by Beth Revis
“Come with us,” he says, still not recognizing me. “Bartie’s talking about how we could move the ship to a system that’s more fair.”
He pulls me around by my shoulder. I try to jerk away, and my hood slips down. For a moment, I see surprise in Luthor’s face; then his eyes narrow to malicious slits.
The woman gasps as if I’m Quasimodo or something, but Luthor grins with all his teeth. The cut in his lip cracks open, shiny red, but he doesn’t seem to care. His grip on my shoulder tightens, and I hiss in pain.
“Come on,” the woman says. “The freak isn’t invited.”
Luthor releases me suddenly, pushing me at the same time, and I stumble on the path. Laughing, the two of them continue down toward the pond.
“It’s not like I wanted to go anyway!” I yell. The pair pause, their backs to me. Before they turn around, I race down the path toward the grav tube.
Fortunately, since this grav tube can only be used by Elder, no one else is out this way. I lean back, looking at the clear plastic tube that goes all the way up, through the ceiling, to the Keeper Level.
It’s stupid, but the first thing I want to do is push the wi-com on my wrist and fly up to Elder. I can’t get the taste of his kiss off my lips.
I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on the wall behind the grav tube. I usually avoid the ship’s walls. From a distance, you can squint and blur out the rivets that hold it together, pretend that the sky-blue paint is sky. But when you’re up close, you can smell the metal, the same sharp taste in the back of your throat as blood, and when you touch it, it’s cold and immovable.
I rap my knuckles against the steel wall the same way my father tapped on the drywall in our house to find a stud before hanging a picture. Maybe the sound will clue me in to whatever’s behind the wall. For a moment, I flash back to the other time I beat against the walls, when I was crying and screaming and clawing at the metal, desperate to find a way out. Orion found me then, one of the only welcoming faces on the ship, and I thought I’d found a friend in him. Not a murderer.
I focus on the sound of my knuckles against the wall. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. There’s nothing here. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. What am I doing? I look like an idiot. Tap-tap. Taaap-taaaap.
My hand stills. Just to the right, a little off center from the grav tube dais, the wall echoes hollowly. I lean closer.
And then I see it. Faint, dusty, almost invisible.
A seam in the wall.
I run my fingers along the outline of what I now know is a door. There’s no handle or hinges that I can see, so the door must open inward. I push against it, but it doesn’t give. I lean in with all my weight, my shoes sliding on the ground, digging scar marks into the earth.
The door opens.
It’s dark inside.
The door doesn’t want to open more than a crack, and I have to squeeze myself inside. With the sliver of light from the Feeder Level pouring into the darkness, I can see a bigger handle on the side of the door, a stamped metal floor, a covered box on the wall at eye level.
And stairs.
I push against the inside of the door with all my weight, and the three-inch thick door crashes shut. For a moment, I panic and tug against the giant handle until the door opens back up a crack, allowing me to catch a whiff of grass and dirt from the Feeder Level. I can get back out. I sigh in relief and push the door shut again.
It’s empty and silent here. I breathe deeply, and notice the sound of my presence more than the taste of dust and stale air.
I can see nothing through the inky darkness. I fumble in the dark, patting the cool metal wall until I stub my fingers against the raised plastic of the covered box I saw embedded in the wall before I shut the door. The cover lifts up on hinges at the top, and under that I find a light switch similar to the ones I remember from Earth. I should have assumed that the lights would operate like this—this whole area is part of the ship’s original design.
But it’s not an overhead light that flicks on; instead, the stairs start to glow. My feet thud hollowly on the metal floor as I draw closer. Tiny LED lights race up the railings on either side of the stairs, and a thin row of lights mark the front of each step. The lights are encased in plastic tubing, almost like outdoor Christmas lights.
My mind stops.
Before, if I thought Christmas, I would have remembered my past on Earth and would have succumbed to the aching sadness for a life I can never have again.
