Our children? That’s crazy. We’re not old enough for…
No, we are. Spin and I, Bawden, Smith, Johnson, Cabral, Opkick, D’souza…we all have the bodies of young women, not kids. And those of us that are kids won’t stay that way for long.
A little girl hops on top of a coffin: Walezak, Zubiri’s quiet friend.
“We should destroy the demons, before it’s too late,” she says. Her face contorts with rage. She pounds her fist into her palm as she talks. “Aramovsky is right—this planet was made for us. If we want it, we have to show that we’re worthy! Kill them all! Kill them all!”
Half the room erupts in roars and cheers.
So much hate on Walezak’s little features. It shocks me, disturbs me. She should be playing with dolls, not calling for slaughter. But she has a double-ring on her forehead. Like Aramovsky, she was made to preach religion.
Spingate waves her hands above her head, demanding the crowd’s attention.
“War isn’t a game,” she shouts. “If we try to solve this with violence, it won’t just be Springers that die. We have a few guns—the Springers have more.”
She points at the circle-star girl holding the pitchfork.
“What about you, Marija? Will you die from a bullet in the face?”
Spingate points at Borjigin. “Or you? Maybe a knife in the belly, a wound so bad even Smith’s coffin can’t fix it, so you die slow, screaming for help that no one can provide? Is that worth fighting our ugly enemy, Borjigin?”
Borjigin’s eyes are wide. He doesn’t answer.
“They were here first,” Spingate says. “There could be thousands of them. Hundreds of thousands. If we attack them and fail, do you think five muskets and three spiders will stop them from pouring in here to wipe us out? What if they shot Visca because they thought we were attacking them?”
Aramovsky yells something at her, Gaston yells something back, but their arguments become background noise as her words bounce through my thoughts—What if they thought we were attacking them?
The city beyond the walls, utterly destroyed. Demolished buildings, deep craters…there was a war before we even arrived. The spiders, knocking down the wall of that building where we first found a campfire. Spiders, attacking and killing the Springers in the clearing.
Spiders, with the circle-star symbol…
Visca, his sweat washing the camouflage from his face, exposing that same symbol on his forehead…
The pieces click together.
So many people screaming—no one is listening. Those for war and those against it are arguing, even pushing each other.
I slam my spear butt hard on the stage.
“Enough! Everyone, shut up!”
Aramovsky smiles. He thinks I will take his side. He’s wrong.
“The Springers attacked us, yes,” I say. “They killed Visca, yes. But I don’t think they’re demons. If anything, to them, we are the monsters.”
Aramovsky looks shocked, betrayed.
“That’s ridiculous,” he says. “We aren’t monsters. We are the chosen people.”
“Spiders kill Springers on sight,” I say. “The spiders standing outside this shuttle have hundreds of little dents from Springer bullets. The ruins outside the walls are from a huge city—the spiders destroyed that city. They must have killed thousands of Springers. When you say we didn’t do anything to the Springers, you’re right. We didn’t do anything, but our creators did.”
I tap my forehead.
“We all have symbols. Visca’s was the circle-star—the same symbol that’s painted on the spiders. What if the Springers saw his symbol—a symbol they must fear, they must hate—and acted just like we would act if someone came to kill us?”
Spingate’s eyes crinkle with a small smile. She’s impressed: I found a possible connection that she missed.
“We don’t know where the fruit grows,” she says. “If we kill the Springers, we might not find it at all. That gnawing feeling in your bellies? It’s going to get much, much worse. The fastest way to get rid of it is to find the Springers and talk to them, make them understand we are not our creators, that we mean no harm.”
A few hands reactively go to stomachs. Aramovsky uses gods to get through to people—Spingate does the same with hunger.
Aramovsky shakes his head, his stare now burning with hatred.
“So one of us should just walk out past the wall and ask these killers for help? You already said how we would die horribly, Spingate, so who is going to go? You?”
She nods. “Yes. Me.”
The crowd falls silent. They can’t believe she just volunteered. Neither can I.
She points to her forehead. “I don’t have a circle-star. If Em’s right, maybe that will give me a chance. Em also said the Springers were about her size, which means they are about my size—maybe I won’t be as intimidating as Visca was, maybe they won’t shoot me right away.”
She is so brave, and I am instantly proud of her all over again, inspired by her. This is my friend, my courageous friend.