Aramovsky grins. “It’s not a miracle that on the very day we run out of food, we discover fruit that will let us survive? It’s not a miracle that we suddenly have guns and war machines? The gods provided tools of salvation—that doesn’t mean they’re going to do the work for us.”
He steps onto the stage. I see O’Malley bristle: he doesn’t like this. Well, that’s too bad. Whispering in my ear isn’t going to stop our enemy.
“The demons murdered brave Visca,” Aramovsky says. “May the gods welcome him home.”
In unison, half the crowd repeats his words: “May the gods welcome him home.”
A chill runs through me. How did they all know to say that? So many, speaking at once…it calls back Matilda’s vague memories of being in church. While I’ve been looking for food, how many people has Aramovsky talked to?
“They’re not demons,” Spingate says. “They’re intelligent beings.”
“They attacked us, for no reason,” Aramovsky says. He points to the fruit in her hand. “And they could have given us the secret to survival any time they liked. They did not because they are evil—they want us all to die.”
Grumbles of agreement. Heads nodding.
Even though he’s talking about demons and gods, is the core of what he says so wrong? We did nothing to the Springers.
“Now we have weapons,” he says. “We must take the spiders into the jungle and destroy the demons. The only way we can be safe is to wipe them out.”
People murmur their approval. I usually disagree with Aramovsky, but this time he’s right. The Springers attacked us once—they will attack us again. If I want to save lives, we need to kill our enemy, we need to be forever free.
Aramovsky puts his arm around my shoulders, keeps talking to the crowd.
“Em knows what must be done. She killed one of them. She will lead us into battle, we will win this war, and the gods will be—”
Splat—the purple fruit hits his face, spins down to the floor, where it lands in a wet pile.
He stares, stunned. Smelly juice drips from his skin.
In the following silence, Spingate growls her words at Aramovsky.
“Battle? Kill them all? You superstitious idiot.” She casts her glare about the room. “And all of you, blindly agreeing with anything he says. Are you stupid? We can’t go to war with the Springers—we need them.”
Aramovsky’s arm slides away from my shoulders. As it does, I can feel his hatred, an almost physical thing.
“I thought you knew math,” he says to her. “There is only so much fruit. It’s us or them.”
Spingate rolls her eyes. “You want to wipe out an intelligent race that could show us how to survive? The red mold isn’t the only threat here. What about poisons the purple fruit won’t purify? What about the snake-wolves, or other predators we haven’t seen? How many people in this room need to die before we understand what’s safe and what isn’t? The Springers know how to survive on Omeyocan—we don’t.”
Her words chisel away at the vengeful feeling in my chest. She’s right. We’ve only been here a few days. There could be more dangers. Without someone to guide us, each lesson we learn might come from someone getting hurt. Or worse.
Coyotl bangs his thighbone against the shuttle wall. He’s standing with Borjigin, both of them looking over the crowd of smaller kids in front of them.
“They killed Visca,” Coyotl says. “We could have killed them first, but we didn’t! First chance they got they attacked us. Aramovsky is right—they’re demons!”
Spingate shakes her head. “They’re not demons.”
“You didn’t see them,” Borjigin says. “They’re horrible to look at.”
She screams her answer: “We probably look horrible to them! We have to find a way to communicate—we can’t just march into the jungle and slaughter them!”
“We can,” Aramovsky says. “We must. On the largest building in this city stands a statue of Em, of our own leader. It is a sign from the gods that she is destined to lead us to victory!”
Aramovsky smiles at me, eyes blazing with intensity. He wants me to embrace this “destiny.” But it’s not a statue of me: it’s supposed to be Matilda. The way Aramovsky says it, though…it’s hard not to wonder if he’s right. Matilda isn’t on Omeyocan, I am—can’t old things take on new meanings?
“The Observatory has signs, too,” Spingate says, staring at me. I’m suddenly the object of a battle between two powerful people, each trying to sway me to their way of thinking.
“Remember those signs, Em?” she says. “Should we make them all come true?”
The images of death, of torturing gears and halves. Murder of people like Spingate, Gaston, O’Malley, Zubiri, Borjigin.
“Of course not,” I say. “But that’s not the same thing—the Springers aren’t like us.”
Spingate shrugs. “How would we know? You said there were children. Families. Sooner than you think, we’ll have families, too. Our children will inherit Omeyocan. What kind of a planet do you want them to have? One of war, or one of peace?”