“What is it?” he asks as he reads the page.
“It’s a list of everyone in the military who’s frozen on the cryo level. I double-checked it against the official records.” Elder looks confused, but then I add, “It’s the next clue Orion left for me . . . for us.”
Elder stares at the paper, brow furrowed in thought. “The last clue was about adding things up.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I counted—there are twenty-seven people on that list. But I tried twenty-seven—the number, spelling it out—it didn’t work. None of the doors opened.”
I don’t know what I expected from Elder—for him to suddenly remember another locked door somewhere on the ship or for him to magically add up the list to something other than twenty-seven, but all he does is say “Hmmm,” and toss the paper back to me. He slides out of bed, and once he’s past the covers, I see that he’s not wearing pants. In fact, all he has on are a pair of boxer shorts—made of thin white linen and considerably shorter and tighter than the boxers boys wore on Earth. I stare openly. When I’d raced up here and plopped onto his bed, I hadn’t thought about what he’d be wearing—but now—
Elder laughs, and I notice his smirk.
“Oh, shut up and put some pants on!” I say, throwing a pillow at him.
I’m still blushing as Elder—now fully clothed—leads me back to the grav tube in the Learning Center. He pushes his wi-com to start the tube, then turns and holds his hand out to me.
Wait, what?
“I’ll go after you,” I say, stepping back.
Elder raises an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Come on, just ride with me.”
We’d done it once before, of course. But that was when I was half-drugged with Phydus, and before . . . before I’d started thinking about how life stuck on a ship wouldn’t be so bad if Elder walked around pantsless more.
Before I can protest again, Elder pulls me closer, the warmth of his body wrapping around me. He holds me loosely, knowing that I still don’t know what to do with his touch, but his grip is firm enough to make me certain that he’d never let me fall. Elder moves closer to the grav tube opening in a sort of sidestep-twirl. He uses his free hand to touch his wi-com.
“Ready?” he whispers. The words float around my face like a summer breeze.
I nod, because I can’t find any of my own words.
The grav tube comes alive, the cool winds rushing and swirling in and around, making my hair flutter and our clothes cling to our bodies. Elder tightens his grip around me, takes one step forward, and plunges us into thin air.
We fall for a moment, in darkness between the levels, and my heart beats in my throat—not only from the exhilarating pull of the grav tube, but also from the way Elder’s arms encircle me, holding me closer than he’s ever done before. We’re not free-falling—we’re being sucked down, fast, faster than a person should fall. I cower against Elder’s grasp, clutching my hands around his neck and burrowing my face into his shoulder, but his hold on me doesn’t falter. He’s the only stable thing in the swirling chaos.
A burst of light—we’ve gone through the entire Shipper Level and are already being sucked down into the Feeder Level. The tube bends—the Feeder Level has a curved roof, and the angle makes me feel as if I’m not just falling down, but falling on top of Elder. I think about wiggling away, but my body doesn’t want to abandon the safety of Elder’s arms.
I glimpse past his shoulder, once, and see the Feeder Level stretched out before me. I don’t feel anything seeing it, not hate or love, and so I don’t watch the fields and buildings zoom closer as we near the ground.
And then the winds calm, my hair floats down—an impossible tangled mess now—and we bob next to each other in the air for a minute before the winds stop and we’re standing on the platform on the Feeder Level.
“See?” Elder says, tucking my hair behind my ears. “Not so bad.”
I step back, off the platform, resisting the urge to smooth his hair down.
As we step onto the trail, our shoulders brush. I step away and walk a little in front of him.
“Come on,” I say, unable to meet his eyes.
31
ELDER
AMY LEANS AGAINST THE CRYO-LEVEL WALL, WATCHING AS I approach the keypad by the locked door to the left of the hatch.
“I told you,” Amy says, “twenty-seven doesn’t work.”
“Let me see the list again,” I say. Amy thrusts the wrinkled paper into my outstretched hand. My wi-com beeps, but I ignore it.
“They look like submarine doors.” The catch in Amy’s voice makes me look up at her.
My mind races, trying to remember what a submarine is. One of those underwater things. I didn’t think they were real. But then again, I used to think the ocean couldn’t possibly be as big and deep as Amy said it was.
“They’re all seal locked,” I say. “The door to the Bridge is that way, too, and the hatches that connect the different levels. In case there’s damage to the ship and one level’s exposed, we can seal it off and . . .” I drift off, my attention turning back to the list.
“My father took me to see the USS Pampanito when I was kid—I only remember it because the name was so ridiculous that I sang it about a million times as I raced through the tiny hallways. Pampanito! Pampanito! Pam-pa-NITO! My dad tried to catch me, but he hit himself on the head trying to crawl through one of the small doorways. Almost knocked himself out.” She gives a tiny laugh, but the sound dies quickly. I glance up from the list—Amy’s staring at the wall, her eyes glassy.
