Shades of Earth (12 page)

19:
AMY

My mouth feels
as if it's been stuffed with cotton balls. I smack my dry lips, my tongue heavy in my mouth.

Something twitches in my hand. The movement startles me, and I try to jerk my arm away, but my muscles are sluggish. I struggle to sit up, but it feels as if there's a weight on my chest even though no blankets sit on top of me.

My mother's asleep, her hand wrapped loosely around mine. That was what I felt before. I curl my fingers over hers.

Her eyelids flutter and then pop open, as if she's suddenly remembered something vitally important. She turns to me and sucks in all her breath. “Amy?” she gasps.

“Mom?” My voice is croaky.

“Amy!” she screams, and throws herself on me. In another moment, my father appears. His eyes are wet, and he seems unable to talk. I've never seen him this emotional.

My eyes skim the room. Where's Elder?

“What's going on?” I ask. My back aches. All around me, the air is cool and dim—have I slept until dusk? But no—the sky is growing lighter and lighter. It's dawn. I've slept the entire day and into the next.

“What do you last remember?” one of the doctors from Earth—I think her name is Dr. Watase—asks.

I look down at the hand my mother still holds, and it's not until I do so that I realize my body is answering for me: the last thing I remember is holding the flower Elder gave me.

No.
I shudder involuntarily, swallowing down the bile rising in my throat. The last thing I remember is losing control of my body, just as I felt when I was frozen. And then the sensation of drowning, just as I felt when I first woke up.

The memories pour into me, poison my soul.

I look around me. Everyone's waiting for me to talk. “The flower,” I say, because I know they don't care about how I feel; they need only a cold medical analysis. “It made me pass out.”

My eyes are still looking around the room. I'm filled with disappointment.

I can't believe Elder would just leave me here.

“We thought so,” Dr. Watase says. She points to a line on the floor where dozens of purple string flowers are laid out. “We haven't been able to do any tests, but from observation, it seems as if the flowers are carnivorous. When they're wet, they blossom and emit a neurotoxin that causes insects to drop into their center.”

“And geniuses like me to drop to the ground,” I say with as much of a smile as I can muster, attempting to alleviate the tension in the room. But it doesn't work. Everyone just looks at me, gravely nodding in agreement.

“Precisely,” Dr. Watase adds. She pats my hand in a grandmotherly way. I would roll my eyes at her, but that seems to take too much effort.

“I'm starving,” I say.

“We all are,” Dad says. “If the shuttle doesn't unlock itself, we'll have to figure out how to get food from the planet.”

I close my eyes—on
Godspeed
we at least had food. If we all starve to death, it'll be partly my fault. “How long was I asleep?”

“Almost twenty-four hours,” Dr. Watase says.

We've spent practically a full day and night in the ruins, and I slept through nearly all of it. I look around me, trying to gauge what's happened since I was knocked out. Everyone in the building I'm in is Earthborn. There's a rumpled sort of look to them all, even Dad. They've slept in their clothes; no one has eaten. I doubt anyone's left the buildings at all.

I stand up, my back cracking. The floor wasn't exactly a comfortable place to sleep, despite the fact that my parents appear to have padded the ground with spare coats to give me a kind of makeshift bed. At first Dr. Watase and Mom try to help me walk, but I just want to stretch my muscles, and the remaining effects of the flower are rapidly evaporating.

I wander along the walls, my fingers trailing across the dusty yellow stones of the building. The room is the same size as one would be on Earth, the doors and windows perfectly proportioned for humans. Steps lead up to a second story. “It's weird, isn't it?” I say.

Mom doesn't need to ask what I'm talking about. “It is.” Her voice drops an octave. “Your father's worried.”

We both stop by the window and look to him. He's talking with Emma in the doorway in hushed tones. They both look angry and tired. As if he can feel our gaze on him, Dad turns around and offers us a weak smile, a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

I realize now that Dad has a trapped look about him. The same look Elder had, after Eldest died. Haunted.

Dad turns back to Emma and continues talking.

I trace the outline of the stone wall with my finger. Now that I'm right in front of it, I can tell that the buildings are actually made of large, handmade slabs of brick the same color as the soil. There was
intention
in the creation of these buildings, but they are empty now and so long-abandoned that there's nothing but echoes of life clinging to the stark stone.

My hand trails to the window, my fingers dipping into a depression in the stone windowsill. It's perfectly square, each line straight and carefully carved in the stone.

