13

“Primary navigational PCB is fried. Secondary, too. The whole rig is bad. Probably exposure or electrical activity from two decades of solar flares. Maybe both,” Kane says, his head still stuck inside the open panel of the navigation control bank.

Nysus pipes in, advising Kane from the LINA. “Do you see the bubbling damage?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Kane says. “Hang on.” He removes himself carefully, the maneuver further complicated by his helmet and his suit. He’s used to crawling around inside the LINA without either.

“What does that mean?” I ask Kane.

“It means we’ve got engines fired up and nowhere to go,” Voller says, sounding distinctly sulky.

I look to Kane. To my surprise, he nods.

“Without the nav rig, we have no helm control,” he says.

“Steering wheel’s disconnected, TL, and there’s no autopilot because the ship can’t tell where it is in space,” Voller adds in an overly patient tone.

Embarrassing as it is, that makes more sense to me than the technical explanation.

“Okay, so what now?” I ask.

“They might have spare parts somewhere on board,” Kane says. “But there’s no guarantee that they’re in any better shape.”

“If we can even find them,” I add.

“Exactly.”

“We can pull from the LINA and splice to fit,” Nysus says. “It’s a workaround, but we can make it do what we need it to.”

Kane pulls himself upright, keeping a hand on the corner of the control bank to manage his movement. The sooner we can get the gravity on, the better. But we can’t boot up the lifeboat gravity generator and environmental systems without closing the bulkhead doors, and I don’t want to do that until I’m sure we’re not sealing ourselves into a dead ship.

“The problem is,” Kane begins.

“If we pull from the LINA, we’re rendering her nonfunctional in the same way,” I say.

He nods. “Exactly. And if we make adjustments to the rig for the Aurora—”

“It won’t fit back into the LINA,” I say.

“Not easily,” he agrees.

Which means, if everything goes to shit, we won’t have a way out. Worry gnaws at me. Redundancies. That’s what’s been drilled into my head, over and over. Redundancies in space save lives.

“Technically, we would be stuck once the bulkhead doors were closed anyway,” Nysus offers. “Unless we pressurize the whole ship, those doors won’t open. And there’s no airlock. No one is meant to leave once the Versailles Contingency is enacted, until outside help arrives.”

So, really, LINA’s (functional) presence in the cargo bay is nothing more than a comforting thought, anyway.

But I like that comforting thought.

“All right,” I say with a sigh. “Let’s do it.”

“I can pull what we need,” Nysus says. “Just a minute, and I’m on my way.”

“Voller, start running the lifeboat systems diagnostics,” I say. “No point in doing all of this if those aren’t up to snuff.”

I head to the stairway to wait for Nysus. It takes him longer than I expected, but I suspect that’s because he’s stopping to examine everything along the way with an unseemly amount of glee.

“Did you know that every room, even crew quarters, was stocked with genuine cotton sheets? An obscene thread count. CitiFutura wanted everyone to brag about the experience when they got home. It was meant to prove that the future of space living didn’t have to mean roughing it in a hab on a dusty planet somewhere,” he says.

From the top of the stairs on the Platinum Level, I watch as he makes his way across the atrium, a small form in a white enviro suit with a black pack strapped to his back.

“Look at this,” he says in delight, catching himself on one of the planters. “Genetic copies of rare plant species for that extra-special exclusive feel. CitiFutura even had a botanist on board to care for them.”

From what I’ve seen, I doubt anyone had had the time or inclination to appreciate that level of detail. Even before they started killing each other or themselves.

Then he looks up. “Where did you see Opal again?”

“Nysus,” I say with a sigh.

“Right, right.” He bobs toward the stairs, hesitating only briefly at the sight of the passengers Kane and I brought down. At the top, he grins at me, his eyes crinkling at the edges. At least someone is happy.

Without gravity, he’s floating even with me, though if we were on the ground, he’d be at least six inches shorter. His glossy dark hair is chopped short and ragged, his own handiwork. And he’s paler than the rest of us, almost as pale as me, because he doesn’t bother with the required time underneath our sun lamps.

“Good to see you, Ny,” I say, a smile tugging at my mouth in spite of the circumstances.

