by Keira Drake
Aaden doesn’t answer and makes no move to exit the pod. His blue eyes are fierce and cold; he glares at my father with a sort of hostile defiance that takes me by surprise. He does not look at me.
My father tries to open the door, but Aaden has locked it from the inside. The heli-plane drops sharply; this time, it’s enough to lift my feet off the floor and send me tumbling against the opposite wall. My mother and father have fallen, too; only Aaden, safe within the pod, remains upright.
“Coward!” my father yells, getting up and pounding on the glass door. “There are women present—have you no honor?” He turns on his heel and pushes past me, moving toward the main cabin.
My mother’s eyes grow wide. “Thomas! Where are you going?” She turns back to the pod. “Aaden, please. You must let Vaela take your place.”
“I don’t think he can hear you,” I say. “The glass is very thick.”
My mother stares at him. “He knows exactly what I’m saying.”
“It’s all right, really,” I say. “Just let him be.”
“Open this door!” she says, ignoring me.
Aaden doesn’t move, but his eyes dart to the cabin entrance. My father pushes the steward through the doorway.
“Please, sir,” the steward says, “I must assist Mr. Shaw. His wife is quite upset, you see, and she doesn’t wish to—”
“Open the escape pod,” my father says. “I know you have a key. Open it.”
The steward blinks at him before glancing at the pod. “You want me to—”
“Open it, so I can pull that miserable coward out of it,” my father says. “Now!”
The steward hurries forward, flipping through a large set of brass keys. The plane lurches again, and as I steady myself, I see Aaden gripping the handle with both hands; there is fear in his eyes now, and he seems to be telling the steward to eject the pod.
The key clicks into place within the glass door and the steward tries to turn the handle, but Aaden is far too strong. He is no match for my father, however, who shoves the steward out of the way and yanks open the door. Aaden tries to pull it back, but my father wedges his knee into the pod and forces the door open. Then he punches Aaden squarely in the face and wrenches him free of the pod.
Aaden rolls forward, knocking the steward to the ground. Then he turns back to my father, blood dripping from his nose. “You’ve killed me! Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve killed me!”
My father’s face is twisted with rage. “I ought to kill you, and if this heli-plane doesn’t do it, then I may yet finish what I’ve started!”
“What’s going on here?” Mr. Shaw steps through the doorway, carrying a handful of baggage; Mrs. Shaw is close on his heels. “Why are you threatening my son, sir?”
“Get in the pod, Vaela,” my mother says. She doesn’t wait for me to answer, but takes the ring of keys from the lock and presses the cold little bundle into my hand. “Get in.”
“Please, no,” I say. “It’s dreadfully small—I feel much safer out here. Let Aaden—”
“Get in!” she says again, the tiny muscles in her cheeks jerking sporadically.
Trembling, I step into the pod and position myself against the cushion within. “Mother, please—”
She closes the door and taps on the handle. “Lock it,” she says, or at least, that’s what it looks like she says; the sound of her voice is completely muted behind the thick glass. I feel as though I can’t breathe, and locking the door only makes it worse.
I close my eyes, forcing myself to take long, steady breaths. When I open my eyes, one thing becomes painfully clear: the situation in the aft cabin has devolved into chaos.
My father is shouting at a red-faced Mr. Shaw, who is shouting back and jabbing a finger into my father’s chest. Mrs. Shaw is hovering over Aaden and dabbing at his bloody face with a handkerchief. The steward is moving back and forth, tucking the loose baggage into the storage bins, trying to keep his balance as the aircraft jerks and shifts. My mother stands in front of the escape pod like a sentinel, one hand on the glass door, the other balled into a fist at her side.
And then there’s me. What am I doing but watching from behind the glass as everyone turns on each other? I don’t even want to be here; I want to get out, I want to be with my parents.
My mother pounds her palm against the glass and I see the warning in her eyes. Don’t even think about it, Vaela.
She knows me too well. But I can’t stay in this pod any longer. I’m fumbling with the lock when a sudden silence overwhelms the heli-plane. The quiet—or rather, the lack of vibration—is so unexpected, so out of place, that I forget momentarily what I was trying to do. I look up in confusion, my fingers frozen on the handle.
