I remember everyone at the table laughing—true, hooting, uncontrollable laughter—as the old man just gave up and ate the cake with his fingers.
He nudged me. I grinned—there was icing on his nose, I recall—and I scooped up a handful of cake in one hand and crammed it in my face.
And then we were all eating cake with our hands, not even bothering with plates as we reached for more. Crumbs and icing were everywhere—smearing the tablecloth, in our hair, under our fingernails—and no one cared at all.
It was the happiest day of my life.
The next morning, Evie woke me up and helped me pack my few belongings in a bag. I would be spending the next year with the butchers, and there would be no cake at all that year.
“Who was that man who came yesterday?” I asked.
Evie was crying as she folded my clothes, but she laughed at my question. “Silly! That was Eldest, of course!”
•••
I close my eyes and think of the way my teeth cracked the paper-thin crust on the top of the creamy icing, the way the cake filled my mouth as I chewed.
I glance at my bed, at the threadbare old blanket I had as a child that Eldest kept for me—or for himself. I pick up the blanket from the edge of my bed, press it against my face, and think about all Eldest was, and all he wasn’t. All this ship has been, and all it will never be.
For a moment, I forget that today is the day I leave the ship, shut my eyes, and breathe in the scent of a thousand dreams.
Before heading to the Shipper Level, I re-activate the wi-com system for the rest of the ship. Within sconds, Shelby coms me.
“We’re prepped and ready to begin planet-landing, sir,” she says in my ear.
I smile as I walk away from my room. “Let’s go home.”
56
AMY
I WAKE UP EARLY. AFTER I DRESS, I THINK ABOUT SENDING Elder a com or even going up to the Keeper Level to see him. I want to see Elder. But—he has a ship to land.
To land. On the new planet. I release a shaky breath, full of relief and joy. Nothing else matters. Not Orion’s stupid clues or Bartie’s ridiculous revolution—we have the planet.
I head straight to the cryo level. It feels strange to do this now, even though I’ve done it every day for the last three months. I did it then because I believed I’d never see my parents alive again. Now, with my back to one row of cryo chambers and facing my parents’ frozen bodies, it feels false.
Maybe it’s because I know how close we are to waking them up for good.
I have so much I want to tell them—about how I’m stronger than I was before. About Harley and Luthor and Elder. I want to spill out every memory and every worry and every thought.
But I also know that I don’t have to. We’re there.
In the distance, I hear the unmistakable sound of a heavy door slamming shut. It’s not the gen lab behind me. It’s one of the doors down the hall past the cryo chamber . . . one of the locked doors.
This is it. This is whoever’s tampering with the clues. It has to be.
I tear off down the hall, determined to catch whoever it is.
But no one’s here.
Then I notice a crack of light seeping from the armory door.
I catch my breath. The armory door . . . that means whoever’s in there has all the weapons. I, on the other hand, have none . . . unless you count the pocket-full of Phydus med patches I took from Victria.
I creep forward. The smart thing would be to run. But if I can just get an idea of who has been playing with us . . .
The door creaks loudly. Of-freaking-course it would creak loudly.
But no one’s inside. Just in case, I step over to the closest rack, where the smallest guns are stored. At the top are tiny pistols. I wasn’t kidding when I taunted Luthor. My father raised me to know what a gun is and how to use it. I pick up one of the red protection plastic bags and slide my finger through the seal. Gun oil wafts around me as I tip the bag open and the revolver falls into my hand. It has a small frame and a snubbed barrel, but it can hold .38 caliber bullets. The bullets are stored in a separate box, sealed with plastic. I press the grip into my palm as I load the gun. My hand’s too small to fit it comfortably, but the gun’s a double action, and all I’ve got to reach is the trigger.
I look closer, behind the shelves, the gun firmly in my hand. But no one is here.
Then I remember—I came here because I heard a door slam shut. Whoever was here may have started in the armory, but he slammed another door—on this hallway full of doors that are supposed to be locked.
I go back out and check the hatch through the bubble window, then open the room with the space suits. Nothing. I press my ear against the big door at the end of the hall, the last locked door, but it’s too heavy for me to hear anything.
What’s behind that door anyway? I briefly consider staying here to guard it. Whoever went in will have to go out. No one passed me as I raced through the hallway, and the only doors that can slam shut rather than zip open are these. Whoever it is has to be here.
Except . . . if this person knows how to unlock the doors, then whoever it is must also know about the stairs I found behind the walls . . . they go down too. They must reach the cryo level. And since there are no stairs here—they have to come out behind this last locked door. If I go up to the Feeder Level right now and run down the stairs, maybe I can catch whoever’s been tampering with Orion’s clues and discover what else is behind the locked door! If only Elder were here with me. . . .
I’m halfway down the hall when I remember the armory’s still open, and even with a gun in hand, it’s still not safe. I turn back and start to shut the door when I notice something: a floppy flashing near the shelf of explosives. I set the gun down and pick up the floppy.
