This Splintered Silence

by Kayla Olson

  Soon, the sound of a door sliding open echoes from across the room. I’m too far hidden to see who it is; I really should get up, really shouldn’t be late for my own meeting.

  “Linds?” a voice says, deep and calm: Leo. “You here yet?”

  “Back by the window,” I say quietly.

  A minute later, he sits down beside me, doesn’t say a word. With everything that’s been happening lately, I’d almost forgotten how it feels to sit, alone, with Leo: like I’m myself again. Like all of my pieces are in one place, not scattered. Safe.

  It isn’t like that with Heath. I feel safe with him, for sure, but it isn’t the same. With Heath, it’s like I’m only just discovering pieces of myself I never knew existed. With Heath, things are new and shiny and distracting. Not in a bad way—it isn’t bad at all. I’d go so far as to say that things with Heath are good.

  But Leo feels like home.

  If it had been Leo who’d kissed me, Leo who’d said he’d only just realized he might never get the chance—

  No. I stop myself before I go there, before I go too far down that path.

  “How’re you holding up?” he says, his voice quiet.

  “I’m not,” I say. “Not really.”

  From nowhere, a pair of hot tears slip out and run down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand. This isn’t me—I don’t cry. If Leo sees, he’ll know things are far worse than I’ve let on. That I’m breaking inside, one brittle piece at a time. I will my eyes dry, stare into the stars until they’re blurred and unfocused.

  “Did River find you?” I say, changing the subject.

  “Yeah, I took him home.” He studies me, long and slow. I’m not even looking at him, but I feel it. “You’re doing a good job, Linds. You’re doing the best job anyone could do.”

  “Not better than my mother,” I say.

  “Your mother would be impressed with how you’re handling this,” he says, “and that’s the honest truth.”

  Finally, I turn my eyes from the firefly stars, look into his. We’re both illuminated by the faint glow from the nearest pillar, by this small patch of light in a world of shadows. I don’t have words. I can’t possibly express how much I needed to hear what he’s just said.

  He puts his arm around me and pulls me close, a thing we’ve done forever on days where things feel impossible—but today, this impossible day, it feels different. It feels almost wrong, given how things are shifting with Heath. It feels more intimate than usual.

  And yet I don’t pull away.

  Maybe this is what I never knew I wanted, what I never knew I needed. Maybe I just wanted someone to be there for me, maybe I thought it was Heath—Heath is wonderful, Heath is my friend. Now that I’m here, though, I can’t say for sure it’s not Leo I need. Leo I want.

  I blink rapidly. Stay calm, Lindley. First the tears, and now this new thing I can’t unsee, where my best friends are suddenly becoming something more to me: Who am I? This is the worst time for this. For any of it. For leaning into Leo when I’ve just kissed Heath, for thinking about any of this at all when there is real, actual life at stake.

  Across the room, the door slides open again. I stiffen at the sound of it, more than I mean to.

  “You okay?” Leo says, just to me, as voices fill the room. Everyone’s here now, it sounds like, even Natalin and Haven.

  “I’m fine,” I say, rising to my feet. I force a smile. “Thanks for . . . for everything.”

  We’re close now, in near darkness. It might be my imagination, but the way he looks at me—it feels like there’s something more behind his eyes. He looks like he might kiss me, like he’d kiss me in a heartbeat if he knew for sure I wanted him to. Has he always looked at me like this? Was I blind before, only waking up to the fact that a close friend could have feelings when Heath explicitly took that leap?

  Or am I only seeing what I want to see?

  Whatever he feels, he doesn’t act on it, and neither do I. “We should probably go meet the others,” he says.

  There’s no hiding the fact that Leo and I were alone together when we join the group in the main lab area. Aside from a brief flicker of—something—across Heath’s face, no one bats an eye. Is he jealous? Hurt? Both, maybe. It’s old news that Leo and I are close friends, but perhaps that reality is something Heath didn’t fully consider before now.