It’s not just me; everyone has become still. Mr. Shaw is standing with his mouth open and his finger pointed in the air; the steward is bent in mid-crouch, a look of bewilderment on his face. And then I realize what has happened.
The engines have stopped.
Fifteen thousand feet above the Continent, the heli-plane’s engines have gone silent. And as suddenly as the calm and stillness overtook us all, so quickly does panic set in as the aircraft tilts sharply to one side and begins to glide toward the earth.
My father doesn’t hesitate; he lurches toward the pod, climbing over Mrs. Shaw’s endless bags and totes, and places his palm atop my mother’s hand on the glass door.
Vaela, I see him say, and I wish beyond anything that I could hear his voice. Be safe.
My mother’s face is tears and anguish. We love you. We love you.
Too late, I see my father’s other hand moving toward the control panel. And before I can stop him—before I can open the door and escape this hateful glass prison—he is gone, and all I see before me is the gray-blue sky, peppered with wispy clouds.
He has jettisoned the pod, and I am sent soaring upward as its parachute extends. The tiny craft swings languorously from side to side; the height is dizzying. At first, I can’t make out anything but trees and a vast icy lake dotted with shadowy patches of snow. The pod continues to sway back and forth, rocking madly, and it seems an eternity before it settles into steadiness. I put both hands on the glass door, craning forward to search for the heli-plane.
And finally, I see it.
Spiraling away from me, aflame on one side, the heli-plane is plunging toward the ground. Bits of metal, cloth, and debris are planing away as it falls—as it falls, twisting and burning and carrying my family.
I want to look away, but I can’t. I have the absurd notion that I can stop it somehow—if only I keep watching, the heli-plane will float aimlessly, harmlessly through the air and never reach the earth.
But, of course, I have no such power. And in the deafening silence, I watch as it crashes into the frozen tundra below and explodes in a burst of flame.
CHAPTER 7
THE POD SETS DOWN IN A THICK BANK OF SNOW. The yellow parachute follows a moment later, obscuring my view of the sky. I lie still, staring up at the bright silken fabric, my muscles convulsing, my mind blank. A tiny red light at the top of the pod begins to blink. I watch it flash three times. Four. I close my eyes.
I would be content to lie here forever—locked within the pod, isolated from the truth of what has just happened—but my body has other plans. Nausea, like a swell upon a restless sea, begins to roll over me in sickening waves. I seize the door handle, release the lock, and push the glass away from me. As it springs free, I clamber over the side and fall face first into the snow. Then I vomit, my body heaving with a violence borne of shock, revulsion, pain, grief.
When there is nothing left, I curl up in the snow next to the pod. I don’t feel cold or sad—merely conscious in a way that echoes something like being alive, but only in the vaguest sense of the word.
I close my eyes, but I do not sleep.
* * *
After what might be five minutes or five hours, I sit up and look around. I’m in a small clearing surrounded by evergree
ns. There is no sound at all—no birds, no wind, no water. There is only me, and the pod, and the snow, and the trees, and the sky.
The sky. Bright and blue, except for a plume of black smoke reaching high above the distant peaks. The thought of what is burning makes me sick again, and this time I fear it might never stop.
Sometime later, I’m on my feet. I have the dim realization that I am cold, that my teeth are chattering. I look down at my garments: a long-sleeved dress of fine red silk buttoned to my waist, with layered skirts flowing behind, open at the front to reveal slim white trousers. My fingertips, in contrast, are a pale bluish-white.
Shivering, I climb into the pod and pull the door closed. I watch the red light flash, wondering if this might be nothing more than a terrible dream. Perhaps I am asleep, safe in my bed, and any moment now I will awaken to the sound of my mother’s voice.
I want to cry, but I am empty. The yellow parachute is clear of the door now, and I have a plain view of the hideous column of smoke stretching up into the sky. I put my hand on the glass.
“Take me with you,” I whisper, in a voice that doesn’t sound anything like my own.