Orion’s face fills the screen.
<<begin video feed>>
This video wasn’t done on the staircase. Instead, Orion sits in a chair bolted to the floor in front of a long, curved control panel. The room is dark, but I can see something glittering in the background.
This must be the Bridge, although it’s much smaller than I would have expected.
ORION: Amy, you’re nearly at the end. You’re nearly at the choice you need to make. Have you seen it yet? The planet?
No. Not yet. But I know it’s there.
ORION: Do you see now why I need you to decide? Because you’ve been on a planet; you’re the only one on Godspeed who’s been on a planet. And so you’re the only one who’ll be able to judge whether or not it’s worth it.
Orion touches his neck, his fingers sliding against the bumpy scar where his wi-com used to be.
ORION: Before—before Eldest, and everything else . . . before this [indicates scar] . . . I thought that the truth was an important thing. I’m not so sure now. Maybe it’s better if we all remain ignorant. I know I would be happier not knowing.
And to think, I’d nearly allowed myself to forget about Orion’s clues in the face of Elder’s discovery. The planet just seemed so much more important than this mystery. Now I’m filled with curiosity.
ORION: But, perhaps, there are reasons why you need to know the truth. This ship is old. Eldest sent me outside to help with repairs, and I know that Godspeed is showing her age. So—maybe it’s time. Time to get off the ship.
Orion leans forward and picks up the camera. The image wobbles, scanning the cramped, small area and the solid metal floor before spinning around toward the control panel.
The camera focuses on the window. The image, blurry and bright, adjusts into focus. Through the honeycombed glass window, a curving, glowing ball of green and blue crests over the horizon of the ship.
I touch the small screen, making the blue and green of the planet on the screen look like an ocean’s wave heaving and flowing.
ORION: When I first discovered Godspeed was in orbit around Centauri-Earth, I wanted the whole ship to know the truth. I tried to tell them. I tried to tell them everything. And because of this, Eldest tried to kill me.
Orion turns toward the window and stares at the planet. His scar is prominent on the screen.
ORION: He didn’t kill me, though. I escaped. I hid for . . . for a long time . . . and then I snuck into the Recorder Hall. I integrated myself back into the ship. But it was in the Hall that I found even more secrets and lies. And it’s because of this that I’ve decided to hide the truth, just like Eldest.
Orion’s face turns back to the screen.
ORION: There’s still the contingency plan. That’s still here. If the ship has to land, it can. If you haven’t figured it out, the last thing you need can be found in Godspeed.
Orion pauses, staring straight at the screen, as if he’s given me some enormous clue. But Godspeed is huge, and everyone is already making preparations to leave. How am I supposed to find one tiny clue in the whole ship?
ORION: But if it doesn’t have to . . . if there is any way to survive without landing the ship. You must. You must. I can’t protect this truth forever, I know that. You have to. If there’s any possible way for this ship to survive, you must do whatever it takes to stop the planet-landing.
What is Orion saying? I thought the whole point of his messages was to bring me to a point where I could make some big important choice. But now it’s like he’s saying the opposite.
ORION: No matter how bad things are on the ship, if you’re not dying out, if the solar lamp still works . . . stay here. And make sure the ship stays too. Amy, you’re my little contingency plan—but that’s just it. You must only lead the ship to the planet as a last res—
Orion doesn’t even get the last word out before his face disappears into loud static. I’m so surprised that I almost drop the floppy. The abrupt cut-off makes my stomach twist with dread, a feeling that doesn’t go away when the static fades to black. Heavy white letters scroll over the dark background, spelling out a phrase I’ve come to fear.
Follow the leader.
The video cuts off.
That phrase—follow the leader. The static. The fact that this video was on a floppy, not a mem card. This clue must also have been tampered with. I don’t know if Orion’s message continued—maybe he was going to tell me the code to get behind the locked door?—but I’m certain he wasn’t the one who left those words.
I look up now, carefully examining the armory. Before, I’d rushed in there looking for someone. Now, I look for something . . . and I find it. An empty shelf, a row of missing explosives.
“Oh, God,” I whisper, my hand unconsciously going to the cross at my neck.
I race out of the armory, straight to the elevator.
I’ve got to get to the Shipper Level. Now. I’ve got to get to Elder. If I’m sure of anything, it’s that whoever’s telling us to “follow the leader” doesn’t mean Elder—and those explosives are going to wipe out anyone who tries to land the ship.
57
ELDER
ALTHOUGH IT IS BARELY TIME FOR THE SOLAR LAMP TO TURN on, the Shipper Level is crowded. I look around, half-expecting to see Amy’s bright red hair peeking out through the throng of Shippers, but no, she’s not here. Of course she’s not. Even if she’s the one I want to share this with the most, it’s loons of me to think of her now, when I need to focus on planet-landing. I haven’t seen her since I almost died—and so much has changed since then. Amy was the first person I told about Centauri-Earth, but she may very well be the last person I see once we land.