by Kayla Olson
Nothing else seems to be, I want to say.
“Get a gurney, get her to Medical. Get the guys to help.” It’s as much of an answer as I can give. I sift through the litany of first-aid procedures I memorized years ago, at Dr. Safran’s insistence. “Find a clean cloth—rip a shirt apart if you have to—and press it to the wound for the next fifteen minutes at least. And don’t use your bare hands, there are latex gloves in Portside, have Leo run for them while Zesi and Heath get the gurney.” I rattle off instructions, while at the same time running scenarios in my head on how to treat the injury. She passed out before she hit her head, so her lack of consciousness isn’t necessarily a sign of a concussion—and the wound does look relatively small, even though it is in a sensitive place. I think a bit of antiseptic and a few stitches with a sterilized needle will go a long way. As for what made her pass out in the first place . . . I wish I had an easy answer.
“Okay,” Natalin says, hands shaking. She looks around for help, some sort of reassurance, but the guys are still herding away the last of the gawking onlookers. “Okay, we can do this. I can do this.”
I leave her, alone with the dead and the bleeding, trusting that she and Leo and Heath and Zesi will get the job done.
I’m halfway up to Medical when I come out of crisis-mode fog and I realize: I’ve just put a world’s worth of trust in my short list of murder suspects.
51
A SEA OF THORNS AND GLASS
I DO MY best to block out how little time I have to prepare, how very many urgent things I’ll need to take care of once I finish stitching Haven’s wound. I set my buzz notifications to do not disturb, just for now, so I can focus while I work on her. Seconds blur to minutes, chaos blurs to blackness. By the time Zesi and Heath deliver Haven to me on that wretched squeaky-wheeled gurney, my focus is as narrow and sharp as the needle in my hand.
“Do . . . you need any help, Linds?” Heath looks as shell-shocked as I feel, eyes tired from taking in blast after merciless blast.
“Not a two-person job,” I say. “But thanks.”
He wants to say something else, I can tell—he hesitates, lips slightly parted like there are words on the tip of his tongue—but then his mouth falls shut. He dips his head. “Need anything, just let us know, okay?”
I give him a tight-lipped smile, the best I can muster. I’m not in the mood for small talk, or a pep talk, or any kind of talk—I just want to get this over with already. Heath and Zesi take the hint, leave without another word.
“Okay, Haven,” I whisper, when it’s just me and her unconscious body, which looks too much like death. “I’m going to get you through this.” I slip a tiny tablet into her mouth, under her tongue, count to ten while it dissolves; this way, she won’t wake when my needle pierces her skin.
I clean the wound, dab at the blood, which has already started to dry. The antiseptic has a strong chemical smell that brings me straight back to the day Dr. Safran first taught me how to stitch a person up. It seems like a lifetime ago that he was here with me, right in this very room, guiding my every move. My hands trembled viciously that night I first learned—we’d just sterilized the wound and were about to stitch up a six-foot-six tech who’d had a bad run-in with a low steel beam. Count to five, and slowly, Dr. Safran told me. I did as he said, and it worked, my hands steadying with each passing second.
Today I pass five—and ten—and fifteen—before the shaking stops.
I make careful stitches with the curved needle, a perfect row of x’s sewn in dark navy thread. It isn’t a deep wound, and it isn’t a terribly long one, either—a few minutes later, the job is done. Haven breathes lightly, looking more like a sleeping princess now that I’ve cleaned her up. She’ll wake when the meds I gave her wear off.
If only I could solve all our problems so neatly: focus, plan, fix.
While she’s out, I take the opportunity to swab inside her mouth. If what happened to her is at all related to the strain that took Nautilus out, it should show up in test results. She didn’t get a nosebleed, though—and even though it looks like the deaths over there happened more immediately than the ones here, her collapse seems like it was a little too immediate. I prepare the test using Dr. Safran’s equipment, right here in Medical. Sit. Wait.
