by Beth Revis
But—as eager as I am to move forward, I can’t help but think of all I’m leaving behind.
I remember:
The first night I was here, lying awake, scared. And Eldest came in, sat on the edge of the bed, right there, and he told me he remembered feeling the same way the first night he started his training.
I remember:
Eldest and I got in a fight once—this was early on, when I was angry at Eldest but not yet afraid of him—and he yelled at me and I yelled back, and he raised his hand and struck me across the face. I’d run from the Learning Center to my room—it felt like I’d put miles between us—and hid between the bed and the nightstand for over an hour, until the smell of roast chicken and mushroom leaked into the room and up my nose. When I eventually crawled out, Eldest let me eat supper on the floor of the Great Room, using a projector to show me an old movie from Sol-Earth.
I remember:
When I was four or five or six, the family I was living with then, they were canners, decided to throw me a party. It was a going-away party—I was moving to another family the next day, but I was young enough to not really understand what that meant.
The mother of the family, Evie, she must not have been on Phydus, because she was funny and charming and she always knew what to say and do to make everything wonderful. Very different from the way I know her now, barely surviving with a green patch on her arm.
The day before I left her family, there was a feast in celebration—lamb and mint jelly, roast corn, biscuits and honey, baked sweet potatoes with brown sugar, berries sprinkled with sugar. And in the end, a cake.
It was a giant cake, so dense that Evie had to use both hands to cut it. The whole thing was iced in thick, crusty white icing, and Evie had written across the top We love you, Elder! She cried when she handed me the piece with my name on it.
An old man walked into the kitchen just as I was about to take the first bite. I didn’t know who he was, but everyone else seemed to, and they all slowly put their forks down and pushed away from the table. I did the same, even though I didn’t know why.
“I’m not here to interrupt!” the old man had said, laughing, and the tension broke like glass.
Evie cut a piece of cake for the old man—he got the piece that said love. Then he pulled up a chair beside mine. He was kind and funny—he acted like he didn’t know how to use a fork and let me show him how. He kept dropping it, or using the wrong end of it, or trying to balance the cake on the handle instead of piercing it with the tines.
I remember everyone at the table laughing—true, hooting, uncontrollable laughter—as the old man just gave up and ate the cake with his fingers.
He nudged me. I grinned—there was icing on his nose, I recall—and I scooped up a handful of cake in one hand and crammed it in my face.
And then we were all eating cake with our hands, not even bothering with plates as we reached for more. Crumbs and icing were everywhere—smearing the tablecloth, in our hair, under our fingernails—and no one cared at all.
It was the happiest day of my life.
The next morning, Evie woke me up and helped me pack my few belongings in a bag. I would be spending the next year with the butchers, and there would be no cake at all that year.
“Who was that man who came yesterday?” I asked.
Evie was crying as she folded my clothes, but she laughed at my question. “Silly! That was Eldest, of course!”
•••
I close my eyes and think of the way my teeth cracked the paper-thin crust on the top of the creamy icing, the way the cake filled my mouth as I chewed.
I glance at my bed, at the threadbare old blanket I had as a child that Eldest kept for me—or for himself. I pick up the blanket from the edge of my bed, press it against my face, and think about all Eldest was, and all he wasn’t. All this ship has been, and all it will never be.
For a moment, I forget that today is the day I leave the ship, shut my eyes, and breathe in the scent of a thousand dreams.
Before heading to the Shipper Level, I re-activate the wi-com system for the rest of the ship. Within sconds, Shelby coms me.
“We’re prepped and ready to begin planet-landing, sir,” she says in my ear.
I smile as I walk away from my room. “Let’s go home.”
56
AMY
I WAKE UP EARLY. AFTER I DRESS, I THINK ABOUT SENDING Elder a com or even going up to the Keeper Level to see him. I want to see Elder. But—he has a ship to land.
To land. On the new planet. I release a shaky breath, full of relief and joy. Nothing else matters. Not Orion’s stupid clues or Bartie’s ridiculous revolution—we have the planet.
I head straight to the cryo level. It feels strange to do this now, even though I’ve done it every day for the last three months. I did it then because I believed I’d never see my parents alive again. Now, with my back to one row of cryo chambers and facing my parents’ frozen bodies, it feels false.
Maybe it’s because I know how close we are to waking them up for good.
I have so much I want to tell them—about how I’m stronger than I was before. About Harley and Luthor and Elder. I want to spill out every memory and every worry and every thought.
But I also know that I don’t have to. We’re there.
In the distance, I hear the unmistakable sound of a heavy door slamming shut. It’s not the gen lab behind me. It’s one of the doors down the hall past the cryo chamber . . . one of the locked doors.
This is it. This is whoever’s tampering with the clues. It has to be.
I tear off down the hall, determined to catch whoever it is.
But no one’s here.
Then I notice a crack of light seeping from the armory door.
I catch my breath. The armory door . . . that means whoever’s in there has all the weapons. I, on the other hand, have none . . . unless you count the pocket-full of Phydus med patches I took from Victria.
