Orion leans forward on the steps, closer to the camera.

ORION: This is bigger than the cloning, bigger than Phydus. It’s the reason for Phydus.

“He sounds like me too.”

Orion swallows hard. A few moments pass before he speaks again. Amy casts a worried look in my direction, but I ignore her, focusing on the way Orion chews on his bottom lip.

ORION: Eldest doesn’t want anyone to know this secret. I don’t think he even wanted me to notice, but . . .

Orion speaks in a hurried voice now, low and urgent. We both lean forward too, neither of us breathing as we strain to hear.

ORION: . . . the outside of the ship needed maintenance. He told me to send First Shipper Devyn, but instead, I did it. I—I saw what he wanted me not to see. He’s angry. Angrier than I’ve ever seen him. I’ve thought before that he might . . . But this time, I really think . . . I might have to . . .

The camera pans to the left, behind the staircase. A bundle of supplies lies open on a makeshift cot, along with a few sealed boxes.

ORION: I’ve been preparing for a while. Ever since I first saw the icy hell in the cryo level. Ever since I learned about the cloning. I know I can be replaced. It won’t take much for Eldest to follow through with his threats.

The camera pans back to Orion, who looks defiant. He looks, I think, like me.

ORION: I may know Eldest’s secrets, but he doesn’t know mine. He hasn’t figured out where I’m hiding or how. He’s been watching me on the wi-com system, but I’ve figured out how to trick the signal, make it look like I’m at the Hospital when I’m not.

Orion raises a hand to his left ear and gently touches—but doesn’t depress—the button there.

ORION: He doesn’t know about this place. But it’s not enough. I might have to . . .

Orion’s fingers seize over the wi-com, his nails scratching the skin and leaving pink welts in their wake. I glance at Amy as she touches the bracelet wi-com on her wrist with one finger, a worried frown on her lips.

ORION: But the secret . . . it should stay a secret. No one should know this. Not even me. It’s . . . too much.

Orion stands and begins pacing. His feet come off camera and on camera; his voice fades in and out.

ORION: I don’t know what’s frexing right anymore. Do I tell the truth? Or is the lie better? . . . And what about . . . ?

Muffled sounds echo as Orion moves away from the camera.

ORION: I can’t cover it up. Someone may need to know—there might be a time when we have to . . . But the floppy network’s not safe . . .