“Welcome, Empress Savage.”
My friends exchange glances, gawk at me. O’Malley stands quietly, saying nothing.
Spingate’s eyes narrow. Her expression clouds over with the same distrust she showed when we were at the statue.
I don’t have time to worry about her. Ometeotl hasn’t asked for my access code. Maybe we can finally get answers. First, though, I need to see what dangers lie in this very room.
“I am the Empress, so you have to do what I say?”
“Of course, Empress Savage.”
“Good. Who is in these coffins?”
“This servant does not understand the query,” Ometeotl says. “There are no coffins here.”
I think of Brewer again, and a word pops into my head.
“The four husks in this room,” I say. “Who is in them?”
“No one, Empress.”
“Open them. Now.”
Four coffin lids open simultaneously, splitting vertically down the middle, the halves sliding neatly to the sides.
All empty.
The white fabric inside looks perfect, like it has never been touched.
Goosebumps, cascading up my arms, down my body: something about this place is wrong. I look to Bishop to see if he notices anything, but he doesn’t seem alarmed.
I push the feeling away. I have so many questions.
“What is this place? What is this city?”
“This is the city of Uchmal. Built for the free peoples of the rebellion.”
That word again, rebellion. I think of Brewer’s warning, that we can make a new future if we don’t know the past. This world is ours to do with as we wish.
But only if we survive, and to survive, we have to eat.
“How do we kill the red mold?”
A pause.
“Empress Savage, this servant has no information on red mold.”
It has to know. We can’t have come this far for nothing.
“We found a warehouse,” I say. “Full of food that was contaminated with a toxin. How did the people who came before us deal with it? What did they eat? And where did those people go?”
“As you commanded, there have been no people before you, Empress. You are the first to set foot on Omeyocan.”
That makes no sense. I look at O’Malley. He doesn’t understand, either. Of course there were people here before us—this city didn’t build itself.
“The rebellion,” Spingate says to the ceiling. “The slaughter on the Xolotl”—she turns her head to stare at me, her gaze malevolent—“why were those people murdered?”
I freeze. They died because Matilda led an uprising, but only O’Malley and I know she was a slave, that all the circles are slaves. I should have told everyone right away, I knew it. Now it’s going to come out.
O’Malley is staring at Spingate, mouth hanging open. His eyes flick to me, and all he does is blink—the whisperer has no idea what to do now.
“I have limited information on the Xolotl,” Ometeotl says. “Empress Savage’s valiant efforts stopped a horrible slaughter. She led a rebellion that saved thousands of lives, then she took control of the Xolotl and created Uchmal.”
The answer leaves Spingate speechless; that wasn’t what she was expecting. I’m at a loss for words, too, but for different reasons—was my creator actually protecting people?
I shake my head, try to focus. Even if Matilda was protecting people, it doesn’t justify the carvings on the Observatory walls, and it doesn’t come close to justifying the slaughter up on the Xolotl. We saw dead circles, not dead halves and gears.
Wait…we’re being told this story by the same source that says we are the first ones here, ever, when we are standing in a building it must have taken thousands of people to create.
And then it hits me, a knife through my heart. Ometeotl just said that Matilda created this city. If that’s true, then she created this building—which means she created Ometeotl.
My father’s voice, echoing: History is written by the victors. The “history” I’m hearing now…was that written about Matilda, or by her?
Frustration claws at me. I can’t trust anything Ometeotl says. This computer, or whatever it is, it lies. Everyone lies. This place held our only hope to find out the truth, and now that hope is gone.
More goosebumps; that odd feeling returns, and I suddenly know what it is—I feel like I’m being watched.
Visca’s focus snaps to a shadowy corner, then another. He feels it, too.
“Something’s wrong,” he says.
Bishop’s brow furrows as if he agrees but he can’t define why.
I smell something, a faint wisp that seems familiar.
The slightest rattle of plastic: five flashlight beams sweep to the racks. The same bins, clearly empty, but one is rocking, just a little.
Something is down here with us, something lurking in the deep shadows. The bin stops rocking—beams dance across the racks, but there is no movement to be seen.