Undying

by Amie Kaufman

  With a sigh, I turn back—and see that Mia’s migrated to Neal’s side of the table, and that they’re sitting with their heads together, practically in each other’s laps. My throat closes for an instant, my heart doing a strange, staggering flip-flop in my chest. It doesn’t matter that it can’t possibly be what it looks like—even after I spy the phone in Neal’s hand, the reason they’re both bent over like that, my heart’s still lurching by the time I slide back into my seat.

  “Jules.” Mia looks up, her eyes as wide as I’ve ever seen them. My lurching heart lurches harder, some nameless apprehension seizing me—but then I see her eyes are more awed than afraid. “Jules, you aren’t going to believe this. The video Neal posted—it’s got over half a million views already.”

  “What?” Stunned, I start to reach out for the phone, but Mia shakes her head.

  “That’s not even the best part. There’s a whole group of people here on our side. They’re commenting on the video, sharing the info they’ve seen, linking back to forums … Jules, there’s an entire website devoted to people who believe your dad is right about the Undying.”

  The words flit about my ears without really sinking in, leaving me staring at the two of them. Mia’s face has hope in it for what feels like the first time in weeks, and Neal’s solemn expression is cracking around the edges, pleasure in his eyes and at the corners of his mouth as he tries not to smile.

  Mia hands me Neal’s phone. “That’s the video. Then look at the other tab he’s got open.”

  I switch between the video player and the browser, still feeling as opaque and numb as a block of ice—and it’s true.

  #IBelieveInAddison, the website reads at the top. There are articles—painstakingly sourced, from reputable newspapers and magazines—and forums and even a bloody resources page. When I tap on that, there are links to different translations of the Undying broadcast, transcripts of interviews my father gave leading up to his “freak-out” on TV, and—my heart seizes.

  Are the undying already here? Only credible accounts please—check your sources! Baseless speculation will NOT be tolerated, and your posts will be removed!

  The link goes to another page under the same domain. And on that page …

  My poor heart gives up on calm entirely, and I swipe through the feed with shaking fingers. This is no crazy conspiracy-theory group—everything is meticulously researched, and as a scholar I don’t use that phrase lightly. And they know, collectively, almost as much as we do. More, in some cases.

  There’s a section devoted to the “UFO” crash De Luca mentioned back at IA Headquarters, the Undying shuttle that was never recovered and dismissed as a hoax. There’s a section in which experts—real experts, names I even recognize from the field, names I thought had abandoned my father after his televised outburst—try to construct theories about a potential invasion.

  There’s even one article that comes alarmingly close to the truth, put together by someone whose name I don’t even recognize—a teenager, it turns out, younger even than Mia and me. The article suggests that the Undying wouldn’t try to take Earth in an all-out war, but that the evidence so far—and this kid has gathered an unbelievable amount of evidence, gleaned from article after article, all listed at the end—suggests a stealth operation of some kind.

  These people are organized and determined. There’s a section indicating the site has been shut down several times already—by the IA, they claim, and I doubt they’re wrong—and assuring forum participants that all data has been saved, and will be re-uploaded in under an hour at a new location.

  The harder they try to stamp us out, it says, the louder we’ll shout our truth.

  And beneath all these stories, all this news, there’s an addition with today’s date to the end of the article: a link to Neal’s video, and a single sentence: If mankind is reduced to mindless beasts concerned only with survival, the Undying won’t need an army.

  I look up to meet Mia’s gaze. She’s been watching my face rather than my hands as I navigate the site, and her eyes are red-rimmed with emotion. “You and your dad aren’t alone,” she whispers, eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “You never were. They believe him.”

  She’s crying because she knows how much it means to me, I realize, an instant before my own eyes spill over and I have to set the phone down and swipe at my cheeks.