Now, I can think the word and not feel anything but a dull ache, a phantom pain for a part of my life that’s been amputated.
I shake my head and place my hand on the railing. My fingers glow pink from the tube of lights. I mount the first step and look up—the stairs climb higher and higher, zigging up like levels in a parking deck. I try to count how many times the stairs twist and turn, but the lights jumble together at the top. Godspeed is as tall as a skyscraper. The last time I was in New York, I tried to climb the stairs of the Empire State Building. My parents and I raced to see who could get to the top quickest. I made it to forty flights before I gave up, and that wasn’t even halfway. These stairs are twice as big, reaching up all the way from the Feeder Level to the Keeper Level, where Elder is.
But what about the cryo level? Where are the stairs that go down there?
I wander away from these stairs to the wall. On the other side is space—and past that is the planet. It’s odd. The Feeder Level wall is clearly thinner—I can feel residual warmth through the metal, and the door leading out isn’t too heavy; it’s the same thickness as the wall. On the other hand, the exterior walls seem massive. Steel beams arch up, following the curve of the ship at a smaller angle than the rounding roof of the Feeder Level. The rivets in this wall are much, much thicker, about the diameter of my palm.
I press my hand against the metal, and it comes away with a reddish-brown-colored dust. The metal here is cooler, and there’s a sense of stoic, strong weight behind it.
Inside the Feeder Level, where it’s airy and bright and warm, I feel caged in and trapped. But here, beside thick, heavy walls, in a narrow, curving corridor, in dim light with nothing but the smell of metal and dust—here, I feel closer to the outside.
To freedom.
I find a second set of stairs soon after, a narrow hole leading down in this space between the heart of Godspeed and the universe. These stairs are narrower and steeper, and they go down into what must be the cryo level. I long to explore—the only place I can imagine the stairs open up on the cryo level is in the last locked room. But I can’t do this without Elder. It’s not right to explore the ship without him.
I meander back around to the door leading to the Feeder Level. Orion said he lived here, in hiding from Eldest. I can’t imagine what it would take for someone to willingly cage himself into a narrow dark hall without even the fake sun of the solar lamp to warm him. How many days passed before he couldn’t bear the darkness anymore and crept back into the Feeder Level under the guise of being a Recorder? Did he spend his time leaned up against the outside wall of the ship or against the inside wall that surrounded the Feeder Level?
Whatever he did, this was the perfect hiding place. No one else knows the stairs even exist.
Once, I stayed at a fancy hotel in Atlanta when my mom was giving a lecture at a genetics conference. I spent most of my time in the hotel’s pool. On the last day, I attempted to go back to my room and pack, but the elevator was broken. It took me half an hour to find the stairs, and when I did, they were hidden behind a door marked with a four-inch square metal placard. I’d gone an entire week not knowing where the stairs were, not even thinking about them, even though I knew, logically, that the hotel had to have stairs, somewhere.
The people of Godspeed have gone years without knowing about the stairs. And I can’t help but think: if they’ve forgotten stairs, what else have they forgotten?
45
ELDER
I SLIDE MY THUMB OVER THE BIOMETRIC SCANNER AGAIN,
and the metal panels over the ceiling start to close. Shelby’s eyes stare as hard as they can until the metal clicks back into place.
“We’re there,” she says, her voice alight with music and tears. “We’re here.”
“We’re here.”
For a moment, we share a smile. Then her gaze slides down to Marae’s murdered body. I’m filled with regret that even though her eyes stare unblinkingly up, she’ll never see the planet.
“I will take Marae’s body to the stars myself,” I say. “But I need you to get the remaining first-level Shippers here, on the Bridge, and start whatever process we need to begin planet-landing.”
She nods. “All the first-level Shippers are trained for this. There are simulators, and the information has been passed down since . . .”
“Since the ship left Sol-Earth.”
“We were always ready for planet-landing, even when it was centuries beyond us.”
“How much time will you need?”
