On the Edge of Gone

by Corinne Duyvis

  “Um.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Els’s workspace.”

  “What’s there?”

  “Not much. It’s almost empty. It has folders, you know, hard-copy information as backups. Prints of Els’s work. And I have access to some of the loading bays, because she had me checking the barrels, and . . .” I feel the blood drain from my face. “That’s it. They must have stolen supplies.”

  You couldn’t hide a full barrel under a mattress, but you could divvy up its contents to tuck away in all kinds of nooks and crannies. No wonder they’re putting on a ship-wide search.

  A ship-wide search that’ll inevitably lead to the unused kitchen Mom is in. We’ve got to hide her. We’ve got to keep the cameras from spotting her. We’ve got to . . . I try the door a second time. A swipe of my hand, a manual twist of the knob. It doesn’t budge.

  I rest my head against the cool metal and pray for them to finish soon.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  WHEN WE’RE FINALLY LET OUT OF OUR rooms, I head down a staircase, then try to go down a second one. Two people—guards?—block my way. I fumble through my rehearsed explanation of wanting to start work early, but it’s no use.

  “If you’re with Els Maasland, you’ll have to come down together.”

  I turn toward Dining Hall D, where Iris is. We can’t be picky at the moment. Some people are only now leaving their cabins, their voices ranging from confused to angry. For once, the attention isn’t on me, leaving me free to duck past people and jog through the halls until I reach the dining room. I scoop up some fruit—I can’t be bothered checking the rest of the buffet for what I can and can’t eat—pour myself a hasty cup of tea, and slide into the rickety seat across from Iris.

  “Can’t get down there without Els.”

  “Can you find her?”

  “I don’t know her cabin.” I grab the teacup by its dainty handle, but don’t drink yet. My shoe taps a beat against a table leg. “Even if Els escorts me down there, I doubt she’ll let me out of her sight. And I don’t know how Mom can stay hidden, or how to hide her from the cameras. And . . .”

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  The cameras might already be on. We could be worrying over maybes and evens that have already happened.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap.

  “Eat. We’ll think of something,” Iris whispers. “They wouldn’t have cameras in our rooms, would they? Maybe we can hide her in ours. They’ve already searched it.”

  We’d need to get Mom up unseen. In this mess, what are our chances? I finally sip the tea. It’s lukewarm and too strong. With a clang, I set the cup down and grab a banana and start peeling it roughly and slowly—having just the one hand doesn’t help.

  Mom hasn’t even been on the ship for a full day and already they’re about to find her. Every last thing I feared will come true.

  I can only furiously hope that Mom will lie and claim she sneaked aboard all by herself, nothing to do with Iris or me. If they suspect the truth, we’ll be left behind. And, like with Samira and Nordin, like with Kev and Aunt Alexa, nobody will know for sure we’re even dead.

  “You’re squishing that banana,” Iris says.

  I loosen my grip and take a tasteless bite. I don’t like bananas much—they’re so mealy—but they’re a safe fruit to eat, always cleanly wrapped in their own packages. As I chew, I crane my neck to check out the people around us. There’s the same atmosphere as on the walkways: restless, disgruntled, though I can’t tell if people are more upset with the ship’s leadership for waking us like they did or with the thief for cutting into our already limited supplies.

  Why would someone even do that? We’re supposed to be in this together. A community. A collective. That’s what the public information said.

  There’s no sign of Els or other familiar faces, until the bald engineer enters. On his heels is Anke. Within seconds, she’s pulling out a chair at our table. “What’s the matter? You look worried.” Her gaze roams over our plates, and I almost expect her to grab a grape, but she keeps her hands to herself.

  “Go away,” I say. They’ll find Mom anyway. Anke has nothing on us now, and I don’t need her to complicate things further. I need to think. Talk to Iris.

  “If I do that, my colleagues will stumble on an interesting surprise in a certain kitchen.” Anke scoots closer. “I only have a few minutes before I need to get back to searching people’s rooms. Van Zand recruited me to help, since he knows I’m not the thief.”

  “Really? How?” Iris interrupts.

