Because already, I can see myself living there. Being there.

On a planet that looks up at a million suns every night, and at two every day.

I want to scream, shout with joy. But the air is so thin now.

Too thin.

I’ve spent too long looking at Orion’s secret.

The boop . . . boop . . . boop . . . fades away. There’s nothing to warn about now.

Because there’s no air left.

My sight is rimmed with black. My head pulses with my heartbeat, which sounds as loud to me as the alarm once did. I turn from the planet—my planet—and start pulling, hand over hand, against the tether, toward the hatch. The ship bobs in and out of my vision as my whole body jerks. I’m panicked now and fighting to stay awake. I try to suck in air, but there’s nothing there to suck. I’m drowning in nothing.

Closer.

My hands slip, and I’m afraid—if I lose my grasp, if I fall all the way back to the end of the tether—I’ll never make it back to the ship. I’ll never make it back to Amy.

But if I have to die, I think, at least I can die looking at the planet. Is this what Harley thought? Did he see Centauri-Earth before he died? Was his last thought one of regret—that he threw himself to the stars when the planet was almost within his grasp?

I look down at my hands wonderingly. When did I forget to put one hand over the other as I pull myself along the tether? I’m still floating in the direction of the ship—the lack of gravity ensures that—but I have to keep pulling myself along the rope or I’ll never make it back to Godspeed—to oxygen—in time. I force my arms to move, drag my body closer to the ship. I pull harder than before. Desperation fills my muscles. My mouth hangs open, sucking at nothing. My throat convulses.

I’ve got to get to the ship.

My muscles are shaking, but I don’t know if it’s from exertion or suffocation. Just—one more tug—there. The hatch. My fingers scramble, trying to grip the edge of the opening. On the other side of the door is Amy. I crane my head up and, through my watery eyes, I can see her pressed against the glass. I heave, once, and my body propels up, floating through the zero gravity. I bounce against the ceiling of the inside of the hatch. Black spots dance before my eyes.

The hatch door grinds closed . . . so slowly . . .

I turn in time to see the planet, just barely out of sight, only visible here, at the rim between the ship and space—

—The hatch door locks into place.

And I see nothing but black.

40

AMY

AS SOON AS THE HATCH DOOR SHUTS, I REACH FOR THE handle, but it has to re-pressurize before it can open. Through the window of the hatch, I see Elder’s body thunk against the floor as gravity returns. I pound on the door with both fists, but he doesn’t so much as twitch. He lies there, motionless, his face obscured by the helmet.

An eternity later, the lock clicks and I fling the door open. I drop to my knees at Elder’s side and turn his body over so he’s flat on his back. His arms and legs are limp; the shell of his suit is clunky and in the way.

The helmet first. Elder’s head pours out of it and thunks on the metal floor.

“Elder,” I say. “ELDER.” I slap him, hoping for something, but—

I jab my wi-com and com Doc. “Get down to the cryo level!” I scream into my wrist as I attack the shell armor of the suit, ripping at the latches and stays around Elder’s torso, breaking it open to reveal his chest.

“What’s wrong?” Doc asks. His voice is breathless over the wi-com, as if he’s already running.

“It’s Elder!” I shout.

“I’m on the Shipper Level, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Hurry!”

I bend down to Elder’s chest—he’s not breathing. My hair falls across his face, into his slightly open mouth, but he doesn’t flinch.

I don’t know if this will work—I pray it will, but I don’t know—I tip Elder’s head back—his skin is so cold—pinch his nose, and breathe into his mouth. I did this on a dummy once after swim lessons in Florida when I was a kid, but the dummy was plastic and an unrealistic mix of hard and soft—nothing at all like the warm wet of Elder’s mouth. I do two short bursts of breaths—Puff! Puff! Then I lean back on my knees, fold my hands over each other, and press down on his chest.

Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.

Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.

Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.

Push, push.

 

Puff! Puff!

Push, push.

Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.

Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.

Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.

Nothing.

Pushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpush.

God, why isn’t this working?! Am I doing it right? I can barely remember that one hour of CPR training so long ago—what if I’m hurting him?

I lower my head to breathe into his mouth again. I have to swallow back a sob. I won’t cry.

He’s not dead. I won’t let him be dead.

Puff!

I lean up to take some more air—and I feel, just barely—a whiff of breath coming from Elder. I lean down, my cheek next to his lips—and I can feel it. Air. His chest rises and falls, rises and falls. I move down, pressing my face against his body.

I can feel the thud of his heartbeat, weak, but beating, beating, beating with life.

I rest my head on his chest, relishing in the warmth of him, in the sound of his body, still alive.

41

ELDER

“UHHRRR,” I GROAN. MY CHEST FEELS AS IF SOMEONE CRACKED it open and then taped it shut again.

