The Ark

by Laura Liddell Nolen

  “May I have the ring back, Dr. Turner?”

  I slipped it off my finger and held it out to her, but she was easily one step ahead of me. The cuff clasped over my wrist before I knew what was happening. Two more officers appeared at my side and ushered me out of the receiving room. I should have tried to get away. I should have made some kind of scene, or yanked a weapon off the slow-looking one before he got the cuff on my other wrist. I should have used my head.

  But all I could think about was my mother’s face on the screen, and whether she had tried to breathe after the meteor struck.

  Eleven

  I am in a holding room, sitting on an iron folding chair. The walls are darker gray than the usual steel blue of juvy, and my lawyer asks me to stop looking at them, to look at her. My parents are on their way, she says, and we have a lot to do before the end of the visit.

  “For example, we need to go over a viable defense strategy.” I get the impression that she uses words like “viable” to impress me, so that I’ll do what she wants.

  I look at her. “You don’t understand. I really didn’t do it.”

  She bites her lip, an exaggerated gesture reserved for people like me, half her age, none of her potential. She’s the best that money can buy, so I really should be grateful that she’s here. Kip and Cassa could never afford an attorney like this.

  “Charlotte, we’ll get so much further if you just tell me what really happened. You’re not the one they want. It’s this James Kingston, the ringleader. Or those other two. The other kids you work with.”

  “We’ll get farther if you believe me. I don’t work for Jimmy anymore.”

  “Further.”

  “What?”

  “It’s fur-ther,” she pronounces carefully. I raise an eyebrow; she returns my gaze in silence. Like I’m really going to talk about grammar right now.

  I continue to stare, nonplussed, and eventually she looks down at her legal pad with a world-weary sigh.

  I decide to start over. “Ms. Liston, I left him. I swear.”

  “You had six calls from Kip Carston the day before the robbery.”

  “That’s… that’s not related.”

  “Then what was he calling you about?”

  “He never mentioned a job. We were just talking. Really.”

  She leans forward. “If you don’t plead out of this, you’ll be ineligible for the Ark. You realize that. This is your third offense, and the victim isn’t going to make it through the trial. You’ll go away until you’re twenty-one, at least, and the meteor hits in one year. You’ll miss the final lottery. It’s the end of the line, Charlotte.”

  “I’ll tell them everything I know about Kingston, but I can’t plead out. Not this time.”

  “Why not?”

  I know better than to explain myself to people like her. People who only hear the worst. No matter what you say, they think you’re lying. And everything in your head, everything that you want to believe about yourself, feels thin, dirty.

  But she has a point. I really have to beat this one. So I try to explain. “I made a promise. After the last job. When I got out, I swore I’d leave Kingston. This is literally my last chance to prove myself. That’s why I can’t plead guilty.”

  “You made a promise to your parents? They’ll understand.”

  “Not to my parents. To someone else.”

  “To Kip Carston?! Charlotte, he’s a thief.”

  Kip is the fur-thest thing from my mind just now. I roll my eyes, even though that never helps in these situations. “So I’ve heard.”

  My lawyer removes her glasses and fake-massages the bridge of her nose, another move reserved for people like me, who are beneath her. But I can’t change my mind on this one, and she won’t help me unless I do, so there’s nothing else to talk about. I go back to staring at the walls.

  We’re still sitting like that when my parents show up. Mom hasn’t been crying this time, which is unsettling, and my dad looks at me like I’m a stranger, which is something I’ve gotten used to by now.

  I stand, but Mom doesn’t try to hug me. Her arms are crossed, even though I’ve just been through the scariest night of my life, and I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning. “I didn’t do it.”

  She shakes her head. She expected that. Now she’s backing away. “Charlotte, sweetheart.”

  “Don’t start with that, Cecelia. She’s got to see reason. Sit down, Charlotte.” My father is all business. He looks at me, right in the eyes. “Now. Tell Ms. Liston what happened, so that we can figure a way to get you out of this within the year.”

