“Aramovsky, who is driving that thing?”
The monstrosity takes another thundering step. I hear the Springer horns sound all through the jungle.
“Abrantes and Aeschelman,” he says, “both young halves, and two brave young knights—Cody and Cadotte. You wouldn’t know them, because you never talked to them like I did.”
Kids. Would it be any better if it was people my age? No, not really.
“Why, Em?” Aramovsky spreads his hands, turning in place and speaking to everyone, like he always does when he’s trying to make me look bad. “Do you think you’re going to talk them out of it? Maybe shout to the sky and the stars and the sun, hope that they hear you?”
I shake my head. “No. I just want to know who I killed.”
The monster machine takes another step.
I raise my left fist.
Spingate does not fail me.
A hiss, a roar of flame—two smoke trails shoot out from the top of the shuttle, covering the distance almost instantly. The missiles hit at the same time, one near the head, the other sliding into the chest. Fireballs erupt, billowing up to the sky and down to the machine’s knees. A cloud of angry orange rises, driven higher by the column of flame beneath it. The vines catch fire, as do the full-size trees jammed into the nooks and crannies. Every inch of the machine bubbles and burns. The fireball dissipates, replaced by a column of greasy black smoke.
The machine moves no more.
From inside it, I hear screams.
The Springer horns fade out.
On either side of the clearing, no one moves.
With one gesture, I have demonstrated not only the ultimate power on this battlefield, but the willingness to use it. The Springers have no choice but to understand—if I’m willing to kill my own kind, I’m willing to kill them, too.
I am the wind…I am death.
We all stand there, motionless. We listen to the screams fade, then die out.
The fire roars on. The machine that was made to build cities, then converted to kill, is now a colossus of flame and smoke.
Aramovsky stares at it blankly. He prepared well for this battle, far better than I expected. He had his people salvage spiders. He acquired weapons that gave him the advantage. He had children repair a machine that looked like it was rusted and long since worthless. He was led into a trap, but in the end, he might have won anyway.
Three of the six spiders at his disposal are out of the fight. The Springers have probably reloaded their carts by now, and will assuredly take out at least one more spider if not all three. Aramovsky is vastly outnumbered. And his weapon of awe—the one thing the Springers could not possibly bring down with flying boulders—burns like the biggest bonfire ever created, the crew of four people inside it turning into ash.
People that I killed. What have I done? I make choices, and people die.
Bishop brushes past me. He’s trying hard to hide a limp. Bleeding, his face swollen and cut, his coveralls ripped and torn, he squares his shoulders and stands in front of Aramovsky’s spider.
“Knights, hear me,” he shouts. “You voted for Aramovsky, but he is false. Everyone he left behind was to be sacrificed to the Grownups, so they could be overwritten. You are here only because there is no Grownup waiting to erase your mind. You are expendable.”
He spits that last word with a power I didn’t know he possessed, with so much venom it makes my hair stand on end. But he’s not done talking.
“No one else has to die. The Springers showed Em how to kill the red mold. We will have food, all we can eat. Em did that, not Aramovsky. She killed my creator. She saved my life. I have fought beside Em. I have bled with Em. She is honorable. She is brave. She is willing to sacrifice for the greater good. She is not a knight, but she is everything we knights aspire to be. If you want to fight the Springers, you’ll have to go through her. And to get to her, you’ll have to go through me.”
Bishop can barely stand, yet his words carry thunder. Where is the spoiled boy who bullied anyone who disagreed with him? That person was a child in a grown man’s body, but—like me—that child is gone.
And more than that…he’s bluffing. His legs tremble. He couldn’t fight one young circle-star, let alone all of them. This time, though, it isn’t about Bishop’s physical presence. The person who doesn’t like to talk is ending this with his words.
The spider on the left: a circle-star lowers her bracelet. Next to her, a circle-star boy takes his hands off the cannon’s controls and steps back. The spider crew on the right does the same. The little gear girl driving Aramovsky’s spider swings a leg over the rail and descends, abandoning him.
Aramovsky watches them all, eyes cold and consumed with rage.
He’s lost. He knows it.
A tap on my arm. It’s Barkah.