  There are thousands of members in the #IBelieveInAddison forum. Hundreds of articles and links posted. There’s nothing official about any of it—from the Harvard head of xenobiology we used to host for dinner, right on down to the teenager gathering news articles after school, they’re just people. No one gave them permission to do this. No one asked it of them. They’re just people who saw an educator, a scientist, a father, speaking with the voice of knowledge and passion, be silenced—and they decided not to let that voice disappear. People who decided truth was more important than power.

  I never forgave the world after it ruined my father. Before that, I’d always believed that right would prevail, that fear and hatred weren’t powerful enough to stop the spread of understanding, and that ignorance would always, always, fall before truth.

  That one open mind could change the world.

  And then I saw my father, a gentle, kind man who wears moth-eaten sweaters and never remembers to finish his tea before it goes cold, dragged off a news set by men holding guns. And not only did the world I thought I knew let it happen, they went on to humiliate him over and over on the internet, turning a photo of him being dragged away into a meme saying GTFO, auto-tuning his impassioned speech over a beat, and holding him up as an example of why “intellectuals” ought to be ridiculed.

  Some part of me saw the world I’d believed in destroyed, and replaced with this mistrustful, apathetic, ignorant planet that made it easy to strike out for a new one.

  The articles on this site aren’t enough to free my father. They’re probably not even enough to convince the IA to listen to us if—when, I correct myself—we get to Prague. But there are thousands of people out there, probably tens of thousands if you take into account those who read but don’t post, who are our allies, even though they don’t know it yet.

  We’re not alone.

  A touch on my palm draws me back to myself, and I realize Mia’s wrapped both her hands around mine. Either she’s forgotten about Neal—who’s watching with the widest grin I’ve ever seen—or she doesn’t care. In that moment none of the fights we’ve had or hurts we’ve caused each other exist. She’s just holding my hand while my world shudders and quakes and slips along its fault lines and forms something new. Something stronger.

  That phone, resting quietly on the table between us, has just shown me the one thing I’ve wanted most, wanted so badly I could feel it in my bones, ever since the IA took my father from me. I’d believed that if I could find something he missed, even the tiniest scrap of proof, it’d be enough to convince them that my father was right. That he’d be released and come home to me.

  But I’m realizing now that it wasn’t just about bringing him home—it was about saving the world. My world, the one I wanted to live in. It’s why I went to Gaia, it’s the whole reason I abandoned my academic future to become a criminal, it’s what I was willing to sacrifice everything for.

  This is what I was willing to die for.

  Maybe my revelation on the train was true. Maybe I can’t go home, back to how it was before. But maybe wherever we’re headed can be better.

  THE SOUNDS OF WHEELS CRUNCHING ON GRAVEL WAKES ME. DISORIENTED, all my senses grope for something recognizable—the only thing they come up with is a scent I’d recognize anywhere, more familiar to me than the desert winds of Chicago. I lift my head from Jules’s chest to find him sitting next to me, head flung back over the edge of the backseat, totally passed out. I have to fight the urge to laugh, before I remember where we are.

  Tension wakes me the rest of the way. The last thing I remember was Gisela putting on some intensely boring orc
hestra music that nonetheless seemed to delight Jules. Of course he’d like classical music, I’d thought, rolling my eyes but secretly rather charmed. It had been mid-afternoon then, an hour or two after we’d stopped for lunch.

  It’s dark outside now. Gisela and Luisa are still in the front seats, little more than silhouettes—though I can see that Luisa’s got one arm stretched out, and her fingers are curled around her wife’s hand as she drives. Neal’s on my other side, slumped forward, with his head pressed awkwardly against the seat back in front of him, mouth hanging open. Both boys are contorted into what look like horrifically uncomfortable positions—but then, they’re used to being tall in a world designed for shorter people.

  I ought to have stayed awake, because right now, I don’t trust anyone. But if this couple had wanted to bring us to the police or dump us somewhere, they’d have had ample time during the hours we were asleep.