  Haven and Natalin sit on the lab’s countertop, legs dangling over the edge. Zesi and Heath sit across from them on the opposite ledge. I look from face to face, landing at last on Leo’s: we are the definition of exhausted. Frayed. Threadbare, barely holding it together. Natalin looks like she doesn’t even have it in her to be angry at me right now, which worries me more than it should.

  “I know we’re all tired,” I say, breaking the silence. “I know we all wish we could pull answers out of the sky, and rewind time, and just . . . not have to do this.”

  Everyone stares at their hands, or the floor, aside from Leo and Heath. They watch me.

  I take a deep breath, try to get this over with so we can go back to our labs and our buzz screens and, if we’re lucky, our beds. “I’m sending Heath to Nautilus immediately to retrieve a fresh water filter.” Natalin looks up as I go over the basics of the plan, exactly like I did with Heath.

  This time, Heath doesn’t push back. Crash or not, I have a feeling he’s wanted to fly again ever since he last sat in a cockpit.

  “Won’t Shapiro wonder why we’re suddenly reaching out to Nautilus—let alone sending a bee over—when we’ve just assured him we’re holding up fine?” Leo asks.

  “Shapiro might not be around to notice it,” I say, averting my eyes from everyone, Natalin especially. “We’re experiencing . . . a bit of a connectivity issue.”

  “With our system? Or Nashville’s?” Haven asks. “Would we even be able to get in touch with Nautilus before heading their way? Seems like we should make sure they even have what we need before flying all the way out there, right?”

  “We can try, for sure,” I say. “We should absolutely try that first.”

  “And if you can’t get in touch, but go anyway, and get there only to find they don’t have enough supplies to share—what’s the plan then?” Natalin looks the furthest thing from convinced by this idea. “What if you burn through all your power before you get there and can’t recharge?”

  “As long as they have a spare water filter, we can stretch our supplies here—isn’t that what you said, Linds? And you’re pretty sure they’ll have at least that, right?” Heath asks. Haven and Natalin exchange a glance, clearly in response to his use of my nickname.

  “It’s not ideal,” Natalin says, “but at this point, what is? It’s a good start, I’ll say that much. Back to the bee’s power, though—you’ve never flown that long of a distance before, have you?”

  “It’s not like Radix—or Earth, for that matter—is any closer,” I say, suddenly defensive over Heath’s flying skills. “This is our best shot, Nat.”

  “I haven’t flown that far, but I have flown for that long of a time,” Heath says, not missing a beat. “Jaqí trained me on power re-gen and how to spark it mid-flight—there’s a way to do it so you actually build power the longer you fly, rather than losing it. I’m pretty confident I can get to Nautilus just fine.”

  If you can dock without crashing, my mind automatically fills in, and I immediately feel guilty for thinking it.

  Still, it’s the truth. If he crashes on entry, he could cause real damage to Nautilus—it’s smaller than our station, for one, so he could tear up more than just a bee wing. If he tears up a bee wing, he’d have to convince them to let him take one of their crafts in order to return home; they might have only one, and who knows if it’s up to the trip?

  I look up, find all eyes on me. “There’s a lot that could go wrong,” I say, averting my attention away from Heath so he doesn’t feel the full weight of this statement, how his crash history inspired it. “But as risky as it is, I believe we ca
n pull it off.”

  A minute drags out, slow and silent; I wait for someone to challenge me, but no one does. If anything, I feel like everyone is finally on board—even Natalin. I suppose she’s figured out her parting words to me, start with water, significantly influenced this idea.

  “I’m going with him,” Zesi announces.

  “Wait, what?” I say. “That wasn’t part of the plan. We need you here—”

  “You need someone on the bee who can navigate while keeping a careful eye on satellite positioning,” he replies. “You need someone who can try to radio with Nautilus while Heath keeps the craft flying smoothly.”

  He’s right, and we all know it. Zesi’s role on the station is important, but this mission is crucial if we want to extend our food supply. Leo and Haven have passable training in Control, thanks to their long day scanning for asteroids. And if we’re able to get in touch with Shapiro again, it’ll be my responsibility to fill him in on the truth, not Zesi’s.