I creep forward. The smart thing would be to run. But if I can just get an idea of who has been playing with us . . .
The door creaks loudly. Of-freaking-course it would creak loudly.
But no one’s inside. Just in case, I step over to the closest rack, where the smallest guns are stored. At the top are tiny pistols. I wasn’t kidding when I taunted Luthor. My father raised me to know what a gun is and how to use it. I pick up one of the red protection plastic bags and slide my finger through the seal. Gun oil wafts around me as I tip the bag open and the revolver falls into my hand. It has a small frame and a snubbed barrel, but it can hold .38 caliber bullets. The bullets are stored in a separate box, sealed with plastic. I press the grip into my palm as I load the gun. My hand’s too small to fit it comfortably, but the gun’s a double action, and all I’ve got to reach is the trigger.
I look closer, behind the shelves, the gun firmly in my hand. But no one is here.
Then I remember—I came here because I heard a door slam shut. Whoever was here may have started in the armory, but he slammed another door—on this hallway full of doors that are supposed to be locked.
I go back out and check the hatch through the bubble window, then open the room with the space suits. Nothing. I press my ear against the big door at the end of the hall, the last locked door, but it’s too heavy for me to hear anything.
What’s behind that door anyway? I briefly consider staying here to guard it. Whoever went in will have to go out. No one passed me as I raced through the hallway, and the only doors that can slam shut rather than zip open are these. Whoever it is has to be here.
Except . . . if this person knows how to unlock the doors, then whoever it is must also know about the stairs I found behind the walls . . . they go down too. They must reach the cryo level. And since there are no stairs here—they have to come out behind this last locked door. If I go up to the Feeder Level right now and run down the stairs, maybe I can catch whoever’s been tampering with Orion’s clues and discover what else is beh
ind the locked door! If only Elder were here with me. . . .
I’m halfway down the hall when I remember the armory’s still open, and even with a gun in hand, it’s still not safe. I turn back and start to shut the door when I notice something: a floppy flashing near the shelf of explosives. I set the gun down and pick up the floppy.
Orion’s face fills the screen.
<
This video wasn’t done on the staircase. Instead, Orion sits in a chair bolted to the floor in front of a long, curved control panel. The room is dark, but I can see something glittering in the background.
This must be the Bridge, although it’s much smaller than I would have expected.
ORION: Amy, you’re nearly at the end. You’re nearly at the choice you need to make. Have you seen it yet? The planet?
No. Not yet. But I know it’s there.
ORION: Do you see now why I need you to decide? Because you’ve been on a planet; you’re the only one on Godspeed who’s been on a planet. And so you’re the only one who’ll be able to judge whether or not it’s worth it.
Orion touches his neck, his fingers sliding against the bumpy scar where his wi-com used to be.
ORION: Before—before Eldest, and everything else . . . before this [indicates scar] . . . I thought that the truth was an important thing. I’m not so sure now. Maybe it’s better if we all remain ignorant. I know I would be happier not knowing.
And to think, I’d nearly allowed myself to forget about Orion’s clues in the face of Elder’s discovery. The planet just seemed so much more important than this mystery. Now I’m filled with curiosity.
ORION: But, perhaps, there are reasons why you need to know the truth. This ship is old. Eldest sent me outside to help with repairs, and I know that Godspeed is showing her age. So—maybe it’s time. Time to get off the ship.
Orion leans forward and picks up the camera. The image wobbles, scanning the cramped, small area and the solid metal floor before spinning around toward the control panel.
The camera focuses on the window. The image, blurry and bright, adjusts into focus. Through the honeycombed glass window, a curving, glowing ball of green and blue crests over the horizon of the ship.
I touch the small screen, making the blue and green of the planet on the screen look like an ocean’s wave heaving and flowing.
ORION: When I first discovered Godspeed was in orbit around Centauri-Earth, I wanted the whole ship to know the truth. I tried to tell them. I tried to tell them everything. And because of this, Eldest tried to kill me.
Orion turns toward the window and stares at the planet. His scar is prominent on the screen.
ORION: He didn’t kill me, though. I escaped. I hid for . . . for a long time . . . and then I snuck into the Recorder Hall. I integrated myself back into the ship. But it was in the Hall that I found even more secrets and lies. And it’s because of this that I’ve decided to hide the truth, just like Eldest.
Orion’s face turns back to the screen.
ORION: There’s still the contingency plan. That’s still here. If the ship has to land, it can. If you haven’t figured it out, the last thing you need can be found in Godspeed.
Orion pauses, staring straight at the screen, as if he’s given me some enormous clue. But Godspeed is huge, and everyone is already making preparations to leave. How am I supposed to find one tiny clue in the whole ship?
ORION: But if it doesn’t have to . . . if there is any way to survive without landing the ship. You must. You must. I can’t protect this truth forever, I know that. You have to. If there’s any possible way for this ship to survive, you must do whatever it takes to stop the planet-landing.
