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“The vid,” Elder says, his voice low. “It’s the only way to figure out what Orion meant. ”
“You were the one who said Orion was loons. ”
“Yeah, but—”
“Besides, that last clue was probably tampered with. Most likely someone didn’t want us finding this room or the suits, and—”
“But Amy,” Elder says. “Space suits!” Elder can’t keep down his excitement about going out into the stars—but I can’t keep down my fear.
“The suits don’t change anything!” But I’m wrong. They change everything. “Let me go,” I whisper. “Let anyone else. We can’t risk you. ”
Elder smiles—a huge, carefree grin, and I really do feel like a mother watching her baby totter off into a fire. “I’m touched. You actually do care about me. ”
My mouth drops open. “You idiot. Of course I care about you. ”
He leans forward quickly and pecks me on the forehead. “Then help me get the suit on. ”
I growl—but I can’t stop him. At least I can make sure he’s as safe as possible. I pick up two halves of the breastplate. I feel like a lady dressing her knight in his armor, just like a movie I saw a long time ago on Sol—on Earth. The lady tucked a token—a small scarf—into the knight’s armor to remind him of her love for him. I don’t have a scarf, and I’m not even sure if I love Elder, but I strap him so hard into the breastplate that he grunts in protest.
I keep checking the manual. It doesn’t seem right that all it takes to go into space is a set of bronze long johns and a plastic shell. I knew space suits had come a long way from the puffy white marshmallow-like suits of the twentieth century, but this thin suit doesn’t seem adequate. Still, when I watched videos of men and women working in the space of Godspeed before it launched, their suits looked exactly like this.
Elder steps into the boots one at a time. They go halfway up his calves, and when I push a button on them, they shrink against his legs. Elder hobbles to the center of the room, then turns around, letting me inspect him.
“Looks solid,” I admit.
“All that’s left is the helmet and the backpack,” Elder says, reaching for the helmet.
“This first. ” I help pull Elder’s arms through the straps of the pack, and it snaps into the hard shell pieces of the suit.
I plug the wires from the pack into their connectors on the shoulder of the suit. “This is a PLSS, a primary life support subsystem,” I say as I connect a tube to the base of the helmet. “Basically, it has all the stuff you need to live—brings in oxygen, takes out carbon dioxide, regulates pressure, all that. ”
I snap on a metal-enforced cable to a hook at the front of Elder’s suit. “And this,” I say, “is your lifeline back to me—to the ship. I’m attaching the other end to the hatch. The book says there’s a special hook there just for this. ”
Elder nods. He looks pale, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his face.
I think about kissing him then. Just in case.
Instead, I cram his helmet onto his suit and lock it into place. The PLSS has only two modes—on and off—so I open the latch door, flip the switch to on, and secure the door back in place.
“That’s pure oxygen,” I say loudly. “Get used to it now, before you’re in space. ”
Elder nods, but he’s got so much on that his whole top half bends back and forward. I bite my lip, worried.
Elder follows me, clomp-hobbling, to the hatch. Inside, I latch the end of his lifeline to a hook on the floor.
“Come back to me,” I whisper to Elder’s helmet, but I don’t know if he can hear me.
I step back into the hallway. The hatch closes behind me. I look through the bubble window. Elder raises one hand.
I punch the code into the keypad slowly, hesitating before the last digit. Should I do this? Is it worth it to find Orion’s big secret if it risks Elder?
The door in front of me seals shut, a grinding metal-on-metal noise as it locks. Through the window, I have one last look at Elder in his bronze suit. I am overcome with an insane urge to rip the controls out of the wall beside me and keep the hatch from opening.
But it’s too late. It opens.
And Elder’s gone.
37
