“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.