This Splintered Silence

by Kayla Olson

  Leo’s face takes on a deep red flush, and so does mine; is he thinking about Heath and me? Because I am definitely thinking about Heath and me.

  “They were too still, though,” Leo continues. “Bram and Sawyer were nearby, saw Noël freak out when she discovered them unconscious, blood all over them.”

  “This is—I just—no,” I say. “Was anyone else around?”

  “I mean, yeah. It’s the mezzanine, you know? And it’s not like I was right there when they found them—Bram had to come looking for me. A crowd had gathered by the time I got there.”

  “A crowd? A crowd? How big of a crowd are we talking about?” It doesn’t make a difference, I realize, even as I say the words. If Noël had been the only one to see them, word still would have spread. If no one had seen them, word would have spread. Unlike Mila, the absence of Jaako and Kerr—the golden couple—would not have gone unnoticed.

  Heath comes to stand beside me, brimming with pent-up energy that could explode any second now. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. What are we going to do?”

  We need to figure out how to handle this; he’s right. But I’m stuck on a thought: Mila was not in the same circles as Jaako and Kerr, not even close. Their circles were polar opposites.

  So how is it that these three people—these three, who were never in contact with one another, especially since Kerr started spending so many nights at Jaako’s place—are the only ones who’ve died from the mutation? Lie low, linger, explode: there must be more at play here than with the original strain. Perhaps something in each person’s DNA determines how quickly they succumb to it? Or maybe they were the first in contact with the original strain, and it has only just now turned into something deadly?

  Whatever the reason, I have my work cut out for me.

  My buzz screen vibrates—Haven.

  “What’s going on, Lindley?” she says as soon as I connect. “Why am I hearing about two new deaths from twelve-year-old drama queen Josie Hewitt? You have to know about this by now, right? We need to hold an assembly immediately so we don’t lose everyone’s trust—I mean, if we haven’t already—we need—”

  “Haven. Stop.” I close my eyes, move into the kitchen, where I can talk without Leo and Heath watching me. “There’s no way we can assemble right now—that would be a complete disaster. Can you imagine how many questions? How volatile? I’m not giving any answers until after I have some time in the lab, and that’s the end of it.”

  “I told you we should have told them the truth right from the start,” she says. “You’re right, this is a complete disaster. And the longer you wait to address it, the less they’ll trust you. Sorry, but it’s true.”

  It is true, and I know it. But I don’t see any way around it. It isn’t like half answers and reassuring lies will win any trust, either. “I’ll talk to them. I will,” I say. “Just not today.”

  She sighs loudly on the other end of the call. For my benefit more than hers, I’m sure. “What do you want me to say, then? I assume you just want me to do some faceless announcement and tell them everything is fine, not to worry?”

  Faceless announcement, yes. They’d never believe everything is fine, though, not after this. They wouldn’t believe not to worry.

  “Tell them we’ve decided against holding an assembly because we’re spending time in the lab, and we’re focusing our efforts on how to stop the virus before it takes any more lives.” True enough. “Tell them it might not be hopeless, since it appears to be a different strain from what wiped out . . . everyone else.” Borderline lie, the it might not be hopeless part, but also true enough. “And tell them to report to Medical immediately if they notice any signs of the contagion taking over—coughing fits, bloodbubbles, anything out of character or unusual.”

  For once, Haven is quiet on the other end. “Quarantine?” she finally asks. “Curfew?”

  “Pointless,” I say. It isn’t like Mila spent a lot of time around Jaako or Kerr, but they are our only three dead. Several of us were right there after Mila died, but we’re still alive—proximity to the bloodbubbles themselves doesn’t seem to make much of a difference. “Pretty sure we’ve all already been exposed, and that it’s just a matter of time.”

  “I think I’ll leave that last part out,” she says drily.

  “Probably for the best.” The idea that we’ve all already been exposed is unnerving, when I really stop to dwell on it: Is it inside me right now? It would have to be, right? How much longer do I have? How much longer do I have to try to save all of us?

