“That’s amazing,” I say. “How did you know what to do?”
“Gaston said you wanted me to come in here and learn all I could. As soon as I started, some of those blank areas in my head filled in. I remembered medical classes, people teaching me things, and how to use the medical system. The machines perform most of the work, I just use the pedestal to ask questions and make a decision as to what needs to be done.”
Another person with recovered memories. Some, anyway, and these particular memories are critical to our survival. It feels good knowing that Smith is ready to take care of us.
She opens a cabinet, hands me a pair of black boots. It’s all I can do not to squeal with delight. As I put them on and start tying them, I look up at Spingate.
“Was I asleep long?”
“All night and half the day.”
That’s a long time. Too long.
“Has the spider shown up?”
Spin shakes her head. “Not yet, anyway. O’Malley made everyone stay inside the shuttle. He said that if it can stop attacks from the Grownups, it can probably stop the spiders.”
I finish tying my boots. I stand, put weight on my leg, bounce on it. My calf is sore, but feels so much better.
“Smith, you’re amazing.”
She blushes. She can be as modest as she likes, as long as she keeps fixing us up.
“Hey, where are my old clothes?”
Spingate’s face wrinkles. “Incinerated, I hope. Em, we stank.”
O’Malley brought me down here. My face flushes hot as I think of him seeing me naked.
“Who, um…who undressed me?”
“Don’t worry, the med-chamber did it,” Smith says, gesturing to the gleaming coffin. “It removed your old clothes, cleaned you up, treated your wounds, fed you intravenously, handled your waste and fixed your hair. It even put on your new clothes for you.”
She calls it a med-chamber? I like that, although I suspect she’ll be the only person to use that term. This thing “handled my waste.” Disgusting, but it explains a lot. I was in my original coffin for years—centuries, according to Brewer. The coffin took care of me.
Some of the Xolotl’s coffins broke down. The kids inside of those died.
If things break down here, what will happen? Smith can use this equipment, but can she fix it if it stops working? Same thing with Gaston and flying the shuttle, or Spingate and the bracer. Knowing how to use technology is not the same as knowing how to make it, or how to repair it.
Spingate puts a hand on my shoulder. “Time to go up. Everyone is waiting for you on Deck One.”
“Why?”
“The meeting,” she says. “O’Malley said when he brought you down here, you told him as soon as you woke up you wanted a meeting about the food situation.”
Other than O’Malley putting that blanket around me and showing me the new kids, I barely remember talking to him. I must have really been out of it. Still, a meeting is exactly what we need.
“So many people to feed now,” I say. “Aramovsky’s stupid act might mean we starve. Godsdamn him.”
Smith’s eyes narrow. “Because you’re in charge, you think you can curse like that?”
Because you’re in charge…so close to what Coyotl said at the waterfall. Do people think I’m abusing my position as leader? Well, someone has to make decisions, and I have every right to be angry at Aramovsky.
“He shouldn’t have woken them,” I say. “They were in those coffins for centuries. A few more days wouldn’t have hurt. How did he wake them up, anyway? Did his progenitor know how to operate the coffins?”
Spingate looks down, takes a small step away from Smith.
Smith glares at me defiantly.
“You,” I say to her. “You opened the coffins.”
She crosses her arms. “Aramovsky asked for my help. He said the gods willed it. The pedestal had instructions for waking them, just like it had instructions for healing you.”
I remember Spingate’s words in the pilothouse, her worry that the kids might already be overwritten.
“Spin…are they like us?”
She nods quickly, instantly understanding my concern.
“O’Malley and Gaston said the new kids didn’t know who they were or where they were, just like when we woke up. The kids were terrified.”
There is anger in her voice. Like me, she understands how much trouble we’re in now that our numbers have doubled but our food has not.
I wish I had my spear. I’m so mad I could almost use it on Smith. I’m hot in the face and chest. It feels the same as when I lost my temper with Spingate—the difference is Smith did do something to deserve it.
“You woke them up, Smith,” I say. “Can you put them back to sleep?”
She juts out her chin. “You don’t have the right to do that, you—”
“Answer my question.”
Something in my voice makes her take a step back.
“It’s not safe for them,” she says. “Once someone comes out of a coffin for the first time, they’re alive. Putting them back into deep sleep could kill them.”
Her words, or Aramovsky’s?