“Versailles,” Kane says suddenly. His expression goes grim. “The French Revolution. Eat the rich.”
“Exactly,” Nysus says.
“You’re going to have to give me a little more than that,” I say in exasperation. Earth history is not my strong suit.
“It’s a reference to a war, four or five centuries ago. The havesversus the have-nots,” Kane says. “This contingency Nysus is talking about was meant as extra protection for the wealthy in case something went wrong.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “So, in other words, if the main air filtration system goes bad, it’s ‘good luck, everybody who’s not a multibillionaire, we’re sealing ourselves up tight with our own air’?”
“Specifically, it was more in case the less fortunate on board decided to take advantage of the isolation and rise up,” Nysus clarifies. “A year is a long time. Social order can shift quickly in such seclusion. But yes. You’ve got it.”
“That’s repulsive,” I say.
But Voller laughs. “That’s fucking brilliant. Housekeeping gets tired of cleaning up dog shit and decides to strike, what can anyone do to them? The brig, if there even is one, isn’t big enough for everyone. Can’t kick them off the ship or send them home. Not for a whole year. They can live like kings and queens, and there’s way more of them than the Platinum Level eggs.” He sounds delighted.
“Why the hell didn’t they actually use this Versailles thing instead of taking the ship off course?” I demand.
Voller shifts his attention to me, striking a mock thoughtful pose, his fingers on his chin. “It’s interesting that you should ask that. Because we just don’t know. Hmmm. Why is that again? Why don’t we know fucking anything? Because somebody—”
I launch myself at Voller, shoving him back against the wall until his head hits with a muted thunk. “Will you shut the hell up about that black box?” I say through clenched teeth.
“Claire.” Kane intervenes, looping an arm around my waist and pulling me back. The urge to fight free rises up, but I manage to quell it in time, embarrassment taking its place.
“I’m fine,” I say after a moment, twisting away from him.
“We don’t have the codes to open it anyway,” Nysus points out. “Only CitiFutura—or Verux now—does.”
Voller rubs the back of his head with an exaggerated wince. I know it’s exaggerated but that doesn’t stop the flood of shamefrom pouring over me, until I feel stripped bare. I lost control. I don’t ever lose control, not like that. Then again, I also saw my dead mother today for the first time in more than twenty years. Or, thought I had.
Not command material.Those three words stamped in conclusion on my record, on me.
Maybe they were right, after all.
“Can you get to the point, Nysus, before TL kills me?” Voller asks, grinning at me, pleased to have triggered a reaction. Because he’s an asshole. Though he may be an asshole who has a point. I don’t know anymore.
I squeeze my eyes shut, rubbing at the stress headache forming in the center of my forehead.
“I think we could do it,” Nysus says, his words speeding together in his excitement. “Clear the Platinum Level and the bridge of… any former occupants. Run a diagnostic on the lifeboat systems. Check for known contaminants throughout the ship, just to be sure. Air and water. Though I didn’t see any evidence of anything like that, vomiting, illness, et cetera.” He seems to be talking to himself now as much as us. “And of course, we’ll need to make sure that the main engines still have enough charge to—”
“Nysus,” Kane says, even his tone beginning to sound strained. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh,” Nysus says, sounding startled. “I mean, we could seal ourselves in. Use the Versailles Contingency and bring theAuroraback ourselves.”
11
Silence has a different quality to it when you’re the only one left alive. It’s thicker. Heavier somehow. When I woke up in the MedBay hab at Ferris, that last morning that I expected everything to be normal, still covered in the dampness of a fever breaking and dizzy with the ringing in my ear that would become my new constant companion, I noticed the change immediately. The sound of my mother’s labored breathing was gone. No voices or footsteps in the corridor. No jagged bouts of coughing—nearby or in the distance—as there had been constantly for weeks.
Just a weighty, unnatural silence that refused to break, even with the sound of my sobs, my footsteps staggering down the passageways, my voice calling for someone, anyone.
Until days later, when little noises resumed. In the dark, the sound of a single step, from rooms and passageways where there were only bodies. The shift of fabric over skin in movement. The susurration of whispers nearly lost in the uneven roar of the air filtration system. My name called over and over again.Claire. Claire. Claire.Becca’s giggle inviting me to come play.
My mother telling me what I needed to do to survive, even as her body lay still and empty, slowly decaying on the floor of the MedBay.
I was alone, and somehow not.
According to my file, the official diagnosis upon my rescue was that of a particularly severe case of post-traumatic stress disorder, complete with auditory and visual hallucinations.
And yet, I know that wasn’t true. Isn’t true. I was there. I know what I saw, what I heard.
