by Beth Revis
Elder smiles—a huge, carefree grin, and I really do feel like a mother watching her baby totter off into a fire. “I’m touched. You actually do care about me.”
My mouth drops open. “You idiot. Of course I care about you.”
He leans forward quickly and pecks me on the forehead. “Then help me get the suit on.”
I growl—but I can’t stop him. At least I can make sure he’s as safe as possible. I pick up two halves of the breastplate. I feel like a lady dressing her knight in his armor, just like a movie I saw a long time ago on Sol—on Earth. The lady tucked a token—a small scarf—into the knight’s armor to remind him of her love for him. I don’t have a scarf, and I’m not even sure if I love Elder, but I strap him so hard into the breastplate that he grunts in protest.
I keep checking the manual. It doesn’t seem right that all it takes to go into space is a set of bronze long johns and a plastic shell. I knew space suits had come a long way from the puffy white marshmallow-like suits of the twentieth century, but this thin suit doesn’t seem adequate. Still, when I watched videos of men and women working in the space of Godspeed before it launched, their suits looked exactly like this.
Elder steps into the boots one at a time. They go halfway up his calves, and when I push a button on them, they shrink against his legs. Elder hobbles to the center of the room, then turns around, letting me inspect him.
“Looks solid,” I admit.
“All that’s left is the helmet and the backpack,” Elder says, reaching for the helmet.
“This first.” I help pull Elder’s arms through the straps of the pack, and it snaps into the hard shell pieces of the suit.
I plug the wires from the pack into their connectors on the shoulder of the suit. “This is a PLSS, a primary life support subsystem,” I say as I connect a tube to the base of the helmet. “Basically, it has all the stuff you need to live—brings in oxygen, takes out carbon dioxide, regulates pressure, all that.”
I snap on a metal-enforced cable to a hook at the front of Elder’s suit. “And this,” I say, “is your lifeline back to me—to the ship. I’m attaching the other end to the hatch. The book says there’s a special hook there just for this.”
Elder nods. He looks pale, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his face.
I think about kissing him then. Just in case.
Instead, I cram his helmet onto his suit and lock it into place. The PLSS has only two modes—on and off—so I open the latch door, flip the switch to on, and secure the door back in place.
“That’s pure oxygen,” I say loudly. “Get used to it now, before you’re in space.”
Elder nods, but he’s got so much on that his whole top half bends back and forward. I bite my lip, worried.
Elder follows me, clomp-hobbling, to the hatch. Inside, I latch the end of his lifeline to a hook on the floor.
“Come back to me,” I whisper to Elder’s helmet, but I don’t know if he can hear me.
I step back into the hallway. The hatch closes behind me. I look through the bubble window. Elder raises one hand.
I punch the code into the keypad slowly, hesitating before the last digit. Should I do this? Is it worth it to find Orion’s big secret if it risks Elder?
The door in front of me seals shut, a grinding metal-on-metal noise as it locks. Through the window, I have one last look at Elder in his bronze suit. I am overcome with an insane urge to rip the controls out of the wall beside me and keep the hatch from opening.
But it’s too late. It opens.
And Elder’s gone.
37
ELDER
MY ARMS AND LEGS FEEL SLOGGED DOWN AS IF WALKING through muddy water. Everything’s muffled in the suit. Amy shuts the door that leads into the ship; I can see her pensive face through the window, the worry exaggerated by the rounded glass. The lock creates a dull, almost-imperceptible click that nevertheless reverberates.
Then I’m alone with just the sound of the life-support system strapped to my back, a soft whoo-sh-whoo swirling in my ears.
The back hatch opens, and the universe explodes around me. I’m launched through the doorway backward, my arms and legs jerking painfully as my body flies out into space. The movement winds me, and I can’t breathe. Just as I start to panic, I feel cool oxygen flowing through my helmet.
The cord tethering me to the ship pulls taut, and my body bobs against it, my arms and legs no longer stiff in the suit. I look up. And I am surrounded by the universe.
A million suns stretch out beyond me, their light piercing the darkness. The ship seems to glow. I scan it, looking for whatever massive secret Orion told me I would find.
The ship itself is mostly egg-shaped, with a horned beak protruding from the bridge. A honeycomb of glittering glass covers the arching protrusion. Beneath that, then, must be the Feeder Level. I stare at the smooth exterior of the ship, marveling how only a few moments ago I was on the other side, running my fingers over dusty rivets. There’s a line of thick, dark metal rimming the bottom of the ship, about where the cryo level starts, and a pointed ridge sticks out from the front, like a smaller version of the bridge’s beak. There’s glass there, too—an observatory must be hidden behind the last locked door on the cryo level.
There’s nothing here that stands out as unusual, except maybe the as yet unseen observatory. I recline in space, my eyes roving over the hull—there are no strange cracks or marks; the thrusters in the back of the ship aren’t working, but I already knew that. Was that the great secret Orion wanted me to find out? That the ship isn’t moving?
It would be disappointing to learn that after all this, that was Orion’s great mystery. But how can I be disappointed in space?
