I remember wondering if they knew, somehow, what they were doing: if they did it on purpose, taking and taking and taking just so they couldsurvive, even if it meant draining the life out of the stars they’d seen every other day of their eternal star lives. Or if that was just their nature, some sort of self-preservation method that kicked in on instinct.
We’ve all suffered a death here, in a way. We still live, westill breathe, we still walk and talk and try to keep on going in the hope that one day we won’t feel so broken. But on the inside? Parents who will never again be more than memories—the shattered illusions of safety and security, tiny shards lodged in our hearts, reminding us every day that we arefragile—
Someone here is trying to bring themselves back to life, trying to feel again in the midst of all that is numb.
And they are very good at hiding.
35
SECRET SECRETS
WHOEVER DID THIS is extremely clever. Whoever did this is extremelycalculating.
Mila. Jaako. Kerr.
After all we’ve suffered, loss after loss after loss, I cannot fathom the level of delusion it would take to decide that this—this, the theft of life and breath and future—is the answer. I cannot fathom the numbness of heart required to break another heart, to take it and smash it and see if the shards are sharp enough to make its killer bleed, or feel. The bitterness required to spread bile into the world, just to avoid being alone in it.
Yet here we are.
It isn’t like we live down on Earth, where there are innumerable places for a murderer to flee. There are no far-flung continents up here, no mountains or forests, no caves or islands or anywhere else someone might go to run from the past. Here, someone is hiding in plain sight. It could beanyone. It’s unnerving.
Worse, it’s simply hard to imagine anyone on the stationwho would do a thing like this. We all have our moments—we all clash sometimes, and things have certainly been escalating as of late—but we’ve lasted this long without resorting to murdering each other. It is world-shifting to realize that the reality we live in is not what I thought it was.
I thought we were better than this.
I dig my fingers into my temples, stare into the pristine white lab island until it is a blinding blur. This is an entirely new dimension of things required of me: not even my mother had to deal with a serial killer. Aserial killer, holy... that’s what this is, and it’s possibly more frightening than a virus. That it likely won’t end at three deaths. That there’s no predicting who might be next.
That there’smotivebehind it.
With a mutation, it might have been hopeless—we might have all been wiped out—but at least I would have died knowing I tried my very best, that there might not have been a cure at all no matter how long I worked for one. Knowing what I now know, though—that these deaths are absolutely preventable, that I have every reason to believe they’ll continue unless I find the killer and put a stop to this madness—it’s a heavier sort of pressure, one that’s closing in on me from all sides. Should I call for some sort of lockdown? Or would that only make for a smarter killer amid a sea of emotional instability? The killer could creep around in secret and take our people out one by one without anyone noticing, thanks to all the isolation. Still, my gut says a lockdown could minimize our losses if done well. Wejust need to go about it the right way.
My finger hovers over my buzz screen, and I’m ready to have Haven make the call—but I can’t bring myself to actually do it. Not yet. Before I stir up panic prematurely, I should probably have more to back up my theory than just a simplethis is off, this doesn’t feel right. I should probably have something concrete.
Deep breaths. Calm, calm.
I need to do quick work, and I need it to be the best work of my life.
When I first stepped up as commander, I cracked open my mother’s slim silver laptop and familiarized myself with file after file until my eyes gave out for the night. I spent a large percentage of my time in the manifest records of all who remained: I was familiar enough with most of their names, but not things like birth dates, or their parents’ names and specific roles aboard the station, or other details I wouldn’t have known simply by surviving seventeen years of station life together. Before it became my priority to know each and every resident, I mostly grew roots with Leo and Heath and Haven. I was friendly with the others, sure. But being friendly isn’t exactly the same as beingfriends.
I slip out of the lab and head home, straight to my mother’s bedside table. She always kept the laptop in its top drawer; I keep it there, too. A thought nags at me:Don’t waste time going through the manifests, it says.Better to run more tests in the lab.
But the tests can wait. As far as the deaths go, I’m moreconcerned withwhodid the killing thanhow. For the moment, anyway. Finding links and patterns among the victims could lead to their killer, which could put an end to this swiftly.
I pull up the manifest’s master list, filter it by year of birth so I won’t have to see the names of all our parents who died. A heaviness settles in my chest: they are nothing more than names on a screen now. Bits and bytes and memory.
Eighty-five names remain after the filter does its work, because of course the computer has no way of knowing what’s happened since I last opened it. I click Mila’s name, but it turns out I’m not prepared for her photo—how odd it is to have her bright brown eyes looking out, so veryalive, as I switch her status todeceased. I do the same for Jaako. For Kerr.
Now we are eighty-two.
It doesn’t look like a lot, but I know better. Just as our parents were more than just their names, so are we all. I wish it were as easy as sifting through the photos until I found one that obviously didn’t belong, one that glowed red with anger, perhaps, or possibly even remorse. If only. So... whatamI looking for?
Perspective, I decide.
A bird’s-eye view of those of us who are left. Any connections I can draw between the victims, any telling details that might help me rule out—or take a closer look at—potential suspects.
This... could take a while.
36
