I didn’t know that cat well. She’d been brought in only the week before. I hadn’t spent months feeding her, and I hadn’t spent weeks sitting across the room from her, coaxing her to come play or cuddle and smiling in silent joy when she took her first, cautious steps in my direction. That should’ve made it easier.
“You don’t have to be here,” John told me from his position by the vet’s table. “If you want to go home . . .”
“I should be here,” I said.
The vet gave the cat the injection.
A minute later, they brought in the next cat, and the next, and the next. They brought in Quasi, whose appetite had finally started to increase. They brought in the deaf white kitten Kev found on the street. And the next, and the next. Some snarled. Some wailed.
Most purred.
I almost cried. I almost cried a lot of times. Out of nowhere, my eyes and nose would feel hot with tears and my breathing would go rapid and I’d focus on my shoes to calm down. “It’s necessary,” I told myself. I hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
John stroked the cats and held them still for the vet. He whispered soothing words. He wasn’t holding them right, though—I should’ve been holding them. I was better, just as firm, but gentler.
“They have nowhere to go,” the vet agreed. Then he went silent, sliding the needle into the cat’s fur.
Stop. Stop! I’ll take the cat, she’ll be fine with me.
It’s necessary. No time for weakness.
Just give me a few minutes to set her at ease. She liked getting scratched behind the ear; she’d push into me with all her weight. Her family should’ve come for her—should’ve taken her back home, or stayed here to comfort her at the end like those families who came this morning. Maybe they didn’t get our messages. Maybe we should wait, reach out again.
It’s necessary.
I didn’t meet the vet’s eyes—I was too focused on the cat’s—but I knew he was looking at me. My own eyes must have looked shiny and red. I sucked in my cheeks to keep them from quivering.
It’s necessary.
The vet said, “No one will take them. I wouldn’t do this otherwise. I’ve . . .” For the first time, his voice caught. I realized why he’d been so silent the entire time, why he’d been quick and efficient and rubbed each cat’s head before giving the shot. “The few permanent shelters and generation ships that take animals have already made their selections. We can’t release them into the wild—even if they survive the impact and its aftereffects, most won’t be able to survive on their own. Those that can will be competing for a dwindling food supply.”
I imagined skeletal cats hunting air in the ruins of a frozen, dark city.
I wondered whether the cats’ fate was any different from ours.
I kept my eyes on the cat. She was looking from John to the vet, as if determining the biggest threat.
“The worst thing, I think, would be us.” The vet stroked the cat, his hands rough but nimble. Gentler than John’s.
Her eyes were starting to dull.
“We’d hunt them,” I said.
“At least this is fast.” The vet smiled. It looked flimsy.
“We would’ve let this go on too long,” John said. “You did the right thing, Denise, telling us it’d come to this anyway.”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Yeah, I know.”
No time for weakness.
“We’re smarter than platypuses, aren’t we?” Iris cracks a smile. “If we were out there . . . like the others . . . maybe hope would serve us better than despair.”
“OK.” My voice is so thin, I don’t recognize it.
If people can live—if Earth can survive, then—
“I’ll handle Anke,” Iris tells me. “You go rest.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
IRIS WAKES EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, AND when she asks if I’m joining her for breakfast, I only pull my blankets higher. I’ll wait for the alarm.
When the alarm rings, though—five minutes later? fifty?—I slam my hand on the nightstand to shut it up.
I took a shower last night, so I can skip one this morning. That saves some time. I’ll get up at eight a.m., I tell myself, and then it’s five minutes after eight and I’m still not moving.
It’d be so easy to fall asleep again. I’ll have breakfast late and sheepishly tell Els I overslept. She said it the other day: she doesn’t mind what time I show up, as long as I get my work done.
The thought of work makes me press my face into the pillow.
I don’t have the excuse of falling asleep. Instead, I lie there for another ten minutes, twenty. I visualize my feet sliding from the covers and pushing myself upright with my good hand.
