“None of this matters,” Elder says. “With the Bridge gone, we’re going nowhere.”
Once he says it, it becomes real for him. I see the sixteen years of his life trapped on the ship, and the decades of his future fall on him like a weight—he literally sags with the realization that Godspeed can’t land. He’s got everything on him now—the ship, the people, the deaths, the disappointment. And I realize: he has always had them. Always.
Elder looks behind him, to the Engine room, and beyond to the sealed doors. “Shelby was in there. In the Bridge.”
And just like that, the terror’s back. I push it down, try to drown it under the waters of my soul, keeping it under with both hands and watching it die.
“Why?” Elder’s eyes search mine. He’s not asking why someone would blow up the Bridge. He’s asking why someone would let Shelby die for it.
59
ELDER
“NO, NO, NO, NO, NO,” SHELBY SAID.
The words circle my mind, and I know they’ll never leave.
Amy kisses me.
“No, no, no, no, no.”
Amy tells me that someone did this because of a stupid video Orion made. That whoever did this just wanted to make sure that we would never, ever leave the ship. Ever.
“No, no, no, no, no.”
Amy leads me to the grav tube and takes me to the Feeder Level. She shows me the hidden door and the stairs behind it.
“No, no, no, no, no.”
Amy pushes open the door, and light fills the hidden space behind it. It creaks open, but all I hear is:
“No, no, no—”
BOOM!
Another explosion, this one deeper than the first, rumbles the ground and shakes the foundation of the Hospital. Shingles fall from the Hospital roof and clatter down the sides of the building, smashing against the ground. The doors fling open, and people stream out, a pillar of gray and brown smoke chasing after them. Emergency ladders flutter from the upper stories, and people start climbing down, dropping a few feet to the earth and racing toward the Recorder Hall for cover.
“The frex—” I start, as Amy grabs my arm. Even from here, we can feel the rumbling under our feet.
“Why would someone blow up the Hospital?” she asks. Her words are hollow, but her eyes are filled with fear.
Smoke drifts from the doors on the ground floor but nowhere else. There’s no evidence of fire, no evidence of damage.
Amy’s face drains of color, and she’s paler than ever. “Oh, God. It wasn’t the Hospital that exploded—”
“It was the cryo level,” I finish for her.
“My parents,” she whispers. Her eyes lose focus; her mouth is slack. “There are stairs; they go down to the cryo level. I know where they are. I could—”
“Go to them,” I say, gripping her shoulders until she comes back to me. “Go now—but be careful. Whoever did this could still be there.”
Amy swallows.
“I don’t think that was a big enough explosion to destroy the cryo level.” I shake my head, considering. “No, I’m sure of it. They’re fine. They’ve got to be fine.”
I can feel her pulling away, but she’s still holding on to me, her fingers gripping my sleeve.
“Go,” I say gently. “I can do this. I’ll take care of the ship—you take care of your parents. But . . .” I pause. “If you see anyone . . . or anything—if it’s not safe down there, come back to me. Right away.”
She gives me a slight nod and runs to the stairs without a word.
I turn and face the ship.
60
AMY
MY HEART THUDS IN MY THROAT, AND IT MAKES ME WANT TO throw up. I’ve been so focused on everything else—Elder, the murders, the mystery—I’d nearly forgotten the most important thing.
My parents.
Trapped in ice, in the cryo level, sleeping.
Helpless.
I race down, down, using the handrails to leap the steps two at a time—and the deeper I go, the more the smoke wraps around me.
It’s an acrid scent, like burning metal, a smell so sharp it cuts my tongue like a knife. A snot-yellow dust covers my skin. It’s as fine as baby powder, but it stings like bites from fire ants, and I use my sleeves to beat it off. I tug my tunic up over my face so it covers my nose and mouth, and I let my hair down, hoping I can get at least a little protection on the back of my neck from it.
My foot slips, and—fortunately—I grab a handrail. Just in time. There are two more steps—and then nothing.
I lean down, gripping the handrail for support. The bomb was centered on the elevator that extends from the Hospital to the cryo level, just as I’d suspected. Shrapnel and the force of the explosion have ripped through the metal stairs here as easily as if they’d been made of paper.
We’re cut off from the cryo level.
For one crazy moment, I consider jumping. How many feet could it be to get to the bottom? These steps don’t go directly into the cryo level. I’m a couple of feet above a solid metal surface. There must be a hatch or something leading down to the cryo level. There’s a pillar between the stairs and the elevator—maybe there’s a door built into it. But the yellow smoke is heavy and impenetrable, and judging by the ragged edges of the metal on the stairs, I bet there’s plenty of debris below that could kill me. I stare as hard as my watering eyes allow me to, but all I can see is a mangled mess of shattered metal, twisted beams, and blown rivets.