  “Dad, I did. I was walking back, and someone grabbed me, and that’s how I got this bruise!” I try to show him my neck and shoulder, but he looks away when I pull my collar back. “They… did something to me, and I blacked out. When they let me go, I was in the house, and there was blood, and the police were at the door.”

  “There was no evidence of drugs in your system, Charlotte.” Ms. Liston has adopted the tone of a caring grandmother. This is behavior reserved for people she wants to impress, like my dad. Everyone’s at their best around Senator Turner. “The police will say you got that from the victim, during the struggle.” Her voice lilts upward when she says “police,” as though she really means “everyone.”

  “I’m not lying.” I will not cry. I will not cry. But my voice still shakes a little. “You said I could start over! You said you could forgive me. So why won’t you believe me?”

  “That’s enough theatrics, Charlotte.” Dad looks away again. He doesn’t hear what I’m saying unless I say what he wants to hear.

  I make my voice calm and low. “I’m not lying.”

  My dad grabs my arm. “At this point, that doesn’t even matter. I know people who will work the lottery, but even I can’t help if you’re in here.” He waves at the holding room. “The only thing that matters is that we get you a deal where you’re not locked up next year.”

  My mother is suddenly hysterical. “Charlotte, please! Please, just do this.”

  “Mom—”

  “For Pete’s sake, Charlotte. You’re killing your mother. Is that what you want?”

  Mom clasps her hands in front of her chest. “Just make it through this, and we can start over again when we get to the Ark, as a family. Everything will be different there. I promise.”

  There is a long pause. The three of them surround my chair, looming over me. They are the only people on Earth who care enough to be here, even if one of them is getting paid for it. This is my last chance.

  “Okay. I’ll take the deal.”

  But West will never forgive me.

  There was no way to have known, then, that the judge would not respond to a plea deal. That he was sick and tired of seeing the same kids, year after year. We couldn’t have known that he hated the thought of a girl like me making it off the planet while decent people stayed behind to die. It wasn’t a fair trade at all.

  I hated him because I understood him.

  I hated him because he was right.

  Twelve

  A holding room is a holding room, whether you’re caught shoplifting at a pawn shop or hanging out at the precinct after breaking into the nicest house on the block. Or on a massive bioship thousands of miles from the shattered remains of your home planet, as the case may be. It’s usually a desk, a chair, and a screen. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. So once the officers had dropped me off, I was in familiar territory. The door slammed shut, and my mind did a kind of reboot, so that I was more like my normal self. I could think, could function.

  I could get out of this.

  They never came in right away; they liked to let the tension build first. It was meant to be stressful, and it probably was, for a first-timer. But for me, it was kinda calming. I’d have a few minutes to get my act together while they informed their supervisor what a bad girl I’d been.

  The first step was to put thoughts of my mother out of my mind. There was a terribl
e, low pull deep in my chest, but I told myself I’d have to deal with that later. After her sacrifice, I couldn’t let myself get locked up in the first ten minutes. I had to focus.

  I caught snippets of the conversation outside the door. The woman who’d pinched me was taking a good bit of heat off her superior, despite the fact that she had nothing to do with my presence on the ship. Her responses were a lot softer than his shouting, but she didn’t seem to be getting much in anyway. Soon, the only voice I could hear was his. “What do you mean she’s not… I’m not telling the CO that we’re short one medic… Well, she’s married to the blasted…; how do you think he’s going to take the news that his wife…?”

  Ugh. He was not going to like me at all.

  Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to deal with me for long. Most officers make one or two mistakes during each arrest. The trick is to figure out what those mistakes will be before the officer does. For example, I already knew that Mr. Charming outside wasn’t going to come in here totally clear-headed. That was mistake number one. I also knew he was too worked up to leave me for someone else to deal with. So what I really needed was something to throw him off-balance and keep him that way until I could disappear.