“We don't know what that's for,” Mom says, looking at the depression in the sill, “but there's a square in every window in every building.”

Dr. Watase steps forward. “Whatever built these buildings obviously had sentience,” she says. “The popular theory among the scientists is that the original residents of these buildings had some sort of idol that they put here. Perhaps their gods are linked to the suns; the windows all face the light.”

Emma leaves, and Dad watches her go. I step around Dr. Watase and head straight to him, wrapping my arms around him like I used to do when I believed he could solve any problem. The hardness in his face softens. “I'm glad you're okay, Amy,” he says. He drops a kiss on the top of my head.

“Of course I'm okay.” I shoot him as big a smile as I can muster.

He hugs me tighter. “This . . . none of this was what I expected it to be.”

“Don't forget, Dad,” I say gently. “This was my choice. I was the one who decided to come on the mission.”

He opens his mouth, but I already know what he's going to say: that it wasn't supposed to be a choice at all, and I shouldn't have come.

I don't give him the chance.

“I'm here now,” I say. “And I'm happy. I'm with you and Mom.”

He squeezes me one more time, then lets me go.

“What were you talking with Emma about?” I ask.

“We have a couple problems we're working on.”

“Tell me.”

He looks down at me, and I know he's seeing me only as his daughter, his child. “Tell me,” I say again. “Maybe I can help.”

To his credit, he holds back his skeptical look. “Well, first of all, we're having trouble with the probe. We haven't been able to communicate with Earth.”

My heart stops. “You mean you weren't able to communicate with Earth
again
, right? You communicated with them just after we landed, didn't you?”

“Yes,” Dad says, and then, almost as if he's talking to himself: “Yes, of course.” After a moment he adds, “But the shuttle's communication system is completely broken now, and we couldn't get the one on the probe to work.”

“What's wrong with it?” I bite my lip, waiting for Dad's answer.

“We were able to establish a communication link—but we're not hearing anything from the other end.” The look he gives me doesn't bring me any comfort.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, leaning forward, already guessing the answer.

Dad shrugs. “I think we just need to work on it more. It
is
old, Amy.” He looks away from me. “But that's only one of our problems.”

“What are our
other
problems?”

“One of the shipborns is missing—and Dr. Gupta. We think the shipborn wandered off and Dr. Gupta went after her, but . . . ”

“When did they go missing?”

“Sometime in the storm.” Dad's eyes are distant. I know he's concerned, but his concern doesn't have the same acidic taste of the dread rising up in my belly.

They've been gone for nearly a whole day.

“What shipborn?” I ask. Dad said “her”—so it's not Elder that's missing, but maybe Kit. . . .

“Laura? Lauren?” Dad shakes his head.

“Lorin?” I ask quietly.

“That's the one.”

Lorin had been wearing a Phydus patch, and I'd been guiding her before the storm, before I let her go. If she wandered off in the chaos of lightning and thunder, it's my fault.

He looks down and notices my face. “Amy, don't worry,” he says, squeezing my arm. “It was rainy and dark last night, but Juliana is a good tracker; she'll find them now that the suns are up.”

The radio at Dad's shoulder crackles to life. He steps away from me, pressing the button to confirm that he's ready to receive a message. Emma's voice comes out over the radio. “—Found them, sir,” she says, her voice fuzzy.

“Gupta and the shipborn woman?”

“Not Gupta,” Emma says. “But the shipborn and Juliana.”

“Good. Send them back to the ruins.”

“Sir, I can't.”

“What?” Dad asks.

“Sir, they're dead. Both of them.”

20:
ELDER

The first thing I feel
when I see Amy running up the steps to the buildings on the second level, her red hair swishing behind her, is relief.

She's alive. She's awake, and she's fine, and she's
alive
.

The second thing I feel is fear.

The look on her face tells me that something is very, very wrong. “What is it?” I ask.

“Dad just left with Mom and some of the scientists,” she says, breathless. “He told me not to leave . . . told me not to tell you. . . . ”

“Tell me what?” My insides are churning.

“They found Lorin.”

“And?” I ask, already dreading the answer. Kit and I spent the better part of yesterday compiling a detailed list of every single person from the shuttle. Losing Lorin in the crowd ate away at both of us; we can't let that happen again. “Isn't that a good thing?”

“She's dead.”

