“Doc,” I say, curiosity making my voice rise. “If we wanted to increase the ship’s population, then the Season’s not very effective, is it?”

Doc swipes the floppy off and sets it on his desk, poking one side until it’s square with the desk mat. “I, er, why do you say that?”

I lean forward, sitting on the edge of my chair. “I used to think that the Season was just the way things were, like how the animals mate on schedule. But it’s pretty obvious now that the Season isn’t natural. And if it’s something engineered by you and Eldest, and if we’re still trying to rebuild our population from the so-called Plague . . . well, the Season doesn’t make sense, does it? One mating Season per gen? That would reduce our population, not recoup it. . . .”

My voice trails off, but Doc doesn’t answer right away. The more I speak, the more I realize how right I am. The Season is just a frexing loon method to rebuild a population.

“Well, for some gens we had two Seasons,” Doc says defensively. “And we’ve engineered it so many couples have multiple births.”

For a moment we both stare at each other.

“It started a few gens ago,” Doc says finally. His voice is hollow; it’s like he’s confessing a sin to me. “We figured it would be best to slow the population growth. We’re having trouble producing enough food as it is.”

“What happens when we can’t produce enough food?” I ask.

Doc looks at me silently, and I can tell he’s evaluating whether or not he will tell me. With the Shippers, I can demand truth and be assured they’ll give it. But with Doc, I have to wait and hope. Doc was in favor of Eldest’s use of Phydus, and he was in favor of Orion’s methods—after all, he was the one who kept Orion alive when Eldest ordered him killed. But I don’t think Doc has made up his mind yet on whether or not I’m a good enough replacement for either of these men.

Apparently, though, I can be trusted with the truth. At least in this case. He finally says, “Eldest had thought of that. We have in storage a supply of over 3,000 black med patches.”

“Black?” I ask. I’d never seen patches that were black.

Doc nods curtly. “In the event that the ship is no longer capable of sustaining life, the black patches will be distributed to the ship’s population.”

And now I understand what the black patches are for. A quick death, rather than a slow one.

16

AMY

I PROP HARLEY’S LAST PAINTING UP ON MY BED AND STAND back. His laughing eyes are even with my own, but there’s no Mona Lisa–like illusion that he’s looking at me.

“So,” I say aloud to painted Harley, “just where is this clue Orion says is here?”

I’m hesitant to touch the paint—I don’t want to do anything to damage it. Instead, I scan the painting with my eyes, looking for some hidden message from Orion.