  How much longer will it even matter?

  27

  DROWNING IN AN HOURGLASS OF SAND

  THREE TONES CHIME through the speakers as I join Leo and Heath back in the main room of my suite. Haven’s voice fills the space, an undercurrent of energy despite the heavy news she delivers:

  “Attention, everyone, attention, please!” She pauses for a split second. “It is with great sadness that I bring you news of more death on Lusca’s decks, this time from our own generation. We your leaders wanted to address these tragedies immediately and reassure you that we are doing all we can to contain the virus before it spirals out of control. Only three lives have been lost at this point—Mila Harper, Kerr Barstow, and Jaako Solano—and we hope to lose not a single person more. We have reason to believe this mutation may not be as destructive as the one that wiped out the first generation, and are already doing lab work in search of a solution.”

  Leo raises his eyebrows at me, as I am clearly not already in the lab running tests. Close enough, though.

  “We your leaders ask that you please go on with your daily lives as normally as you can manage,” Haven continues. “There is no quarantine or curfew in place, which should be reassuring—we don’t think there is a need for such restrictions at this time.”

  I have to give Haven credit for spinning this in our favor so well: as if the lack of quarantine means there’s nothing to worry about, when really, it’s simply too late to make a difference.

  “Please report to Medical if you experience any unusual or worrying symptoms. If no one is there to receive you, you may use any public comm channel to call me—Haven—at any time. Seven-three-two-nine-star.”

  I make a mental note to thank Haven for her quick thinking. I hadn’t considered yet that no one is permanently stationed at Medical to receive patients. It’s not like I can hang out there all day, especially now that I’ll probably be eating and sleeping in the lab for the next long while—and I certainly don’t mind that Haven’s given her number out with an open invitation to contact her at any time. I’d rather not field those calls on top of everything else.

  “Thank you, everyone,” she says. “In the wake of these tragedies, I urge you all to be kind and be wise.”

  The speaker clicks off. I wait—wait—listening intently for the sound of silence devolving into chaos.

  Of course I know better than to assume it would happen that quickly, or that loudly. I think most things begin to fracture without anyone realizing it’s even happening, a sort of splintered silence that gives way all at once under too much weight, and without warning.

  Leo and Heath watch me, wordless, as I gather supplies for a long stint in the lab: my favorite hoodie; my pillow; the throw from my mother’s chair. I wish it were as easy to gather answers, or energy, or sanity.

  “Looks like I’ve got work to do,” I say, not meeting their eyes. “Leo, have Zesi send samples to the lab immediately. If one of you could arrange for Natalin to send food a couple times throughout the day, that might be nice, because I’ll probably forget to—”

  “Lindley,” Heath says. “Lindley.”

  When I finally look up at him, all I can focus on are his lips. My cheeks flame with guilt: for kissing him as Kerr and Jaako lay dead, and for wanting to kiss him again.

  “We’re here for you,” Leo says. “We’ve got your back, okay?”

  The night my mother died, it was Leo I sought. Leo who sat with me, back-
to-back like we had all those years ago, during the solar flare. Leo whose only words that entire pitch-black night were I’m here for you.

  For the first time in my life, I was without the one person I loved more than anything in the universe.

  Leo stayed with me. He didn’t have to say any more, or do any more—he was just there when I needed it. He’s always been there. If I’m honest, as honest as Heath thinks I am, I’m afraid things will shift between Leo and me if I let Heath come any closer. I’m afraid things are shifting already: there’s a new expression on Leo’s face now, one I can’t immediately place. I thought I knew all there was to know about him.

  And maybe I did. Maybe something new sprouted up when I wasn’t looking.

  Everything is shifting too fast, too suddenly. I want things to be like before, I want things to be safe and steady and not so sharp. I want my mother’s voice.

  I want.

  “What do you want to do about the Nautilus?” Heath asks as I head for the door. “You still want me to go for it?”

  I don’t know what I want.