Even though we’ve lived and worked together in the tiny LINA for more than two years, it’s still strange to see Nysus in person, out of the server room. He’s not, as far as I can tell, antisocial exactly. He just prefers to spend his time alone, connected to us by technology rather than physical proximity.

“You, too, TL,” he says. But his focus is already on the corridor of suites behind me. “‘Ethically harvested hardwood,’” he murmurs, seemingly quoting from the Aurora’s specs or marketing materials. “They grew it especially for the Aurora.” He moves past me, through the open bulkhead doors, to touch the still-shiny panels. “I loaded my Forum downloads onto a portable drive, so we’ll still have access to the blueprints and any other information the Forum has collected over the years.”

Great. The solar system’s largest collection of facts and fantasy about the Aurora, still at our fingertips. Though I can’t complain, because the information Nysus has provided so far has been accurate.

Once Nysus is in place on the bridge with Kane, I tell Voller to head back to the LINA to gather whatever he needs for the trip.

“I’m almost done, and it’s only three days,” he protests, his hands hovering over the board, reluctant to leave as the lifeboat diagnostics run, as if his absence might change the outcome. “I can get by.”

“Try again,” Kane says, from where he and Nysus are working. “There’s no way Verux is going to let us wander through the ship and back into LINA once they get a team out here. We’re going to be escorted off, at the very least.” In restraints, is what he’s not saying but likely thinking.

And I can’t argue. With sending out a message to everyone on the commweb instead of Verux directly, the court of public opinion will eventually save us—the heroes who brought the Aurora home, as Voller said—but it’s probably not wise to count on that right away. Verux will be pissed.

For the first time, a squiggle of doubt worms through me. Verux has provided me a home and employment for the better part of my life. Perhaps it was only out of selfish concern and fear of legal reprisals, but still. How much do I owe them for that?

Enough to let them discard you when they’re done with you?

No. Definitely not.

I shove my fears down as Voller pushes himself away from the diagnostics with a disgruntled sound. “Don’t touch anything,” he mutters. To me or Kane, it’s impossible to tell, but equally insulting either way. And exactly what I’d expect.

“You should go, too,” I say to Kane.

I expect an argument, another moment of heated debate about leaving me here, essentially on my own. Nysus is here, but in another world, utterly transfixed by whatever he’s looking at behind the panel Kane removed.

But instead, Kane nods. “Roger, TL.”

He doesn’t even linger, simply pushes off the captain’s chair toward the door. He’s no longer even trying to talk to me alone, to explain. And while I’d have rather thrown myself out of an open airlock than have that conversation, it still feels like a loss somehow.

Fuck. I’ve really messed up.

Or maybe not. Maybe this is just the way it should be. It’s hard not to fidget or punch out at something in frustration, both bad ideas in zero grav.

Voller returns in record time, with a bag that I suspect contains mostly alcohol and maybe a change of underwear and a fresh T-shirt, if we are lucky.

Kane returns not long after with his own bag, but even through his faceplate, I can see his expression tight with tension.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Fine,” he says, avoiding my gaze and tying his bag down to the arm of the first officer’s chair.

“Kane,” I begin.

“You need to get your stuff,” he says to me, meeting my eyes briefly before pulling himself over to Nysus. Kane looks exhausted, pinched lines of worry more prominent on his forehead. “It won’t be long now.”

Okay. If that’s how he wants to play it.

“Lourdes, I’m on my way,” I say, my tone sharper than it needs to be. “You can start heading out.”

But when I reach the LINA, she’s still waiting inside, near the airlock. Her enviro suit is on, but her helmet is still on the storage bench.

I wrest my own helmet free, my hands clumsy and heavy in the renewed gravity.

“I thought I’d wait for you,” she says. “In case you want to create a message, too.”

“Message?” I ask.

She cocks her head to the side. “Kane didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Never mind.” She steps back, gesturing to the crate next to her. “I packed the food supplies and added in as much water as we can carry. Just in case.”

“Lourdes,” I ask, an anticipatory feeling of dread growing in my stomach. “What message?”

