by Beth Revis
Page 11
What kind of animal makes prints like this? The bird monster had curving talons, but this animal’s scaly claws seem to have saw-like edges, as if they could shred my flesh just by brushing my skin.
“We should get that scientist to make another plaster cast,” I say, standing.
As Elder gets up, too, a deep voice calls out, “You need to stick with the group. ” A young man in military fatigues steps forward from the forest—right on top of the animal tracks Elder had been examining. Elder growls in frustration, but the man doesn’t seem to care.
The guy is young—he can’t be that much older than me, definitely in his early twenties. He has startlingly blue eyes that belie his dark hair. I vaguely recognize him as one of the men my father brought with him on the mission to the probe, but I don’t know his name or rank. When he notices me staring, he shoots me a quick smile before turning his attention back to the shuttle and giving Dad, who’s watching us, an all-clear hand signal. I blush despite myself. He wears blank fatigues—no nametape or visible rank. Before I can ask who he is, Dad interrupts.
“Stay close to the group!” he barks from atop the bridge in the shuttle. The soldier turns back to continue his patrol.
Elder glances up furtively at my father as he drags me back toward the shuttle. I tug his arm, ducking around to the other side. There is military on this side of the shuttle too, but at least we’re away from my father’s too-vigilant gaze.
And then I notice the suns. Two of them. I don’t know how I didn’t notice them before—who thinks to look at the sun?—but they’re low in the sky now, casting the area in a dark blue-green sort of twilight.
Two suns.
Two.
Of course, I’d known—I’d always known—that Centauri-Earth would have two suns. I’d even noticed the two giant glowing orbs from the window of the shuttle. There’s a difference, though, in seeing two big stars from a spaceship and seeing two glowing suns from land.
“It’s so . . . it’s so beautiful,” I say, unable to keep the awe from my voice. Elder’s grip on my hand tightens in response.
I turn to look at him, and I see the wonder I feel in my heart mirrored in his expression. My lips creep up and up in a smile so uncontainable that I feel as if my face will never stop smiling. Elder’s hand slips from my own, trails up my arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake.
My breath catches in my throat.
I lean forward, up on my tiptoes, and a warm, earthy breeze from the forest seems to push me into his arms. Our kiss holds none of the furious passion we shared at landing the shuttle. This is different—this is like an ocean’s wave, washing over us, drowning us both in warmth, leaving us breathless and shiny-eyed.
One of the suns sinks under the horizon, the other still clinging to the edge of the world, spilling out its faded light. A few bright stars are visible. And one star—the brightest one that moves visibly against the sky—calls my attention. Is that Godspeed? If I were to get a telescope strong enough, could I make out the broken steel of the shattered Bridge?
I move to kiss Elder again, but he steps away. I glance behind me in time to see my father silently slipping away and out of sight.
I turn my back to both of them just as the last sun falls below the horizon and the world is cast in darkness.
12: ELDER
As we walk back toward the ramp that leads into the shuttle, a woman’s voice, Amy’s mother’s, cuts through the tranquility of our first night on Centauri-Earth. “Look!” she calls.
Amy gasps as her gaze follows her mother’s pointing finger. The ground . . . is glowing.
It’s subtle but there: under the blackened gaze of the bubbled, burnt ground, I can see, ever so faintly, a warm glow lighting up from the earth. It reminds me of when the Feeder Level burned, of how the walls of the Food Distro smoldered red-yellow under the blackened embers.
“What’s making it glow like that?” Amy whispers.
I have no idea—I’m too distracted by what I see on the side of the shuttle. I step forward—the ground underfoot feels hard, like tile or glass, not like the sandy soil the rest of the world is made of. The rockets on the shuttle literally melted the dirt.
Amy follows me. “What are you looking at?” she asks.
I point.
“The symbol?”
She moves to the shuttle, touching the giant steel plate engraved with a double-winged eagle.
Underneath it, in bold, evenly spaced letters, is the name of the ship. The home I left behind.
GODSPEED
“That’s just the symbol of the FRX,” I say. “It was in the Feeder Level too. But that’s not what—”
“It was in the Feeder Level?” Amy interrupts. “I never saw it. ”
“There was a little stone and metal marker in the exact center of the ship. It had a plaque; it was called Point Zero. ” I shrug. “It was in the middle of one of the cow fields. ”
Amy suppresses a shudder; she never liked the cows on Godspeed.
“But that’s not what I was looking at,” I say, pointing to the right of the steel plate, to the area that is nearly hidden behind the ramp. “Look. ”
Two huge dark marks scar the underbelly and side of the shuttle. They look like the after-effects of blasts—twin deep dents with black marks radiating around them.
“What is that?” Amy asks, reaching toward the dent. It’s easily the size of her entire arm but too far above her to touch.
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “But I’m willing to bet this is what knocked us off course. ” I frown. I can’t tell if the dents were made by our own rockets malfunctioning or if we hit something.