My eyes widen with shock, then anger. Dead? “How?” I demand.

Amy shakes her head. “She's dead, and so is Juliana Robertson, who'd been sent to find her and Dr. Gupta. I don't know how. Dr. Gupta's still missing. I just heard—”

She heard about the deaths, and even though her father forbade it, the first thing she did was tell me about them.

“Where?” I ask.

Amy shakes her head. “I don't know. Near the lake, I think.”

“I have to go.”

She grabs me by the elbow. “You can't. Dad would be furious—”

“So?” My mind is racing. The dangers of this planet are so much greater than I originally thought. The reptilian bird that tried to eat my face, marred footprints in the forest of something nearby, watching us, the flowers that nearly drowned Amy, and now two more are dead. . . .

There's so much we don't understand. It's our ignorance that will kill us on this planet.

Our ignorance . . .

But someone knew. There's one person here who knew what perils this world held all along. And his knowledge might save us now.

I'm reminded of Orion's last words on the floppies he left for Amy. His voice trembled and cracked with fear.
Is the ship so bad that you have to face the monsters below? Is it worth the risk of your life
—
of everyone
'
s lives?

My eyes meet Amy's.

He
knew
.

“Orion,” I say. He can tell us. We won't let him speak in riddles and codes, we'll force him to tell us everything he knows. If he doesn't . . .

Amy's face drains of color. “Orion,” she whispers. Her eyes focus on me. “Elder,
Orion.
We didn't—we forgot . . . his timer.”

Frex.
Between the shuttle locking us out and being forced into the ruins . . . no one has reset his timer.

 

Amy and I both take off at a run, crashing through the trees and not even bothering to look up to see if there are any more of the bird-creatures waiting to attack. For a brief moment, I worry that we won't be able to find the way back to the shuttle, but moving nearly fifteen hundred people yesterday left more than enough trail for us to follow back. Locating a place to settle seemed to take forever because there were so many of us and we didn't know where we were going—we only knew that the probe indicated water. But there are just two of us now and returning to the shuttle takes far less time than I expected.

Amy bounds up the ramp and tries the door. “Still locked,” she growls.

I slam into the seat in front of the control panel. There has to be
something
I can do. I swipe my hand across the onboard controls, setting the shuttle's computer to do a full scan of all operations.

“Why weren't you there?” Amy asks as I lean back, staring at the control panel in frustration, waiting for the results.

“There?” I ask. The sensors seem to be reading fine now—but then why is the shuttle still in lockdown?

“When I woke up.”

My fingers freeze over the shuttle's controls. Do I tell her that I spent the night outside the building her parents kept her in, propped under the window so I could hear if she woke up? Do I tell her that when the suns rose, the first thing I did—before checking on my people, before re-checking everything with Kit—was stand on my tiptoes so I could look at her face in the morning light? That I barely slept, racked with guilt that it was
I
who nearly killed her . . . again?

“I should have been,” I say. “I'm sorry.”

Amy sniffs. I glance up at her. She's looking not at me, but at the locked door. “Let's get this open,” she says, the closest she'll come to accepting my apology.

I drop underneath the control panel, looking for the small box labeled
FUSES AND SENSORS
. The wires connecting the air pressure sensors are covered in black tape. They must have frayed or something long ago and then been hastily repaired—no wonder they malfunctioned. I'm surprised to find the tape still tacky; that repair must have been made gens ago.

But either way, they seem fine now. And if the sensors are operational—who the frex knows why they cut out in the first place—then I should be able to override the lockdown procedure.

The military authorization code request flashes across the computer screen as I crawl out from under the control panel. Shite. I don't know Colonel Martin's ten-digit secret code. I try to bypass the request. There must be some way—after all, Orion himself figured out the way to break open every door on
Godspeed
, including the ones on this shuttle.

If Orion could do it, so can I. I turn back to the computers, this time looking at the key logs stored in the computer's archives. It's a simple enough task—other than Amy and me, very few people ever came to the shuttle while it was still attached to the ship. After a moment, I find the same code entered over and over again—
K-A-Y-L-E-I-G-H
. It doesn't take that much of a guess to figure out that this is the override command Orion's programmed into the computer. He
would
pick her name, little Kayleigh, whose dead body was found floating above the spot in the pond that hid the secret hatch to the shuttle.

Amy steps aside as I jump up and run to the keypad by the door. I punch in the code, and the seal locks break.