My throat burns, making me cough; the yellow powder must be affecting me in ways I can’t even tell. I shiver; it’s colder here than anywhere else on the ship. I creep back up the stairs. I can feel my heartbeat thudding in my ears, and I’m cold with sweat. I grasp at air. I remember the way Victria thought she was dying, overwhelmed by the idea of a world beyond the ship. I feel the same panic surging inside me, overwhelmed by the idea of still being trapped behind walls, forever behind walls.
When I get back to the top, I search through the crowd that’s gathered around Elder at the Recorder Hall to tell him what I found. He’s surrounded by people, and I don’t bother being polite—I shove them out of my way, ignoring their angry cries, then I pull Elder by the arm until we’re far enough away that no one else can overhear us.
“I can’t get to the cryo level,” I say. I describe what I saw between the levels.
He nods as if he expected it. His eyes are dead and empty. Elder gave up hope on the Bridge, but I didn’t give it up until I could see no more in him.
61
ELDER
THE HOSPITAL’S NO LONGER SAFE, SO WE SET UP THE RECORDER Hall as a temporary infirmary. Doc, who’d been close to the elevator when it exploded, has his left arm in a sling and a deep gash on his cheek, under his eye. Still, he moves from person to person, quickly assigning pills and med patches and bandages. More often than not, he slips the patients a pale green patch. I pretend not to notice.
In truth, I sort of want one myself.
Kit and the nurses bring the Shippers who survived the Bridge explosion, and another panicked wave of activity follows their arrival—bandages here, stitches there, all wrapped up with a bright green patch on top.
There aren’t that many injuries. Not on the outside, at least. But I can see a spark of desperation in people’s eyes as they slowly become aware of the fact that the explosions did not just kill nine more of our people: they also killed any hope we had of planet-landing.
Later that afternoon, maintenance crews inspect the Hospital. Just as Amy told me, the elevator—the one that goes all the way to the cryo level—was destroyed. The cables broke and the elevator itself crashed at the bottom of the shaft, but that was the extent of the damage.
Once things settle down, I do an all-call, requesting that everyone meet in the garden behind the Hospital. Eldest would have ordered another ship-wide meeting on the Keeper Level, but I know the last thing people want is to be away from the familiarity of the Feeder Level, especially if it brings them closer to the now-destroyed Bridge. The statue of the Plague Eldest is traditional for the changing ceremonies from Elder to Eldest, and it seems appropriate, given what I plan on saying.
“Hey, wait up!” Bartie calls as I make my way from the Recorder Hall to the garden. I don’t answer him, but I do slow my pace.
“Is it true?” Bartie asks when he catches up to me. “The Shippers in the Recorder Hall are saying the Bridge is gone.”
“Yeah,” I grunt.
“Are you going to tell them?” Bartie continues, matching my quick pace so he can walk beside me. “I think you should tell everyone about the Bridge. About how we can’t leave now.”
“Shite, Bartie, you think so?” I don’t bother quelling the sarcasm in my voice. “Here I was just thinking I’d take a nice little break and then maybe get a bite to eat; stars, might as well go into the Hall and watch a vid or something.”
Bartie raises his hands in peace, but his face is angry. “You never do anything without someone telling you to,” he says. “How was I supposed to know that this was different?”
“You’re such a frexing hypocrite,” I spit. “You’re so worried about all I’m doing wrong, you have no idea what I’m doing right.”
Bartie snorts, and in that sound, I can hear all the contempt and derision that I’ve had to put up with from him—from everyone—who’s been judging me since Eldest died. And I’m frexing sick and tired of it.
“You want to be Eldest?” I say loudly. “Fine. Be Eldest. Then you’ll know what it’s like when you have to watch your friends die. Know what I did while you were just frexing lying around here all day? I was on the Bridge; I was in the doorway when it exploded. I watched Prestyn and Hailee and Brittne and the others get sucked out into space. I watched Shelby hanging on to a chair, saw the tears in her eyes as she reached out to me. But I let her die so I could save the Engine Room. And the rest of the frexing ship.”
I march to the railing and look out at the Feeder Level, my back to him.
“You let Shelby die?”
“I watched her beg for her life, and then I sealed the door anyway.”
No, no, no, no, no.
Bartie pauses for a moment, staring at me. I keep walking. He rushes to catch up. “Maybe you’re more of a leader than I gave you credit for.”
“Go frex yourself.”
“I’m trying to apologize here.”
“For what? Why? Because I let some Shippers die, suddenly I’m a better leader? Shite. That’s Eldest’s logic. Not mine.”
This time, I make sure to outpace him.
I stand under the statue of the Plague Eldest. His concrete arms are raised in mock benevolence, but I wonder now, looking at his weather-worn face, if there was ever a time when there was something of him in me. We are, supposedly, genetically the same, but . . . would we have made the same decisions? Would he do what I’m about to?
I don’t think so.
The people arrive slowly. Most of them—I can tell by their forlorn faces, looks of fear and anger—already know what I’m about to say. Some—family and friends of the first-level Shippers—are among those that gather closest to me.
