Exodus

by Toasha Jiordano

  Staring at the mirrored horror, I allow myself to think of what this means for Brooks. Or rather, have no choice, as the roiling sea roars under the surface like a baby bird devouring the bodies being dropped in its mouth.

  Brooks isn’t one of them, I tell myself. He’s not an Unrein. Mom was so right in removing his chip, and for wanting mine removed. Not for the first time, I find myself aching to talk to her just one more time, even if it is to tell her she was right.

  But, after hours and — however long I dreamt of Gliese in my pod — there’s no guarantee that Brooks isn’t one of those lifeless bodies. Terraforming is such a new science, barely two hundred years old. By my calculations, and the data uploaded into our family mine back when a government contract was an honor, President Sturn’s scientists had a ninety percent failure rate in their search for a formable planet. Gliese was the first and only chance off the planet, and they grasped at that straw the moment it presented itself.

  And I trusted them with my brother’s life.

  I push back, scrambling to get out of there before the next drone appears on the screen, laden with its unholy cargo. I catch myself humming an obnoxious tune out loud, filling my mind with drivel to block my deeper thoughts from Howie. I’m sure he’s sound asleep, but better to not take any chances.

  I know I should be asleep now, myself. I desperately want to be. Every thought and movement is heavier than necessary. I can’t bring myself to give in to it, not yet. Not with this terrible news I have to break to Howie. He doesn’t deserve this. It isn’t fair. He sacrificed himself for Brooks, for me, and now I have no choice but to tell him so.

  I dread hearing him wake up. The moment I lived for since I can remember, our good morning ritual, is causing me physical pain.

  Or maybe that’s the rotten slop burning a hole through my stomach. Either way, no sleep for me.

  At least my descent into madness won’t be slow torture. With no sleep, rotten food, and the weight of a life-shattering secret; I’ll be there in no time.

  Sweet oblivion.

  Autopilot drops me back into consciousness at the foot of Marshall’s pod. My pod. It seems so alien to me now, looking from the outside in. Was it just this morning, or yesterday by now, that I strong-armed Marshall into it?

  His coloring is good – well, better. I examine the deep lines on his face, noticing that they aren’t the way I remember. Before I went to sleep, Marshall was round, menacing, vibrant. How can this man, my last hero, look so ordinary now?

  I wonder, not for the first time, how long I’ve been out of touch. How long did he spend alone on this ship, descending into his own madness?

  And why wouldn’t he tell me? What wouldn’t he tell me?

  I run a finger along the dried smear of Vallon’s last ditch effort to destroy me. Why? Is it possible for someone to just be that evil? I never did anything to provoke him, yet he made it his life’s mission in those last days to make sure I knew I wasn’t wanted. Was it that simple? I was competition for resources I didn’t even ask for? And what gave him the right? Why bring me back to life in that shower stall just to kill me later?

  Fingers turn into a fist and I stop myself in time to not smash it through the glass.

  With a deep breath, I slide down the base of the pod and allow total exhaustion to take over. That momentary explosion of rage consumed the last of my depleted energy. I quickly fall into a deep, troubled sleep.

  And wake a short time later with my fist still clenched. It feels like I fell asleep seconds ago.

  It’s quiet, so it must still be night. Then the fog lifts and I realize, it’s always going to be this quiet. I need to train myself to look for different cues, new patterns.

  So why am I awake?

  The hairs on my arm stand on end. What’s changed?

  A warning. It’s wrong. Very wrong. But what is it?

  The farther I wade out of the fog of sleep, the farther I am from knowing. My subconscious had it all figured out, but I can’t seem to grasp it. A dream? Memory? Some weird morph of both?

  //What did you find out?// Howie’s chipper voice is a breeze against the last remnants of fog.

  It’s gone.

  I stand and stare at Marshall for a moment, willing his strength into me. It doesn’t seem to work.

  My eyes burn from lack of sleep and each step toward the cafeteria takes more effort than it’s worth. This is the worst possible mental state for delivering bad news. No finesse.

