The planet Earth is smaller than the model of Centauri-Earth and so detailed that I can pick out the long arm of Florida, the bumpy ridges of the Rocky Mountains. I jump up to reach it, but my fingers can’t even brush against the South Pole. I briefly contemplate finding a ladder, cutting the Earth down, and smashing it open like a piñata, but I doubt any of Orion’s secrets will spill out like candy. The model was there when the ship launched; how could Orion have slipped something inside it?

I glance at the model of Godspeed. That one actually looks like it could come down—it would be simple enough to lift the model off the hook it hangs from, and I could probably reach it if I stood on a chair. But . . . Godspeed is definitely not my home. Home may not be Florida and it may not be Colorado, but I know it’s not Godspeed.

I hear a soft beep, beep-beep. Then again: beep, beep-beep.

My wi-com! I raise my wrist to my ear and press the button on the side.

“Com-link req: Elder,” the wi-com says.

“Accept!” I say eagerly.

“Amy?” Elder’s voice sounds frazzled.

“Yeah. What’s wrong? What’s happening in the City?”

Elder ignores my questions. “Where are you now?”

I look around me at the empty hall. “The Recorder Hall. I thought it would be a good idea to look into Orion’s next—”

Elder cuts me off mid-sentence. “Can you get somewhere safer? Go to your room, okay?”

“What’s going on?”

“I just want to make sure you’re safe. Lock your door.” Elder had my door fitted with a biometric scanner lock the first week I was on the ship, making it one of the few truly private rooms on board.

“Elder, what’s wrong?”

“I just . . . I want you safe. I’ve got to go—” The com link disconnects before he’s got the words fully out.

Chapter 27

27

ELDER

“DON’T CROWD AROUND! GIVE US SOME AIR!” DOC’S BELLOWING does no good at all; if anything, the crowd presses closer.

“I’m glad you were already here,” I say, dropping to my knees beside Doc as he examines Stevy.

Doc touches Stevy’s neck, shakes his head, and leans back.

“What happened?” Bartie says. There’s no more bravado in his voice. He’s my old friend again, the one who used to race rockers across the porch of the Recorder Hall. And he’s scared. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” I say.

“You did something to his wi-com. Then he ends up dead.” His voice is louder now. He’s no longer my friend—he’s my adversary. “Is this what happens to people who protest against you, Elder? They die?”