She sneers. “It doesn’t mean anything. Their circles are empty. And you can’t tell me what to do.”
A metal-on-metal gong reverberates through the room, makes everyone jump. All heads turn toward Bishop: he has smashed the flat of his red axe against the red wall. He stares straight at Bawden.
“Em is our leader,” Bishop says. His voice is calm, but unforgiving. “That means she can tell you what to do. She got us this far, didn’t she?”
Bawden stares at Bishop as if she’s ready to fight him, but he isn’t being aggressive. He’s asking her to cooperate, not ordering her. That seems to make a difference.
She looks at me. “Fine. I won’t use that word anymore.”
Not an apology, but it’s something.
How can we know a word is bad, but not know why it’s bad?
Aramovsky stands on a closed coffin.
“We shouldn’t fight each other,” he says. “The mold is our biggest threat. And its red color is no coincidence. It is punishment from the God of Blood, because not enough of us have accepted his divine way.”
Spingate shakes her head. “It isn’t a punishment, you idiot. It’s biological.”
“I see,” Aramovsky says. “Well, since it’s biology, I’m sure you already have a cure.” He smiles. “You’ll cure this before we run out of food, right, Spingate?”
Her face wrinkles with rage. She rightfully blames him for waking these kids up in the first place.
“Science doesn’t work that way,” she says. “It’s a process.”
Aramovsky looks around the room, playing to the crowd.
“She can’t promise us when she’ll find a cure, or if there even is a cure. See what happens if you put science over faith?”
The package of crackers smacks into his head, making him wince in surprise.
She puts her hands on her hips.
“When you put science over faith, you save lives,” she says. “Those crackers that just bounced off your thick skull? If you had eaten those, you’d be dead. My science revealed that before anyone got hurt. Why didn’t your god tell Farrar not to eat the contaminated food? Does your god want everyone to die?”
Aramovsky’s eyes narrow. “Not everyone, Spingate.” He stretches out his long arm and points a finger at her. “Just those who deserve it.”
Around the room, roars of outrage—and some of approval.
I slam the butt of the spear down on the makeshift stage. The plastic thonk isn’t as impressive as Bishop cracking his axe against the wall, but it quiets the room.
Spear in hand, I step off the stage and stride toward Aramovsky. People scramble out of my way. I stand in front of him, not hiding my anger.
“Did you just threaten Spingate’s life?”
“Of course not,” he says. “I was merely answering her question.”
“You pointed at her when you said it.”
He speaks loudly, making sure everyone can hear him: “My apologies. I see how that might have looked.” He faces Spingate, bows. “I would never threaten your life. Only the God of Blood can decide who lives and who dies.”
He stands straight again, looks down at me. “Just like only the gods can decide who leads.”
My skin prickles. Is he challenging my leadership? That thickness in my chest again…my temper, surging. I control it, but barely. I lean close to him, whisper so quietly he has to bend forward to hear.
“If anything happens to Spingate, I’ll hold you responsible.”
Aramovsky glances at my spear. The blade is only inches from his face. He wants it, wants to stab me with it.
Bishop clears his throat. “Aramovsky, let’s take a walk.”
The tall boy’s face goes blank. He looks around the room, as if searching for someone who will help him. Everywhere he looks, people stare at the ground. No one wants to cross Bishop.
First Bawden, now Aramovsky—Bishop is making things worse. People will think I can’t handle problems on my own. I want to tell Bishop to be quiet, but if I say something now it will just cause more confusion.
“Now, Aramovsky,” Bishop says. “A word, please?”
Aramovsky swallows, smooths out his new black coveralls. He walks to the door, trying to look like this doesn’t bother him. He and Bishop exit the shuttle.
The coffin room is quiet, tense. No one knows what to say. How did things get out of control so fast? The only noise comes from Spingate. She’s crying a little—because she’s so angry, I think. Gaston stands next to her, rubbing her back. Some people are looking at her like she did something wrong.
O’Malley steps onto the stage.
“That’s all for now, everyone,” he says. “As soon as we have more information, we’ll share it.” He steps down, walks to me, whispers: “Can I see you in the pilothouse?”
O’Malley is better at these situations than I am. Maybe he can help me figure out what to do next. I follow him to the pilothouse. He closes the door behind us.