The daylight is beginning to fade now, the sky turning dusky orange as the sun sets. I try to determine how long it’s been since the heli-plane went down, but it’s no use—my mind refuses to organize itself. All I can conclude with any clarity is that it will be dark soon, and with the dark will come colder temperatures.
After a moment of hesitation, I push open the door and reach for the parachute. A quick tug makes it clear that the chute is caught on something; I pull harder, but it won’t budge. Frustrated and tired, I slip over the side and climb around to see what’s wrong. The canopy is snagged on the scraggly branches of a fallen tree; I work it free, gather it together, and climb back inside the pod.
The fabric is immense, and freezing to the touch. But after folding it into many layers and curling up underneath, I do feel considerably warmer.
A heli-plane will surely arrive to collect me at any moment. The flashing red light must indicate some sort of beacon; I watch it for a few minutes, my reflection appearing in the glass each time it blinks. My face looks oddly serene, peering out of the makeshift blanket with hollow eyes and a placid expression.
I close my eyes again. This time, I sleep.
I wake suddenly in the pitch black, disoriented until the quick red flash of the pod’s interior light reminds me where I am. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep, but of greater concern is the fact that night has fallen and no one has come to retrieve me. Was there a second aircraft in the hangar at Ivanel? Surely there must have been, but perhaps the rescue plane must wait until morning—maybe they weren’t able to organize a search before nightfall.
They will come at daybreak. Only a few more hours here alone.
Alone. I push aside the image of my mother and father standing beside the pod on the heli-plane, their fingers intertwined, their eyes full of pain. I can’t think of it.
The sun rises quickly, its muted yellow light bleeding across the morning sky. I’ve been awake for hours. The day is a welcome sight, and I half expect to hear Mrs. Shaw remarking on its having taken forever to show itself. But Mrs. Shaw is not here. No one is here.
I wish the heli-plane would come.
The sun is overhead now, but there is still no sign of a plane. There is no sign of anything, for that matter; the tiny clearing is eerily quiet. The pillar of smoke is gone, the sky clear save for a few clouds.
Why haven’t they come?
As night falls once again, it occurs to me that it has been more than twenty-four hours since the crash. Something is wrong. Ivanel should have sent someone to search for survivors by now. Surely the pilot would have submitted a distress call? The light inside the pod is still flashing—calling, I hope, to my rescuers.
My stomach aches, though whether from hunger or grief I could not say, and my throat hurts. I have eaten some snow, but it made me feel dreadfully cold and did little to quench my thirst. I am tired—in fact, I don’t know if I have ever been so very tired. I wish I could sleep a thousand days. I wish my mother and father were here.
I sleep, but fitfully, and awaken again before dawn. I stare up through the glass at a breathtaking sky sparkling with stars. I think to myself how beautiful it is, and shame washes over me. Eight people are dead. How dare I enjoy anything?
I close my eyes, forbidding myself to look on the starry night.
I am hungry.
Around noon, I decide to try and melt the snow before consuming any more of it. I accomplish this by scooping a handful into a small corner of the parachute, which I have determined to be quite waterproof despite its silken texture. Then I hold the little bag of snow against my body until it melts. This takes much longer than I anticipated, but the result is actual, liquid water, and I’m grateful for it.
It has been two days. I am starting to doubt whether anyone is looking for me. A hundred scenarios have played out in my mind—perhaps they came at night while I was asleep and I didn’t hear the plane. Perhaps the signal from the escape pod isn’t strong enough, and they can’t find me. Perhaps there is no signal—only a maddening red light that blinks incessantly for no reason at all.
If they haven’t come for me by tomorrow afternoon, I’m going to have to find some food.
Three days stranded, and no one has come. I’m sick with hunger. I feel certain that I should not leave the escape pod, but I can’t wait any longer—I must find something to eat.
I step outside into a fresh dusting of powdery snow, its surface brilliant and blinding. Turning around a few times, I try to figure out which way to go. The last time I looked out the window of the heli-plane, we were above the mountains southeast of the Riverbed—in part of the area known as the Divide. But while the pod was in the air, it was clear that the plane had edged just past the peaks and crossed into the southeastern side of the Continent. I am in Aven’ei territory—probably less than an hour’s flight from Ivanel. An hour away from a hot meal, a long bath, and a warm bed. But without a plane, I might as well be on another planet.
