by Beth Revis
Page 11
I rush across the room toward the canvas, and my hip knocks into a ruler on the edge of the table, sending the papers stacked on top of it flying. I drop to my knees and try to gather as many as I can. I can see sketches—a girl swimming, a girl floating, an empty pond filled with belly-up fish—but while I want to take my time and look, really look, at the drawings, I feel like I shouldn’t, that it’s forbidden to even be touching them.
“What are you doing here?” a voice hisses from the doorway, and all my fears are confirmed. The wrongness of being in this room tugs at my navel.
I look up. Victria is outlined by the light of the hall. She steps inside, and a blanket of shadows falls over her.
“Well?” From the angry impatience of her voice, I can tell that whatever happened between us in the library doesn’t count. What counts is that I’ve violated the sanctity of one of her only friends’ rooms.
She clutches a small leather-bound book so tightly that her knuckles are white. I can’t understand this girl—she hates me for telling her about the sky; she ignores the fact that I saved her from Luthor; she despises me for just being in Harley’s room.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she spits out.
“I know—I—”
Victria crosses the room and snatches the papers from my hand, gripping them so forcefully that the thin sheets crumple and a few rip. “These aren’t yours!”
My eyes narrow. “This is. ” I draw the canvas closer to me. It is mine.
“Whatever. ” She gingerly starts to pick up Harley’s scattered drawings. I could not be more clearly dismissed.
I start to leave, lugging the canvas with me. When I turn around at the door, Victria’s ignoring me. She’s replaced the papers on the table and is smoothing one down. I glance over her to see the sketch. It’s supposed to be Elder, I think, but he looks older, and there’s a smirk on his charcoal lips that I’ve never seen on Elder’s real lips. It’s odd for Harley’s drawings not to be spot-on.
She doesn’t notice me as I step closer. I have never seen that look of longing on Victria’s face before. I haven’t seen it on anyone before—except when Harley told me about Kayleigh.
“Victria?” I ask.
She jumps, jerking her hand and sending Harley’s sketch of Elder skidding across the table. “You have your painting, now go!”
I study her face. Her eyes flick once more to the table and the drawing, betraying the love I see hidden there.
I go without saying another word.
It’s not until I’m back in my room, dipping the brush into the thick white paint, that I realize the sketch wasn’t of Elder at all. The wrinkles at his eyes, the crooked twist of his lips—that had to be Orion.
15
ELDER
Doc coms me as I leave the Recorder Hall.
“Where are you now?” he asks.
“Recorder Hall. ”
“Good. Come out to the wall near the garden. ”
“Why?”
“I can’t explain it. Just come on out. ”
“But—I wanted to speak with . . . ”
“Speak with Amy?” he asks, biting off each word.
Yes. I did. All Bartie’s outburst and the slashed painting have done is remind me that Amy is one of the few people on this whole frexing ship who isn’t waiting for me to fail. I have to apologize—again—for calling her a freak. I want to tell her that I don’t care what she needs to feel safe on Godspeed, I’ll give it to her. I want to tell her that if the only thing that will bring the smile back to her eyes is waking up her parents, maybe we should do it. And even if I know I can’t actually tell her that last bit, I want to look her in the eyes and make sure she knows that I would if I could.
My silence is answer enough for Doc.
“Elder, this is your job. You can’t decide when you’re Eldest and when you’re not. You. Are. Always. Eldest. Even if you don’t take the title. ” Ah. There’s the berating I’d been waiting for.
I sigh. “Fine. Be there soon. ”
Doc’s apprentice, Kit, meets me in the garden. Doc didn’t want to take on an apprentice, but he’s of the age that he will need a replacement, and I insisted. Of all the nurses that applied for apprenticeship, Kit was the best. Not the best with medicine—Doc constantly complains about what a slow learner she is—but she’s the best with the people, and I decided that Doc needs someone more human beside him as he works. Doc wasn’t happy with my decision, but he accepted it.
“Thank you,” Kit says. “We just weren’t sure what to do. ”
“What’s going on?” I ask, following her down the path, past the hydrangeas and the pond to the metal wall behind the garden.
Doc crouches on the ground, for once negligent about the dirt and grass stains that must be seeping into his pants.
A woman kneels in front of the wall. She looks a little like some of the pictures of people praying on Sol-Earth—her hands rest on the ground, palms up, and her body bends forward, her face resting on the metal wall.
“She won’t get up,” Doc says.
I squat down beside her. “What’s wrong with her?”
Doc shakes his head. “She just won’t get up. ”
I put my hand on the woman’s back. She doesn’t flinch—she doesn’t acknowledge my presence at all. My hand creeps up to her shoulder, and I apply as gentle pressure as I can until her body weight shifts back. She leans away, sitting on her ankles.
I know her.