What is Orion saying? I thought the whole point of his messages was to bring me to a point where I could make some big important choice. But now it’s like he’s saying the opposite.
ORION: No matter how bad things are on the ship, if you’re not dying out, if the solar lamp still works . . . stay here. And make sure the ship stays too. Amy, you’re my little contingency plan—but that’s just it. You must only lead the ship to the planet as a last res—
Orion doesn’t even get the last word out before his face disappears into loud static. I’m so surprised that I almost drop the floppy. The abrupt cut-off makes my stomach twist with dread, a feeling that doesn’t go away when the static fades to black. Heavy white letters scroll over the dark background, spelling out a phrase I’ve come to fear.
Follow the leader.
The video cuts off.
That phrase—follow the leader. The static. The fact that this video was on a floppy, not a mem card. This clue must also have been tampered with. I don’t know if Orion’s message continued—maybe he was going to tell me the code to get behind the locked door?—but I’m certain he wasn’t the one who left those words.
I look up now, carefully examining the armory. Before, I’d rushed in there looking for someone. Now, I look for something . . . and I find it. An empty shelf, a row of missing explosives.
“Oh, God,” I whisper, my hand unconsciously going to the cross at my neck.
I race out of the armory, straight to the elevator.
I’ve got to get to the Shipper Level. Now. I’ve got to get to Elder. If I’m sure of anything, it’s that whoever’s telling us to “follow the leader” doesn’t mean Elder—and those explosives are going to wipe out anyone who tries to land the ship.
57
ELDER
ALTHOUGH IT IS BARELY TIME FOR THE SOLAR LAMP TO TURN on, the Shipper Level is crowded. I look around, half-expecting to see Amy’s bright red hair peeking out through the throng of Shippers, but no, she’s not here. Of course she’s not. Even if she’s the one I want to share this with the most, it’s loons of me to think of her now, when I need to focus on planet-landing. I haven’t seen her since I almost died—and so much has changed since then. Amy was the first person I told about Centauri-Earth, but she may very well be the last person I see once we land.
I shake my head to clear my mind. This isn’t the time to get sentimental; it’s time to land the ship.
The Shippers cheer as I walk down the corridor toward the Bridge, my feet clanging against the metal grate floor. They reach for me—to shake my hand, to slap me on the back, to just touch me in awe and thanks. When I push through the Energy Room into the Engine Room, the scientists and Shippers give me a standing ovation.
I beam at them.
It’s everything I dreamed it would be.
First Shipper Shelby and the rest of her cadre stand in a line in front of the giant decorated doors that lead to the Bridge. They all salute me when I approach.
“I—uh,” I say, and it’s not until I’m uh-ing that I realize the room is completely silent and they now all want me to make a speech. A speech that consists of more than “uh.”
Frex.
“I—uh—I mean . . .” I swallow, shut my eyes.
“This is not our home,” I say. “We have lived on Godspeed all our lives, but it is not our home. We didn’t choose to be born on a ship, trapped by the walls that keep us safe. But we do choose to be the ones who decide it is time to land. We choose to take the risk, to leave behind this shell, and to see what the rest of the universe has to offer.
“We choose our future. Let’s go home.”
“Home!” Shelby booms, and everyone repeats her word and cheers.
And then it’s time.
Shelby opens the huge doors. She stands to the side, letting her crew—the remaining first-level Shippers—go first. There’s an air of ominous gravity to the whole production; we’re making history, and we’re all aware of it.
I watch them enter the Bridge solemnly, and it feels so wrong that Amy’s not among them. I knew when I first saw her, frozen, that she would change me forever. But she’s changed the whole ship too, the fate of everyone on board.
As the last Shipper enters the Bridge, Shelby turns to me, and she smiles, and I step forward.
&nbs
p; “Sir!”
I turn. One of the Shippers runs up to me. “Sir,” he says, “the girl, the red-haired girl—she’s here.”
“Amy?”
He nods. “She’s beating on the Energy Room door, yelling for you.”
“Elder?” Shelby asks, her hand on the Bridge door.
I step back, away from the Bridge and toward the Energy Room door.
And then—
—an explosion rips open the ship.
It feels as if my eardrums have burst, and I lose my footing, crashing to the ground. My head cracks against the solid metal floor, but I’m moving—sliding toward what remains of the Bridge. Someone screams, and the sound is violently cut off. I twist around, and a chair soars across the room, the leg of it skidding across my shoulder, ripping my tunic and the skin underneath. There’s shouting all around, but the sound is drowned out by the ringing metal crashes as tables and desks fly up from the ground. A stab of pain shoots up my leg—a screwdriver is embedded in my calf. I reach down and yank it out, but I’m still sliding across the floor.
I lift my head as high as I can—
The window on the Bridge is gone.
The metal seam that connected the honeycombed glass is twisted, ripped apart, scraggly at the ends like the paintings from Sol-Earth of creepy dead trees in winter. The vacuum of space is sucking the air out of the Bridge and the Engine room so violently that we’re all caught up in its maelstrom, the chairs, desks, tables, tools—and people.
