Things move quickly now. Sleeping, eating, the dreaded OChem quiz, they all pass in a haze. Before you know it, you’ve received a text from the same unknown number, with another puzzle, and instructions to come back to the field where you first saw the ship as soon as you have found the solution.
This time, as you park the car and lock up, you make out a slight shimmer in the air where the ship was before. When it abruptly dissolves into the brightness of the iridescent ship, you grin. “Jumping spiders make little ‘pup tents’ out of spun silk to protect and disguise them when they’re away from home,” you tell Alex. “I wonder if this is something similar.”
“Since when are you a spider expert?” they whisper.
“Uh, biology nerd?” You whisper back. “But also I’ve been reading a lot of Wikipedia this week.”
Suddenly, there’s a hiss of air, and the ship that previously looked like one seamless object splits into two pieces: the dome lifting up and backwards, like a helmet on a hinge. You forget to breathe as you see them emerge from the shadowy interior: first the legs, then the eyes – so many of each – resolving into two enormous purple spider-like creatures. Spider-like, except they’re the size of St. Bernards, with huge, whirling eyes that shimmer like nebulas.
“No one is ever going to believe this,” Alex whispers.
Without warning, the woman’s all-consuming voice returns. WE ARE HERE, she says, WITH A WARNING. The voice does not actually seem to be coming from the spiders, or from the ship. It comes from – everywhere. OUR PLANET WAS ONCE LIKE YOURS. FULL OF LIFE. FULL OF MUSIC. A PERFECT WEB. BUT WE DID NOT TAKE CARE. WE ATE AND ATE AND ATE TILL WE BURST WITH EATING. WE CARED ONLY FOR ONE, NOT THE EIGHT. NO. THAT’S NOT HOW YOU WOULD SAY. NOT THE ALL.
WE TRIED BEFORE TO ASK FOR HELP. YOU DID NOT HEAR US. WE TRY AGAIN. THERE IS NOT MUCH TIME. WE WILL ALL DIE BY – HOW WOULD YOU SPIN IT – 2030. SO WE ARE HERE AGAIN ASKING FOR YOUR HELP. YOU HELP US. AND WE HELP YOU. WORK TOGETHER.
Throughout this entire message, the spiders have stayed in one place, swaying back and forth, rubbing their front legs together rhythmically. Now they scuttle forward, and it takes all of your self-control to not flinch backwards.
The creatures – the Spinners, you suppose – come to a stop a good distance in front of you. They bend their legs, as if making a bow. And then—they begin to dance.