“Okay,” I say, turning around. “What about Mr. Robertson?” I write his name on the wall next to my own.
Elder picks up the thin sheet of plastic off my desk that I’d wondered at before. When he runs his finger across it, it lights up like a computer screen. He starts tapping on it, and images flash across the screen.
“Eldest/Elder access granted,” a female voice says from the computer.
“Mr. William Robertson,” Elder reads from the screen. “Male. Fifty-seven years old, Hispanic, 212 pounds. Leadership specialist. Experience with United State Marines. Mission: offensive organization. Funded by the FRX. FRX?” He pauses. “I’ve seen that before. On a plaque in the Keeper Level. . . ” His voice trails off.
“Financial Resource Exchange,” I say as I write the details about Mr. Robertson below his name. “Everyone in the military was funded by the FRX. It’s how Daddy got to join the mission. ”
Elder rolls his finger on the screen. “That’s all there is. ”
I look at that weird computer thing. “Does that say anything about me?”
Elder hesitates.
“What?” I say. “What does it say about me?”
“Er—”
Harley, who’s been watching us silently, snatches the computer thing from Elder. He scans it quickly, the laughter dying from his eyes.
“Oh. ”
“What?”
“It’s nothing. ” Harley moves to touch the screen—to turn it off, I’m sure. Before he can, I grab it from his hand.
There’s the picture they took of me a few days before I was frozen, during the health screening. My date of birth, blood type, height, weight. And, in tiny letters at the bottom: NONESSENTIAL CARGO.
Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten.
I’m just extra baggage.
I drop the computer thing on the desk and turn back to the wall with my paintbrush. Under my name, I add nonessential.
“You’re not—” Elder starts, but I silence him with a look.
Stepping back, I look at my handiwork. I painted the lines too thick; trails of black trickle down from the letters, some of them making it all the way to the baseboard, streaking over the peeling old painted vines on the floor, made by whoever once lived in this room. Harley’s eyes are on the trailing black, watching the drips race one another over the hand-painted flowers.
“So,” I say, scanning the lists, “what’s the connection? Why would someone want to kill both of us?”
Silence.
“We’re missing something,” I say, smoothing my hair down with both hands. “There must be some connection. ”
But whatever it is, none of us can see it.
I throw my hands down to my sides. “We’re getting nowhere this way. Let’s just go down to the cryo chambers and see what we can see. ”
“Go down there?” Elder asks, surprised.
I nod. “Maybe we’ll find some clues. ”
Harley laughs, like this is a game. “Clues?!”
I just stare at him, and his laughter dies.
“Okay,” Elder says. His eyes meet mine, and I don’t remember why I used to think his face looked innocent. He’s determined now, ready for a fight, prepared to back me up.