  Anke ignores her. “The problem is, there are guards all over. I haven’t left the ship for weeks. If I leave now, it’ll be suspicious.”

  “So you no longer want my scooter.” My heart sinks. Without the scooter, she has no reason to help us hide Mom.

  “Unlike me, you two girls have been leaving the ship.” She’s picking her nails under the table. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I weren’t trying so hard not to meet her eyes. “They’ll search you when you leave, so that you can’t smuggle out supplies—stolen or not—but on the way in? What do they care? They don’t, is what.”

  “So you want us to smuggle in . . . ,” Iris says.

  “My niece.”

  I gape. Before, we had to provide only transport and distractions. Now she wants us to do it? How will we convince her sister and brother-in-law to hand us their kid? How will we get a baby on board with guards posted around the ship?

  “I’ve seen the size of your backpack, Denise. She’ll fit.”

  “You want us to hide your niece in a backpack?” I must be misunderstanding.

  “To save her life? Yeah.” Anke lifts her chin. “That’s why I’m here, you know. World War II. My grandmother was only a few months older than my niece is now. They kept her in the Plantage Middenlaan nursery with hundreds of other kids, her parents in the theater across the street. Süskind and others in the Resistance—tell me you know his name—smuggled my grandmother out. Her parents had to be convinced, but . . . they agreed. The nursery workers stuck my grandmother in a bag and walked her right out. Her, and who knows how many other kids, and who knows how many later generations because of those kids. So don’t you dare tell me I can’t do the same. I’ve already lost my daughter. Let me save my niece.”

  “Your niece has a chance down here,” Iris says.

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  Iris twists her lips, like she’s trying to hold something in. “People will survive. Her parents might.”

  “You look me in the eye and tell me my niece’s chances of survival aren’t ten times better on this ship. You tell me that.” Anke looks like she’ll spit in Iris’s face if Iris does say those words.

  Iris keeps silent.

  “That’s what I thought.” Anke scoffs. She turns to me. There’s a red gleam in her eyes, like the kind I’ve seen in Mom’s too often. I don’t think it’s because of drugs, though. “You girls get my niece, and I’ll make sure no one finds your mother.”

  “What about the cameras?” I whisper, same as she. People are standing too close. If I can hear them talking about the thief and what kind of security measures Captain Van Zand will put in place, they’ll be able to hear us, too.

  “Max will take care of them.”

  I never thought they were alike, nervous Anke and eternally laid-back Max, but the family resemblance is even harder to see now. I can’t imagine Max ever being as aggressive as his mother is being. And before now, I couldn’t imagine Anke dragging her son into this. How much will he know? About my smuggling Mom on board? About what his own mother is doing?

  “We may need to give your mother instructions. Will she listen?” Anke asks.

  “Of course,” I say. “She’ll do anything to—”

  “Can she listen? Is she clean?” she interrupts. “Matthijs said she wasn’t exactly a onetime user. I don’t want her getting high and sabotaging us. You took her drugs away, right?”

  “You think she’ll
be more cooperative in the middle of withdrawal?” Iris says.

  “Well, if she gets herself caught, leave me out of it.”

  I’ve thought about taking Mom’s drugs away a hundred times. It won’t work, and I don’t want to argue. I’ll be too easy to convince. “Your niece . . . ,” I start.

  “You normally go out after work, right?” After I nod, Anke continues. “Let’s stick to that schedule. I made a recording on my tab to prove to my sister that I sent you. She’ll listen. She’ll do anything to help her daughter survive. I got food you can give her and her husband, and charged water filters, and . . .” Her voice snags. “I marked their shelter on a map for you. It’s near Weesp.”

  I glance at Iris, who gives the smallest of nods, more a question than a confirmation.

  I do the same.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  ANKE KEEPS HER WORD.

  That’s what I have to assume, at least, because no one barges into Els’s office to confront me, and when the message system comes back up—everyone on board already knows what’s going on anyway—Iris lets me know instantly that everything’s quiet on her front as well.

  I still jerk up every time Els so much as clears her throat.

