On the Edge of Gone

by Corinne Duyvis

  When I see what he placed on the ground, something flutters inside me. I don’t even think. I step off the bed, lift the item up, and scramble back onto the covers.

  I don’t leaf through it. I just grab it and press it close to my chest, that calico tabby on the cover faced toward me. The corners of the book push into my skin. They’re still sharp. I keep the book in good condition. I zip my fingernails across the pages, feeling where they bundled and cut them.

  I don’t say thank you.

  But I turn my head toward Iris, dip it in a nod, again again again, until I see her smile.

  The ship rumbles sometimes.

  “Testing?” I say.

  I surprise myself with it. I surprise Iris, too—she shoots upright from where she was dozing or thinking. Then she sinks back into her mattress. “Yeah,” she says. “They’re checking everything for tomorrow’s launch.”

  I go back to studying the workings of cat hind legs.

  During dinner, Iris says, “I guess they haven’t found Mom.”

  I glance up from my plate. (Plain rice. Peas. Strips of fake chicken. There’s sauce, but they put it in a separate container rather than dumping it all over.)

  “They’d have told us if they had, right?” she says.

  I stab at my dinner, rolling a response over in my mouth.

  “I hope Mom’s OK. I really do.” Iris lifts her fork. “I was just trying to do damage control. Anke would’ve found her.”

  I listen but don’t linger. I’m too focused on getting my own words out. “Sanne and Els helped.”

  Iris smiles a half-smile. “You have good friends.”

  “I know you’re worried. I’m sorry. I’m just . . . very . . .” I can’t think of the right word. How do I explain that my mind is too slow and too jumbled all at once? That I’m out of gas? That I’ve failed, and the only way to keep from falling apart is to accept that? Or that maybe I’ve already fallen apart, and I don’t know if I can sweep the pieces back together?

  I settle on three words. “I am tired.”

  “I shouldn’t have pushed you after Sanne came by.”

  “I gave up,” I say.

  Iris’s fork stills. “Gave up on what?”

  I breathe in sharply. A hundred things rush through me. I shouldn’t have mentioned it, shouldn’t have spoken at all, should have stared at my pattern and been pleased every time I predicted the width of that next horizontal panel, should’ve, should’ve—“Everything.”

  I wipe my face before any tears plop onto my rice.

  Iris asks for more, worried, then gentle, then not at all when she realizes I’m no longer answering.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” she says.

  We finish dinner in silence.

  • • •

  The next morning, the ship rumble is constant. The door slides open.

  “She’s still not talking?” Anke says. “Here’s your tabs back.” She tosses one on my bed, one toward Iris, who turns hers on immediately.

  Something is wrong. Without us approving a user change, Anke can’t access or delete the videos Iris and I have on her. Why would she give back the tabs?

  “You wiped it,” Iris says.

  I blink. But without us approving a user change, Anke can’t—she can’t—ah. Max. He did say that he would choose his mother over me.

  “Wiped what?” Anke smiles at Iris. She looks different. Healthier. After a moment, I realize why: it’s been over a week since Mirjam’s death. Shiva is over. Anke must be wearing makeup again. “Here are your clothes and your other things.” She points at two backpacks held by an unfamiliar guard. “You’ll need them. The captain wants to tell you something, by the way.”

  Captain Van Zand steps into the doorway. He looks the same as he did back on that first day in the loading bay, Mom and Els asking for shelter, me peering past him into the ship. Marveling at it.

  I stayed on board a lot longer than I’d expected.

  I didn’t stay nearly as long as I should have.

  I should have stayed forever. I should have died between these walls, a million kilometers from here and seventy years from now, old and gray. Grandkids standing at my bedside, biting their lips so they don’t cry. Maybe Max would be holding my hand. Maybe someone I’ll never get the chance to meet.

  A flash of a future I gave up out on the water.

  It’s more vivid now that I’m back.

  Captain Van Zand says he’s sorry, that he’s disappointed, and that between the uncertainty about the barrels and Anke’s accusations about our mother, there’s reason to want us off the Nassau. He waited as long as possible, in case evidence in our favor cropped up.

