He grabs a handful of packages from the bin, then he and Spingate stumble their way to the pilothouse and shut the door behind them.
I walk toward my coffin. It’s not my coffin, not like before, because none of these have our names engraved on them. It’s the one I came down in, though, and it seems like the only space in this crowded room that belongs to me.
Everyone gives me smiles. They hug me, give my shoulder a squeeze, pat me on the back. They are happy to be alive, excited to explore their new world.
I lay my spear down in my coffin’s white padded fabric, sit cross-legged on the black floor.
So many people in this red-walled coffin room. Not counting Gaston and Spingate, there are seventeen of us with full-grown bodies. And then the kids—108 of them. They are everywhere, mostly clean shirts and skirts or pants, red ties still on. They are laughing, eating, playing, sometimes running around madly until someone my age snaps at them to calm down.
My age? That’s a funny concept. Am I an “adult”? In body, I suppose, but big or small, we are all twelve years old. We are the Birthday Children. At most, I am a few days older than the smaller kids, not a few years.
Bishop strides toward me, a green bin under his big arm. His subtle movements carry him over and around people without jostling a one.
He tilts the bin down to me.
“The food is good, Em. Grab some.”
I reach in, take a handful, read the black letters: PROTEIN BAR, HARD BISCUIT and GRAIN BAR.
All I’ve ever eaten was fruit and some pig, and not much of either. I tear open the grain bar’s wrapper—inside is what looks like a thin brown brick. I take a bite. The material crumbles between my teeth, and a new flavor explodes across my tongue. I’ve never tasted this, but I know the right word—it tastes nutty.
“Everyone, stop eating!”
It’s Aramovsky. He’s standing on a closed coffin, arms outstretched. All heads turn to look up at him.
“We must give thanks for this food,” he says. His voice is deep and rich. “We must not anger the god who delivered us here.”
He is the tallest of us. Standing on the coffin, his head almost reaches the ceiling. He stayed clean for a long time, but now dried blood stands out on his torn white shirt. The damage—both to his dark skin and to the fabric—came when he crashed through a thicket to save me. He stabbed a monster, not knowing it was actually his own progenitor. Our Aramovsky learned that truth just moments before Bishop killed the creature with a broken thighbone.
I think Aramovsky was actually ready to have his mind wiped, maybe even excited to become one with his creator. He wanted it because he thinks that’s what his religion dictates.
Everyone is watching him, waiting. They have all stopped eating except for one young circle-star. She laughs at Aramovsky as she takes a big bite from her bar.
He points at her, long arm and long finger stretched out like a different kind of spear.
“This god is watching you, girl. Do not anger him.”
The laugh drains from the girl’s face. She lets the food slip from her hand. It drops to the floor.
She’s eating and having fun, and he’s scaring her? His mysterious invisible gods didn’t deliver us here, I did. He makes me so angry.
I stand.
“You usually talk about the gods,” I say. “Magic beings that don’t actually do anything for us. Now it’s just one god? Well, which one is it?”
I hope that, for once, our sparse memories will work in my favor. Forcing him to name something he can’t recall will make him look stupid in front of everyone, maybe shut him up.
Aramovsky smiles at me with his big, beautiful, fake smile.
“The God of Blood, Em.”
That sounds ridiculous. I laugh, look around expecting others to be laughing with me, but only a few are. Most stare at him wide-eyed, like he’d just said something brilliant.
I’d hoped he would leave this nonsense up on the Xolotl. Aramovsky is going to be a problem.
“No prayers,” I say. “Everyone, eat.”
Aramovsky bows to me. “As you say, great leader.”
He steps down and sits. People gather around him.
Laughter and talking slowly return. So much hope in this room. Pure joy.
The circle-stars seem happiest of all. Coyotl and the bigger Visca are wrestling. They strike each other so hard I wince at the sound, but they laugh madly at each impact. Bawden has figured out how to belch on command. Every time she does, circle-star kids howl with delight and try to imitate her. Those children are skinny, but they will grow taller, fill out, gain the thick muscle so familiar on the teenage circle-stars.
Farrar is rooting through every green bin as if he’s searching for something very important. He looks up, meets my gaze, then runs to me.