  Jules sucks in a deeper breath and then lets it out in the tiniest of snores, like a puppy chasing rabbits in his sleep—and in spite of myself I start to laugh. I try to stifle it, but my shaking body is still in the crook of his arm, and it jars him awake.

  From the front seat, Luisa says with only a tiny bit of her usual edge, “Are you now awake?”

  “Arggh,” says Neal on my other side. He sits up with another creaking groan, staring blankly at the seat back his face was pressed against. After a moment, he swipes his sleeve at what I’m guessing is a patch of drool left behind.

  “We are now in our town, very close to Dresden.” Gisela’s voice is much friendlier than her wife’s. “But it is late. Our house is not large, but we often invite our friends to visit us, and we have a little guest cottage. If you would like you can sleep there, and Luisa will drive you on to Dresden in the morning.”

  Jules is still sleepy—he never did wake up very fast, even on Gaia—and manages to get as far as remembering his arm’s around me, and giving me a squeeze. I interpret that as a yes, but the couple’s seemingly selfless gesture triggers my silent alarm, the hairs on the back of my neck lifting.

  “Um,” I say, before coughing to clear the gravel from my voice. “Thanks, but we really need to keep moving.”

  Jules sits up straighter and looks at me. Even in the darkness I can see his furrowed brow. “Hang on,” he says softly. “We’re exhausted. We can’t, uh, we can’t get tickets back to London in the middle of the night.”

  I eye him, hoping he can see some of the edge in my look. “We’ve depended upon these two for too much already.” I’m hoping, with the stress in my voice, that he’ll understand: Why would two perfect strangers allow us to stay with them when we have no money, no way to repay them, nothing to offer at all except more trouble for them to go to?

  In the front seat, the couple are conversing in low voices, ostensibly discussing plans for making us comfortable—but in reality, providing cover for us to speak a little more privately.

  Jules watches me, brow still furrowed. “What makes you think we can’t trust them?” he whispers.

  “What makes you think we can?” I retort. If I’d been them, and seen what we saw after that car crash, I wouldn’t be taking any risks. They could have heard or seen some sort of bulletin about us while we were asleep, and be planning to call the authorities once they get us settled in that guest cottage.

  The furrow in Jules’s brow eases, and I see his lips twitch into one of those wry smiles that tells me he’s about to score a point. “Instinct,” he replies, lifting the arm around me to smooth back a bit of hair from my eyes.

  Instinct. The word I used to convince him to jump through the portal back in the heart of that Gaian temple. Of course, I kissed him too, which might’ve had something to do with his decision to follow me through. From the gleam in his eye, he’s remembering both.

  My nerves are still jangling, and I close my eyes a moment. I’m trying to think, to figure out whether my unease is because I don’t trust them or because I never trust anyone. I honestly can’t tell which it is.

  “All right,” I say, once there’s a lull in the quiet conversation between the couple in the front of the car. “That’s really nice of you. I guess we could use some real sleep.”

  Their house is small, a single story with one bedroom and an open-plan living space and kitchen. The cottage out back is even tinier, with a little twin bed and a cramped half bathroom, but everything about it is so cozy that by the time Gisela uncovers fresh sheets for the bed and Luisa brings in a couple granola bars and some apples, my misgivings about trusting the kindness of strangers have all but vanished.

  Neal, who’d been in the kitchen in the main house helping Luisa cut up the apples, sticks his head into the cottage and gives a quick laugh. “Yeah, um, can I sleep on the couch in there?” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the main house. “This thing is not big enough for three.”

  Luisa opens her mouth to reply, looking a little stern, but Gisela beats her to it. “Of course! I should have thought of this. We will get sheets.”

  Neal grins. “I’ll help.”

  “Wait—” I reach out, a sudden flare of panic making me bold, and grab Neal by the arm. “You should stay out here. You’re tall like Jules, you’ll fit better on the bed. I’m small, I’ll take the couch.”

