by Kayla Olson
“And if I didn’t?” I ask, knowing the answer before it leaves his mouth.
“Too late, as of . . . ten seconds ago.” He sighs on the other end. “Sorry, Linds. I totally screwed up, thought I was being helpful by just taking initiative.”
I close my eyes, count to five. Try to keep the full weight of my ever-increasing suspicion from exploding. “It’s okay,” I say, more to myself than to Leo. “It isn’t like I have extra time for an autopsy right now anyway.”
He’s dead silent on the other end of the call. I wait, knowing him well enough to be sure it isn’t for lack of things he’d like to say—sometimes it simply takes him a minute to put his thoughts into words.
“I’m sorry, Linds,” he says finally. “I don’t know what to tell you. I wish I could fix it, but—”
“I get it,” I say. Because what else is there to say? Another long silence stretches between us. Unlike before, though—unlike ever before—it just feels like empty space.
“Do . . . you want me up there with you?” he asks, and, oh—
Suddenly it feels like we’re talking about something else entirely.
I pause for a split second too long, processing it all, but just as I’m about to answer, he says, “You know, never mind—I actually need to take care of a few things for River back at our cabin.”
“Okay,” I say automatically. “Good luck with that.”
I had just been about to tell him not to come, anyway. So why are these tears springing up in my eyes?
Nothing is predictable these days, not even me.
“Leo . . . we’ll talk again in a bit, okay?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”
I close my eyes, not entirely certain how to gracefully end the call. Soon, though, his silence turns flat, and I know: he’s cut it off first.
53
WHITE-HOT BLACK HOLE
AIMLESSLY, I SWIPE my finger across the panel deck’s message screen several times in a row, a repetitive motion that’s calming for my nerves. I’m not looking for anything in particular—yet to my surprise, the image on-screen shifts to another inbox, one I’ve never seen before. What is this?
I take a deep breath, shake things off. Focus on the screen, not on how I left things with Leo.
An indicator proclaims New Messages: 2—but there’s a closed padlock icon beside it. I tap the padlock and six empty rectangles appear on the screen, along with a keypad. It looks just like every entry panel where we have to input our codes for access.
I try the universal code I already know, but it’s rejected immediately. Whose inbox is this? All other communication has come through the main channel, so it’s logical that Lieutenants Brady and Black used that one on a regular basis. Shapiro even called for my mother on that line—so what is this one?
Padlock icon, hidden behind the main screen, no flashing indicator light to call attention to it: the only thing I can come up with is that it is for top-secret private messages, an inbox meant for a very select set of eyes and ears.
The person of highest rank was my mother.
What if Shapiro didn’t leave a message with Leo because it was so sensitive he had to do it in private? What if these two new messages are from him—what if they change everything? That would add up to five urgent calls in a row this morning. It would probably be smart to be informed before reaching out for help.
If this inbox was my mother’s, surely I can crack the code . . . eventually. I don’t have eventually, though. All I have is this moment.
Six boxes. Her first name—Linsey—is six letters long, but that would be so easy to crack it is not even worth considering. Still, I try it, because watch it be so simple it’s impossible.
Rejected.
Okay, then. I run through as many iterations of birthdays and initials as I can think of—hers, mine. I don’t know very much about my father, except that my mother would never talk about him and that it had something to do with flight school.
But, ahhh—what if—
My mother took the same day off, every single year, and devoted it entirely to us time. We’d play cards by the fire, drink hot cocoa with huge marshmallows Shapiro sent up for us—at her insistence, I’m sure—and connect the stars for each other, each trying to come up with the most creative constellation for every letter of the alphabet. A for Armchair, B for Bicycle, C for Crown, D for Dragonfly, and on and on. We took turns, but she always won—my scope of knowledge was rather limited, especially when I was younger, to what I’d grown up with on the station. She taught me about so many Earth things, though. With my head in her lap, her gentle hand smoothing my hair until it was soft as silk, I’d search the stars and try to imagine how a real dragonfly might move. We’d often end up forgetting the game altogether as she told me story after story, until I fell asleep.
She never told me why we celebrated that particular day, and I never asked. All I know is that I always looked forward to it, the one day each year when I had my mother’s full attention. June 6 was the date—I try several combinations with our mutual initials, LH0606 and 0606LH and L0606H, and then I flip them all backward.
Finally, finally, one combination works: 060654.
Our special day plus my birth year.
As I suspected, one of the messages is from Shapiro, timestamped immediately after the call Leo answered. The other is from a garble of letters and numbers that is confusing and slightly alarming.
I tap Shapiro’s first.
Linsey, he says, his voice clear in the speaker, a young male answered when I called Control just now—a breach of protocol, as you are aware. I’m contacting you here so said breach will remain off the main record, encrypted, for the protection and security of your position. But Lins, I—I’m so sorry we went completely dark for so long. We’ve finally resumed control over our own systems after suffering a cyberattack coordinated by the Antarcticans.
I blink, surprised. Of all the scenarios I’d considered, that was not on my radar at all.
When you didn’t answer, he goes on, I feared the worst. I know you well enough to know you’d never breach protocol unless you were far in over your head.