“Elder!” Amy leans over me.

“What happened?” My voice is alien to me, high. My nose is cold on the inside—there’s a tube blowing air up into it.

“I think you died a little bit,” Amy says. She tries to laugh, but the sound fades on her lips. Her eyes are red, as if she’s either been crying too much or needs to cry but hasn’t yet.

I lie still for a moment, assessing myself. I’m in the Hospital. “I feel like shite,” I conclude.

“Yes, that’s what happens when you die for a little bit.”

Amy starts to head to the door, but I grab her wrist. “Don’t go.”

“I should get Doc,” she says. “He’s been waiting for you to wake up.”

“Not yet,” I say. I slip the tube under my nose off my face.

“Don’t do that,” Amy says. “It’s oxygen.”

“I’ve got enough now, see?” I take a big, obvious breath and disentangle myself from the tube.

Her brows furrow, but she allows me to pull her down so she’s sitting on the edge of the bed. I bite my lip, then release it—my lips are sore and feel bruised. I can taste copper along the soft flesh.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” Amy whispers. Her fingers trail down the side of my cheek, lightly brushing the place where my face is still bruised from Stevy’s punch a few days ago. Her fingers are cool, her touch so soft I barely feel it.

“I’m fine.” I smile wryly. “Better than fine.”

“Are you really okay?” she asks, moving a piece of hair off my face.

“Amy,” I say, taking a deep breath and relishing the taste of air. “Amy, we’re here. We’re at the planet. We’ve made it.”

Her brow crinkles.

“That’s what I saw when I went outside. I saw Centauri-Earth.”

She shakes her head, as if making my words rattle around inside her skull.

“We’re going to land. Soon.”

Something snaps. Her eyes go out of focus. “We’ll be able to wake my parents up,” she says slowly. “I won’t have to spend my whole life on this ship. I’ll be able to go outside again. I’ll see the sun.”

“Suns,” I correct. “Centauri-Earth has two suns.”

“Suns. Suns.” And the light in her eyes reminds me of the two shining orbs hanging over the planet.

“Now aren’t you glad I went outside?” I ask, grinning at her. “All I had to do was die a little, and you get a new planet!”

I expected her to laugh, or at least smile. I did not expect her to slap my arm. “You stupid idiot!” she says, smacking me again. “I don’t want the new planet without you!”

Her eyes round as she realizes what she just said. Anytime we’d gotten this close to talking about us before, Amy has shied away from the topic. But now, instead of drawing away from me, she leans closer. Her hair spills over her shoulders, brushing my chest as she leans down. Her fiery joy at learning about the planet is replaced with something else, something warmer, like a slow-burning but steady flame.

“It wouldn’t be worth it without you,” she says, her voice low.

My arm snakes out, wrapping around her waist and pulling her closer so that she’s practically lying on top of me. I can feel every inch of her; her heartbeat is crashing about so hard that I’m surprised it’s not making the bed shake.

She looks terrified, but she doesn’t pull away.

Her kiss is soft and gentle, barely pressing against my bruised lips. There is sweetness in it, and innocence, and a promise.

Doc clears his throat.

I get one glimpse of Amy’s surprised face, and then she scurries back to the chair against the wall, her face bright red.

“How are you feeling, Elder?” Doc asks as he approaches the bed. He frowns at the discarded oxygen tube. He checks my pulse, waves a light in front of my eyes.

“I’m fine,” I insist.

Finally, he seems to agree with me and sits down in the chair next to Amy. “Now,” he says, an edge to his usually even voice, “would you like to tell me just what the frex you were thinking?”

I open my mouth, but no answer comes out. My eyes dart to Amy’s—how much does Doc know?—and she shakes her head subtly.

“Don’t try to hide things from me,” Doc says, his voice going up a notch. “It’s obvious what you two were doing.”

“It . . . is?”

Doc glares at me. “I know what that suit was. It was for going outside the ship. Orion did it once, when the ship needed an external repair. And you two found the suits and thought, ‘Oh, let’s just go outside in space and play!’”

“It’s not like—” I start, but Amy widens her eyes at me, silencing me.

“Elder, I understand, I do,” Doc says, his voice dipping back down to a low monotone, the same sort of voice he’d use when asking how I was, just before offering me a med patch to calm down. “You wanted to see what it was like out there. But you should have realized. Those suits are ancient. I doubt any of them are truly safe.” He pauses, not meeting my eyes. “Elder—you’re too valuable. With Orion frozen and the ship off Phydus—we can’t take any chances. Not with you.”

Doc covers his face with his hands, and I’m surprised—I’ve never seen him overcome with emotion like this before.