Gaston grabs her arm.
“Maybe isn’t good enough,” he says. “It’s too dangerous for you.”
She pulls her arm away, holds it up, showing her golden bracer.
“If we do make contact, and they show us anything about the purple fruit, a gear needs to see it. Kalle did her part. Zubiri is too little. Now it’s my turn.”
In a panic, Gaston grabs for her bracer. “Then I’ll go, I’m even smaller than you!”
She twists away from him. “What are you doing? Stop it!”
I raise a booted foot high, stomp down on the stage as hard as I can. The sound is almost as loud as a musket shot—it silences everyone, stops everything.
“Gaston, you’re staying here,” I say. “If the Springers do attack, you might have to fly the shuttle to get everyone away safely.”
He snarls at me. “Beckett can fly the shuttle! Make someone else do this. You can’t let Spingate go alone!”
“She won’t be alone,” I say. “I’m going with her.”
Shouts of support, of disbelief. Aramovsky smiles, folds his arms and watches.
O’Malley steps toward the stage—he’s coming in for a whisper. I hold up my hand to him, palm out. He stops in place.
“Don’t bother,” I say. “This is going to happen.”
Bishop bangs his axe head against the coffin room wall, demanding everyone’s attention.
“Send me instead,” he says. “Just me. I move quieter than anybody, I can capture one and bring it back here.”
O’Malley comes forward again. “He’s right, Em, listen to Bishop.”
“Taking a prisoner is an act of war,” Spingate says. “Even if Bishop gets one, we have no idea if we can make it tell us what we need to know.”
Too many voices. Too many opinions.
I raise the spear over my head.
“Enough! I’ve made my decision. Only two people are going—the leader, who has the authority to speak for all of us, and the scientist, who can understand what we see.”
Spingate’s eyes meet mine. We are bound together in this. We were the first of our people to awaken. We found each other before we found anyone else. If we are to die trying to stop a war, then we will die as we began: together.
“The Observatory,” I say. “We’ll go there.”
She shakes her head. “I think this city is our territory, and the jungle is theirs. We need to go to them as a gesture of good faith. Can you take us to the clearing where Visca died?”
I remember the way Visca examined the trail, the surrounding plants, the footprints. I watched him carefully. Maybe I couldn’t find my way from the old fountain to that clearing, but—just like he did—I can follow the path from the gate to the first fire pit, then to the clearing where he died.
I look at the boys who don’t want us to go—Aramovsky, O’Malley, Bishop and Gaston—and I thump the spear butt lightly against the stage floor.
The decision is made, and it is final.
It’s just me and Spingate.
The fire pit was once again empty. I managed to pick up the same trail Visca followed. I figure we’re about an hour away from the clearing where he died.
We ripped a piece of white fabric out of a coffin and tied it to the end of my spear. O’Malley’s idea. Maybe the Springers won’t know it’s a symbol of peace, but it will make us visible a long ways off—we want them to know we’re coming.
The spiders are ours, and because of that, the city doesn’t seem as dangerous. Spingate and I rode on a spider with Bishop and Coyotl to the now-familiar gate. Bishop again insisted he come with, and again I said no. The two boys will wait for us at the gate. If we find another way in, I’ll send runners from the shuttle to bring them back.
Spingate seems so different now. This isn’t the giggling, frightened girl I woke up with. Is she changing because her memory is returning? Is it her relationship with Gaston?
I don’t know. And if she does, she’s not very talkative.
We have no idea if this will work. I think I’m right about Visca’s symbol, but can’t be sure. Even if I am right, the Springers might kill us anyway. I killed one of theirs, after all. If they recognize me, what will they do?
I have to try, though. If we don’t get food, I think Aramovsky will force a new vote—a vote I will lose. My people will want a new leader. I can’t blame them for that; they want something good to happen. I tell them the truth. Aramovsky will tell them what they want to hear, and for that he will win.
If he does, there will be war.
The sun is high overhead. A strong wind drives dark clouds our way. Blurds whiz by, their split-second shadows sometimes passing over our faces.
Spingate finally speaks. She stares straight down the path when she does.
“I thought you were going to take us to war,” she says. “I thought you were going to follow your violent nature.”
Does she think so little of me? Can’t she see what I actually did, not what she thought I would do?
“Violence is not my nature.”