Until the silence took over and, one by one, the stars went out.
In my not-so-expert opinion, I believe in Dr. Safran’s theory. I don’t know what dirt feels like, not on Earth, not on any planet. None of us do, none of us who are left. All the air we’ve ever breathed has been recycled for nearly two decades inside these thick walls, steel and Plexiglas—we are a tiny dot stationed amid an extraordinary universe. Not one of us, the second generation, has coughed up a single drop of blood. We are louder than ever, now that no one tells us not to be.
We are also quieter than ever. One hundred percent of us have lost someone who meant the entire universe.
And in the midst of the losing, there are six of us who’ve stepped up. We’ve never led before, don’t really knowhowto lead, but there is a need. So here we are, the six of us fumbling our way through a world that just became one hundred stars darker.
At least there are five billion trillion stars left.
Five billion trillion stars, though, are not enough light to show me this: Why is Mila Harper, age sixteen, lying dead on the cold, cold floor of the observation deck?
3
BLOODBUBBLES
I KNOW A lot of things about a lot of things.
I know about supernovas, black holes.
I know there are stars that radiate green light but appear white, true colors hidden until untangled by a prism.
I know people are the same way.
I’ve only ever known Mila Harper from a distance. She’s the sort of girl who’s had the same haircut all her life, shiny brown and sleek angles, the long parts in the front constantly falling down over her eyes. I’ve watched her tuck her hair behind her ears every day since she learned to read, more than a decade ago. She reads all the time, curled up in the corner of the sky lounge, one floor below this very starboard-side observation deck, always with a steaming tumbler of tea.
Correction. Shereadall the time.
Now Mila’s reader sits, dead, on the floor, a crack spiderwebbing across its face. It’s dotted with bloodbubbles.
Of all the things I know, bloodbubbles are only a recently developed area of my expertise. In the past six—almostseven—weeks since I found my mother, I’ve seen bloodbubbles on everything from butcher knives to medic-ward gowns to control panels on the commander’s deck. Every day, every death.
But never from any second generation–born. Never, until now.
“Lindley?”
I look up, find Leo staring at me with those intense, unreadable eyes of his. I know for a fact he finds me equally unreadable.
“The body? What did you want to do with it?”
He looks so much like his parents in this moment it’s unnerving. Deep bronze skin, and hiseyes—his mother’s eyes, keen and bright—and his father’s steady, stoic demeanor. They were my mother’s closest friends.
Of the six of us who’ve stepped up to lead, Leo and I are the roots. Tangled roots, seeds sown in the same hole by so-close parents who wanted their kids to be every bit as close. Pluck either of us up, the other would die. Leave us as we are and we might die anyway, each choking the other out. Not always on purpose.
“Don’t move her yet,” I say. I feel Leo’s eyes on me, wanting more—as if I have more togive. Everyone wants so much from me now. I don’t blame them, honestly. I only wish my anatomy came pre-equipped with an organ to sift through all the conflicting signals sent from my head, my heart, my gut. One that was never wrong. One that never needed sleep.
Now is the time where Dr. Safran would step in. It’s hardto believe I’d never seen an autopsy performed before six weeks ago. I’d seen surgery before—I’vedonesurgery before—delicate blades and steady hands and precision, precision, precision. Autopsies aren’t so delicate. I’ve seen eight now. Eight, before the need to identify the virus was eclipsed by the need to contain it. If only it had been containable.
Something feels off, I’m not sure what. Mila came up to the observation deck on occasion, but I didn’t think it was an everyday habit of hers. Maybe it’s that she’s in sleeping clothes, that it’s three in the morning. Of course, all of us mourn in different ways.
“Do you have your imager?” I ask, and it’s out of Leo’s hip pocket almost as soon as I’ve asked. “Snap as many photos as you can.”
My brain is running on fumes. When I look at the scene after a solid stretch of sleep, I’ll see things more clearly. My filters—emotional, rational—are maxed out right now: CRW-0001 wiped out one hundred out of one hundred in just under two months.
Eighty-five of us were left. Now there are eighty-four.
Maybe Dr. Safran was wrong; maybe the virus latched on toallof us—maybe it is simply smothering the second generation more slowly.
Or maybe it’s mutated.