I lie still and wide-awake and useless.
I wonder about necessary. I wonder about no time for weakness. I wonder why I’m despairing when anyone in that shelter would give their left arm to be in my position. If Mom isn’t found, we’ll be flying in a matter of days. We’ll generate new energy, we’ll grow new food, and all we need to do to have our own safe little world is leave.
Twelve minutes before nine, I force myself upright. I put on deodorant, clothes. I gargle but don’t brush my teeth. I get my hair sort of into shape, but no one but Iris would notice if it’s not, anyway, so I end up stumbling dead-eyed into Dining Hall B only minutes before nine. I grab some watery juice and stare at the buffet.
The toast is gone, just crumbles left. There are some slices of spice bread, the kind with chunks of almond paste that I can’t stand. To my left is a big pot of soup—who has soup at breakfast?—but I don’t bother to look, since it won’t be any of the few kinds of soup I can eat.
I pick some grapes. There are strawberries—with little seeds that crunch between my teeth and get stuck, so no, not an option—and apples, which I love in slices or peeled chunks only. The thought of biting into one, the skin shiny and untouched, makes the hair on my arms prick upright.
People impatiently shuffle past me. I clench my plate. I can’t start work without breakfast.
“You on a diet?” Sanne pipes up next to me. “The spice bread is surprisingly good. C’mon, Fatima and Max are over there.”
“It has almond paste.”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t eat almond paste.”
“Just get it out with your fork then.”
She’s right. It doesn’t look too hard.
“I’m over there, OK?” Sanne sounds impatient.
I follow a minute later with a few paltry grapes. (It’s nine: Els will be wondering why I’m not there, but I was late the other day, too, and all she did was joke.)
“No work today?” Fatima greets me.
“I overslept. Els doesn’t mind.” I slide back a chair and sit between her and Max. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since Anke found Mom and Iris and me in that hallway. She asked for his help with the cameras, so if nothing else, he knows we brought Mom on board. Does he know about Anke’s blackmail? About his baby cousin?
“Morning,” he says blankly.
“Where’s Iris?” Fatima asks.
“Already at work.” I pierce a grape with a fork. I meet the others’ eyes, though I know they must be frowning at my near-empty plate. “Does anyone have an extra tab battery? Iris’s is old and keeps running out. She left it to charge today. She doesn’t want to request one officially, since, you know . . .”
“She doesn’t want to be a bother,” Sanne says. I figured she’d understand. “I’ll ask around.”
“Last week, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but they have everything behind lock and key now,” Fatima says.
“Who steals supplies, anyway?” Sanne’s nose wrinkles.
“People who want to sabotage the ship, though I can’t think of why,” I say, starting on the mental list I compiled in the back of my mind. “People who want to smuggle food out to survivors. People who want to hoard it for themselves.”
I’m late, I think.
“Sounds abo
ut right,” Fatima says.
“It was a rhetorical question,” Sanne says.
“You’re a real grape fan, huh?” Max asks.
I bite my lip. His mother is blackmailing me and he—he just jokes—“Yes,” I say, picking the next one.
“I thought you were getting spice bread? It’s not bad,” Sanne says.
I stab another grape. “It is to me.”
Through my eyelashes I can see her face, which reminds me of the airport last week, right before she went off on me. She’s been nice enough since then—in a Sanne way—but this won’t change her first impression that I’m spoiled.
I finish the grapes and leave the talking to the others.
Work isn’t much better. I lie to Els about oversleeping and I spend the first hour zoning out and screwing with things I shouldn’t. It’s like I’m back in school—unable to get up, unable to focus—but I shouldn’t be like this. Not now; not with work I actually like. We’ll take off soon, I remind myself.
When I finally open the announcement drafts, I have to read them twice before they sink in.
The ship has picked up more radio transmissions. Clearer ones, this time. The east of the country is preparing helicopters and barges to pick up people from the shelters.