I throw open the door and am about to step through it when Amy grabs my arm. “If he's awake,” she says, “we have to refreeze him.”

I shake my head. “Frex, no! If he's awake, we need to
question
him. Amy, he's the one—the
only one
—who knows what's down here. He knew there were monsters; he must know what
kind
of monsters. He might be able to help us fight them.”

“Question him, then refreeze him,” Amy counters. Her voice is still cold, but there is fear and pain in her eyes. “We can't afford to have him here. Imagine the chaos he'll bring . . . imagine what he'll do to the people from Earth now that they're awake.”

I don't bother saying anything else. Amy will never be able to see Orion as anything but evil. She doesn't see what I see. She doesn't see herself in him.

Amy lets me go, and I push the door open farther.

“You're not going to abandon me again, right?”

I freeze. Her voice was calm and quiet, almost a whisper, and filled with more sadness than I've ever heard from her lips before.

Without waiting for my reply, Amy pushes past me and into the shuttle.

 

The shuttle is eerily silent. Dust motes move in the air. Even our footsteps are muted.

I half expect Orion to be casually sitting in the cryo room, waiting for us.

But of course he's not.

 

“In here,” Amy says in a whisper, approaching the gen lab door. The air inside the shuttle is musty and stifling. How could we have ever considered living here instead of outside?

Amy presses her thumb against the biometric lock. She lets out the breath she'd been holding as the door zips open.

We step inside.

“Where is he?” Amy asks. She stares at the cryo chamber. Before, Orion's face was frozen against the glass. But now—now there's nothing behind the little window. No cryo liquid. No Orion.

“That's impossible,” I say.

Amy looks around the gen lab, as if she thinks Orion is going to jump out from behind the Phydus pump and say “Boo!” But I walk to the cryo chamber, dread twisting me up inside. The counter on the cryo chamber blinks 00:00:00. Out of time.

The door opens with a
whoosh
and a
hiss
of released air and pressure.

Orion is crumpled on the floor of the chamber. His skin is red and raw, and he looks like a heap of flesh, not a person. But he shivers, and that is the only way I know he's alive.

Amy gasps, and I glance at her. Her eyes are open wide with horror, her hand covers her mouth. She hates Orion, but she's not heartless. No one could look at this shell of a man and not feel pity.

“Orion?” I say softly.

One shaking hand reaches out, still damp and shimmering ever so lightly with the blue of the cryo liquid.

I take the hand. It's soft—not soft in a sweet way, but soft in the same way that a wet sponge is soft. When I try to help him stand by pulling on his arm, Orion opens his mouth, and a raw, gasping, breathless scream emits from his lips. It sounds like a death rattle.

He's dying.

The idea hits me all at once, so suddenly that I nearly gag at the thought, but I know it's true.

He's dying.

As Orion struggles to stand, all his muscles weak and atrophied, my mind flashes back to the moment when we froze him. We—I—just shoved him in the cryo chamber and turned it on. We didn't prepare his body. No electric pulse scanners on his skin to help him adjust to reanimation. No drops in his eyes or cryo liquid in his blood. His regular clothes still on.

Past our gripped hands, blood leaks out of the cuff of his shirtsleeve. His skin is fused with his clothing, and it rips away as easily as wet paper.

Amy shoves a wheeled metal table toward us, and as soon as Orion's fully upright, I help him shuffle two steps so he can sit on the low tabletop.

His back hunches. His hair, still dripping sparkling blue cryo liquid, hangs down in clumps. He's heaving, as if he's just run a great distance, sucking at the air with every ounce of energy he has. His fingers curl like claws, and he raises them to his face.

That's when I notice his eyes.

They are open and bulging, the same way they were when he was frozen. There's a pale blue film over his irises, though, like cataracts but a brighter color, the same blue of the flecks in the cryo liquid. His clawed hands run down his face, over his now-closed eyes, stopping at his mouth.

He mumbles something into his fingers.

Beside me, Amy is shaking. Her own eyes are wide open, staring at this animalistic shadow of a man.

Orion's hands drop to his side.

I lean down, trying to meet his eyes. But I can't. His eyes don't focus.

He's blind.

He's blind, he's hurt, and he's dying.

And there's nothing we can do to stop it.

It doesn't matter that I hadn't intended this. It's done.

And I was the one who did it.