“He recorded a message for his daughter. I made one for my mom. We can’t transmit anymore, not with what we took for the Aurora, but it’s attached to the ship’s log. It’ll play whenever that’s pulled, even if we’re not on board.” She hesitates. “I guess he’s worried that even if everything goes right, Verux might not let us go right away?”

Guilt strikes hard and true in my gut. “It’s possible,” I admit. It’s also possible that I am a complete asshole. I’ve been preoccupied only with my own feelings—what they should or should not be—instead of thinking about the potential risks and penalties that Kane—and all of the others—were undertaking.

They’re risking so much on my word, my plan. The thought makes me feel queasy. I am not worth that.

“Shit,” I mumble.

Lourdes raises her eyebrows.

“Sorry, no. No message,” I say. Unless I can send one to my dumbass self. “No one left on Earth who would care.” I grimace at how self-pitying that sounds, even if it happens to be the truth. A couple of supervisors at the group home, instructors in the Verux commweb team training program, which, now that I think about it, likely no longer exists.

“Oh,” Lourdes says, her expression melting with sadness.

“It’s fine,” I say, forcing a wry grin. “I never liked Earth much anyway either.”

She nods after a beat. “Okay…”

I wait.

“Can I wait for you?” she asks. “I don’t know if I want to go through that”—she gestures toward the airlock and the Aurora beyond—“by myself.” Shifting from foot to foot with anxious energy and dark circles under her eyes.

“Yeah. Just give me a minute.”

It doesn’t take me long to grab from the already-packed crate in my quarters and stuff a few changes of clothes and personal toiletries into a duffel.

My fingertips brush over the soft cloth of my childhood blanket. I hesitate for a moment. It is my only remaining possession with a connection to my mother, but it’s also connected to the disaster that was Ferris Outpost. Bringing it with me feels almost like asking for trouble, waving a red flag in front of fate and daring it to strike again.

I shake my head. Ridiculous.

I tuck the blanket inside before zipping the bag shut.

Once Lourdes and I are suited back up, I follow Voller’s instructions to shut down LINA’s primary systems (including the requisite diagnostic). Behind me, I can feel the pull of LINA, whispering at me to look back, reminding me that this might be the last time I see my home of the last eight years.

But I make myself push on, keeping my gaze focused ahead. There’s nothing to be gained from looking back.

It takes us longer to get to the atrium, pushing the crate along between us. Lourdes doesn’t have much experience in zero grav, and she’s having trouble pulling herself along.

Eventually, it’s easier to simply tether her to me.

“TL … Claire,” she says softly as we reach the threshold of the atrium. “Is it okay if I close my eyes?”

Making her fully dependent on me to get her there safely. Frustration flares in me. I didn’t want this. I don’t want this. My suit feels too tight, too warm suddenly.

Except, isn’t that what I’m already doing? Making decisions for people who are depending on me to get it right?

“Sure,” I say, and I try not to let the tension seep into my words. In the end, it’s probably the better choice for all of us, including Lourdes, that she not have the up-close view of the deceased passengers.

Kane, thankfully, is waiting at the top of the stairs and helps without a word, reaching out to pull the crate up and shove it toward the suites. Then he tugs Lourdes up, releasing her tether from me, and guides her to the corridor, past the bulkhead.

I follow. Voller finally has the lights on and things appear almost normal. Except for the bloody message on the wall, which I still haven’t deciphered.

“It’s safe,” Kane says to her in that same gentle tone I’ve heard him use with his daughter. It makes me ache with envy and burn with self-loathing at the same time. “You can open your eyes.”

I hear her gasp. “It’s so pretty! Look at the walls!”

Another real-wood enthusiast. I shake my head.

“The bridge is at the end of the corridor and around the corner,” he says to Lourdes. “Just pull yourself along by the doorways. If you lose your grip or miss a handhold, don’t panic. I’ll be right along behind you in a minute.”

“Okay,” she says, sounding more certain than before. He has a gift for reassurance.

Kane returns to me and the crate floating on its side nearby.

I owe him an apology. More than one. I open my mouth, but words won’t come out.

“You all right?” he asks, keeping his attention focused, deliberately, it seems, on the crate.