  //What bad news?// Howie’s cheer dissolves instantly.

  See what I mean?

  //Uh… no news, I guess is a better word,// I lie. //There’s no red planet on the ship’s log.// I feel like a cheesy space pirate. Ship’s log. I need some sleep. I should be screaming and raging against the universe that did this to us. Instead, all I can do is picture a generically handsome movie star telling his crew to kick it into warp drive.

  //Yeah, you need some sleep.// Howie’s voice sounds like it’s caressing me, running its fingers over my unruly curls. He’s purring a slowed down version of Bit’s Choo-Choo song, and I don’t hate it.

  I lean into his apparition and yawn reflexively. //No, stop. I can’t leave you alone. We need to –//

  Howie’s face appears, mask and all. His clear green eyes are narrow slits of demand. //You’re no good to me like this. I need two brains to survive this planet, not my one giant brain all by itself.// His eyes sparkle as a smile reaches them.

  I open my mouth to snark him but my mind draws a blank. //You sure you’ll be alright?//

  I’m already walking toward the girls’ dorm as I ask.

  //I’m just gonna make a run for those trees and hope my new friends don’t zap me too much.// He gives me a reassuring ‘no biggie’ shrug.

  With my last shred of mental competence, I tell him to zig zag. And my face hits the pillow.

  ###

  I’m in the control room again. Lights and sounds are muted. I can barely make out the lines on the monitor. No matter how hard I try, I can’t read the numbers. This makes no sense. Data is my thing. Numbers are my friends. Why have they turned on me?

  As if they heard my cries, the code blurs by so fast only another computer could read it. My chip can’t even keep up.

  They’re wrong. All wrong. Those aren’t the right numbers. They should be – what? What’s missing? I know something’s missing but I can’t find it. Don’t even know what I’m looking for.

  And yet I keep scanning the files, punching in wrong numbers, smacking the keys like the liars they are. I know this! Why isn’t it right? It’s not right! This can’t be right! Why?!

  //Synta!// I fall out of the bed, scrambling across the floor to catch whatever it is I’m after. But it’s gone, again. Flitted through my fingertips like smoke.

  //Are you OK?// Howie’s nearly screaming in my ear.

  //What? Of course. What’s –// There’s a sharp pain in my hip where I slammed into the floor.

  //You were screaming. I thought –// he doesn’t finish.

  My throat burns with that dry choking thing that happens when you’re dehydrated. I guess I was screaming. //Sorry… bad dream.// I squeeze my eyes shut. I need it to come back, no matter how bad. It was important. I can feel it, the panic. I need it back.

  Silence hangs heavy between us. Howie exudes calm and I allow it to massage the tension out of me.

  Giving up on the fight to regain my dream’s message, I head toward the cafeteria. My feet drag like they’re marching through mud at the command of my clenched stomach. It knows I need the tainted slop to live, but wants to take our sweet time getting there.

  //How did your run for the trees go? See anything?// It’s the wrong question. I know before I’m done asking, before the words fall out. I know what he’s about to say, the bad news he has to break to me, now.

  //I broke my mask.//

  That… isn’t what I was expecting.

  //You what? How did that happen? What are we gonna… how long?
For Stone’s sake why didn’t you wake me up?// The words vomit out.

  Howie tries to calm me down, but I hear it now. //You kinda yelled at me for waking you up last time.// Fear vibrates under his words like the electric sand eels beneath the red dirt.

  //What happened?// I say after a couple deep breaths. Slop oozes off the wooden spoon held mid-air in my frozen hand. Somehow it manages to look less appetizing than usual.

  He attempts a self-deprecating laugh, then chokes it down when I don’t take the bait. //Tripped. Zigged when I shoulda zagged. You know how it goes.// His sheepish grin blocks my view of anything beyond.

  The spoon drops, splashing a thick glop onto the wall and my face. I don’t wipe it away. //How bad is it?//

  He doesn’t respond.

  //Show me.// I say.

  Still nothing.