  It’s not easy to send Heath and Zesi out into the wild unknown, especially knowing all that could go wrong—they feel too integral to our survival. At the same time, though, it’s probably best that we come up with a way to survive without our most crucial members. Our six may be five tomorrow.

  Our six may be zero tomorrow.

  “All right,” I say. “Leave tonight—and get back here as fast as you can.”

  30

  129,600 SECONDS

  MY ENTIRE WORLD collapsed in a split second when it was my mother’s time to pass. A split second seemed like nothing, no time at all, until the one when everything changed.

  Eighteen hours to Nautilus, eighteen hours back: thirty-six hours is more than enough time for the station to implode. What will this world be like when Heath and Zesi return? And what will it be like if they don’t?

  We tried three times to get in touch with Nautilus—three times, with no answer. Zesi feels confident he could find a way to radio in once they’re within short range of the station, that he could tap into their internal channels straight from the bee. Our internals still work, so the hope is that theirs do, too.

  I hope he’s right. Even if he isn’t, we all agree that it still seems worth it to try.

  Leo and I accompany Heath and Zesi to the hangar so we can see them off. In all my years, I’ve only been down here a handful of times. The runway spans the entire bottom deck, with openings on each end for easy entry and exit. On the far side of the runway, three bees are docked, two in pristine condition beside a broken-winged third. We’re also equipped with two firebirds, but they’re not as fast or nimble as the bees. Our side of the runway is lined with viewing windows—we’re behind them, in an airlocked chamber. All the flight suits are here, eight in total, as if we were meant to have a robust team of pilots. Was it my mother’s call to keep the flight team all but nonexistent? Why weren’t more allowed to train?

  Heath pulls me aside before he suits up. His eyes are bright, sparkling with excitement. Behind the excitement, though, is a hint of reluctance. “So, uh, Linds?” His cheeks turn pink as he runs a hand through his hair. “I just wanted to say, if anything happens . . . to us . . . out there . . . don’t blame yourself, okay?”

  My heart picks up; he knows me well. His admission that there is reason to worry—that if something goes wrong, he and Zesi go with it—

  “You don’t have to do this,” I say, even though we both know I’m only saying it because he’s right: I’m absolutely going to blame myself if something happens. I’d never forgive myself, either. I’m the acting commander, and this is my call. I could make them stay home. We could continue to take our chances with our current store of supplies—but what if Natalin’s right? What if the rest of the station goes hungry? What if the only way to stretch our food, our water, is for more of our people to succumb to the mutation so there are fewer of us to feed?

  How horrible, to hope enough die so that others can live. To hope someone not-Heath, not-Zesi, dies instead. To keep them home out of fear, out of selfishness disguised as love.

  I would never be able to live with myself if I made a call like that.

  “We’ve got this,” Heath says. “Success is our only option, right?”

  I grin. “Sounds about right.”

  Before I even know what’s happening, he’s wrapped an arm around me—pulled me close—pressed his lips to mine. It’s a hungry kiss, part goodbye and part I’m winning the universe for you, Lindley. I don’t know what to do, I don’t—

  I break it off.

  Leo’s watching.

  Heath’s expression—I can’t bear to see it right now. I know this must feel like a door slammed in his face after what happened earlier at my place, and it’s no way to start a mission. It’s just that I’m still wrapping my mind around our last kiss, our last kiss in private, and whether it was Heath I should have been kissing at all.

  I tuck my hair behind my ear, focus on Zesi, the one person whose eyes I’m able to meet. Clear my throat. “When will we know if you’ve been successful?” I ask.

  “Whenever we get back,” Zesi says. He presses a button near the door labeled grav force, and the entire runway takes on an electric-purple glow. “Turn gravity back off once we’re out, okay?” he says to Leo. “Too much wasted power to leave it running out there for no reason.”

  They zip into their suits.

  Secure their helmets.