Why wouldn’t I be? The sarcastic response immediately pops to the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it a second before it escapes.

“Hoping I didn’t kill us all by deciding to do this,” I admit, surprising myself.

“You didn’t force anyone,” he reminds me.

“Are you sure about that?” I ask lightly. Even after that kiss, he would feel compelled to look after me. It’s just who he is.

“As much as I’m sure we all love this heartwarming chat on the common comm channel,” Voller drawls in my ear, turning my face hot with embarrassment. “We’re ready up here.”

Kane flips him the finger, but his voice is calm and even. “Roger that. On our way.”

When he catches me looking at him, he shrugs. “Makes me feel better even if he can’t see it.”

A surprised laugh escapes me. “That is one stress relief measure I had not considered.”

“Can’t see what?” Voller demands.

“Not important,” I say, and it feels, for the moment, like everything is back to normal. Like everything is going to be okay.

We bring the crate of food and water with us to the bridge. Voller, Kane, and Nysus go over the lifeboat data one more time and the engine diagnostics, confirming that everything is optimal. Or as optimal as it can be.

And then there’s nothing left to check.

Nysus looks to me, and I give him the nod, feeling my heart in my throat.

“Activating Versailles Contingency,” Nysus says.

I hear the hiss of air as the environmentals kick on in high gear, rushing to fill and warm the void.

“Sealing bulkhead doors, port and starboard,” Voller adds.

It makes the most logical sense to wait here, to watch as the stars shift and move around us as we get underway.

But instead, I find myself bobbing down the portside hallway, as the gravity generator gives its activation warning, to watch the heavy bulkhead door slowly slide into place.

My hands are tingling and sweaty, and it feels harder and harder to breathe with every inch the door descends.

Get out, get out now! a voice in the back of my mind screams, over and over again. Until the space between the bottom of the door and the floor is too small to squeeze through. Then that voice falls ominously silent.

Lourdes joins me at the door, and then Kane.

The doors connect with their fittings—on this side and the starboard—with twin thuds that shake the ship and us within it. A moment later, gravity locks on and pulls us to the ground, after the three warning bobs.

“Doors are secure,” Nysus says, sounding giddy. “The Versailles Contingency is a success! Oxygen at eighteen percent and climbing. Temperature is rising, too. Negative twenty Celsius.”

“I guess that’s it then,” Kane says, as the three of us stand there, staring at the solid metal wall blocking us from death. Blocking us in, though, too.

A loud pop sounds behind me, and I jump, bracing myself out of habit with a hand along the wooden corridor panels, but the gravity is on.

When I turn to look for the source, my stomach is tight with dread and I half expect to see that rivets are bursting free and we’re venting atmosphere.

Instead I find Voller, his helmet off in utter defiance of protocol, holding a green glass bottle that’s foaming over the top.

“Is that champagne?” Kane asks in disbelief.

“Where did you get that?” I demand at the same time.

“In one of the rooms. Don’t worry, boss,” he cuts me off before I can speak. “It was sealed. Who’s joining me?” He squints at the wet label. “For a thirty-year-old drink?” He lifts the bottle in a mock toast. “To the start of our high life!”

He puts the bottle to his lips and tilts his head back for a large swallow but comes up sputtering and coughing a second later. “That’s rank,” he manages, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. But he’s grinning.

To my surprise, Lourdes moves past me and reaches for the bottle. She struggles to remove her helmet one-handed until Voller helps her. She takes a tentative sip, followed by a grimace. “Disgusting.”

But she extends the bottle to me and Kane with an expectant look.

Kane holds his hand up. “No thanks, I prefer my stomach lining intact.”

It feels, though, less like a shared drink and more like a pact, a promise that we are all in this together. Oh, what the hell.

I remove my helmet, taking a first tentative breath on board the Aurora. The air is still icy cold and vaguely metallic-smelling. I grab the bottle from Lourdes, who beams at me.

“To fame and fortune, bitches,” I say with a sigh, lifting the bottle as Voller crows in delight.

“And getting everyone home safely,” Lourdes adds.

“That, too.” She means the Aurora dead, I know, but when I lift that bottle, I’m making my promise to the living.