by Beth Revis
Yes.
But… if — no, when—the ship lands, everything will be different.
That is just as true as our kiss.
I shake my head. I can’t think about this now.
I lock my bedroom door and pull out the Shakespearean sonnet I found in the room with the space suits. Part of me wants to go back to get the copy of The Little Prince that was down there as well, but I can’t bear the thought of going back to the cryo level just yet. I can’t think about the hatch without also seeing Elder’s crumpled body on the floor. I remember that brief moment when I thought it was already too late.
I run my finger along the smooth edge of the page. I doubt Orion cut it from the book of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Someone’s tampering with the clues, I’m sure of it. I toss the sonnet on my desk as I start pacing around my room. If Orion’s big secret was the planet, we don’t even need this clue. Isn’t the planet the answer to the mystery?
He said there was a choice, though. He said I would have to make the decision. There must be something else — something bigger even than the planet.
I feel a bit like a puppet, with Orion pulling the strings to make me move. Some of the strings, though, are getting tangled.
And some cut.
I take a deep breath and try to forget the lifelessness in Elder’s lips as I tried to breathe life into him again.
Was Elder’s accident even an accident? If someone’s tampering with the clues, how hard would it have been for them to puncture the suit’s air tubes? If I were to go to the cryo level right now and check all the suits, would I find that they were all damaged in some tiny, unnoticeable way?
I collapse into my desk chair and open up the folded sonnet. I’m going to keep playing Orion’s game. Even if someone is trying to stop me.
This sonnet, just like all the others in the book, makes no sense at all. But unlike the other sonnets, this one’s marked up.
I sit up straighter, staring at the handwritten annotations. They’re all about something hidden and forgotten. And tube? The only tube I know is the grav tube, and nothing could be further from a Shakespearean sonnet than a futuristic device that sucks people up to different levels of a spaceship.
I trace my finger over the weird lines near the bottom of the poem. They almost look like stairs.
My eyes widen. Stairs. Like the staircase Orion has been sitting on in every video he left for me!
The grav tube was invented on the ship after the launch, which means that there had to be some way for the first generations on Godspeed to go between the levels. Like a staircase… a hidden staircase that everyone has since forgotten because of the grav tube! I scan the lines of the poem Orion underlined—hid and vanish’d sight must mean that these stairs are very well hidden. In the videos, the stairs are always dark. Orion felt safe there, even from Eldest, who didn’t know about them.
But… where are they?
43 ELDER
MY MIND WHIRLS AS THE WIND IN THE GRAV TUBE BEATS against my skull as I fly up to the Shipper Level. Amy has never kissed me like that before, has never looked at me that way.
I want to replay what just happened over and over in my mind, but when I reach the Bridge and see Second Shipper Shelby’s solemn face, I force myself to forget about everything else but Marae.
“We found her in here,” she says, moving to open the door. Although the Engine Room is crowded and the Shippers appear to be working, all eyes are on Shelby and me as we enter the Bridge, our footsteps echoing across the metal floor. The only light comes from a lamp near Marae’s still hand.
I look away — I don’t want to face the fact of her dead body yet. My eyes drift to the metal ceiling, high and rounded. On the other side of the steel plates is a planet. Marae had no idea how close she was. And it was always just right there.
She lies sprawled across the table, her body dripping off the chair. Her eyes are open and empty, staring at nothing. Floppies with diagrams and charts flash under her face; a printed schematic of the engine lies crushed under one arm.
At the base of her neck, just under her shortly cropped hair, are three pale green med patches. One word in black ink on each patch.
Follow.
The.
Leader.
“This doesn’t make sense,” I whisper. If someone’s killing people who disobey me, why kill Marae? She’s been my staunchest supporter from the start. She’s unswervingly faithful, and she’s led the rest of the Shippers in that attitude as well. She jumped at the chance to lead my police force. If Doc was Eldest’s greatest adviser, Marae was mine.
“Who did this to you?” I whisper, but of course she’s not going to tell me. But it has to be someone of high rank, doesn’t it? Someone who either has access to the Bridge or who knows Marae well enough that she’d be persuaded to open the door. Besides the Shippers, a few of the scientists, Doc and Kit, technicians, even Fridrick, as foreman of food distribution, could also come to this level. And with the med patches stolen, any of them could have done this.
Shelby makes a small noise behind me. She’s staring resolutely at the ceiling of the Bridge, her jaw tight.
I want to say something to comfort her, but all that comes out is, “You’re First Shipper now.” She nods once. She will not dishonor Marae by showing weakness. She will make a fine First Shipper.
The ceiling of the Bridge is domed, much like the ceiling in the cryo level and the Great Room on the Keeper Level. When I was outside — I smile a secret smile, when I was outside—it had looked as if there were glass windows over the Bridge. Well — not glass, surely. Glass is too fragile for the ship’s entry into the atmosphere or other dangers of space — asteroids, comets, meteors. But some other clear, strong material, maybe a thick polycarbonate, would work. Something that sparkled, reflecting the light of the planet, shining from the dual suns.
But this roof is metal.