I let out a whistling sigh of relief. I hadn’t known how to broach the topic of giving the survivors supplies with Captain Van Zand, but now, if nothing else, those people will get out.
I fix the typos, tweak the phrasing, and put it up alongside the other announcements. I move on to help Els double-check whether the information about the remaining barrels was entered into her program correctly, but work is all—it’s different, somehow, messy, and time passes so quickly that I keep looking at the clock and being surprised at how it takes me two hours to do the simplest task, or thirty minutes for something that should’ve been done in ten. My thoughts are like papers scattered in the wind: every time I think I have them gathered and safe in my hands and start shifting them into the correct order, another gust makes them flutter out of reach.
At lunch, I sit with Els. I eat extra to make up for breakfast.
“It helps to eat together,” Els confides. “When I sit alone, people always need things from me. No wonder my colleagues eat elsewhere.”
We’re the quietest table: everyone else is all sharp voices, avid movements, talking about the Productivity Wars and thefts and increased security. At least I’m not the only one who’s stressed, I think wryly.
On our way back, Els receives a message on her tab. “You’re kidding,” she mutters. She waves through the projection with spread fingers to minimize it. “Captain ordered another search for the stolen barrels.”
“That’s bad?”
A second later, I answer my own question: yes, it’s bad. They’ll need to search my room again. Under the pillow, bottom of the mattress, inside my bag. They’ll search the kitchen Mom is in.
“It’s pointless. The barrels must be long gone. But they need my help with seeing how the food might’ve been divvied up and . . .” Els runs a hand through locks that got loose from her ever-present white bun. The movement is quick and annoyed. “You can get to the office yourself, right? You know what to do until I get back? I’ll message the guards to let you through without me.”
“Um—yes—”
Els is already gone.
I roll back and forth from heel to toes, then fire up my tab.
CHAPTER FIFTY
ANKE HASN’T BEEN INFORMED YET. Maybe ship management planned to tell her later on; maybe they kept the circle small since they suspected someone on the inside. Whichever is the case, when we meet on a stairwell near Els’s office, she asks for the third time, “You’re sure?”
“I heard it from Els Maasland. If they’re going to check the kitchens, we should move my mother somewhere safe. Where—”
“It’s ‘we’ now?” Anke picks at her nails and glares at me. “Last night, according to your sister, it was ‘This is all on you now; we go down, you go down.’”
“My mother won’t trust you,” I say, louder now. Anke shouldn’t interrupt me. I’m being good, damn it, I’m doing things, I’m taking action. “I’ll come along to tell her it’s safe. Where can we move her?”
I didn’t see Mom all of yesterday, and I haven’t seen her today. I’m not excited about the prospect of doing so now. I’m even less excited about the circumstances.
Iris has been the one visiting her. She’d be the one handling this, too, except her tab is still charging in our room and I don’t know where she’s working.
“Hush. People will hear.” Anke sighs. “Let’s go before they start the search properly.” She stalks down the hall. I follow, glancing around to see if anyone’s suspicious, but Anke has free rein as far as I can tell, and Els gave me permission to be down here alone.
It’s nearly two p.m. I’m late for work. Again.
Even as Anke contacts Max about the cameras, even as she scouts the hallways before waving at me to come in, even as I step into that kitchen for the first time since bringing Mom, I’m thinking I should be at work.
I tell Mom the situation. I watch her go pale and pack her bag—some clothes, the food Iris brought, a card game, a notebook. She’s spent a week alone, and she’s more frazzled, maybe, her hair messier, her clothes smellier, but the rest of her is the same.
Maybe she’s used to being alone.
Maybe she’s coping not via a card game and a notebook, but via a plastic baggie hidden somewhere in those clothes.
Maybe she’s just coping, period.
Either way, she reminds me of the people at the shelter. Except Mom’s hope will pay off.