  Neal snorts, rolling his eyes toward his cousin, whose face is unreadable as he watches us. “Bugger that. Last time Jules and I bunked together, I woke up with a fat lip. You can’t put two people this tall in a bed that size. Way too many elbows.” Gently but firmly, Neal detaches my hand from his arm. “Most nights I end up sleeping on the couch in my dorm anyway. Night, guys.”

  And he’s gone, leaving me and Jules alone in the little house.

  We spent so much time alone on Gaia, on the ship, you’d think we’d be used to it. But so much has happened, and now there’s silence, I find I have no idea where to start any of the conversations we should have.

  I’m brisk as I turn for the low dresser where they’ve left the granola bars and apples. “Well, tomorrow’s probably going to be insane, trying to get across the border into the Czech Republic, so it’s probably a good thing we’ve got a place to sleep.”

  Jules sits down on the end of the bed, the only real place to sit in the little cottage. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head, inspecting the wrapper of the granola bar like I can make any sense of the German ingredients list. “I don’t know.”

  “If you want I can take some blankets and sleep on the floor.”

  That makes me look over at him, surprise momentarily eclipsing my unease. “What? No, that’s—that’s stupid.” Except that he’s managed to zero in on exactly what’s making me want to cry. I know I’m exhausted, I know my emotions right now are probably not to be trusted. But the very fact that I’m so tired means I can barely fight the things that want to come out. The same things—the same insecurities—that have always stood between us.

  “We’ve slept together—I mean, you know, actually slept—tons of times. On Gaia in the temple, in the ship at the Junction … Is it Gisela and Luisa? You still think—”

  “That was on Gaia,” I interrupt. “And on the ship. This is different.”

  “Different how?” Jules’s voice is patient, too patient—it makes me want to snap, just to make him crack like me.

  “Different because—because we were going to die there together on Gaia. And on that ship. Because there, our differences weren’t so … We were more alike there, the things that separated us didn’t matter because we were surrounded by everything alien. Here, it’s … it’s different.”

  “You only kissed me because you thought we were going to die?”

  I turn to find Jules still sitting on the foot of the bed, his hands clasped in his lap, watching me. His face is calm, but his eyes are wounded, and my throat tightens.

  “No, of course not.” I swallow. “Maybe. God, Jules—what do you think is going to happen, really? I’d say we were just being teenagers, just ho
rmones and fooling around and it’s no big deal, but that’s not true. I know that, you know that.” I pause, a sudden fear seizing me. “Right?”

  A little of the hurt in his gaze fades, the lamplight catching in his curly hair, frizzy from sleeping in the car. “So why is that a bad thing?”

  “Because it’s impossible now.” I tell myself it’s the exhaustion making my voice wobble. “Even if everything works out, even if Neal can get in to see your father, and he shuts down the portals and stops the Undying and we’re somehow forgiven for all our crimes … We live on separate continents. I can barely afford to feed myself, and every spare penny goes to Evie—it’s not like I can fly to London and see you. And you’ve got your school, and your dad, and your life, you can’t just drop everything and come visit me while I go back to my life of petty thievery. I mean, what do you think is going to happen when all this is over?”

  A muscle stands out along Jules’s jaw as he clenches it, and he drops his eyes for a moment. When he looks up, that hurt is back, and with it a flicker of anger. “I guess I thought we’d both try to fight for it. For whatever this is.”

  Frustration sings through me as I toss the granola bar back onto the dresser and turn the rest of the way to face him. “Do you have any idea how naïve that sounds?” I blurt. “You don’t know anything about me—you’ve lived your whole life in your sheltered Oxford bubble. Things aren’t going to work out. Odds are, if we survive this, I’m going to jail. I’ll be a felon, Jules. Do you really want a relationship based on a ten-minute phone call once a week from prison?”

  The hands clasped in his lap tighten, his knuckles whitening, and then he gets slowly to his feet. There’s nowhere to go in the tiny place, though, so he just stands there, lips tight. “So you don’t even want to try? I thought … I thought you felt the same way I did.”