  Mistake number two was in the drawer of the desk, where someone had left a screen stem, the kind they give school children when they’re learning how to write letters on their screens. I never saw the point of learning to write by hand, even though my parents had insisted. But sure, all those lessons would come in handy if I were ever marooned on a desert island and had to scratch out a poem in the sand, or something.

  But I could totally use a stem. First of all, they’re pliable enough that you can sharpen the tips, if you use enough force. And second of all, they’re easy to conceal. I had worked my cuffed hands from behind me to in front of me almost before they’d closed the door behind them. The desk was bolted to the ground, so I stuck the end of the stem under one of the feet of my chair, and sat down. Hard. Then I stood back up and sat back down on it again. I twisted the stem a little and repeated the process. Soon, I had myself a weapon.

  Ideally, I’d have liked to sharpen the stem to the thickness of a paperclip. Then I could have dealt with the handcuffs. But realistically, there wasn’t time. Mr. Charming would want to get in here while his anger was hot. And sadly, a ship like this wouldn’t have any paper, much less actual paperclips, so I’d have to deal with the handcuffs another time.

  I felt a little weird thinking about paper. It reminded me that I’d never see a tree again.

  I had perfected my next trick four years earlier, at the tender age of thirteen. As far as I could see, adults thought there were only two kinds of kids in the world: good ones and bad ones. Bad ones were like animals. They were a drain on the good people of society, and they could never be reformed, because they didn’t feel remorse. You could lock them away and toss out the key, and you’ve basically done the world a favor. Good ones were like… the opposite, I guess. The main thing was to look remorseful, like you’d really learned your lesson. I closed my eyes and pulled my face down as far as I could, letting some of my hair fall over my cheek. Soon, the tears came. When the door opened, I was ready.

  He announced his presence by tossing his screen onto the table. It clattered, and I let myself appear startled. This was not a good first sign. Officers who treated the stuff in the room roughly were not likely to show a lot of sympathy for me, either. I slid the sharpened screen stem up my sleeve.

  “Why don’t we start with your name. I know it’s not Doctor Cecelia Turner,” he spat.

  “Mag—”

  “And I know it isn’t Magda Notting, either, since this expired some time ago.” He flipped Magda’s license onto the table next to the screen. I raised my head long enough to look at them both, and immediately regretted it. The screen was still open to the picture of Mom.

  He barely flinched when he saw my tears.

  So much for that.

  “I want you to take a good look at this photo. Because I’m not sure I’ll get the chance to make this clear to you during the trial.” He shoved the screen into my chest, right up under my chin. “This is the face of the person you killed. Her name was Cecelia Turner.”

  Just like that, my tears weren’t an act. I couldn’t afford to lose control again. I forced myself to keep breathing while he pressed on. “When you took this woman’s pass, you took her life. You took someone’s wife. Someone’s mother. Someone’s doctor. So you think about that when they’re putting you down.”

  I looked up in surprise.

  He smirked. “Yeah, we got the death penalty up here, but there’s only one crime we give it for, and that’s stealing someone else’s spot. A life for a life. You go before the Tribune next week. And it doesn’t matter you’re a minor. There’s no one over forty on the whole ship. You’re practically middle-aged, here. I got nothing else to say to you.”

  I had to keep him in the room.

  He reached for the screen with one arm, but partially turned toward the door at the same time. That was my chance. I wouldn’t get another. I raised my arms, which were still cuffed together, and smashed an elbow into the screen. A web of broken glass emanated from the point of impact.

  He gave an ugly laugh. “You stupid girl. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  He yanked the screen away, drew it back, and slammed it across my face.

  I had not seen that coming. There was a beat, then the pain spread through my cheek and jaw. I kept my eyes down and tried not to react. He seemed like the type who would keep going until he got a reaction, and that was what I needed.

  “You know how much these cost to replace up here? It’s not like we’ve got some kind of factory!”