  I finish the day’s announcements—long ones about the theft and precautions, as well as the reminder I suggested yesterday, about how we’re still calculating the number of available open spots—and go back to reorganizing and simplifying the ship’s public information. It’s satisfying seeing the pieces slide into place, all the information in its logical home, and I’ve even been tweaking the text in places; I’m not really a writer, but I can still pick out unclear sections, or paragraphs so tangled that I have to read sentences three or four times to parse them properly. I can’t get sucked into it the way I could yesterday morning, though, and when lunch rolls around, I’m both relieved I can take a break and frustrated over how little I got done.

  Fatima catches up to me in the hall. “Have you heard anything new?”

  “About?” My mind instantly goes to Anke’s blackmail.

  “The thefts? You work with the announcements; I thought you might get news early.”

  “Sorry. Nothing.”

  She makes a sound like Hmmph. Her eyebrows furrow.

  “Sorry,” I repeat.

  “Don’t be. I’m just . . . I found this other girl who used to play soccer, and . . .” She trails off.

  “Soccer?” I don’t see how that relates to the thefts.

  She’s not looking at me. Instead, her gaze is fixed on some point across the hall. I can smell lunch—fresh bread and a greasy odor that reminds me vividly of the snack bar Iris and I sometimes bought dinner at—but I don’t think that’s what Fatima is focusing on.

  She’s taking too long to respond. Something’s wrong.

  Two words. Come on. You stood up to Anke this morning; you can do this.

  I lick my lips. I keep my voice neutral, uninvested. “You OK?”

  “Honestly?” She breathes deeply. “I have no idea, Denise.”

  I’m still stuck on the fact that I managed to say it. Fatima didn’t even look at me skeptically like girls at school might’ve, but just answered, like it was a normal question.

  Except I spent so much time working up to that question, I never considered what to do if the answer was anything but “I’m all right, thanks.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “I’m worried. That’s all.” She spins to face me, forcing me to an abrupt halt. She’s got her hands jammed in the pockets of her jeans, her shoulders hunched. “I’m worried about the thefts. I’m worried I really am responsible for what happened to Mirjam. I’m worried Max has still barely said her name. I’m worried about you when you’re outside, and about your mother in that airport—”

  I keep my face as still as I can. I’m missing half of what she’s saying—she’s talking too fast—but the word mother stands out like it glows neon. She mentions shelters, too, and her brother and parents and something about prayer mats.

  “—and I’m worried another disaster will hit the ship before Friday and we’ll never launch, and”—the halls are filling up with people headed to lunch, but Fatima doesn’t seem to notice we’re smack-dab in people’s way—“I’m worried about the freaking rain forest, I’m worried that our great-grandchildren will arrive on the twin planets only to find that the atmosphere is poison gas or something and all of this will be for nothing, and I’m worried about Sanne getting kicked out, not because I think she will be, but because Sanne is worried about it . . .” She breathes deeply. “I’ll stop. That’s it. Mostly.”

  “Oh,” I say again. I search for a better response. I could blame it on being preoccupied with the Mom-Anke situation, but it’s not like people unload on me under normal circumstances, either. “That’s, um, a lot.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Even if the planets turn out to be unsafe, we—they—can keep looking for others. The ships are supposed to sustain life indefinitely.” That much, I can say. And something else, too: “You’re not responsible for what happened to Mirjam.”

  “Heh.” She wipes at her eyes, though I didn’t see her cry. “It helps that Max doesn’t blame me. But I blame me. Mirjam was my first friend on board. We weren’t close; I thought she was bossy, she thought I was boring. Then we talked soccer, and for the first time since July, I . . . was looking forward to something.”

  “I’d have liked to try and join.” When Mirjam suggested it, I was sure I’d make a fool out of myself, but I’m not as bothered by that thought now. More than anything, I want the chance to try and join.

  “You still can.” Fatima turns, striding toward Hall B with the rest of the crowd. “Thanks for listening. It helps. It’s just big sister syndrome, I guess.”

  I catch up until we walk side by side. “Big sister syndrome?”