  As I listen, my thumb rubs my tab. I don’t bother checking for my recording from the shelter. Max will have erased that in addition to Iris’s recordings of Anke.

  Captain Van Zand says he wishes it could have been different. He wishes us good luck outside. Then he leaves.

  “After you,” Anke says.

  We pack our things. We wrap up tight and exit the room. Iris puts herself between me and Anke. I keep the book clutched to my chest. I tell myself to stay calm, calm, calm. I can keep it together a little longer. Calm, I think, walking through the halls, suspicious faces all around, a triumphant Anke striding ahead, and the outside world waiting for us.

  “Denise didn’t do anything,” Iris says. “You were going to check the barrels. You should’ve known they’re not stolen!”

  The ship rumbles underfoot. I grip the book tighter. People whisper as we pass them in the loading bay. Some sit against the walls, their heads down, their sobs muffled. Most are excited about liftoff, working so hard to prepare that they barely even see us. The ramp has been raised, but there’s a smaller exit in the wall.

  A doorway into the black.

  The voices fade. I stop walking. I stare at that dark rectangle.

  “We’ll be fine,” Iris whispers. “We’ll make it. We’re sticking together. We have our friends. All right?”

  “I swear, if you don’t . . .” Anke steps toward me.

  But I’m moving again. The voices roll back in. People tying down the cranes, rolling away the carts. Once the ship escapes the Earth’s reach, everything needs to be secure until artificial gravity kicks in.

  “Did you get the—” a voice shouts.

  “Over here!”

  “Oh crap, I’ve got to find my kids—”

  “Are those the girls who . . . ?”

  Closer to the doorway. Closer. Iris whispering words by my side.

  “Check with the others!”

  “Where did you incompetents leave that—”

  “Couldn’t they have kicked those two off sooner? I have friends who could’ve taken their place!”

  I never said goodbye. Not to Els, not to Fatima, not to anyone else. Els must be happy, at least, that some of her barrels were returned, that no one is coming to take our place . . .

  I stop walking again. Oh, I think as the thought that’s been simmering under the surface becomes clear. Oh. Of course.

  Anke raises a hand to grab me, but Iris blocks her. “Don’t you dare—”

  “It’s Els,” I say aloud. “Els is the thief.”

  I run back into the ship.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  THE GUARDS WEREN’T EXPECTING ME TO run.

  I duck between workers. I’m out of the loading bay within seconds. I zip left, ahead, up the stairs. I think I’ve lost them. It doesn’t matter as long as I reach Els.

  My thoughts churn, churn, churn while I run. I keep my book pressed close and slap one hand against the door to Els’s work quarters. She might not be here. She must be with everybody else, getting ready and—

  The door whines open. It cuts through all my thoughts. I stumble back.

  “Denise?” Els lifts her head from where it rested on her arms. Her eyes are puffy.

  I gather my scattered thoughts. I knew exactly what I was going to say. The stupid door, and—now
I no longer know, I should just—

  Calm, calm, calm.

  “Youuu. You’re the thief.” I draw out the words, waiting for the rest to settle into place. I keep my sentences short, untangled. “You didn’t want new passengers. You stole barrels. Hid them . . . to fake supply shortage. So that people wouldn’t add new people.” I correct myself: “So that the captain wouldn’t approve new passengers.”

  “I’m—”

  “You had access. And motive. You wanted a safety cushion. Extra supplies as backup. You—you can identify the barrels. The ones they found at the Olympisch Stadion. We indexed the numbers. You could’ve proved they weren’t stolen. You could’ve freed Iris and me right away. You didn’t. Only reason why is if you needed a scapegoat.”

  Els stares at me for a long time. Finally, she whispers, “I would’ve let you stay. I swear. At the last moment, when it was too late to add any more passengers, I would’ve identified the barrels. I planned to.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Your mother.” Els tries to meet my eyes. “You knew how bad the situation was, you knew the rules, and you brought your mother on board. An addict. I helped you, and you . . . you betrayed me.” She seems like she’ll spit out something else, then deflates again.

