“Do we all have to go?” someone else shouts. I whirl around to see who asked this, but I can’t tell. The crowd here seems divided. Those closest to the mud hole that used to be the pond are jubilant. They hug each other, happy tears staining their faces as they celebrate Elder’s words.

But other people linger near the back. They look suspicious and worried, scowling and talking to each other behind their hands. Even from here, I see a few with pale green patches. Some hold the patches in their hands, squeezing the wrapper but not ripping it open. Others already have patches on their arms, already have glazed looks in their eyes.

“We’re going to have another meeting,” Elder shouts. “I’m calling everyone together now.” He pushes his wi-com and does an all-call, telling all 2,296 passengers to come to the garden immediately.

No. Not 2,296. Not anymore. I count the number down in my head. Victria. Luthor. All the top-ranking Shippers. The people who died in the riot. The ones Doc slathered in patches. The population of Godspeed, which always seemed so inimitable to me before, now seems very fragile.

Bartie approaches Elder hesitantly. “Can I . . . would you mind if I said something too?”

Elder shoots him a wry grin. “Going to try to start another riot?”

“No,” Bartie says. He’s completely serious.

Elder looks up at me, and I take the hint, letting them have their privacy. The two men move away from me, talking in low quiet tones. I can see the strain in Elder’s face as he listens to whatever Bartie is saying, and when they quit talking, they shake hands with a sort of finality that leaves me nervous.

It seems to take forever before everyone gathers at the pond. The people come slowly—I can see them crossing the fields toward us. I touch my hair—I’m not wearing my head wrap or even my jacket, but I don’t care. I’m not afraid of them anymore. Today I shot a man and watched a woman die. Beneath my feet is a shuttle that will take me far away from here. Their opinion of me means nothing.

I stand on the edge of the pond, on the side nearest the wall. As everyone crowds around the edges of the silty muddy remains of the pond, some of them draw closer to me. Many still keep their distance or sneer, but most ignore me. One girl accidentally brushes my arm.

“Sorry,” she says.

I can’t help but stare in wonder. She didn’t flinch away or look disgusted; she didn’t snatch her arm back as if it were now contaminated.