I stretch out my arms and legs, knowing that there are no walls here that can contain them. I look past Godspeed and forget about whatever pointless mission Orion’s video sent me on. I gaze out, to the stars. I remember the first time I saw real stars, through the hatch window. They were beautiful then, but now, seeing them here, all around me, beautiful feels like an inadequate word. I see the stars as a part of the universe, and having spent my life behind walls, suddenly having none fills me with both awe and terror. Emotion courses through my veins, choking me. I feel so insignificant, a tiny speck surrounded by a million stars.
A million suns.
Centuries away is Sol. Circling around it is Sol-Earth, the planet Amy came from. And one of these other stars is the Centauri binary system, where the new planet spins, waiting for us.
And here we are, in the middle, surrounded by a sea of stars.
A million suns.
Any of them could hold a planet. Any of them could hold a home.
But all of them are out of reach.
The thought makes me queasy-dizzy, a sick feeling that starts in my stomach and blurs my vision.
The stars don’t look like suns anymore. They look like eyes.
Laughing eyes. Winking eyes that mock me, forever dancing away from my reach.
I swat at them, my arms feeling funny.
My body feeling funny.
And then I hear it. Soft, barely audible.
Boop . . . boop . . . boop.
An alarm. A warning, piped directly into my helmet.
I breathe deeply—or I try to—but I can’t. The air is thinner now, and even though my nostrils flare and my mouth is open, black spots dance before my eyes. I can’t get enough air. Something’s wrong with the PLSS strapped to my back—something’s wrong with the oxygen.
My first instinct is to call for help—I raise a gloved hand to my neck and bump up against the solid helmet before I realize that, of course, I can’t reach my wi-com.
My tether to the ship isn’t more than twenty yards long, but Godspeed feels as far away as the millions of stars around me. I start pulling myself closer to the ship, hand over hand, swimming through nothing to reach the safety of the open hatch.
I can hear my heart beating in time with the alarm.
T
he more I think about not breathing, the more I want to breathe.
I tug on the tether, and my hands slip from it. The movement spins me off, away from the cord, jerking me around.
I have spent the whole time facing the ship, looking back at the path we have taken. But now I see behind me, toward where the ship is facing. And I realize why Godspeed seemed to glow. This . . . I never expected this. How did Orion keep this secret? How could anyone keep this secret? It’s—it’s everything—it’s—
There, hanging in the sky, right in front of me—
Is a planet.
38
AMY
I STARE OUT THE OPEN HATCH, MY EYES NOT ON THE STARS, but on the tether that ties Elder back to me.
I count down the seconds. The tether twitches. And I know:
Something’s wrong.
39
ELDER
I CAN’T BREATHE, BUT IT’S NOT BECAUSE OF THE LACK OF oxygen. It’s because everything about me—my lungs, my heart, my brain—stopped when I saw that blue and green and white orb floating in the sky.
In the distance, far larger than the millions of stars around me, I can see Centauri A and Centauri B, the two stars that make up the center of this solar system. They’re so bright and so big compared to the other stars that they melt in my eyes like blurry, glowing orbs of ice.
But I don’t stare at them.
I stare at the planet.
That—this—is Orion’s secret. It’s not that the ship isn’t working, that we’re never going to make it.
It’s that the ship has already arrived.
We’re already here! There—there—is the planet that will be our home!
It floats, so bright that it hurts my eyes. Giant green landmasses spread out across blue water, with swirls and wisps of clouds twirling over top. At the edge of the planet, where it turns away from the suns and starts to darken, I can see bright flashes of light—bursts of whiteness in the darkness—and I think: Is that lightning? In the center, where the light of the suns makes the planet seem to glow from within, I can see, very distinctly, a continent. A continent. On one edge, it’s cracked and broken like an egg, dark lines snaking deep into the landmass. Rivers. Lots of them. Maybe something too big to be rivers if I can see it from here. Fingers of land stretch out into the sea, and dots of islands are just out of their grasp. That area will be cool all the time, I think. Boats can go along the rivers, up and down. We can swim in the water.
Because already, I can see myself living there. Being there.
On a planet that looks up at a million suns every night, and at two every day.
I want to scream, shout with joy. But the air is so thin now.
Too thin.
I’ve spent too long looking at Orion’s secret.
The boop . . . boop . . . boop . . . fades away. There’s nothing to warn about now.
Because there’s no air left.
My sight is rimmed with black. My head pulses with my heartbeat, which sounds as loud to me as the alarm once did. I turn from the planet—my planet—and start pulling, hand over hand, against the tether, toward the hatch. The ship bobs in and out of my vision as my whole body jerks. I’m panicked now and fighting to stay awake. I try to suck in air, but there’s nothing there to suck. I’m drowning in nothing.
Closer.
My hands slip, and I’m afraid—if I lose my grasp, if I fall all the way back to the end of the tether—I’ll never make it back to the ship. I’ll never make it back to Amy.
But if I have to die, I think, at least I can die looking at the planet. Is this what Harley thought? Did he see Centauri-Earth before he died? Was his last thought one of regret—that he threw himself to the stars when the planet was almost within his grasp?
