“This is bad,” she says. “We need to get you in medical right away.”
“No time,” I say, even though all I want to do is crawl into that coffin and go to sleep, wake up feeling no pain. “Can you fix my fingers here?”
She looks at me like I’m stupid, then catches herself and again studies my hand.
“Pokano, go to medical,” she says without looking up. “Find finger splints.”
The little boy runs off. The girl circle-cross hovers nearby, waiting to be told what to do.
Smith turns to Spingate, sees the stitches on her forehead.
“You fought?”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Spingate says.
“Were you hurt? Did you get hit anywhere else?”
Smith reaches for Spingate’s belly. Spingate brushes her hands away.
“I’m fine,” Spingate says. She points up to the spider. “We have Visca’s body.”
Smith glances at me. Maybe a touch of respect in those eyes.
“Yilmaz, go to Deck Four,” she says. “Prepare a coffin for corpse storage. That will arrest the decomposition process until we can arrange a proper burial.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the little girl says, then sprints for the shuttle. She already knows how to work the coffins? I’ve been away from the shuttle too much. I realize I didn’t know her name—or the boy circle-cross’s name, for that matter—until this moment.
Smith calls up to Coyotl. “Do you need help bringing Visca down?”
“He’s heavy,” Coyotl says. “Send some circles out to help me.”
I leave them to take care of Visca. Spingate heads into the shuttle. I walk to Bishop. He suddenly stands stiff, at attention.
“Two spiders and twenty-one infantry ready to march,” he says, barking out the words. “We need to find the invaders and kill them before they can mount an attack on the shuttle.”
Some of the little circle-stars stare straight ahead, a few watch Bishop, and the rest look at me. Some are ready to fight. Some are trying to hide their fear. If we march them out, I wonder how many of them will suffer the Grownups’ bracelets, will be blasted into pieces like El-Saffani.
“Wait here,” I tell Bishop. “Do not march until I get back.”
He nods once.
I walk up the ramp, enter to confusion, to panic. O’Malley is in the coffin room, trying to calm hundreds of upset children. Aramovsky is doing the same. For once, the two of them are working together.
People see me and start shouting suggestions: everything from abandon the city and flee into the jungle to fly back to the Xolotl and beg the Grownups to forgive us.
I ignore these cowardly ideas and push through the crowd. O’Malley looks immensely relieved to see me. I pull him aside.
“Bishop wants to attack,” I say.
O’Malley nods. “Of course he does. It’s all he knows.”
“You don’t think we should?”
The words are out of my mouth before I realize why I’m asking him; for all of my issues with O’Malley, I instinctively seek his counsel.
O’Malley thinks for a moment. “Maybe we should attack, but not yet. We need to know exactly what came down. How many people? What do they want? Could be Grownup circle-stars come to wipe us out and recover the shuttle, or just Matilda, here to convince you to join her. What if it’s Brewer? And what if the ship isn’t even from the Xolotl?”
“Of course it is,” I snap. “Where else could it be from?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. We don’t know anything yet, and that’s my point. To use Bishop’s favorite word, we need to reconnoiter before we march our people into danger.”
I look at the people packed into the coffin room. Many are crying. Aramovsky is telling them to stay calm, that the gods will protect them.
O’Malley leans in close to do that thing I now despise, to whisper.
“Tell everyone you’re going to find out what’s going on,” he says. “People are panicking. They need to know someone is doing something, even if you don’t know what that something is yet.”
His hot breath on my ear, on my neck. Shivers ripple across my skin. I’m surprised and disgusted with myself—how can my body react to him at a time like this?
“Go get Bishop,” I say. “And his little circle-stars. Tell Bawden and Farrar to stay on their spiders as lookouts.”
O’Malley slides through the crowd. Moments later, Bishop and his “soldiers” filter in, find places among the scared, crying, noisy kids.
My broken fingers scream at me. With my good hand, I whip my spear against a coffin three times, bam-bam-bam.
“Shut your godsdamned mouths!”
Silence. All eyes look to me.