Anke looks up from her tab. “OK. We’ll take her to the nap room. It’s where the engineers can rest without going all the way back to their quarters. The leadership is looking for supplies, not stowaways, and the room is bare enough that they’ll only need to do a cursory check. It’s not a long-term solution, but we can stick her in an engineer’s gear and bring her back after they’ve checked the kitchen. Max is handling the cameras again. Is that acceptable?” Her tone is venomous.
“I trust your judgment.” I keep my face stony. “You have as much hinging on this as we do.”
“Let’s go for it.” Mom smiles drowsily. I think she’s coming off a high. I try to look past her, but it still makes me feel so—so exposed, somehow, knowing that Anke knows. I want to grab her and say, See? You see? This is it, this is what I have to see every damn day, this is what nobody else sees, and at the same time, I just want to turn and run. I’ve learned how to act like Denise in front of people. I’ve never learned how to act like my mother’s daughter.
Mom wraps an arm around me and presses a kiss to my temple. “Thank you, thank you,” she murmurs. “It’ll be over soon. We’ll be flying soon.”
Behind Anke is a gleaming metal fridge. I stare at a distorted reflection of Mom draped over me, and me, stiffly waiting it out. Anke turns—to see what I’m looking at or to avoid watching me and Mom, I can’t tell—then jerks away as if her own reflection stings her.
Once Mom detaches, Anke thrusts Mom’s backpack at me. “Take this. People are used to seeing you with backpacks anyway. And get to work. If anyone asks Els about seeing you wandering, we’re in trouble.”
“What about your work?” I ask. “Will no one get suspicious?”
“Right now, my top task is resolving a dispute about the furniture in Dining Hall D. I’m good.”
“That furniture is very unstable,” I say, recalling the little bistro chairs.
Anke waves a hand at Mom. “I’ll get your mother out and come back to clean up. Acceptable?”
“You know what?” I’m too tired to hold back. “Just piss off. You started the blackmail, not us.”
I offer Anke my middle finger, wish Mom good luck, and leave the kitchen.
I stalk through the hallways, aiming for casual. People are used to seeing me with a backpack. I still avoid meeting
their eyes, like I always do: casual looks at store windows, at my tab, at traffic or paintings. This time, I study the viewing window running along one wall.
Outside, engineers buzz about on floating platforms, sticking within the ring of light surrounding the ship. On the far right, they’re transporting a massive metal plate over the water, partially via platforms, partially via thick cords attached to the ship. On the far left, a scooter zooms past with three engineers squeezed on top. A smaller shape is coming into sight at the end of the lit-up area. It’s long and narrow. Familiar.
My head cocks. The shape comes closer. It’s a canoe, like Iris’s—no, it is Iris’s. I recognize her silhouette as she gets up. She drags her canoe onto the ramp and is out of view seconds later.
She’s supposed to be working. Maybe Iris’s supervisor asked her to help outside. But she’s not an engineer, and what could she do so far from the ship, anyway? And if she’s doing work for the ship, why not take a scooter?
I keep walking, so lost in thought that I don’t notice that someone is sitting in Els’s chair until after I’ve sat down in my own.
“Hi,” Max says.
“What are you doing here?”
He’s got his legs drawn up and crossed. His beard scruff is sparse. “You told my mother to piss off.” The words sound serious, but his frown isn’t. He looks inconvenienced at worst, confused at best. “Our connection was still open when you said that.”
A projection hovers in front of him. It’s blocked from my angle, just a translucent sheet of white partially obscuring his face. He taps at it a few times.
I’m still half-stuck on Iris and her canoe. “You know what your mother is doing to us.”
“You broke the rules first.” He frowns deeper. “She wanted to save my cousin’s life. I’ve met the baby only a few times—we didn’t live close by—but my aunt and uncle asked Mirjam to babysit sometimes. Since this was after the impact, they wanted to save their resources. So Mirjam would go babysit. And, and, I don’t know. Mirjam’s not a baby person. I don’t get it. She’s not a baby person at all. You saw her. She liked . . . soccer, and smashing things with crowbars, and . . .”
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