  //Show. Me.//

  His sandy face appears. He’s covered in red dust, settling into lines I didn’t know he had. The mask is cracked; one hose hangs loose. A torn piece of his shirt pokes out of the hole it left. The other hose is bent, more fabric wrapped around that one. There’s a faint whistle with each shallow breath Howie drags through the tube.

  Dark brown lines streak down his face, digging trenches in the red dust. They’re dry now, but in his puffy eyes, resignation.

  We stare at each other, apparition to apparition, and in that moment all I can think is that I don’t have to stand on my toes now. It’s silly and inappropriate, but the thought won’t go away.

  //You’re still short.// He doesn’t blink or flinch one bit from our staring contest; his words bubble with that old joy.

  And new, dark, terror.

  Why didn’t he wake me up?

  //Why?// I ask, knowing he heard.

  Electricity buzzes through me as the meld clicks in place, again. I fight it, wipe it away, smooth down the hairs standing at attention on my arms.

  It’s no use. The meld clamps down on me.

  I fall to the floor, crawling into the corner, squeezing myself against the wall. Hiding from something that’s already inside me.

  All the while, Howie’s bright green eyes stare back, unblinking. //I already tried everything.// Howie turns his head slowly and I see his pod in the distance, dismantled. //I love you. More than anything. More than me.// His eyes water again.

  //I’ll come find you!// A flash of memory darts through my mind and disappears. Numbers. //Just hang on. I’ll find you! I can find you!// I have to.

  I’m running through the ship, screaming for Howie to wait. Just wait. Please. I leap over the bodies by the control room door.

  I have it. It’s here somewhere. I know it is. I saw it!

  //I know you will. But you can’t.// Howie whispers and removes his mask.

  I scream his name a thousand times as his lips turn blue like Marshall’s and he coughs like Marshall, without me there to pat his back. Eternity yawns between us, stretching out, pushing him farther away, until there’s nothing left but black silence.

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Hold dear those who are touched

  By madness of the mind,

  For they have seen their maker

  And begun to unwind

  - Unknown

  //Howie…//

  The bodies are starting to stink now. I think I know why Marshall had them mostly pushed into one area. Something with the sealed-off air pressure or scrubbers in the vents.

  //Howie?//

  Now, they’re everywhere. The fancy lady with the nice nails is waiting for me in the cafeteria. She’s great brunch conversation. She doesn’t touch her slop, though. Must be on a diet.

  The pretty lady doctor makes sure I take my vitamin packets every day. If I don’t go straight to her when I wake up, she gives me a stern lecture when I decide to show. Sometimes I forget and it’s days between doses. She really gives it to me then.

  Two big bruiser types stand guard outside the showers. They’re such gentlemen. I’ve never caught them trying to check me out. Not that there’s much of me to check out anymore.

  //Howie.//

  Maybe it’s my fault for unsealing the outer corridors on my last scavenger trip, the one where I found Marshall’s stash. How was I to know he had them closed off for a reason? It’s not like he gave me a crash course in lone survivoring before he almost died on me.

  //Howie…// I sigh and towel off. Ribs stick out of me worse than our leanest days in the Stepp house. It tickles when the towel slides across them. I can almost hear them plink like xylophone keys.

  I need to find that manual and close off the hallways again. The smell hits me hard as soon as I open the bathroom door. Guard Two is slipping down in his chair, orange slime trailing behind him on the wall. He doesn’t even bother to say ‘hi.’

  I wade through the mountains of clothes piled up on the floor. “What to wear?” I ask Penelope, placing a finger on my chin to help me make the decision.

  Penelope is my best friend, the only other person on this ship who has a name. She sits on the bunk beside me, her back straight and stiff like the good girl her mother trained her to be. I found her in my third or fourth week alone. She was at the foot of a pod, crooked fingers snapped like twigs under the sealed lid. A pristine dot of dried blood was still in the crook of her arm.

  In that pod? None other than the devil himself.

  I wanted to break the glass, drag him out by his thick black hair and toss him through Airlock seven. But Penelope needed me.

  I gently pulled her fingers apart, releasing them from the lid and carried her to where she sits now, not answering me about my outfit.

