I remember Barkah’s anger at seeing Bello’s ship. Did he react like that when our shuttle came down? Probably. His grandparents, or great-grandparents or even farther back than that, must have seen the first ships from the Xolotl release the war machines. To the Springers, perhaps ships mean death.
But Barkah had never seen actual humans before. None of his kind had. They’d only seen machines. Not that encountering people has been that much better for the Springers—my kind leaves a trail of death wherever we go.
Bello finishes her story by describing a daring run down a dark corridor, chased by horrifying Grownups. She reaches her lumpy ship just in time, is shot out of the Xolotl to safety. It’s like something out of a storybook—it would be unbelievable if the same thing hadn’t happened to us when we took the shuttle.
When she’s done, people applaud. The kids scream with delight. They ask her to tell the story again. Blushing, Bello agrees.
Once is enough for me.
I walk outside. Night is falling. Bishop is at the base of the ramp, his axe in his hands. A spider stands on either side of him, guarding the shuttle.
For a few moments, I just watch him. He’s dressed in his black coveralls. I take in his broad shoulders, the way his neck muscles flutter when he turns his head. He hasn’t been to Smith’s white coffin to have his numerous scratches repaired. Under that black fabric are scars that bear witness to our struggles.
I think of the way he looked in the Garden, when he stood under the bright lights with nothing on but tattered pants. I think of how he looked when he threw my spear at the pig. I wanted to touch Bishop’s skin then. At the pool, I did. I’d like to touch him again, kiss him again…
I shut my eyes, give my head a hard shake. Now is most certainly not the time for such thoughts.
I walk down the ramp and stand next to him.
“Good evening, Bishop.”
He’s staring out toward the Observatory.
“They should be back,” he says. “They should have been back an hour ago.”
His voice is heavy with dread. The emotion is contagious. I was so busy watching Bello, trying to find the truth, that I forgot a trip to the Observatory is much faster on spiderback than on foot. Coyotl, Muller and Beckett should have already returned.
A cold feeling thrums in my belly and chest. I missed something, but what? My brain is trying to make a connection—not the muddy sensation of recalling Matilda’s memories, this is something else. I missed something new, something that has nothing to do with my creator’s life.
“Go after them,” I say. “Take a spider, with Bawden and as many kids as you want.”
He starts up the ramp. “And if they aren’t at Bello’s ship, how long should I spend searching for them?”
With Bishop and Bawden gone, Farrar will be the only older circle-star we have left—just Farrar and twelve-year-olds to defend the shuttle. That’s not enough. I think of when we ran out of the Garden and abandoned Bello. It was a hard choice, and I hated myself for it, but it was the right choice.
“If they aren’t there, then come back without them,” I say. “As fast as you can.”
He runs into the shuttle. I stand where he stood, looking out toward the Observatory. Please, let them be all right.
Moments later, Bishop runs down the ramp, Bawden and two young circle-stars behind him. Only Bawden carries a musket. Muller had one as well, which means Bishop is leaving three muskets here.
In seconds, the four of them are mounted and on their way. I watch the spider scurry over the vine ring, then sprint down the darkening streets. Out ahead of them, no sign of Coyotl and the others.
There’s something about Bello’s ship I missed, but what? I can’t put my finger on it. She’s a Grownup, I know it. It’s time to lock her up. Just because I won’t act like Matilda doesn’t mean I can’t do something—time to stop being so nice.
Pounding steps on the ramp behind me. O’Malley, in a panic.
“Em! Get in here! Aramovsky is calling for a new vote!”
I turn my back for one moment, and he does this? I’m almost glad, because he’s moved too soon—many follow him, but not enough. He should have waited until hunger swayed more people his way.
I stride up the ramp and into the coffin room. Aramovsky is talking, turning, his arms outstretched, doing what he does so well. But he will lose this vote, then I will use that victory to block him from making another. He’s finally made a mistake.
And then I see Bello—she’s standing right next to him, whispering when he pauses. She notices me, stares at me, a cold hardness in her eyes. No tears this time. She smiles, sending a chill through me.
Aramovsky steps onto a closed coffin. He spreads his arms, and his voice booms.