  “What did you do to her?”

  “What you asked. She’s back inside the airport. Sanne and I got her out before Anke led the captain to her. Anke looked like a fool.”

  That should make me smile. I repeat, “You’re the thief.”

  I don’t know what I expected to achieve. Coming here seemed like the right—the only—move, but now it feels silly. Whatever the truth may be, Iris still lied. She still kept the location of the missing barrels from us. She’ll never be allowed to stay.

  “I really did plan to free you. Even if you broke the rules. At the last minute, I would’ve—I was still thinking I should—”

  It doesn’t matter. Els can have what she wants. Fewer people, more food. No drug addicts, no lying sisters, no traitorous mentees.

  “I gave up,” I tell Els.

  The guards’ footsteps approach.

  I snap out of it. I step into the hallway, clutching the book as though that’s what they’ll grab and not the rest of me. “Don’t, don’t—I’m coming, don’t—”

  “Wait.” Els’s chair rolls across the floor as she gets up. “Denise helped me retrieve the right information. She figured out what I was missing. Iris was right—those barrels weren’t the stolen ones.”

  The guards slow down.

  She says, “Let’s call Captain Van Zand.”

  • • •

  Els vouching for me is enough. If I want to stay, I can.

  But not Iris, no matter how much I plead.

  Not the girl who knew about the missing barrels for days and lied.

  We sit in the hallway outside the loading bay, watching people rush back and forth. Well: Iris watches. I keep my eyes on my boots, the book, my hands.

  “Did you know I was almost relieved?” Iris says. “I wanted to stay to help my friends and those shelters. No one else will. I might’ve chosen to leave the ship, if . . .”

  She places her hand on the ground between us. I shake my head. It’s enough to pry free the tears dangling in my eyelashes.

  This isn’t right.

  It’s all I can do: shake my head. My hair bounces in my peripheral vision. We sit there for another minute. Iris’s hand slides closer.

  My tab buzzes. The name that shows is the last one I expected—not Els to apologize, not Anke to yell, not Fatima to welcome me back though I never had the chance to leave.

  It’s Max.

  “I’m sorry!” is the first thing he says. His face takes shape, hovering over my arm, the same messy blond hair and round face and perpetually confused expression. He shaved. I rest my arm on my knees so the projection and I are face-to-face. “I’m sorry for wiping the files. I didn’t want my mother to get kicked off. I didn’t want you to get kicked off, either, I only—Anyway, I just heard about the barrels. Good. I never thought you stole anything. I’m glad you got proof. It’s, yeah”—he ruffles his hair—“I’m glad you can stay. That’s all I wanted to say.”

  “I can stay,” I tell him, “but Iris can’t.” I hesitate before I say my next words, but they’re easier than I expected. I think they’ve been forming for days. “We’re leaving the ship together.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  “WHAT?” IRIS SAYS.

  “You’re what?” Max adds.

  “I can’t be useful on the Nassau. I tried. I can’t. And I can’t leave Iris. So.”

  “Denise, you can’t! Not for me.”

  “We’ll be fine,” I say. “We have friends. They’re surviving; so can we.”

  “But.” Max blinks rapidly. “It’s dangerous. It’ll be dark for at least a year.”

  “I’m the one who’s actually gone out there. I know.”

  “There’s dust everywhere!”

  “Denise.” Iris slides across to face me. Despite the bustle in the hallway, the ship’s hum underneath us, she’s the only thing here. “Are you sure?”

  Am I?

  I think of early mornings with Els at work. I think of that group in the shelter. I nod, nod, nod again.

  “It’s flooded!” Max says. “Did you know it’s flooded out there?”

  “We know,” Iris snaps. “We can hitch a ride with those helicopters from the east.”

  “The helicopters?” Max drags his hand down his face. “You don’t understand. It’s dangerous! You—you’ve already gotten hurt!”

  “Max, what’s going on?” I look at him, bleary-eyed. “What don’t we understand?”

  “Do you have time?”