  “Fine, the green one, to match Howie’s eyes.” I pull the loose sweater over my naked still-wet body. It falls to my knees and I grab a belt off the accessories pile to cinch tightly at the waist. “Perfect. I’ll be back right after brunch.”

  On the way to the kitchen those annoying numbers flash through my head again. My chip has been acting up for months now.

  //Howie!//

  I stand outside the cafeteria just in case, then paste on my smile and have a perfectly pleasant brunch with my second best friend.

  ###

  After lunch I have a standing appointment – not date – with you know who. The STASIS room smells worse than any other section of the ship. Makes sense, I guess. So many people fought to the death in here for their life-saving pod.

  Every day around this time, I stand over his pod and ask myself if today’s the day. I run my fingers along the thick glass lid and wonder if I’m strong enough to punch through it. Or if I have to slide the lid open, my fingers scraping across what’s left of Penelope’s, to get to him.

  So far, for the last hundred and sixty or so days, the answer’s been ‘no.’ For two reasons.

  One: Howie wouldn’t want someone like me, the me who could do that, to be the one who finds him.

  //Howie?//

  But his days are numbered, literally. One day, Howie’s judging eyes will fade from my memory, Stone willing, and there will be nothing left to stop me from tossing him out.

  And two: We land in seven – six days, anyway.

  When I finish brooding over his pod, I go check on Marshall. The sleep is doing him well. His cheeks aren’t hollow anymore, like mine. And his eyes roll slowly, peacefully, back and forth across his eyelids.

  When, if, I sleep, it’s for a couple hours at most. Then I’m up again, those damn numbers screaming at me. Wouldn’t life be so much better if I could sleep like them? Wake up on the ground, crisp clean ocean air tickling my nostrils. A cool fresh breeze brushing past a smile that won’t wipe itself from my lips.

  Unrein bodies floating up to meet me, wide dead eyes accusing me of not paying attention.

  Ah, yes. The other reason I’m not getting any sleep these days.

  The rest of the day is up to me. My first days alone were so… lonely. Go figure. I’d spend every waking moment in the Control Room, typing away at the co
de, chasing Marshall. But he was so good at hiding, not like Howie.

  Penelope and I usually waste away the afternoon talking about boys. She knows every dark secret of mine, as I know hers. She knows about that thing, the one only Howie and Marshall knew about but neither of them can tell.

  She thinks her secret of stealing letters from her Wall of the Lost is worse than mine, because it’s something she did, not something that was done to her. We agree to disagree about that one, and just don’t bring it up anymore.

  I mostly talk about Howie. How much he means to me, what an important part of my life he’s been since farther than I can remember. How I never did anything with him, not like Penelope did once with that boy in her math class, but how if I ever get the chance to change that…

  But mostly just how much I miss him.

  He’s a piece of me, and that piece was ripped out one hundred and sixty-two days ago.

  When I don’t feel like talking, or lately when Penelope’s face is melting wax and I can’t look at her for too long, I visit Brooks.

  There’s a special room that I put all the little boys’ clothes in. I choose to forget just how many of them there were. That’s where I go to talk to Brooks. I tell him everything that Penelope and I get up to, and some of the things I don’t tell her. Things only he would remember, like how Mom would run her fingers through our hair when she was sitting on the couch, spaced out on the TV. We hated it then, the scratching of her nails against our scalps, but I’d give anything to feel that again. I know he would, too.

  Sometimes I just listen. I let him tell me how happy he is on Gliese. It’s everything they promised and more. He plays with all the other kids who came with their families. They let him pretend like he’s theirs. He belongs to someone again. He’s got a life, now. He hardly thinks of me, except when I bother him for our talks.

  When I can’t take anymore of that, I walk.

  Two of the outer corridors, the ones I really need to seal off, have messed up gravity. It’s like pockets of not enough gravity and then bam, too much. On the days I’m not puking my guts up from the slop, and I feel well enough, I run as fast as I can and try to jump the gravity bumps. That’s what I call them.