“I’m . . . done,” I say, throwing my hands back down. “I’m done with the lies, with the ways things used to be. What exactly is wrong with the ship’s engine? If it’s not a matter of fuel efficiency, what is it? Are we going too fast? Are we going too slow? What?”

Now Marae slouches. “We’re not going too fast or too slow.” She looks sad, worry in her eyes. “We’re not going at all.”

4

AMY

I CHECK THE CLOCK ON A FLOPPY WHEN I GET BACK TO MY room in the Hospital. Crap. It’s later than I’d thought it was. Every day I’ve been spending more and more of the morning in the cryo level. At first it was to run. But then I quit running. Now I just go and force myself to remember one thing I miss from Earth, one thing in as great detail as I can. And then, eventually, I force myself to say goodbye to my parents. Again.

The solar lamp clicks on, illuminating the entire Feeder Level. Even though I have the metal shade pulled over the only window in my room, a sliver of light slices across the floor.

Morning has officially sprung. Great.

I slam my hand against the button on the wall by the door. Beep! A few moments later, a little metal door in the wall slides open, and a waft of steam floats into the room.

“That’s it?” I say to the small pastry that lies inside. I pull it out. Wall food has never been very appetizing, but this is the first time I can say that it’s small. The whole thing fits in my palm in a flat, depressed sort of way. Two bites later, and breakfast is over.

Someone knocks on my door. Even though the door is locked, unreasonable panic flares in my heart.

“Amy?”

“Doc?” I ask as I zip open the door to my bedroom. His solemn face greets me.

“I wanted to check in on you,” he says, stepping inside.

“I’m fine,” I say immediately. Doc has offered, more than once, to give me pale blue med patches. They’re for “nerves,” he says, but I don’t want to bother. I don’t trust the little patches he doles out instead of pills; I don’t trust any medication made on this ship that also once made Phydus.

“No,” Doc says, waving his hand dismissively. “I mean—well. Hrm. I’m worried about . . . about your safety.”

“My safety?” I plop down on my unmade bed. Doc glances at the only chair in my room, the one at my desk, but he doesn’t sit down. A jacket is slung over the back of the chair, and floppies and books I’ve pilfered from the Recorder Hall clutter the desktop. He probably wouldn’t want to sit anywhere without an antiseptic wipe and some Lysol.

Not that there is any Lysol here.

Doc’s stance is awkward; he keeps his arms close to his body, and his back is too straight. But his face is very serious. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the increased . . . Well, it’s clear now that there are no more traces of Phydus in the people’s systems. And now we’re left with . . . The ship’s not especially safe at the moment, especially for someone who . . .”