I will do anything to make her happy again, so I give her the stars. I type the key code in quickly—Godspeed—and the hatch door flies open, exposing the millions of glittering dots in the sky.
I remember the first time I saw the stars. I thought they changed everything. I thought they changed me, like I’d become a different person just by seeing shining specks of light a million miles away. Now when I stare at them, I feel nothing. I don’t believe in them anymore. When I first told everyone on the ship that I was giving them the freedom to be themselves, I took those interested in seeing the stars—the real stars—here. Some came. Far fewer than I’d expected. And then I realized: when you’ve lived your entire life within ten square miles surrounded by steel, it’s easier to forget the outside. It makes it less painful to be trapped on a ship if you tell yourself it’s not a trap.
That’s the whole reason why I can’t tell everyone about the stopped engine.
My gaze shifts to the red paint by the keypad. Maybe one day the smears of paint Harley left throughout Godspeed will fade, and maybe the stars never will, but I’d rather have Harley’s colors.
Harley died for . . . well, I don’t know what he died for. I just know he’s not here anymore, and I miss him. But Kayleigh died for a truth, according to Orion.
His words echo in my mind, and I’m grateful. I don’t want to think about hollow stars and Harley.
Instead, I think about Orion’s puzzle. Orion seems to have known more about the ship’s engine than anyone else. If I can figure out his frexing clue, I might actually figure out why the engine’s stopped, maybe get us going again. Add it up . . .
I turn back to the list Amy found. Beside each of those twenty-seven names is their cryo-chamber number. What if I add those numbers together . . . ?
1,270.
“What are you doing?” Amy asks.
I try 1270 on all four doors, starting with the biggest door at the end of the hall.
The last door opens.
Everything is darkness. The room smells of dust and grease. I think about what Orion said, just before I froze him. The frozens plan to work us or kill us.
I want to see these weapons for myself.
Amy finds the light switch before me. It flickers on reluctantly, spluttering as if unwilling to show what the room contains.
And I can see immediately what made Orion fear that, when we land, we’ll be made into soldiers or slaves.
You know what’s really going to twist you? Orion had said just before I spun the dial to freeze him. The fact that Elder sort of agrees with everything I’m saying.
Pistols, rifles, larger guns than that. Blister packs of mustard bombs. Missiles—most about the size of my forearm, three that are bigger than me. Everything’s sectioned off in compartments, sealed in heavy red plastic bags that are stamped with labels and FRX symbols.
“We don’t know what’s going to be on Centauri-Earth,” Amy says, already defensive. “It could be aliens, or it could be nothing. It could be monsters or dinosaurs. We could be giants on the new world. Or we could be mice.”
“Better to be armed mice, huh?” I say, picking up a filmy bag that protects a revolver.
“I know this looks bad.”
“It looks like everything Orion said before was true,” I say.
“It’s not,” Amy says immediately, but how does she know? I can see her thoughts warring—on the one hand, she believes absolutely that her father and the rest of the people from Sol-Earth would never use the weapons spread before us, but on the other hand, she can’t deny that the weapons are here. And they seem so much more . . . I don’t know, violent than I expected.
I head to the other side of the room, where the largest weapons are stored. I recognize torpedoes and missiles and bazookas from the vids of Sol-Earth discord Eldest showed me. A shelf lines the back of the room, cluttered with small round things, small cakes of compressed powder carefully packaged in clear plastic.
Amy picks one of the powder cakes up. “These look like toilet bowl cleaners we’d use on Earth, the kind you’d drop in the back of a tank.” She turns it over in her hands, the heavy plastic package crinkling. Then she notices my confused expression. “Oh, yeah, the toilets here don’t have tanks.”
On the bottom of the heavy, clear, thick-plastic packaging is a warning label etched into the container:
Anti-agricultural Biological Chemical
For use with Prototype Missile #476
Range: 100+ acres
To employ: See Prototype Missile #476
FRX
FRX . . . Financial Resource Exchange. The group that funded Godspeed’s mission in the first place.
On the next shelf is a similar cake-tablet, but this one is black, and the label on the bottom calls it an Anti-Personnel Biological Chemical.
I put the things back on the shelf cautiously, careful not to set anything off. It takes all the strength I have not to throw them away, hurtle them as far as I can, shove them all out the hatch.
“Don’t tell me you still think this is all for self-defense,” I say. I don’t want to pick a fight with Amy, but surely she can see these weapons are extreme. “This is chemical warfare. It’s preparation for genocide.”
“My mother’s a geneticist and every bit as important as my father in the military,” Amy counters immediately, but her voice is guarded, and I don’t know if it’s because she doesn’t want me to question her beliefs further or if it’s because she can’t bear to let herself doubt them. “If the FRX was intent on wiping out all life on Centauri-Earth, then why would they enlist a biologist to help? Why have a scientist who studies life if all they want to do is kill everything? There are twenty-seven people in the military—but seventy-three who aren’t.”