  Proceed through the airlocks, once, twice—and then they’re out on the runway, silver suits shining in the purple glow like they’re walking on a star.

  The bee’s passenger pod opens. Zesi climbs into the navigator chair and straps in, but Heath slowly turns back to face us. He looks directly through the viewing windows, directly at me, though I can’t see his eyes through the reflective panel on his helmet. He holds up a hand, as if to wave.

  “So,” Leo says. “You and Heath?”

  I hold my hand up, return the wave. “That’s what he wants,” I say.

  Heath joins Zesi in the cockpit, lowers the pod shield. Seconds later, he maneuvers the bee to the center of the runway. Careful. Precise.

  “And what do you want?” Leo asks.

  The bee’s floodbeams turn on, and I hear the engine spool up to a loud hum even through these thick walls. They’ll be gone soon. In less than a minute, they’ll fling themselves out into the stars, and we won’t know they’ve made it until they return.

  Or until they don’t.

  Is it too much to ask that the people I care about stay safe? Stay alive?

  I blink, and they’re out.

  “A little bit of everything,” I say. “Too many things I can’t have.”

  31

  PEACE IN PIECES

  WHEN I WAS four years old, all I wanted was my mother.

  I’d wake in the middle of the night, thirsty, and she’d bring me water. I’d wake up scared, and she brought herself.

  Once, though, I woke up alone. I called out into the darkness, and no one answered. I pulled the covers up to my nose, too frightened to leave my own bed, too frightened to close my eyes. Eventually fear gave way to sleep, and I woke with her curled up beside me in bed, our noses touching.

  When I was seven, all I wanted were hairpins. My mother sat me down in front of her mirror, smoothed my hair out so it looked exactly like hers, and tucked the pins in all the right places. She pulled bright threads out from the hems of two of her camisoles, teal and red, and wrapped them tightly around the pins so they were more than just plain metal: something special just for me.

  At eight, I wanted answers: Who is my father? Where is my father? Why are we two instead of three?

  My mother gave me a question instead. Would we still be us if we were three instead of two? I still wondered, for a long time—never stopped, really—but her words tamed my desperate need to know into mere curiosity. Things would be different with him in the picture. Maybe better, and maybe not. Not the same as what I had, though, and I loved what I had with my moth
er.

  At twelve, all I wanted was space. Our walls felt like they were closing in, people’s words felt electric, my skin felt too thin.

  My mother gave me space, too.

  At fourteen, I craved knowledge. Skill. To be important, and helpful, like my mother the commander—like everyone who’d traded life on Earth for this permanent mission on the station. The very day I mentioned it, my mother set up a time for me to meet with Dr. Safran. I’ve returned to his lab every day since.

  Today, I want

  and hope

  and wish

  and fear.

  But my mother is not here.

  Who would I be if we were still two instead of one?

  32

  THE LIGHT THAT BLINDS

  I SLEEP IN the lab, on my stool, rest my head on the island. Its cool, hard surface is no comfort; my back grows stiff from being bent in an unfamiliar position all night long.

  When I wake, it’s to the sound of fists pounding at my door: the sound of a voice that yells and won’t let up.

  I don’t move. I don’t have to, for one, to see that it is Akello Regulus making all the noise. Akello, and no one else, at just after six-morning. It’s very possible he might shatter my door with the sound of his voice alone, with his fists thrown in for good measure.

  If I open the door, nothing stands between us.

  I meet his eyes from where I sit, and very purposefully hold his gaze. His fists fall to his sides now that he has my attention. He stops shouting, though his words ring in my ears to fill the silence anyway: LIARS! Liars, ALL of you!

  I buzz Leo. He picks up at once. “Linds?” His voice is full of sleep.

  “Can you . . . could you come down to Portside?”

  Akello’s pounding starts up again, and the yelling, now that I’ve made no move to engage with him.

  “What was that?” Leo says, flipping at once into alert mode. “Linds, what’s happening? Are you okay? I’m coming down there now, hang on.”