I lean my elbows on the cool metal of the gurney, rest my head in my palms. What are we going to do? No way our people will eat the Nautilus food now, not after what happened with Haven—even if the test comes back clean, I doubt I’ll be able to convince them it’s fine. We’ll have to stretch what little food we have left from our own shipment. And I still haven’t had a chance to run labs on the water sample yet—what if it’s tainted? The panels looked promising back in the hydro chamber, but if there’s anything today taught me, appearances aren’t reliable. Story picked those pouches out from the shelf right before my eyes, and they looked fine to both of us, unexpired with an unbroken seal. Something happened with the food, no question there. Maybe she just got a bad batch, and took it all in too quickly? Can a person pass out from simply being so disgusted that their body overcompensates to block all memories of it happening?
Maybe it really is time to swallow my pride. It seemed like such a risk before to reach out to Vonn—but at this point, what isn’t? He could bring another shipment. Our people would eat it, I’m certain of it, because if the station on Radix is all alive and well, their food can’t possibly be contaminated. I was afraid of looking weak before, of looking like we can’t run the station every bit as well as our parents did—
But, well.
We’re doing our best. It isn’t enough.
I’m doing my best and there’s still a serial killer within our walls. I’ve dreamed, for so long, of running the station every bit as well as my mother did—I’ve dreamed of earning my place.
I never dreamed of this.
There’s a light knock on the glass behind me. I look over my shoulder, see that Heath has returned. He makes a motion, like Mind if I join you?
I’m too tired to tell him no.
Heath slips through the doors after I wave him in, and retrieves Medical’s second silver stool. Dr. Safran preferred that one, even though they’re practically identical—the only difference is that the wheels on his are worn down to the quick from years of use. I haven’t touched it since he passed.
“How’re you holding up?” Heath asks, pulling the stool close to mine. Not too close. Just close.
“I . . .” I look around the sterile room, look for answers on the walls. The walls are blank.
All I want is to know I can trust Heath, to know I can trust everyone again. That, and I want the memory of him and Natalin, there in the hydro chamber, gone from my mind. You have no idea what you overheard, Heath snapped at me, just before we rushed off to the mezzanine.
“Linds?”
His eyes are like fire turned to ashes. I’ve never seen him look this . . . defeated.
“I’m sorry,” he begins. A second passes where he can’t meet my eyes; when he looks back at me again, they’re sparkling and sad. “In the hydro chamber—what you heard—Natalin was trying to convince me you could handle the truth, all of it.” His gaze drops again, and this time, it stays there. “I didn’t think it was a good idea. I’m sorry, Linds. I know you’re stronger than that. I just—I didn’t want you to break, is all, and I thought maybe it’d be best if we just tried to handle things ourselves.” His fingers tap a slow, nervous rhythm on the gurney near a wave of his sister’s silky blonde hair.
“That’s what you were arguing about?” Haven’s odd comment makes much more sense—We’re all trying not to add more to your plate right now, she’d said. “Does everyone think they need to walk on eggshells around me?” I struggle to keep my voice from shaking, from rising. It’s hard enough to admit to myself that I might not be strong enough or smart enough or enough enough to save my people.
It’s another thing entirely to hear it from Heath: that he thinks I’m breaking, breakable.
So much so that they need to hide the truth.
“I’m sorry, Lindley. You’ve just been through so much lately, and putting so much pressure on yourself—” He cuts himself off with a rough exhale. “We thought we could fix things without you having to stress about it.”
And just like that, the sharp blade of my own logic cuts clean through my heart: Have I not been doing the exact same thing?
I didn’t want the station to panic, so I hid the truth. I thought I could fix everything before they ever had to know there was even a problem.
But people have died under my watch—and not from the virus. Four people have died.
I’ve been operating under the assumption that I’d only make things worse if I told them the truth, but perhaps that isn’t the case at all. Perhaps they’d be alert, not more reckless. Perhaps the deaths would stop entirely if the murderer knew so many eyes were trained toward suspicious behavior.