Or if something hit us.
“Do you think I was right?” I whisper. “That it was one of those bird-things? Or could it have been—”
“Everyone inside!” Colonel Martin barks. Lieutenant Colonel Bledsoe and her men quickly shuffle everyone up the glass walkway, all blissfully unaware of our suspicions.
Amy’s mother calls to her, motioning her to the side of the shuttle. Amy shoots me an apologetic smile as she veers away from me toward her mother, who is standing near the edge of the burnt ground. When Amy approaches, she gathers her up in an excited hug. “Isn’t this place fascinating?” her mother says in a rush. “I’ve been collecting specimens. I couldn’t wait. Your father’s furious that it’s taken me so long, but he’ll get over it. ”
“Inside!” Colonel Martin bellows again. Bledsoe waits for the three of us at the bottom of the glass ramp; we’re the only civilians still outside.
The young soldier we met earlier approaches us. “Time to go in,” he says. “It’s not safe out here. ”
Amy blinks at him. “You didn’t introduce yourself before,” she says. There’s something in her voice that makes me narrow my eyes at this intruder.
He holds his hand out to help her up the ramp, and her fingers linger on his elbow. “Private Chris Smith at your service,” he says with a grin that puts me inexplicably on edge. “I report to your father. ”
“So does everyone else,” she answers, her own smile lighting up her face.
“Except me. ”
My words make both Chris and Amy stop in their tracks. There is appraisal in Chris’s gaze now as he looks me over, and I find myself scowling even more angrily that this person thinks he has the right to judge me.
“Let’s go,” I say, reaching for Amy’s hand.
She deftly dodges me, new interest in her eyes as she stares at Chris. “I’m surprised anyone my age qualified for the mission,” she says.
“I’m twenty. ” Chris’s voice is deep. “Barely made the cutoff. ”
“You were with the group that went to find the probe, right?” Amy continues.
Before Chris can answer, Amy’s mother shoves a jar of sand she collected into Amy’s hands, completely oblivious to the smile Chris shoots Amy. “There must be some sort of phosphorescence,” she says excitedly. “Of co
urse,” she continues on as they head up the ramp, “what I want to know is if there’s a source of bioluminescence in the sand. ” Chris catches my gaze and rolls his eyes as Amy’s mother rambles on, but I just glower back at him. “You know, maybe it was caused by a chemical reaction, perhaps the heat from the shuttle’s landing. . . . ” She shakes another small jar of the sand, and the glowing bits of it remind me of the stars in the sky.
Her voice trails off as she reaches the top of the ramp and sees Colonel Martin, his dark, angry eyes flicking to me, then back to his wife. Amy doesn’t notice as her mother shoots a suspicious glance at me and clutches the jar closer to her as she draws her daughter into a tight, one-armed hug and leads her through the bridge to the inside of the shuttle.
Their looks were clear.
I am not to be trusted, even with samples of sand.
Lieutenant Colonel Bledsoe lingers at the door with Colonel Martin and Chris.
“I want talk more about the technology issues we’ve been having,” Colonel Martin mutters to Chris, drawing him closer to the control panel on the bridge.
Chris nods confidently; he must be a technological expert or something. “Fine,” he says, “but first you should see this. ” He hands Amy’s father a clear cube that sparkles golden with light reflected from the inside of the shuttle. When Colonel Martin notices me staring, he slams the bridge door shut behind me.
I try not to gag when I enter the cryo room. I hadn’t let myself really notice the stench before, but it’s been less than twenty-four hours and already the shuttle is nearly unbearable. Nearby, one of the older men—Heller, the one who stuck up for me against Juliana Robertson—shifts uncomfortably. “Frexing stitches,” he says, touching the ragged wound on his leg.
“Nothing to do but try to sleep,” the man beside him says, his broad-brimmed hat already covering his face.
Heller grunts and rests his chin on his chest.
They have the right idea. Now that the shuttle doors are closed, the only things left for us are worry or sleep, and I’m sick of worrying. It’s not easy to sleep on the hard metal floor, though.
There isn’t enough room for everyone to lie down, especially since there seems to be an invisible wall between my people and the Earthborns, so my people try to find ways to sleep sitting up, leaning against the curve of the shuttle or each other. Opposite us, the Earthborns have lowered the tables made from their cryo trays, clearing them off and making beds using blankets and sleeping bags they extract from a storage compartment under the floor. It’s not ideal, but it’s luxurious compared to the living conditions just on the other side of the shuttle.
I wish I could do more for my people—something.
Without really thinking about it, I find myself heading over to Amy. When I reach her, though, I see her and her mother arguing as her mom spreads sleeping bags over the tables of cryo chambers 40, 41, and 42.
“It’s not fair,” Amy tells her mother.
“What isn’t?” she asks, smoothing down the bag.
