“I’ll be honest: I thought my leadership would be as strong as Phydus had been. Clearly I was wrong. Since I took on the role of Eldest, the ship has spiraled into chaos. People have died. Not just from today’s bombing, which led to nine deaths, but murders done in my name, calling others to follow the leader. And before that — suicides I could not prevent, injuries, and worse.”
Many of the people in the crowd are crying now. I can’t help myself; I look to Amy. She stands straight and tall, her gaze unwavering. I straighten my spine and throw back my shoulders.
“This is why”—I take a deep breath—“I am offering now, before you all, to step down from my role as leader of Godspeed.”
My words are met with stunned silence. They gape at me, shocked and unsure of how to respond. I let the silence grow. Slowly, one by one, everyone starts to turn, searching through the crowd to see who my gaze has shifted to.
Bartie.
But he stands wordless, watching me.
After a while, when nobody moves, I say, “If no one else wishes to lead Godspeed, I will continue to do my best to serve this ship. That is all.”
I disconnect the wi-com link and walk away.
62 AMY
THE CROWD DISSOLVES SLOWLY. THIS ISN’T OVER; I KNOW that much. Bartie may not have seized power tonight, but I think that stemmed more from shock than anything else. That — or he had some other reason for not yet assuming control. I don’t trust him. If we don’t get off this ship soon, Bartie will take over — or destroy the ship trying to.
Once everyone else has left, I wander up the path toward the statue. I used to think Elder looked nothing like the water-streaked concrete statue of the Plague Eldest, but now I’m not so sure.
Elder emerges from the shadows and starts walking beside me.
“How did you know?” I ask him.
“Know what?”
“That Bartie wouldn’t ask you to step down then? That he wouldn’t take over leadership of the ship when you offered.”
Elder meets my eyes. “I didn’t.”
I try not to show my surprise at his words.
Although the Hospital has been cleared for occupancy, I steer Elder the other way, toward the Recorder Hall.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say as we plod up the path.
“About what?” Elder’s voice sounds tired and weak.
“How different you are from Orion.”
Elder huffs out a breath of air.
“No, really,” I insist. “Orion had backup plans for his backup plan. You don’t. You just do what you think is right at the time and wait to see what happens.”
“Maybe I should have a plan,” Elder says. “Things might work out better if I did.”
“You can’t plan for everything. Orion couldn’t have known some nut job would blow up the Bridge.” I steal a glance at Elder and notice his frown. “And neither could you,” I add, but I don’t think he quite believes me.
We don’t speak again as we mount the stairs to the Recorder Hall. It’s quiet here. The artifacts inside are just a reminder of everything we can’t have, and no one wants to be reminded of that.
“I’m sorry,” Elder says. Light spills into the dark Recorder Hall from the open doors, then fades to nothing as Elder silently pulls them shut.
“For what?”
“You’ve lost your chance to leave the ship, to have your parents awoken — all of it.”
I can wake them up. I don’t say this aloud, but I know it’s true. If we really have no chance of landing the ship, I will wake my parents up, no matter what.
“I’ve still got you, haven’t I?” I say, reaching for his hand. Elder snatches it away. He doesn’t want to be comforted.
“It’s all my fault. I didn’t think any of this would happen… ”
“It’s not your fault,” I say immediately. “No one could have known… ”
My voice trails off. But someone did know. Someone did guess. Orion. He really did have a plan for everything. A contingency plan…
I point to one of the giant wall floppies. “Can you bring up the blueprints of the ship?”
“Why?” Elder just stands there, begging me with his eyes to stop, to not make him think there’s any hope left.
Except there is.
I push Elder to the wall floppy and don’t leave his side until he starts tapping on the screen to bring up the blueprint. Once he does, I rush off to the other side of the hallway and grab a chair resting against the wall. I slam it down under the clay models of the planets and the little replica of Godspeed.
“In the last video, the one that I found when I discovered the missing explosives,” I say, climbing up onto the chair, “Orion told me that the last thing I need to find will be in Godspeed.”
“Godspeed is huge,” Elder says. The wall floppy behind him shows the giant diagram of the ship. Seeing it there, projected on the wall, I can appreciate just how huge this ship is.
“I know,” I say, “but isn’t it odd? That word choice. He didn’t say ‘on Godspeed.’ He said ‘in.’”
“So?” Elder asks. His voice is still flat, and I know that while he’s physically in the Recorder Hall with me, he’s really still in the garden, giving up, still on the Bridge, watching his people die. He doesn’t care about Orion’s clues anymore.
I strain, reaching for the tiny model of Godspeed hanging suspended between the two clay models of the Earths.
“In Godspeed,” I say. “In it.” The chair wobbles as I stand on my tiptoes on top of it, my fingers brushing the bottom of the small model ship. I noticed before that it was on a hook, as if it could be taken down and inspected. I push against the bottom, and the hook slides off. The ship falls. I reach out, grabbing it with one hand. The chair topples, and I jump off before it clatters to the ground. Elder catches me around the middle, and I gasp in surprise. He sets me down gently on the ground.
The model’s about as large as my head and caked in dust. I blow on it, and huge chunks of dust fly away and then drop to the floor, too heavy to float. There’s more dust on the top of the ship, in the grooves of the tiny model honeycomb window on the Bridge. I turn the replica over so the ship’s on its side. It almost looks like a broken winged bird — a beak for a nose and thrusters for tail feathers.
I hand it to Elder.
He weighs it in his hand as if it’s an alien thing, not a replica of the only home he’s ever known. His face is intense — a scowl so deep that the shadows seem like black marks on his face. The veins in his hand pop up, and his fingers tense. Very deliberately, he presses his thumb against the Bridge window until the tiny honeycombed glass breaks. I see a dot of blood on his thumb, but he shows no sign of pain.
“It’s accurate now,” he says, handing the model back to me.
I search his eyes, but they’re hollow inside.
“There’s more glass here,” I say, pointing to the bottom of the ship.
Elder shrugs, a sort of one-shoulder careless motion. “I saw it when I was outside. An observatory or something.”
“It has to be on the other side of the last locked door,” I say. “Why lock an observatory?”
I step over to the wall floppy. Elder stays where he is, by the chair, but his eyes follow me. I place the now-broken model on the ground and zoom in on the blueprints on the floppy. I use both hands to manipulate the image on the screen, sliding over the cryo level until I get to the section that shows the locked doors. Not all the doors are marked — the armory isn’t — but behind the last locked door on the level is one word.