  “I worry. A lot.” She smiles sheepishly.

  So what’s little sister syndrome? Being worried over?

  “If talking helps, then talk,” I say after some hesitation. Immediately, I wish I could take it back—it sounds so presumptuous, like I have any business giving advice—but again, Fatima doesn’t react like it’s strange. She just smiles gratefully as we enter Hall B and get in line for the buffet.

  I look around for Anke. When there’s no sign of her, I breathe a little easier. I let myself enjoy my friend by my side and savor the fresh-bread smell permeating the hall—and try not to think of how it’d take only one move by Anke for me to lose both.

  Around three, Els’s screen flashes with a message that’s blocked from my angle. She promptly rises to her feet. “Captain Van Zand wants a meeting. How are you doing?”

  “Good,” I say automatically.

  “I mean, how far are you with what you’re working on?”

  “Oh. I’m almost done, I think.”

  “I wrote up a preliminary report about the supplies and projected crops,” she says, and flicks it in my tab’s direction. Behind the file I’m working on, my projection glows for a second to indicate receipt. “I like the changes you’ve been making to the public information. I want you to read this over and give your thoughts. It’s only three pages.”

  “OK.” I hesitate. I’m not finished with the section I was working on. I don’t want to leave it incomplete. Even if I finish it first, the thought of moving on to Els’s report afterward stops me in my tracks. “But I’m—I’m not sure if I can.”

  Els has seen me fail a hundred times in class. I know I can’t do certain things. A lot of things. Admitting this shouldn’t be so hard. After yesterday’s conversation, though, it feels like I should be better than this.

  Els swoops her scarf around her neck. “How come?”

  I weigh the question. Els’s report can’t be super technical, or there would be no point in asking for my feedback. I still have hours before I’m supposed to find Anke’s sister’s shelter, so it has nothing to do with being unable to finish on time. Maybe I don�
��t want to fail now that I’ve finally been succeeding. Maybe I’m not as motivated: Mom is on board regardless of my work performance.

  “Three pages is a lot more than the sections I’ve been tweaking,” I say.

  “You’ll be fine.” Els slides open the door. Its high hiss has me stiffening up, and I barely hear her next words. “I believe you can do a lot more than you think, Denise.”

  Iris borrowed the scooter that afternoon to look for barrels near where she found the first one, and to see what kind of security measures had been implemented for anyone trying to leave. By the time I reach the loading bay, my scooter is already back and recharged. I’m about to climb on when someone jogs toward me.

  “Hang on, hang on,” he says. “Are you still looking for those barrels? That’s some dedication.”

  “Yeah, we gotta . . . I mean . . .” I forgot what I’d planned to say. It doesn’t seem like the guard is listening, anyway.

  “I need to check your bag.”

  Iris and I packed the bag extra full on purpose: hyper-absorbent towels, extra air and water filters, a clean set of clothes, all packed water-tight. The guard’s eyebrows rise as he sorts through.

  “I’m extra-prepared, after . . .” I indicate my injured arm.

  “Right, I would be, too.” He keeps looking. He’s thorough. Now that he knows what I’m carrying, maybe he won’t check when I return and the bag is just as full. They didn’t check Iris when she came back on board, but she’d barely had anything on her in the first place. We have a plan in place to distract them, but—maybe it won’t be enough, and—

  My heart is getting jittery already, and this is the easy part. “There are two protein bars in the side pocket,” I point out. “Those are for me, for while I’m out there. Is that OK?”

  “Technically, no.” He puts one finger in front of his mouth, against his air filter, in a Shhh gesture. “All clear. Stay safe out there.”

  Dread fills me as I ride into the night. The scooter purrs under me, the cold air rushing past. Water sprays against my legs. I go around Amstelveen and the Bijlmer—easier than having to navigate my way through—then go straight on. Anke’s family’s shelter is just south of Weesp, not far from Amsterdam. She marked it on my map. I fire up my tab every few minutes to double-check both the map and the compass, especially when I’m out in the open and there are few landmarks for me to recognize. I’ve never missed GPS more.