If I’m honest, I want to fix it without them ever having to know the truth. Without them ever having to know thisfear. This heartbreak. Because itisheartbreak: whoever is doing this simply would not have done it before. The virus broke us all, when it comes down to it, some more than others. This... what’s happening now... it’s like aheartbreakvirus: when one heart breaks, it wants company, so it breaks another—which in turn breaks more—and more—and on and on from there. We all end up cracked.
“I’ll try it,” Haven says, her voice cutting through the noise in my head and outside it. “Someone bring me a couple of pouchesofNautilusfood, and I’ll try it, right here in front of you all. This paranoia needs to end, or else you’re all going to starve.”
Natalin throws a grateful look her way. I wish I’d thought of the idea, but at least one of us did. This is good—this is a start.
I volunteer to retrieve a sampling for her just so I can get out of the mezzanine for a few minutes, walk off my nerves that are so on edge. What I don’t count on is how they insist I take someone with me—anyone who is not in our core six—as witness, to prove I’ve actually pulled the food in question from theNautilussupplies and not from a high corner of our own pantry. A petite girl named Story Lutheborough, with delicate dark skin and bouncy curls and bright-eyed wonder despite all that has happened—how?—steps up to join me.
We set off together, quick steps through empty corridors, to retrieve a meal from the storage pantry where theNautiluscrates are stowed, as informed by Natalin. I can tell Story wants to take advantage of our alone time—prod me with questions, pry the truth out with sheer persistence—but, to her credit, she reads me well enough not to. Tomycredit, I’m in full commander mode right now: shoulders back, eyes trained on the path ahead, unsmiling. I make myself a wall, and it works. No use throwing pebbles at iron and expecting it to collapse.
I let her choose Haven’s meal. All the options look the same, really, in their SpaceLove packaging, each stamped withNAUTILUS SHIPMENT 1032C-2Bin gray-purple ink. She plucks a crowd favorite from the shelf, mashed sweet potato, along with a notoriously disgusting smoothie made of beet, parsley,spirulina, wheatgrass, carrot, celery, and spinach.
“Let’s get this over with,” Haven says as soon as we return, and I couldn’t agree more. I need to get to toxicology as soon as possible, need to take care of Indigo’s body before too much time passes.
Everyone watches eagerly as Haven eats the potatoes straight from the pouch, ingesting half the contents in a single squeeze. Story massages the smoothie pouch—as if that will help its texture or flavor at all—before handing it over.
I’m sure not even Haven likes this particular combination, but it’s obvious she’s determined to take it in and keep it down. “See?” she says, after a forced swallow. “Not terrible.” A couple of fourteen-year-olds nearby stifle drunken giggles; Natalin cuts her eyes at them and the giggles come to an abrupt stop.
Haven gulps down the rest of the smoothie before she can think twice about it. When she’s finished, she hands the empty pouches back to Story. “Show them,” Haven tells her.
“Nautilusshipment,” Story reads. Her voice is loud and clear, unexpectedly authoritative for such a young person, and for such a small frame. Andlucid—no way she could’ve been drinking as much as the others tonight. Nice to know we’re not all spiraling in self-destructive ways. “And”—she squeezes both pouches, holds them up on display—“she downed all the food.”
This seems to satisfy the crowd, so I step in for an announcement before they start to disperse. “We’re going to need you all to keep clear of the mezzanine for the rest of the night so we can... take care of things,” I say. “If any of you would likedinner, you know where to find it—find Natalin if you have any issues with the dispensers in your cabins. And I know we’re having a rough season right now, but please, everyone—please take care of yoursel—”
A loudthwackcuts me off: Haven.
She’s passed out cold, and she’s hit the floor hard. The barest rivulet of blood seeps out from where her temple connected, starts to pool, dyes her golden-blonde waves dark red.
“Everyone out,” I say, tears springing to my eyes despite my increasingly complicated relationship with Haven. “Everyoneout!”
But no one moves.
Everyone is slack-jawed and gaping for one single second as we all realize, collectively: we’re screwed.
“NOW!” I yell, putting some grit into my voice. Heath and Zesi and Leo herd them out the various exits; Natalin kneels down beside me, beside Haven. She’s not dead—notyet, anyway—and the bleeding doesn’t look as bad as it did with the initial shock, once I take a closer look.
But.
This.
Is.
The.
Last.
Thing.
We.
Need.
“Do you know how to fix this?” Natalin asks, her face drained of all color. “Is it... fixable?”
Nothing else seems to be, I want to say.
“Get a gurney, get her to Medical. Get the guys to help.” It’s as much of an answer as I can give. I sift through the litany of first-aid procedures I memorized years ago, at Dr. Safran’s insistence. “Find a clean cloth—rip a shirt apart if you have to—and press it to the wound for the next fifteen minutes at least. And don’t use your bare hands, there are latex gloves in Portside, have Leo run for them while Zesi and Heath get the gurney.” I rattle off instructions, while at the same time running scenarios in my head on how to treat the injury. She passed outbeforeshe hit her head, so her lack of consciousness isn’t necessarily a sign of a concussion—and the wound does look relatively small, even though it is in a sensitive place. I think a bit of antiseptic and a few stitches with a sterilized needle will go a long way. As for what made her pass out in the first place... I wish I had an easy answer.
“Okay,” Natalin says, hands shaking. She looks around for help, some sort of reassurance, but the guys are still herding away the last of the gawking onlookers. “Okay, we can do this. I can do this.”