  He raised the screen again, but this time, I was ready. I slipped the stem out from my sleeve and into my waiting fist. From there, it was only a moment before I had it lodged in his thigh. I gave it a hard twist, for good measure, though that part probably wasn’t necessary.

  He let out a roar, but I was already on my feet and at the door before he crouched to kneel on his good leg, cradling the protruding stem in both his hands.

  By the time he’d formulated some kind of ridiculous command, which I’m assuming went something like “Get back here,” I was halfway down the hallway.

  And that was the last I saw of Mr. Charming.

  The hallway was narrow, but well lit. I couldn’t afford to stay here, what with the handcuffs and all. Those tended to stand out. Normally, they wouldn’t have presented much of a challenge, but I didn’t have my tools with me.

  I shouldered through a door at the end of the hallway at full speed and found myself in a stairwell. I figured my best bet was to find another level. If this floor was dedicated to passenger processing, then I’d be less suspicious on a different one. And if the OPT docked with an airlock on this level, then I was probably either near the top or the bottom of the Ark.

  That was assuming you could have a “top” and a “bottom” in space, where there wasn’t even an up or a down. The thought disoriented me, but I pushed it from my mind and forced my legs to carry me down the first flight of steps.

  The other thing that bothered me was the feeling that my body weighed more than it should. The sensation was slight, at first, but the more I ran, the more I felt it. My legs were drawn to the ground. My head was heavy on my neck. Within a few minutes, I had to fight the urge to lie down flat. I shouldered through a door at the end of the hallway at full speed.

  Soon, my entire body was on fire. Seriously, it’s not like I ran track or anything, so I expected to be out of breath, but this hurt. There was no time to stop. I threw myself onto the next platform down. And then the next, and the next.

  I made it fewer than ten flights before I flat-out had to stop moving. My limbs threatened mutiny, and my lungs were in danger of bursting. I allowed myself to sit for a few minutes, doing nothing more taxing than breathing in and out.

  Until I heard a door slide
shut a few floors below. I shot up silently, all thoughts of a mid-chase nap vanished from my mind. Should I keep going? Or should I try one of the doors?

  Doors made noise. Stairs it was. I took the next few flights as though propelled by invisible wings. I always loved the getaway. The adrenaline, the raw battle of speed and wits. But now that my pursuers had mentioned a trial and execution in my near future, the thrill was different. Sharper. Definitely less fun.

  Not long after that, I lost count of what level I’d made it to. All the doors were unmarked, so I just kept descending. I slowed my pace a little and didn’t get out of breath again.

  After awhile, I had no idea how long I’d been climbing, but I was positive that I weighed more. At some point, the doors went from white to blue. The staircase was wider and much taller, with every blue level clocking in at about twice the height of the white ones. At last, I reached the lowest level. I felt my head pushing down on my spine as I stepped through the final door, and smiled.

  I was in a cargo hold.

  Dark bins rose up all around me. I was surrounded by Earth’s final exports. I’d seen places like this before, when Kip, Cassa, and I did jobs at warehouses full of crates being imported from some place or another. I wandered through the aisles until distant voices stopped me in my tracks. When they got louder, and closer, I sprinted heavily to the far wall and got to work on the seal of the last crate I could find.

  The bin was locked with a newer model seal, but its mechanism was patterned after ones I’d encountered before. If I’d had my gear, it would have been cake. As it was, I needed a little more time. A moment later, I heard footsteps, and the familiar thrill of the game quickened my fingers. Other than the getaway, this was always my favorite part of a job. The seal yielded well before the steps got too close.

  I closed the door behind me soft as a whisper and stood on the other side until the steps died away. The crates had been designed for people to walk in and inspect the goods. This was ideal; it meant there’d be a light somewhere, and probably a vent. Assuming the cargo hold remained pressurized from space, it would make a fair hideout, for the time being.