Shelby stares at the control panel, thinking. “The First Shipper runs scans. . . .”
Her eyes shoot to mine. She’d forgotten. She’s First Shipper now.
“I’ll run scans. The first level is to ensure that the planet is habitable.”
“I thought we always knew the planet was habitable.”
Shelby nods. “Before the mission, the probes from Sol-Earth indicated the planet’s environment was stable and could support life, but the first stage of planet-landing is to ensure that’s actually the case. I’m, well, to be honest, I’m a little worried. If the ship’s engine has been diverted for this long because we’ve been in orbit . . . why haven’t we landed already?”
My wonder at seeing the planet has slowly been replaced by this very question. It’s possible we’ve been in orbit since the Plague—perhaps the rebellion that sparked the Eldest system came about as long ago as that. Why didn’t the ship land before?
“Before we even think about landing, I want to make sure it’s possible,” I tell Shelby.
“I’ll do the scans myself. They should take several hours. I’ll know more then.”
“First,” I say, “we have to say goodbye.”
Shelby’s eyes drop to Marae’s body, still staring at the ceiling. She nods silently.
Shelby brings me a transport—a folded-up black box lined with electromagnets that work with the controls under the metal of the ship’s floors to easily carry heavy objects. She snaps the box open. It automatically spreads out, locking into shape, a large, deep rectangle with a circuit board on the side to communicate with the grav tube. This transport has been used for some piece of machinery—it’s dirty, scratched, and smeared with mechanical grease. I try to run my sleeve over it, but all I do is spread the dirt around. I don’t want to treat Marae’s body like a piece of broken machinery to be thrown away, but I can’t bear the idea of prolonging her funeral among the stars. I rush back into the engine room and grab some machinery towels to lay out on the transport.
And then it’s time to move Marae.
I lift her body by the shoulders; Shelby picks up her feet. We have to bend Marae’s knees and curve her back so that she fits completely in the box. We end up curling her into the fetal position.
Shelby’s slight body seems massive beside the shell of Marae’s. I didn’t know life took up so much space. Shelby bends down over Marae’s body, and it reminds me of the pictures of scavenger beasts from Sol-Earth, the ones that feed on the rotting flesh of carcasses.
“I don’t know how to do this without you,” Shelby whispers to Marae. “But I’ll try.”
And she doesn’t look like a scavenger anymore; she looks like an orphan.
She bends swiftly, and I don’t know if she’s kissing Marae’s flaxen cheek or whispering in her ear, but either way, it’s not like Marae can feel it.
The Shippers gather around as we pull the transport out. For most of them, this is the first death they’ve seen. When Eldest was in charge, death was a methodical, scheduled product of the Hospital.
They stare at Marae’s body as I pass; I stare at the floor. The hard lines of the metal blur. I rub my face angrily with my hands.
I force my shoulders down, my back straight.
I look directly ahead of me and only allow my clenching jaw to show how much this hurts.
46
AMY
WITHOUT ELDER, THERE’S LITTLE POINT IN ME EXPLORING the stairs further. Instead, I go to the garden behind the Hospital. Bartie and his crowd have left, including Luthor. The smashed grass around the bench is the only remnant of the impromptu meeting. I peel the moccasins off my feet and pad through the cool grass to the water’s edge. I think about com-ing Elder, but I’m afraid of bothering him when he’s doing something important. I sit on the bank, my knees drawn up under my chin, and stare at the pond’s perfectly still surface. I try to see through its depths—the water’s clear, and not very deep, but my eyes bore past the dangling roots of lotus flowers to the green-brown murkiness that shadows my view.
I lean back, and grass tickles my neck. My feet slip down the bank until my toes touch the cool water. I slide my feet into the pond and close my eyes. The solar lamp above me beats down warmth and light, but behind my eyelids, it looks like the same bright reddish blur that the Sun looked like on Earth when I’d lie down outside.