Just like the roof on the Keeper Level. Eldest hid the false stars under a metal roof there… one with panels and hinges, just like this one… with hydraulic controls on the sides… My eyes trail all the way down to the wall, to the switch near the door that’s controlled by a biometric scanner. I grind my teeth. I don’t know why I’m surprised that secrets have been hidden here too, just like the rest of the ship.
And I am frexing sick of secrets and lies. It’s one thing to not tell everyone that the ship’s engine is dead — it would have been the end of all hope — but the planet changes everything.
“Lock the Bridge door,” I order Shelby.
She hesitates a fraction of a second, then turns and silently pulls the heavy metal door closed.
“Lock it,” I repeat.
“These are above standard lockdown-grade seals,” Shelby says. “They completely seal the Bridge from the rest of the ship.”
“I know,” I say.
Shelby scans her thumb and the locks click into place. She flicks another switch, and lights cascade on like dominoes. But rather than illuminating Shelby’s face, the lights cast shadows over her. She looks doubtful — even scared. Scared to be locked in a room with me.
And with what’s left of Marae.
“Today I went outside.” I speak to Shelby, but my eyes are locked on Marae’s open, empty ones.
“I don’t understand, sir,” Shelby says.
“Outside. In the stars. Through the hatch.”
Shelby gasps.
“Amy and I found some space suits, and I went. And I saw… well, let me show you what I saw.”
I start to move toward the far wall but stop, turn, and bend over Marae’s still body. Carefully, as respectfully as I can, I tilt her cold, stiff face up so that her empty eyes can see the ceiling. This is my last gift to her.
I go behind Shelby and roll my thumb over the biometric scanner on this wall, the one just like the scanner by Eldest’s door on the Keeper Level. This — like the roof over the navigational chart in the Keeper Level — must have been retrofitted into the ship’s design. Not
part of the original, no — this must have been the Plague Eldest’s way of covering up the truth.
“Command?” the computer’s voice asks in a pleasant tone once it accepts my authority.
“Open,” I say, unable to keep from smiling.
And the metal roof splits apart.
Shelby screams and drops to her knees, covering her head. She thinks the ship itself is splitting open, just as I did when the roof on the Keeper Level opened up to reveal the light bulb stars. She thinks the Bridge will tear apart in explosive decompression and we’ll be sucked out into space, our deaths quick but painful as our bodies succumb to anoxia, our skin turning blue and our organs bursting.
I walk over to Shelby — my calm pace makes her quake more — and crouch down beside her. “Get up,” I say over the whirr of grinding gears as the roof folds out of the way. “You don’t want to miss this.”
I offer her my hand. I can feel her trembling in my palm, but she stands anyway. She searches my eyes at first — looking for something, I don’t know what — but I tilt my head up, and I see her do the same out of the corner of my eye.
Because the universe is there, above us, glittering through the honeycomb windows that cover the Bridge. The universe — the stars, the blackness between them — and the planet.
44 AMY
AT LUNCHTIME, I PRESS THE BUTTON IN MY WALL, BUT NO food comes out. I punch it again. It does no good.
My first instinct is that the food delivery system in my wall is broken, but when I step outside my room into the hallway, I can hear Doc shouting, even though his office door is shut.
“I don’t care if you think the people in the Ward don’t count, Fridrick!” Doc bellows. “They still deserve food!”
I slip back into my room and snatch the sonnet from my desk, but my heart’s sinking. This is more trouble for Elder — and for the ship. I think about comming him and warning him that no food’s been delivered to the Hospital, but his dead friend takes priority over lunch.
Instead, I make my way down to the grav tube to search for the stairs. There are two tubes, one near the City, one on this side of the level. My stomach twists at the idea of going into the City by myself, but considering how close this tube is to the Recorder Hall, I think I’ve got a better chance of finding the hidden stairs near it than the other one. If there even are stairs, I can’t help but think. I just hope I’ve got this clue figured out correctly.
The Hospital lobby is crowded as usual, but I keep my head down and my hood up as I weave through the people complaining about med patches. A few people look really sick — one woman is dangerously thin, with sunken eyes and hollowed cheeks. Another man keeps throwing up, holding a pail in his lap.
I take a deep breath of the recycled air as soon as I leave the Hospital — then immediately put my head back down. A group of people, among them the crowd that was arguing for Elder’s removal yesterday, are gathered down the path near the pond.
“And, once again, no food deliveries for lunch,” a voice echoes from the crowd. I glance up; Bartie’s in the center of the group, standing on the bench.
I resist the urge to run over and knock him into the pond. Bartie had always seemed nice and even quiet before this week, but as the ship spins more and more out of control, all I can see is him standing in the center of the storm.
As I hurry along the path, I keep my head down. Which is, perhaps, why I bump right into a couple heading toward Bartie and the group at the pond.
“Sorry!” the woman says pleasantly.
“Where are you going?” the man asks. I hesitate — just a moment. I recognize that voice.
Luthor.
I should have started running, but my brief pause has given Luthor time to touch my shoulder. I peek at him under my hood, careful to keep my face down. The bruises Victria and I inflicted on him are a nasty greenish purple. His left eye is still swollen; a dark red scab covers his split lip.
“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 hollo
wly 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.