I look down at my hands wonderingly. When did I forget to put one hand over the other as I pull myself along the tether? I’m still floating in the direction of the ship—the lack of gravity ensures that—but I have to keep pulling myself along the rope or I’ll never make it back to Godspeed—to oxygen—in time. I force my arms to move, drag my body closer to the ship. I pull harder than before. Desperation fills my muscles. My mouth hangs open, sucking at nothing. My throat convulses.
I’ve got to get to the ship.
My muscles are shaking, but I don’t know if it’s from exertion or suffocation. Just—one more tug—there. The hatch. My fingers scramble, trying to grip the edge of the opening. On the other side of the door is Amy. I crane my head up and, through my watery eyes, I can see her pressed against the glass. I heave, once, and my body propels up, floating through the zero gravity. I bounce against the ceiling of the inside of the hatch. Black spots dance before my eyes.
The hatch door grinds closed . . . so slowly . . .
I turn in time to see the planet, just barely out of sight, only visible here, at the rim between the ship and space—
—The hatch door locks into place.
And I see nothing but black.
40
AMY
AS SOON AS THE HATCH DOOR SHUTS, I REACH FOR THE handle, but it has to re-pressurize before it can open. Through the window of the hatch, I see Elder’s body thunk against the floor as gravity returns. I pound on the door with both fists, but he doesn’t so much as twitch. He lies there, motionless, his face obscured by the helmet.
An eternity later, the lock clicks and I fling the door open. I drop to my knees at Elder’s side and turn his body over so he’s flat on his back. His arms and legs are limp; the shell of his suit is clunky and in the way.
The helmet first. Elder’s head pours out of it and thunks on the metal floor.
“Elder,” I say. “ELDER.” I slap him, hoping for something, but—
I jab my wi-com and com Doc. “Get down to the cryo level!” I scream into my wrist as I attack the shell armor of the suit, ripping at the latches and stays around Elder’s torso, breaking it open to reveal his chest.
“What’s wrong?” Doc asks. His voice is breathless over the wi-com, as if he’s already running.
“It’s Elder!” I shout.
“I’m on the Shipper Level, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Hurry!”
I bend down to Elder’s chest—he’s not breathing. My hair falls across his face, into his slightly open mouth, but he doesn’t flinch.
I don’t know if this will work—I pray it will, but I don’t know—I tip Elder’s head back—his skin is so cold—pinch his nose, and breathe into his mouth. I did this on a dummy once after swim lessons in Florida when I was a kid, but the dummy was plastic and an unrealistic mix of hard and soft—nothing at all like the warm wet of Elder’s mouth. I do two short bursts of breaths—Puff! Puff! Then I lean back on my knees, fold my hands over each other, and press down on his chest.
Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.
Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.
Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.
Push, push.
Puff! Puff!
Push, push.
Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.
Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.
Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.
Nothing.
Pushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpush.
God, why isn’t this working?! Am I doing it right? I can barely remember that one hour of CPR training so long ago—what if I’m hurting him?
I lower my head to breathe into his mouth again. I have to swallow back a sob. I won’t cry.
He’s not dead. I won’t let him be dead.
Puff!
I lean up to take some more air—and I feel, just barely—a whiff of breath coming from Elder. I lean down, my cheek next to his lips—and I can feel it. Air. His chest rises and falls, rises and falls. I move down, pressing my face against his body.
I can feel the thud of his heartbeat, weak, but b
eating, beating, beating with life.
I rest my head on his chest, relishing in the warmth of him, in the sound of his body, still alive.
41
ELDER
“UHHRRR,” I GROAN. MY CHEST FEELS AS IF SOMEONE CRACKED it open and then taped it shut again.
“Elder!” Amy leans over me.
“What happened?” My voice is alien to me, high. My nose is cold on the inside—there’s a tube blowing air up into it.
“I think you died a little bit,” Amy says. She tries to laugh, but the sound fades on her lips. Her eyes are red, as if she’s either been crying too much or needs to cry but hasn’t yet.
I lie still for a moment, assessing myself. I’m in the Hospital. “I feel like shite,” I conclude.
“Yes, that’s what happens when you die for a little bit.”
Amy starts to head to the door, but I grab her wrist. “Don’t go.”
“I should get Doc,” she says. “He’s been waiting for you to wake up.”
“Not yet,” I say. I slip the tube under my nose off my face.
“Don’t do that,” Amy says. “It’s oxygen.”
“I’ve got enough now, see?” I take a big, obvious breath and disentangle myself from the tube.
Her brows furrow, but she allows me to pull her down so she’s sitting on the edge of the bed. I bite my lip, then release it—my lips are sore and feel bruised. I can taste copper along the soft flesh.
“I thought I was going to lose you,” Amy whispers. Her fingers trail down the side of my cheek, lightly brushing the place where my face is still bruised from Stevy’s punch a few days ago. Her fingers are cool, her touch so soft I barely feel it.
“I’m fine.” I smile wryly. “Better than fine.”