“I committed myself to this sort of stress when I stepped up as commander,” I say. “I asked for it.”
Heath nods, presses his lips into a thin line.
“What?”
His buzz screen vibrates, but he silences it at once. For another brief second, he hesitates, then says, “It’s just—none of us knew what we were getting into, Linds. It’s okay to feel out of your depth, you know?”
“Is it? Is it really?” I close my eyes, but all I see is Indigo’s face, her body still and unmoving on the mezzanine’s cold, hard floor. Nothing left but her empty, blank stare. “I can’t solve a problem if I don’t know it exists,” I say. “And I appreciate the sentiment, but from now on, please pass it on that I decide when I’m out of my depth.” He suddenly feels far too close, even though he hasn’t budged a centimeter since sitting down beside me. I stand, pace to the far side of the room, busy myself with Haven’s test results. They’re as clean as my lab on a stressful day, which should be good—great!—except that I still have no idea what could’ve made her pass out. Added to that, clean lab work doesn’t necessarily rule out the possibility of a new strain being present on our station; it only means Haven’s collapse was not the result of one.
I just want answers. I want easy. I close my eyes, grip the counter’s ledge until I feel my fingertips go numb.
“We can’t solve problems we don’t know exist, either, you know.” His voice is like shattered glass—broken, and with the sharpest edges. “You tell Leo your secrets, but you can’t tell me? You can trust me, you know you can. Let me help, Linds.”
I am out of my depth. Far, far out of my depth. Drowning, nearly.
But I can’t afford to trust anyone but myself. If I ask for help—in solving the murders, particularly—how do I know I’m not asking the killer for help? I don’t. Confiding my suspicions would only give the killer inside knowledge, an advantage in how to further avoid being found out.
Part of me wants to sit back on my stool, let him see every fear and every worry, talk his ear off for hours in strategy. When this is all over, I’ll ask his forgiveness. He’ll understand why I can’t tell him, he will. He’ll have to. I hope.
I can’t meet his eyes. “I shouldn’t have even told Leo,” I say, keeping my voice even. This is a prime example of how I can’t assume anyone is a safe place for my trust, not even my closest friends: Leo spilled the most sensitive secret I ever told him, and now Heath—good intentions notwithstanding—has wrapped a thorny layer of guilt around the burdens I’m carrying.
He starts to speak, but I change the subject abruptly before he can begin. “I’m going to put a call in to Vonn tonight. I think it’s time we take them up on those supplies from Radix.”
“But aren’t you worried—”
“Stay here with Haven until she wakes up,” I say, speaking right over him. “Send me a buzz when she’s up, or else I’ll worry. Shouldn’t be more than half an hour.”
“Linds—”
“Thanks for checking on me, Heath. We’ll talk more later, I promise.”
I slip out of Medical without a backward glance. I’m headed to Control, about to do the thing I swore I’d never do: ask that the man who showed less than zero respect to my mother please send help.
We may be indebted to him forever, and I may sacrifice my dignity, but at least we’ll be alive.
52
HALF-GLOW
THE SMELL OF days-old coffee hits me full force as the doors to Control slide open. Leo must’ve left the auxiliary lights on when he was here last; they bathe everything in a dim half-glow that makes the room feel like it’s on its dying breaths.
Something about the half-light, and the stale smell, and the stillness of this silence, digs under my skin like splintered glass. All at once, I realize: there is no going back. There is no like before.
No amount of effort to save the station—if I can even manage that at this point—can bring Lieutenants Brady and Black back to their places at the Control deck. No amount of effort can rewind time, send us hurtling down a path far away from the nightmare we’ve been living in.
Nothing can bring back my mother.
I close my eyes, try for just a few seconds to remember what it felt like to have her here, to not have death shadowing my every move. Time ticks by as I grasp at ghosts: Hers. Mine.
When all of this settles, will I ever feel truly alive again?