  “Let me get some tests started, and after they process, we’ll talk more about it,” I say. “Be ready in about an hour—let’s meet in SSL this time.” I can’t think of a place more peaceful and quiet than SSL, with its rows and rows of pillars, of life on hold. Maybe I’ll even start sleeping there. If I sleep for long enough, maybe I can freeze time, too.

  28

  FLOCKS OF FLIES

  IT TAKES LESS than a minute before they start to swarm: a girl at the end of my hall, a pair of guys around the next turn. Heath and Leo flank me, dismiss the questions, push them away.

  Over. And. Over.

  It was never like this before, back when none of us had such a driving need for why. Everyone mostly kept to their cliques, or kept to themselves, hanging out in their cabins or the rec center, or studying in the various learning hubs scattered throughout our decks. Now, though, it’s like they’re afraid to be alone, like they crave the comfort of the herd. The learning hubs have been deserted lately; the rec center is a ghost town.

  What felt so solid before—who we were, who we’d become—all we thought we knew—it’s all been stripped away and reconfigured by the knife of tragedy.

  Nothing is certain anymore.

  Everyone wants answers I can’t possibly give, and not only in regard to the deaths.

  By the time we get to Portside, where I’ll run the blood tests, Heath and Leo have to physically shield me—and the sliding door—as I slip inside, alone. It is a very good thing this lab is passcode protected. It is a very good thing the doors are stronger than they look.

  If only they were soundproof.

  I don’t envy Heath and Leo right now, having to fight them off on their way out the door. In fact, I’m not sure they’ll be able to break through that crowd anytime soon.

  I buzz Zesi, and he picks up immediately. “Hey, Lindley—kind of a bad time right now—”

  “Tell me about it,” I mutter. “Listen, I don’t care how you get samples to me, but I need blood from Jaako and Kerr as soon as possible, okay?”

  In the background, a frantic voice peppers Zesi with questions. Just one, though, it sounds like. “Who’s with you?” I ask.

  “River,” he says. “He’s scared because he can’t find Leo, and he got locked out again.”

  “I swear, when I get a spare second, I’m tattooing that code on the kid’s arm.” You’d think, at eight years old, he could remember a six-digit number. “Leo’s here at Portside,” I say. “Just bring River with you, okay? You’re a lifesaver, Zesi, the best. I’ll see you soon.” I rush the words and tap out before he can protest.

  The crowd is still thick outside my lab doors, still thick and loud. I need something to drown out the noise, something other than the blood rushing in my head. Usually the hum of the refrigerator is enough to calm me down, but now all I hear are their accusations: You said we were safe! You said there was nothing to worry about! You lied about Mila! I don’t know for sure that those are direct quotes—it’s hard to pick out entire thoughts from the chorus—but those are the words I hear.

  There’s an old data pod in the drawer filled with music from Earth, but its charger cable has been misplaced for a while now. I have a feeling it’s tangled in the knot of spare cables over at one of the dormant scope stations. Usually I prefer silence while working—still do—so I haven’t bothered to dig the cable out before now. It’ll be a little bit before Zesi arrives with the samples, though, and with how spotless it is in here, I can’t even clean to calm my nerves.

  I get to digging. The knot of cables is easy to find, like a lone tumbleweed in an otherwise empty desert. There must be at least fifteen different strands tangled together, thick and thin and barely there. I see the one I need hopelessly woven throughout all the other cables.

  It is the perfect project.

  I pick and pull, worry at knots, loosen one area just to find another impossible snag. Already, I feel calmer. More capable. If I’d known how effective it would be to sort through this mess—this meaningless mess, for once—I’d have done it a long time ago. Perhaps I’ll knot everything back up when I’m finished, for next time.

  I’m plugging the charger into the data pod when Zesi arrives. The crowd has thinned outside my door, I realize, now that I’m paying attention again—and it looks like Leo isn’t there anymore. The sliding door opens; Zesi breezes in, leaving River alone on the other side of it.

