotl’s massive size, yet I know what it must be: the Crystal Ball, the place where we first learned we were on a spaceship and not in an endless dungeon.
At the cylinder’s far end, a slightly smaller cylinder juts out, points away from the planet. This section is a mishmash of pipes and machinery, gray and silver and teal tapering to a narrow black cone.
Gaston steps off the platform and walks to the Well. He hops onto the red wall, walks around its flat, narrow top with the grace of a circle-star.
“This is where we were when we woke up,” he says, pointing to a section of the Xolotl near the Crystal Ball. The area he indicates is small, barely more than the tip of the huge ship. He then points to the middle of the copper-colored tube.
“We have no idea what’s in here,” he says. “That’s the part the Grownups sealed off. The part past the end of the Garden, perhaps.”
He reaches out, grabbing the image of the Xolotl, rotating it. He spreads his hands, making a section bigger. I see a long, deepening groove that ends in a flat gray door that would open like a set of huge jaws.
“Landing bay,” he says. “Inside that door is where our shuttle was. And this”—he runs his fingers across the gray, silver and teal section, lets them linger on the tapering black cone—“is the Xolotl’s main engine. This is what brought us here.”
