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“So, like, maybe a hundred years. So that would mean that Benita, the thirteenth generation of this family . . . she had to have been born around three hundred years after the ship left. But she was killed by this Plague . . . and that happened like a hundred or more years ago. This ship’s been flying at least a century longer than it was supposed to . . . . ”
“But the ship was supposed to have landed in fifty years. We’ve only been flying for two hundred and fifty years,” I say.
Amy stops pacing, turns, and faces me. Her eyes are wide, boring into mine.
“How do you know for sure?” she says. “Let’s look up the charts after the Plague. If we count how many generations were born after the Plague, maybe we’ll be able to figure out how long this ship has really been traveling. ”
It feels as if there is a rock in my stomach, pulling me down, pulling the entire ship down. “There are no genealogical charts after the Plague. I just remembered: Doc told me once that the Plague wiped out so many people that they quit making the charts after that. ”
“The Season,” Amy whispers more to herself than to me. “The Season started after the Plague, right?” She is staring hard at nothing. “This can’t be a coincidence. That thirteenth generation, Benita’s generation—that was when the ship was supposed to land. It must have been close to three centuries then, surely. But then this Plague happened, and the Season was started, and they quit doing genealogical charts—”
“And photography was banned,” I add. “There are no pictures of the ship from the year before the Plague till now. I was fascinated by the Plague when I was younger—it’s one of the first things Eldest taught me about—but there aren’t pics or vids of it at all, and now only the scientists on
the Shipper Level can use photography, and only then as a record of their discoveries. ”
“Something happened during that Plague,” Amy says slowly. “Something so bad that all the records of it were destroyed. And everything after—the Season, the way people act here—it all comes back to the Plague. ”
59
AMY
ELDER STARTS TO SAY SOMETHING TO ME, BUT JUST WHEN he opens his mouth, the door to the Recorder Hall flings open.
“Elder!” Eldests voice, strong and cold, rings out across the empty hall.
Elder lunges for the control panels. All the forbidden images of the people and places of my home disappear. The telltale genealogical chart fades to black; the stuck image of the engine slides away.
“Don’t bother,” Eldest growls. He taps one finger behind his left ear, where the communicator is implanted. “I keep tabs on what you study on this ship. I know what you’ve used your access to open. ”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Elder says automatically, but I can tell he doesn’t mean it, and he regrets saying it altogether. He stands straighter and regains some of his composure. “But since when do you keep ‘tabs’ on me? And honestly, I’m surprised you even noticed. The last time I saw you, you were dru—”
My head whips around to Eldest. Drunk? Was Elder about to say Eldest was drunk?
The movement’s not lost on Eldest. He doesn’t address me, though, just Elder when he says, “A true leader is never out of control, nor drunk on anything. ” Now he looks at me. “I seem to remember believing that you have the potential to disrupt my ship. Clearly, I am right. ”
“I didn’t do anything!” I say. There is a hint of panic in my voice. I haven’t forgotten his original threat.
Eldest waves his hand dismissively at me. “Your presence is enough. It’s completely distracted my . . . student. ” He says this last bit with a sneer in his voice, as if he equates a student with an annoying, yapping little Chihuahua. He returns his gaze to Elder. “It’s time to resume your studies. I’ve been busy with the Season and let you play with your little girl here, but if you have time to look up what I saw you looking up, then clearly it is time to refocus your studies to something more productive. ”
He walks back to the door. Elder chews on his lip, unsure of whether to follow or not.
“Wait!”
Eldest turns at my call, but does not come back.
“I want some answers, dammit,” I say, striding toward him. “You and I both know there’s some crazy crap going on. That Season was bad enough, but now the doctor’s calling me crazy, and I’ve got to take that pill Elder takes, and this place has—”
“Enough. ” Eldest cuts me off with cold authority. “I told you not to become a disturbance. You clearly did not listen. ”
“I think this ship needs some disturbance!”
“The last man who thought that way no longer thinks anything at all. ”
Other than Elder’s sharp intake of breath, the Recorder Hall is silent. We are facing off, Eldest near the door, me near the clay planets, and Elder in the middle, our mark in a tug-of-war game for the truth.
“Come on, Elder. ” Eldest turns again for the door.
“What happened in the Plague?!” I shout at him. “What are you not telling us? You know—I know you know! Why can’t you just tell us the truth?”
