He stomps off, his footsteps growing more distant, and I grimace.Too far, Claire.He’s used to people bowing and scraping.
I settle myself on the bed, pushing my back against the wall, and trying to remember an ill-fated lesson on meditation and clearing my mind. Another Verux childhood psych expert, another technique. I was a favorite pet project for many of them over the seven years I lived in Verux’s care back on Earth. An unsuccessful one, by most standards, though I learned to fake “normal” a little better by the end of it all.
But the increased throb of the engines beneath me and the momentary lurch as the dampeners kick in to compensate for our acceleration tells me we’re away, making it hard to focus.
We’re on our way. And Lourdes wasalive.In a moment that I didn’t recall. Which means maybe… she’s still alive. Maybe they all are.
A deep doubting voice in me attempts to quell the too-bright spark of hope.You know what you saw.
Except I don’t!
But you don’t know what you don’t know.
Frustrated, I bump my head back against the wall, as if that will somehow shake the memories loose.
A loud rattle at the door signals that the lock is being disengaged.
“Coming in,” Reed announces tersely from the other side. “I got what you asked for.”
I push myself off the bed and head for the door. It opens a few inches as I approach, like I might attempt to shove my way through.
With a sigh, I stay back and hold out my hands.
I’m expecting an old-fashioned tablet. Something left on board, tucked in a storage cubby somewhere, even on a highly advanced vessel like this. Occasionally, they’re still needed, like on the LINA when our main processor was downloading updates off the commweb.
Instead, Reed holds out a short cylindrical object. I recognize it only after I take it—a pen. Specifically, Max’s pen, it seems, or one identical to it.
I look up at him, and he thrusts a stack of pages at me. Blank, creamy white paper, smooth to the touch. Rare, expensive.
I raise my eyebrows at Reed before taking it.
“He won’t miss it, and he said to get you whatever you need,” Reed says, in a way that makes me think this is less about giving me what I asked for and more about getting even with Max in some small, petty way.
Until Max sees me with it, of course.
But I’m not about to introduce that idea and have my prizes taken away.
“Thank yo—” But Reed is closing the door on my words before they’re even fully out.
Fine. Whatever.
I return to the bed and scrawl my notes about what I remembered—maybe—with Kane and Lourdes. Then I hesitate. It’s in the middle—after I was hurt, but before I somehow got off the ship. Maybe a timeline would be useful in sorting out what’s real and what’s not.
I sketch in a rough timeline, leaving most of it blank for now.
Then I put the pen down—it’s strange to use one for something beyond signing my name but the drag of friction between the metal tip on the pen and the paper is oddly soothing, like I’m chiseling into rock, carving out the answers I seek—and try to focus. I need more. More of what I’ve somehow lost.
I try sitting up, then move to lying down. Eyes open, eyes closed. Nothing, except the soothing hum of the engines. It’s as if my interest in these potential memories has caused them to skitter away into hiding.
Trying to force it isn’t likely to work, and yet, I can’t stop myself.
While I’m lying on the bed, determinedly staring into the darkness of my own eyelids, exhaustion eventually overtakes me. The rhythmic white noise of the ship’s engines—a different pitch and resonance than the LINA’s but still familiar—sounds like home, lulling me toward sleep. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed engine noise until now. The Tower was rarely silent, but it never held this particular comforting wash of sound.
Finally, just as sleep is pulling me under its dark, thick waves, I realize what was bothering me about the crates being loaded onto the shuttle and then theAresbesides the issue of overkill and likely ineffectiveness.
Bringing the bodies of theAurorapassengers and crew back home in a ship with an active environment would require some kind of preservation technique. Cold, chemicals, something. But nowhere had I seen anything marked as medical equipment.
At the very least, sealable body bags would be required, certainly.