A breeze picks up, swirling the fallen snow into the air in feathery gusts. I shiver; though the sun burns overhead like a diamond, its warmth is entirely lost on the Continent. Clearly, I cannot venture out in search of food without a coat or something like it.
After a moment’s deliberation, I reach into the pod, pull a section of the parachute toward me, and study it closely. I tug at one of the seams along the edge, trying to rip away some of the fabric, but it is far too sturdily made. It will have to be cut somehow. A few minutes of exploration in the little glade uncovers no sharp stone or other debris—but a frozen branch might do the trick. I drag the corner of the chute over to the fallen tree and rub the fabric back and forth, attempting to saw through the heavy weave. It does not work. Frustrated, I lean against the pod, thinking. There must be a way to pierce the cloth. To pierce it. I turn back to the jagged branch, lift the chute high above my head, and jam it down with all my strength. A gnarled finger of frozen wood breaks through, making a hole at least four inches wide. Once punctured, the chute rips easily in a long straight line. I repeat the process a few times to punch out a lengthy rectangle of warm cloth.
With a furtive glance into the trees, I slip off my dress and wrap the heavy fabric around my torso. When it’s tied off, I pull my gown back on—in itself it provides little warmth, but should serve to conceal the bright yellow of the chute. Not that red is an inconspicuous color. I can only hope I am not like to draw the attention of any natives who might be about.
I shield my eyes and look toward the sun; it’s slipping down to my left, moving in a lazy arc toward the trees. My stomach twinges, and I head east. At least my boots are warm, and waterproof; thank heavens for Evangeline, who thought to make my birthday gift at least slightly practical, should I step foot out of doors on Ivanel. I must thank her when I return home. And I will make my way home.
I have found nothing. After two hours of trudging through the trees and snow and slush, I have found nothing to eat. There are rabbits hopping about everywhere, but I have no way to catch one, and I’m not even sure I would know how to kill an animal if it came to it. Thoughts of the silver tureens back at Ivanel, steaming with fresh vegetable soup, bring me almost to my knees.
The sky has become white overhead, obscuring the sun behind a thick haze of cloud cover. Soft, heavy snowflakes drift down before me, and I watch as two or three fall silently into my palm and dissolve into icy puddles. Defeated, I turn back toward the pod—if I venture out any farther, this new snowfall might conceal my footprints and leave me lost in the woods. I can stand the hunger, but I doubt I could survive the cold.
I’ve covered about half a mile when something catches my eye: a whisper of red, twenty feet away. I stop for a moment, my eyes fixed on the unexpected burst of color. Berries.
I dash toward the bush and fall to my knees, only vaguely aware of anything but the gnawing hunger in my belly. I yank on one of the smooth branches and several berries come free. The beautiful, ruby red marbles roll into my open palms, a few of them spilling onto the snow. I lift a handful to my lips, overcome by joy and relief—until I realize that I’m not at all sure which type of berries these might be.
I lower my hands and look closely at the tiny fruit in my palm. Are they clayberries, or snowthorn? What did Mr. Cloud say about how to tell the difference? One of the bushes has knobby branches, and the other smooth. But which has which kind?
My eyes dart to the bush—the branches are slick, without gnarls or knots. Clayberry, or snowthorn? My mind is in a fog, driven to distraction by cold and hunger and desperation. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
Think, Vaela. Which berries are these? What did he say?
It’s no use. I cannot remember.
And for the first time since the crash, I cry.
I cry for myself, because I am hungry and tired and cold, and because I fear I will die in this hateful place. I cry for my mother and father. I cry for Mr. and Mrs. Shaw, and for Aaden—Aaden, who kissed me, who spoke of a future together, who might have been here instead of me if not for my father—and for the steward. I cry for the pilot and the co-pilot, whom I never even met. I cry until my grief becomes quiet, and then I sit silently against the tree, too exhausted to move.