This is truth.
I saw her lying there, frozen in her glass box. And she was different. Really different. I could never have the sunset of Sol-Earth, but it was all there, in her hair, floating immobilized in ice, pale skin like lamb’s wool. And young. Like me.
She will never understand.
I went down there, later, to stare and dream. To think of what she could tell me of Sol-Earth. To think of how she—unlike every other person on this frexing ship—she would be my age during my Season.
And I wouldn’t have to be alone.
And then I heard it. A tiny whisper in my mind, a barely heard voice I almost—but not quite—ignored.
And the voice held a question. And the question was:
What if I unplug her?
And at first I did ignore it. But the question got louder. And louder.
It roared.
And so, just to make it shut up, I reached out, and I flipped the switch in the box above Amy’s cold head, and I watched the light blink from green to red.
And the voice inside my head sighed in relief and whispered words of comfort and told me she would smile at me when the ice melted.
I was going to wait, right there, be there for her when she yawned and stretched and emerged from the box. Be there as her eyes fluttered open, as her lips curved into a smile.
But I heard—
—Orion, scuffling in the dark, listening to his own voice—but I didn’t know that then. I swear I didn’t know it was him, watching.
So I ran to the elevator and went to the garden and tried to pretend I had not brought a girl back to life with the flip of a switch.
Then came the alarm.
And the scream of it—aroo! aroo!—blended into Amy’s scream.
Of pain.
And later—of regret. Sorrow. Broken dreams and hopes.
I broke those dreams.
Me.
And nothing comforted her, not even the love she never saw from me.
And Doc said she couldn’t go back; she could never go back.
And I knew—I knew—
I could never tell her the truth.
77
AMY
I SIT IN FRONT OF THE HATCH DOOR, MY BACK AGAINST THE cool metal wall, my eyes staring through the glass to the stars beyond, thinking about Harley, wondering what it felt like in those brief moments between flying and dying.
I come here often now. With awakening, the people of the ship who had been passively meek are now explorers. They are in the gardens, they are in the Hospital—to read Victria’s books or listen to Bartie’s guitar playing or look at Harley’s surviving paintings. Some are even in the Recorder Hall, and some leave with eyes opened wide with truth. This is one of the few remaining places where I can truly find solitude. Elder doesn’t think it’s safe to let everyone come to this level, even though some are now aware of its existence. I agree. I don’t want anyone else taking Orion’s stand on the issue. The painted X on my Daddy’s door has still not faded away, even though I have scrubbed and scrubbed.