A shadow crosses over me, and the brightness dims—like the sun covered by clouds. I open my eyes, and Elder’s face is rimmed with light as he leans down over me.
“Hey,” I say, suddenly breathless. All my thoughts of dragging him off to the stairs and exploring the ship disappear as he collapses beside me, exhaustion etched on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
Elder makes a noncommittal noise.
I want to reach out to him, let him know that I’m sorry for his loss, but I know no words will ever be enough.
Elder leans back in the grass, staring at the metal ceiling of the Feeder Level. If we were outside on Earth, this would be nice. Lying in cool grass next to a pond, staring up at clouds the way little kids do. But this isn’t Earth and the clouds are paint and even if there is a planet past this ship, it still seems a very long way away.
“Marae was murdered. Like Stevy. The same phrase on the med patches.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, the two most inadequate words in the English language.
“I want to know who’s doing this.”
“Maybe the same person who tried to hide Orion’s last clue,” I say. Before Elder has a chance to speak, I add, “And maybe the same person who sabotaged your space suit.”
“Sabotaged the suit?” Elder asks.
I twist my head to stare at Elder through the bright green grass. “Whoever tampered with the clues and tried to throw us off the trail could have easily punctured the PLSS tubing or something. If you died, you couldn’t tell anyone what you saw. And look how close it came to working.”
Elder starts to respond, but as soon as he opens his mouth, he turns to answer a com. “Doc says Bartie’s causing trouble at the Food Distro. Again,” he says, sighing, leaning up.
I touch my hand to his face, just over the purple-green bruise on his jaw. He leans into my hand—not a lot, just enough so that I’m suddenly aware of the pressure of his skin against mine.
“Elder,” I say, “you can’t keep on doing everything yourself.”
“Who else is going to stop Bartie? Who else is going to get the Food Distro back on track? Who else is going to help the Shippers get ready for planet-landing—after the scans show whether or not we even can planet-land?”
There’s a note of panic in his voice, and pain. I want to tell him everything will be okay, but I don’t want to lie. I lean forward a fraction of an inch, and he leans forward, and I catch his eyes just as he starts to close in.
I think, He’s going to kiss me.
I think, Good.
His lips bruise mine in their need, and when my mouth parts in a tiny o of surprise, his kiss d
eepens. His arms are strong; he’s lifting the whole of my upper body up and against him. His body speaks for him; he needs me.
My arms slide from the ground up his arms, my fingers trailing through the tiny hairs along his forearms. His muscles tighten under my graze; his biceps are like rocks, pulling me even closer against him. My hands dance across his shoulders and meet at the base of his neck, and I swirl my fingers in his hair.
There’s something deeply satisfying in touching him—it reminds me that he’s real, despite how close I came to losing him earlier today.
My hands tighten, and I use my grip to lift my body up against his. One of his arms slides down my back, pulling my hips closer to him.
Elder breaks the kiss, and he peers into my eyes. I can only imagine what we look like—rolling around in the grass by the pond. Just like the Season. But I don’t care. This isn’t like that. The Season was just mindless, emotionless, loveless movements. But this is—
Elder reaches up and brushes a stray strand of hair from my face. I close my eyes and relish the touch. His fingers clench against my scalp—I feel the pressure of his hand, pulling me into another kiss.
And I go to him.
Sweeter, this time. Slower. Softer. I feel his lips this time, not the hunger.
I become aware of his body next to mine. I let my hand rest just above his heart, pounding away in his chest, so violent I can feel it mirroring my own heartbeat.
Then my hand slips lower, down his side. The bottom of his tunic has pulled up, and my fingers slide over the bare skin just above his hip.
Elder moans, a low guttural sound from deep inside him. His hands slide down my mussed hair to my shoulders, and he gently pushes me away. Our feet still touch under the pond’s surface, though.
“Augh!” he says suddenly, smashing his hand into the side of his neck. “I don’t have time for this!”
I scoot away from him, stung, then notice the way his head tilts. Someone is trying to com him.