  Iris looks at the guards standing nearby. “Barely. They gave us a few minutes to say goodbye. What is it?”

  “Just—just—” He holds up one finger. “Wait. Promise me.” The projection dissolves.

  Am I doing this? I’m doing this. I’m leaving the Nassau. The thought makes me go hot and cold in flashes.

  “What was that about?” Iris wonders.

  I raise one shoulder in a shrug.

  She scoots closer. “Are you sure?”

  Am I? I think again, but then I see Iris washing her hands and plucking out walnuts, Iris arranging to get the book brought in. I need her. I can’t leave this planet and never know what happens to her. I’m sure about that.

  “I’m sorry about the VR room,” she says. “I focused so much on making you better, I didn’t focus enough on you. Out there, tell me. Ask for help. I’ll listen this time. I promise.”

  My tab buzzes. So does Iris’s. Then one of the guards’, and the other tabs in the hallway—a level-one announcement. We received one earlier about the ship’s imminent departure. I expect an update; instead, a projection of Max’s face flickers into life in front of me and a dozen times in the corner of my eyes.

  “Uh, hi,” he says. “Most of you know me. In about ten minutes, the Nassau’s launch sequence will be initiated. We’ll leave two hours after. So I, uh . . .” He stares at me—at the camera—like he forgot what to say. Then he brightens. “I hacked in. I’m delaying the launch. I want to give you all time to—uh—absorb some information. Point one: two days ago, there was an announcement about radio signals we picked up. The message was supposedly from the east of the country and promised they were preparing helicopters. It’s a lie. We have no records of anyone mentioning helicopters. Uh, I don’t know who ordered that announcement, but someone wanted to give you hope that people in the shelters will be OK. And they’re not. Well, they might be, but not because . . . I’m bad at this. Just look. This was recorded in a shelter near Weesp.”

  Familiar footage replaces his face. It’s my interview with the Polish refugee. Max has cut the sound. He fast-forwards through some bits, slows down during others, particularly when I wavered and my camera recorded more of what was going on around us. People sleeping. Two teenagers huddl
ing into each other. That one fight that was quickly broken up.

  Sometimes Max does turn the sound back on: to catch a baby’s cries, a old man’s sobs, the laughter of those playing kids.

  And to listen to the Polish man’s final words. He’s gripping his son close, both of them leaning into the camera. “We’re so close—but we’re scared. We can’t build enough rafts for all of us to leave. That’s a fact. So now barely any of us have gone. In here, we might not have food, but they’ll find us eventually.”

  Max stops the video seconds before I stopped recording. His version took a minute, maybe less.

  “That was three days ago. No one’s found them yet. They’re waiting. For nothing.” Max’s voice raises. “I lost my sister. I didn’t think it had hit me. I thought I could push it away until we were flying, and then grieve. I thought I could do the same with the planet. I followed the Nassau’s rules. Kept the ship a secret, conserved energy, helped everywhere possible. My sister and I told ourselves we’d make the necessary choices. We were ready, we were so ready to leave Earth behind. I’d mourn once it was over. Once I let it hit me.

  “But my sister is dead, and those shelters are waiting for help that’s not coming, and my friend is getting ready to stay on Earth . . .

  “It’s hitting me now.

  “We do have a choice. It’s not over yet. It’s—it’s not fair to wait until it is and then feel bad about it. I’m delaying the launch so that . . . I don’t want anyone else to lose their sister, too. We have the resources to help. Go demand that the captain stay. I’ve given you an extra hour. The rest is up to you and him.”

  Max’s image disappears.

  I look up at the hallway. People are standing there, dazed. Chatter flares up. Questions. Anger, though whether it’s at Max or the captain, I don’t know.

  “Our guards left.” Iris climbs to her feet. “Denise, I have to—Will you be OK?”

  “Go.”

  She grins. “If there’s anything I know, it’s protesting and wrangling people. Let’s combine those skills.”

  Over the next half hour, I watch in wonder as chaos erupts. People come up to me like before, but this time, they ask, “Do you think we should—” and “Can we really—” and “Is it as bad as—”