To say the least, I think.
Nautilus has been similarly unresponsive, though the body heat sensors aboard their station unfortunately confirm our greatest fears—there’ve been no survivors. He pauses, takes a deep breath. Oddly, their sensors picked up an aberration in body heat just yesterday—it’s suspect, to say the least. And as far as Lusca goes, your heat readings don’t line up with what you told me on our most recent call.
My stomach twists. This . . . is not good. How can I possibly come clean without burning the final splinters of my dreams to ash? I’m going to have to, of course. It’s just not going to be pleasant.
I was actually calling with good news, he goes on, but I fear I may be too late. I wanted to reassure you that we were still able to launch a fresh batch of supplies for you as planned—and we’ve managed to push the birds to about 1.6 times their usual speed. You can expect them to make contact in just under four days.
I do the math—four days—four days! It’s so close we might not have to ask for Vonn’s intervention after all! We can stretch our supplies just long enough, if all of us eat only the bare essentials. If the station will eat at all, anyway—but as long as Haven makes a full recovery, that shouldn’t be as much of a problem. Hopefully.
There are a number of deeply concerning issues here, to say the least, he says, but I trust there must be a logical explanation for it all. We’ll talk head counts and refresher teams when this is over, Lins, since you’ve obviously got the world on your shoulders—and—and I hope this shipment will help. I hope . . . His voice cracks, breaks. I hope you’re holding up okay. He clears his throat. All my love, Lins. Call when you can, but take care of your people first.
Tears sting my eyes. All my love.
For once, I don’t try to stop them. I’ve held it together long enough, and no one is here to see
me fall apart, and I just. Can’t. Help it. I’m not even entirely sure what this flood of emotion is made of—grief? Relief? Relief for the shipment, for sure, and relief that the topic of relocation is tabled for now. Also, though, because it’s an enormous weight off to realize I’m not the only one left who loves her so fiercely. While there are billions of stars still in the sky, I can’t help but wish for one more, the one so bright it burned out too fast.
When Shapiro finds out the truth, he’ll feel the exact same way, I know he will. I hate it for him just like I hate it for me. For the first time in weeks, though, I don’t feel utterly alone.
I take a moment, two, three—time I don’t have, but time I need. I let myself remember her, even though it makes me feel broken. So much of me was tied up in her. She’d be proud of me, I think. All I want is to hear her voice, feel her soft hands in my hair as she tells me about fireflies and zebras and what snow is like as it melts on your tongue, as she tells me I’ve done enough—that I am enough.
I’m not sure I’d ever actually believe it. It would still be nice to hear.
Minutes pass, I don’t know how many. After a little while, when my eyes are far past dry, I lift my head. Take a deep breath. Pull myself together.
I tap on the second message, the one from the garbled username. My blood runs cold as soon as I hear the voice, a bass so low and gravelly it feels like fire to my ears.
Vonn here, the voice says, as if his two words aren’t nuclear bombs to the relief I’d just started to feel. Heard from Shapiro there’s been a breach of protocol under your watch, he goes on. You and I have never seen eye to eye, but if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you’re too stubborn to risk a breach.
Shapiro instructed me to wait it out, but he’ll be sorry to hear I’m going over his head on this one—his judgment is beyond clouded by the feelings we all know he has for you, Hamilton, and the board is with me on this.
Before you hang up on me, hear me out.
We have confirmation that the Antarcticans infected our Earth-based systems units with a virus, in an attempt to seize control over all intergalactic operations; the board and I are concerned that the man Shapiro spoke with on your Control deck might actually be one of them. If they’ve sent someone to strip our off-planet systems, it would also explain the body heat abnormality detected on Nautilus. Call me paranoid or call me brilliant—I don’t care what you call me, as you are well aware—but we’re already on our way, an entire speed fleet, and are prepared to take out any unfriendly presence before it has a chance to strike first.
Reach out if you’re still there, Hamilton, using the handle attached to this call in the log—but be aware, we may not answer if we’re in dark space.
Vonn, over and out.
I sit, stunned, do the math in my head. Speed fleet is code for max velocity, which means they won’t be loaded down with supplies—supply shipments take two to three times longer, if I’m remembering right. Heath would know this off the top of his head.
Two days. Two days, and an entire fleet will be here, ready to attack. I have no idea how much of that is dark space, but I’m guessing quite a lot—especially on the first half of their trip, since they’re so far out. They’d be close enough to Radix to borrow its satellites for a little while, but by now, at the speed they’d need to travel to get here so quickly . . . they’d be well out of range already, I’d estimate.
I call the garbled handle, ten—twenty—thirty—unsuccessful attempts in a row. Not even a message system picks up.
Over and over, I jam my finger at the screen, as if pressing harder will make any difference at all. I keep going, don’t even notice the door slide open behind me or Haven’s presence at my back before she speaks:
“What are you doing?”
“I . . .” I spin around, slowly, to face her. “We need . . . I need to call an emergency meeting.”
“Yeah,” she says. “We do.” She takes in my face, bites her lip in concern. “This is the last thing you want to hear right now, I know, but—there’ve been three more. Three more deaths, like . . . like Mila. Like Jaako and Kerr.”
