He meanswho. Maybe these suites will be empty, the occupants already down in the atrium. Or on a lower level somewhere. But maybe not. And we can’t implement the Versailles Contingency without being sure. No matter what killed them, trapping decomposing bodies in here will put us at more risk of disease—not to mention creating a thoroughly unpleasant and horrifying environment for the trip.
A thorough search—and relocation of anyone we find—is necessary.
“Engines cycling up in diagnostic,” Voller announces, and the low hum-rumble begins again and grows louder.
I can feel the vibration of the engines through my gloves, andafter a moment, the atrium glows brightly once more. Some of the light reaches into the corridor but not enough.
Kane joins me, catching himself on the opposite side of the doorframe. Then he reaches down and tests the old-fashioned brass lever handle. It moves under the pressure, but only a little.
“Locked. You have the key?” he asks.
“Yes.” I fumble for the utility pocket in the right leg of my suit.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask Nysus, pulling it free and holding it up.
“It’s a Platinum Level master key,” Nysus insists. “Housekeeping had them. Should open any and all of the suites.” Nysus had it printed according to theAuroraspecs on the Forum.
“But it’s… weird.” Granted, it was printed in the bright green recyclable plastic we use to print new toothbrushes and coffee mugs when needed. But it’s more than that. It is huge—probably five inches long—and oddly shaped. A long, skinny barrel with two downward-pointing projections near the end.
I’ve never seen a key like it before. Even the concept of a physical key is antiquated, though I’ve seen a few. Mostly in online museums.
“It’s based on something called a skeleton key,” Nysus says. “Old, wealthy house tradition. Each suite has its own individual lock and key, which would have been replaced between cruises. No digital locks means the doors are completely unhackable. Another security measure. Only housekeeping and crew would have the master skeleton key.”
Kane grunts. “Sounds kind of expensive.” He looks at me, seeking more than agreement.
“Impractical, a dumb idea,” I add firmly, avoiding his gaze and focusing on getting the key in the lock.
“If you watch some of the earlierDunleavyepisodes, the keys were status symbols,” Nysus says. “Something to wear on display. Platinum Level passengers had special jewelry made at the jeweler on board, long necklaces and belts in precious metals, to display the keys. Cattie and Opal were arguing about what to get, and thenOpal accused Cattie of copying her idea. It’s how they ended the second episode.”
“Entering suite 124,” I say, turning the key carefully. I don’t want it to break off in the lock. That’ll only delay us further. The other end of the key meets resistance. I hesitate and then twist a little harder. Something inside the mechanism gives then, and the click of the lock releasing is louder than I expected, clearly audible even through my helmet and over the sound of my breathing.
“Voller, any luck with the lights back here?” Kane asks.
“I checked. Lights for this section of the Platinum Level are part of the lifeboat systems,” Voller says. “They’ll have to wait. Air and engines first, then lifeboat. That’s what TL said.” He manages to sound both irritated at the question and delighted to be able to tell Kane no.
“Right,” Kane says.
Which means we’re doing this in the dark, other than our helmet lights.
Keeping one hand on the doorframe, I push down on the handle and shove inward. The door swings open soundlessly. The wide, darkened space beyond is impenetrable, outside the narrow path of our lights. They illuminate a set of chairs and a sofa in that same cream-colored leather as in the atrium, a glossy wood credenza on the far left side, adjacent to floor-to-ceiling windows, which reflect two bright points back at us, along with our own vague outlines. A half wall to the right divides the sitting area from, presumably, the bedroom. Random items float in and out of view, each moving in its own orbit. Pillows. A hairbrush. Tiny cosmetic jars and bottles and palettes. A scarf. Shoes tumbling together in mismatched clumps.
A bundle of glossy fur…
I suck in a breath sharply. There’s at least one dog on board, we know that. I saw the leash.
Kane’s helmet light tracks the bundle as he pushes into the room. He catches himself on the top of the bolted-down chair, and after a moment, a startled laugh escapes him. “It’s a wig, Claire.” Hetouches the edge of it, and it shifts in response, revealing the netting underneath.
I follow him in, catching myself on the half wall, relief pouring over me. The passengers chose to be here; the dog was simply brought along, no decision in the matter.
“Good dog,” I mutter, hoping he or she managed to escape to a slightly less horrible fate, though I’m not entirely sure what that would be.
Kane turns to face me, a grin flashing at me beneath the faceplate of his helmet. And for a moment, the hard knot of tension in my stomach eases a little.
But then, that smile melts away, his gaze fixed on something behind me, deeper in the room.
“Kane. Kane? What is it?” I crane my head to see what he’s staring at, but my helmet is blocking my view. I twist my whole body around until I’m facing the correct direction.
The sight sends an electric jolt down my spine.