Not when, I correct myself. If.
What would my mother think of my decision to reach out for help from Vonn? It feels like a betrayal, in a way. Like all of her sleepless nights, and all of her stubborn resolve, were for nothing: like in one swift call, I’d be saying You were right all along, Vonn. We’d be nothing without you. I can’t help but think about how he may help us live but would never let us live it down.
In desperation, though, I think my mother would arrive at the same conclusion I have: saving lives is more important than saving pride.
I slide onto a metal stool, identical to the ones we have in Medical, and roll over to the panel deck’s message screen. I mentally prepare myself for the call as I pull up the directory, hope the systems on Radix have better connectivity than the ones down in Nashville. But as I swipe past our call history, I notice three new calls in the log—three new calls from Shapiro! I take a closer look: they’re all dated today, just this past half hour, two of them flagged as missed. The third is timestamped at three minutes long.
He’s alive—Shapiro is alive!
And this is not the way I should be finding out about it. My blood goes from relief to simmer to boil in an instant. I buzz Leo immediately, without hesitation. As far as I know, he’s the only one who’s been around Control today, to look over the vid-feeds.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d spoken with Shapiro?” My words are a swarm of wasps before he even says hello. “I shouldn’t be finding this out from a blasted communications log, Leo. You know how anxious I’ve been to get in touch with him!”
“He’d called twice before—twice in a row—”
“That’s when you call me. Not him.”
Leo’s exhale crackles loudly in my ear. “You were stitching Haven up when he called, Linds, and I panicked, okay? I tried buzzing Heath to see if he could let you know, but he didn’t answer, so eventually I just picked up.”
“You could have at least sent me a message.”
“I did.”
I don’t believe him—but when I check, sure enough, there it is: Shapiro calling. Should I answer or wait for you? Looks like I completely forgot to switch off do not disturb. Fortunately, it doesn’t look like I missed anything else.
“He was only calling to check in on us, that’s it. But he asked to speak with . . . with your mother?”
The bottom drops out of my stomach. “And what did you tell him?” I say carefully.
Leo’s not the only one who’s been less than honest. I should have told him the truth about the conversation I had with Shapiro. I should have told Shapiro the truth. I would have, if I’d gotten the chance.
&nb
sp; “I told him she was unavailable. That’s it, I swear, Linds.” He waits a beat, then adds, “What did you tell him?”
I bite my lip. “I told him I was her.”
He’s quiet on the other end. He doesn’t heap burning coals on my head, like: How could you? or How could you keep that from me? He doesn’t drag me through fire.
He must know he has no room to talk. He really could have tried harder than just sending me a single text half an hour ago.
“So that’s it, then?” I ask when he doesn’t offer any more. “Did he ask you to pass her a message?” It doesn’t sit quite right, that he’d call three times in a row after such an ominous stretch of silence, ask for my mother, and say nothing else. I told him we were holding up well, last we spoke—and would he not trust my mother’s word implicitly?
Of course, he’s probably been every bit as worried about us as I’ve been about them—and he’d be right to be worried. He doesn’t even know the half of it.
My heart twists at the thought of Shapiro finding out my mother is dead. Not just because there will surely be consequences for my lies, but because I know how it feels to be wrung out by grief. Of blood and sweat and tears running dry—like life is being drained, leaving nothing behind but dust—because how can you go on like today is just any other day when she can’t? When she never will again?
“He didn’t leave a message, no,” Leo says. I hear a noise in the background, steel scraping steel, and then a resounding thud.
“What was that?”
“That was Zesi attempting to move Indigo Sutton without my help.” He cuts himself off abruptly, then says, “Wait—you did want us to take care of the body like usual, right?”
I resist the urge to tear my hair out. Indigo was almost certainly not a murder victim, judging by the details that don’t add up—but, I mean, performing an autopsy would have been good to do, just to make sure. What kind of detective am I—or scientist, for that matter—if I operate purely based on empirical assumptions?