I try to know everyone on the ship, but I can’t. There are too many of them, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t know them all. But I do know this woman.
Her name is Evalee, and she works in the food storage district in the City. I stayed with her family when I was a little kid; I don’t remember exactly when. I don’t think she was on Phydus when I lived with her family, but she definitely was on it later, when I visited her before moving to the Keeper Level. Even so, she was always kind to me. She put salve on my hand when I burned it while learning how to can string beans, and she ignored the way I cried even though I was old enough to know that such a small burn didn’t deserve tears.
“Evie,” I say. “It’s me. Elder. What’s wrong?”
She looks at me, but her eyes are as dead as if she was still drugged. Deader. Evie doesn’t turn away as she reaches one hand up and scratches against the wall in front of her.
“No way out,” she whispers.
She turns her head, slowly, to the wall. Like a child sinking into her pillow, Evie rests her face against the metal. Her fingernails scrape slowly down the wall, so softly I can barely hear it. Her hand hits the dirt and relaxes, palm up.
Doc watches us with a grim expression on his face. I look up at him.
“What’s wrong with her?”
Doc’s mouth tightens as he breathes a heavy sigh through his nose, then he speaks. “She’s one of my depression patients. She went missing yesterday; I think she was just walking along the wall until she got exhausted and wound up here. ”
I glance at Evie’s feet. They are stained reddish brown, even in the arches, and dark lines of mud cake under her toenails.
“What can we do?” I ask. But what I really want to know is: Will everyone else react this way when they find out that the ship is stopped? I always thought the worst that could happen was a rebellion, but this dead-inside depression makes me feel hollowed out too. Would it be better for us to rip the ship apart in rage or silently scratch at the walls until we simply quit breathing?
Doc glances at his apprentice. Kit reaches into the pocket of her laboratory coat and pulls out a pale green med patch.
“This is why I commed you,” Doc says as Kit hands the patch to me. “I’ve developed a new med patch for the depression patients. ”
I turn the patch over in my hand. Doc makes them himself, with the help of some of the Shippers in the chem research lab. Tiny needles adhere to one side like metal filings stuck to tape; when you pre
ss the patch into your skin, the needles stick to you and inject medicine directly into your system.
“So use it,” I say, handing it to Doc.
Doc takes the patch, holding it carefully. “I have to ask you—I wanted you to see why it’s necessary, but then I have to ask you—I made the patches using Phydus. ”
I stare at Doc. Phydus? I’d told him to destroy all the stores of the chemical. Clearly he hasn’t—and he doesn’t fear me enough to lie and say he has.
But he does have enough chutz to ask my permission before using it.
Kit shifts nervously behind us. Even Doc looks worried about my reaction to the illicit drug. Only Evie, her face mashed against the metal wall, her feet muddy and calloused, doesn’t care.
“Use it,” I say, standing. Doc rips the med patch open, and I can hear the sigh of submission from Evie as the chemical seeps into her system. Doc asks her to stand and follow him to the Hospital, and she silently obeys.
I trail behind them. Evie’s emptiness was worse than the mindlessness I’d seen in the Feeders when they were still on Phydus. I think back to Amy’s dull, Phydus-drugged eyes—Doc said she had a bad reaction to it. Is Evie having a bad reaction to being off it?
“Take her up to one of the rooms on the fourth floor,” Doc tells Kit.
I shoot Doc a look as Kit walks Evie to the elevator.
“The fourth floor just holds regular patient beds now,” Doc says firmly. He knows what I’m thinking—about the grays, and the clinical way Doc killed them under Eldest’s orders to make room for more younger people. “Would you like me to give you my weekly report now, while you’re here? We can go to my office. ”
I nod and follow him silently into the elevator. When it reaches the third floor, we both get off, leaving Kit and Evie to continue to the fourth floor. Doc leads me to his office. I pause at one door—Amy’s. I want to turn right and go to her. I just want to give her my apology over and over until she accepts it. But instead, I turn left and enter Doc’s office.
“The Hospital’s been so busy lately,” Doc says. “This is the first time I’ve had a chance to come to my office in two days. I’m sorry for the mess. ”
I snort. The office looks immaculate, but that doesn’t stop Doc from immediately straightening the papers on his desk.
The Hospital has been busier than usual, though. Bruises and cuts from fights. Injuries from farm equipment when the operators were distracted from their jobs by senseless daydreaming that never would have happened had they still been on Phydus. A few people just doing stupid things to show how much chutz they had. And some . . . some pretty strange cases. Where people hurt themselves or each other, just because they suddenly had the capacity to feel, and they didn’t care what they felt as long as it was something.
Amy said that she could mark how quickly the effects of Phydus wore off the Feeders by how many more people would come to the Hospital each day.
My gut twists at the thought of Amy. She’s just down the hall, probably sitting in her room, hating me.