  “Can’t stay,” Zesi says, “but here you go. Leo collected some of this as soon as he found them, and I picked up the rest.” He places an array of samples on my island—not just blood this time, but tubes of saliva and hair samples, too. “Need anything else?” he says, already heading back to the door.

  What don’t I need?

  “Can you try putting in a call to Shapiro when you get back up to Control?” I ask. “It wouldn’t connect earlier.”

  He grimaces. “That . . . doesn’t sound good,” he says. “But yeah, I’ll check it out.”

  “Buzz me ASAP if you get through,” I say. “Leo and Heath tell you we’re meeting at SSL in just under an hour?”

  He nods. “I’ll be there.”

  And as quickly as he arrived, he’s gone.

  I smooth my hair back, adjust the pins, and get to work.

  Just as I did with Mila’s sample, I prepare the slides, one each for Jaako and Kerr. These results should be much clearer since the blood is so fresh. It’s sickening and surreal to have blood on the plates at all, but for Jaako and Kerr? Who woke up this morning, just like I did? They were golden, and beloved, and in love.

  Not one of us is untouchable.

  When the concentrated stain is ready, I immerse the plates and leave them to rest for the requisite ten minutes. I scan the room for something to do while the time passes, but there’s nothing to clean, nothing to untangle. I check the data pod instead; it’s finally holding enough of a charge to turn on. I scroll through the list of artists: Whitney Houston. Michael Jackson. Prince. I pick one at random—“Kiss,” by Prince—and the music fills the room, its poppy beat echoing over all the lab’s hard, sterile surfaces.

  It’s so sunny, so upbeat. So stark a contrast to the death on the plates before me, to the darkness I feel. The music defuses my tension in a way silence never has: it helps me focus on something light for once. Helps me feel something light. When it ends, I press repeat and listen to it all over again.

  My timer goes off at ten minutes, and I cut Prince off mid-word. If I’m not careful, I could lose myself in an endless loop of sunny distraction. Now, though, it’s time to focus. All the darkness of this bleak reality comes rushing back in when I see the results.

  They’re not any clearer than Mila’s were.

  In fact, they look exactly the same. Exactly as blurred—exactly as useless.

  I don’t know what the problem is, but I know it isn’t with my process. My process is perfection.

&
nbsp; I could easily explain away a single failed test, especially given our issues with proper sample storage. But three? With samples even fresher than some of the ones we took during the initial wave of CRW-0001? It’s unheard of in this lab.

  This is odd, this is unsettling. This isn’t right.

  29

  FRACTAL

  IT’S STILL TWENTY minutes until our meeting at SSL, but I can’t take another second in Portside. The lab results have shaken me up, and I need to clear my head.

  I take the most circuitous route I can think of—up three decks, aft toward the generator room, cross over to starboard, take the stairs back down, where they’ll dump me out around the corner from the lab. It’s quiet, as I suspected. I’ve never had need to go from Portside to SSL like this before—on a normal day, I would have just walked across the deck. On normal days I never have need to go to SSL at all.

  I’ll have to remember this route, now that normal is a thing of the past.

  SSL is blessedly empty when I enter. After finding Yuki and Grace hiding out in here, part of me worried it would happen again. For once, though, something has gone as it should.

  I make my way around the pillars, over to the far wall. Unlike Portside, which is bright and white and windowless, there are no overhead lights in SSL except for a few spotlights around the main lab area—it’s lit almost entirely by the glow of the pillars. Also unlike Portside, SSL has an enormous panoramic view of the galaxy on this far wall. Given how dark it is in here, the stars seem to shine even brighter than usual.

  I take a seat on the floor, draw my knees up to my chest. What is happening? How is it that, with everything shifting and our problems constantly blooming into complicated fractals, the one constant I’ve come to depend on—the scientific method—has degenerated right along with everything else? How are my tests suddenly useless? It just makes no sense.

  I’ll do tests on the saliva next, I guess. I’ll do tests on the hair if I have to, not that the virus will show up there, but maybe just to prove to myself that I still know how to examine a sample—that I haven’t completely lost my mind.