In the vast, arid place where so many of my conflicting feelings have strangled each other’s roots, one last tough weed sprouts up like a vine: I thought I was far past numb, maxed out on feeling anything after feeling so many things, so strongly, tonight. I was wrong.
“Call the meeting,” I say, through my teeth. “We’ll have it here, right now.”
I’m shaking, livid. This has to stop.
It should have stopped a long time ago. I could have warned them, and I didn’t.
I didn’t.
Three. More.
I can’t stop shaking.
Our secrecy ends tonight.
54
SEVEN AND COUNTING
“SEVEN,” I SAY, once the others have joined Haven and me in Control. “We’ve lost seven.”
All six of us are here; I look from face to face. Despite our various shades of skin, despite our height or lack of it, despite our each and every difference, in this moment we are all the same: Exhausted. Defeated. Sparks of fire simmer in our eyes, even so.
“This. Must. End.” I can’t meet their eyes for long. There are too many faces I want to trust, too many faces I’ve trusted forever. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe the killer isn’t one of us after all, maybe whoever did it set everything up as one giant distraction so we’d focus our investigation inward. Maybe I’ve been looking in the wrong place all along. I hope I’m wrong. I want to be wrong.
But just in case I’m not, I can’t show my hand.
If I’m right, and if I’m the only person close to finding out the truth, what would a killer naturally do to protect themselves? Take out the one person who could shine a spotlight on all of their shadows.
I can’t give my suspicions away.
“Seven is too many,” I say. “One was too many.”
“Let us help you, then,” Haven says. “You’ve been taking everything on alone, and you don’t have to, Lindley. That’s what we’re here for, right? You don’t have to do this alone. Your mother didn’t.”
Your mother didn’t. It stings like salt on raw skin. “This isn’t about me. And it certainly isn’t about my mother.”
“I’m just saying, maybe we’d be more effective as a team. Y’know, like we initially decided when we took over? As a group?”
The thing is, I agree with her. And I want help, more than anything.
I only wish I knew for sure that I could trust them.
I take a deep breath. “I’m going to tell the station the truth,” I say. “All of it. Everything. They need to know there’s no threat of viral mutation at this point—they need to know there’s a killer within our walls. No one else needs to die.” I think of our latest victims: two girls, Nieva Taylor and Emme Davenport, found dead in an alcove with Sailor Salvato, who was slumped over his guitar. “Maybe if they know to be on guard, they’ll be alert and aware. Maybe someone will even catch the killer in the act of trying.” And maybe, I think, the killer won’t try at all if they know so many eyes will be watching out for suspicious behavior.
“You don’t think they’ll panic when they find out?” Zesi says, shaking his dreads away so both eyes are clearly visible.
“They . . . might?” I say. “But it can’t be any worse than the party earlier, right?” Let’s hope, anyway. “I think that particular risk is worth it.”
“I think we should’ve told them a long time ago,” Heath says. It’s not lost on me how he says we. Like the blame doesn’t clearly fall just on my shoulders. Like we’ve been acting as a team, even though I really have been going lone ranger for so much of this, like Haven said.
I glance at him, send him a silent thank you with my eyes. “Any objections?” I ask, more as a formality than anything. The least I can give, basically, to make it seem like a team effort instead of just a me effort.
For a long moment, no one says a word. Finally, Leo clap
s his hands together. “Well,” he says, “that’s settled. We’ll tell them first thing in the morning?”
“I was thinking we’d tell them tonight, right after we’re done here?” It’s already past eleven. We’ll have to wake some people up, but many of them stay up much later than that anyway.
Natalin glances at the clock. “Tonight? Sure you don’t want to wait until morning, when they’ve slept off everything they had to drink?”
I don’t want to wait, but she makes a good point. It’s important that they’re lucid enough for the warnings to make a deep impression. “What if something happens in the meantime, though? I feel like we should call for lockdown again.” Even as I say the words, they feel empty. Lockdown didn’t work before—why should it work tonight?
“You heard them out there, Linds,” Leo says. “It’s obvious they’re going to do whatever they want no matter what we say. If we call for lockdown again tonight, it could be the last straw. They might not show up to hear what we have to say in the morning, you know?”
“Gut feeling?” Haven chimes in. “We’ve got to give them a little space if we want them to keep listening to us. It’s not like we’re their parents—we’ll lose them if we push too hard.”
She’s right, and I know it, but still. Just because we’re not their parents, it doesn’t mean they don’t need people looking out for their best interests. Can’t they see we’re only trying to protect them? At the same time, I get it—I would not take kindly to someone close to my own age telling me what I’m not allowed to do.
“Okay,” I say, still a bit reluctant about the whole thing. “Tomorrow at ten-thirty sharp, we’ll meet in the mezzanine. Haven, get the word out when you do your morning announcement, okay? Make sure to mention it’s extremely important that they show up.” I hesitate to say mandatory after what happened with lockdown—mandatory seems to have lost all meaning.
“Great, so can we go to bed now?” Natalin says. She’s been two seconds from sleep this entire time, and after the week we’ve had, who can blame her?