As we step onto the trail, our shoulders brush. I step away and walk a little in front of him.

“Come on,” I say, unable to meet his eyes.

Chapter 31

31

ELDER

AMY LEANS AGAINST THE CRYO-LEVEL WALL, WATCHING AS I approach the keypad by the locked door to the left of the hatch.

“I told you,” Amy says, “twenty-seven doesn’t work.”

“Let me see the list again,” I say. Amy thrusts the wrinkled paper into my outstretched hand. My wi-com beeps, but I ignore it.

“They look like submarine doors.” The catch in Amy’s voice makes me look up at her.

My mind races, trying to remember what a submarine is. One of those underwater things. I didn’t think they were real. But then again, I used to think the ocean couldn’t possibly be as big and deep as Amy said it was.

“They’re all seal locked,” I say. “The door to the Bridge is that way, too, and the hatches that connect the different levels. In case there’s damage to the ship and one level’s exposed, we can seal it off and . . .” I drift off, my attention turning back to the list.

“My father took me to see the USS Pampanito when I was kid—I only remember it because the name was so ridiculous that I sang it about a million times as I raced through the tiny hallways. Pampanito! Pampanito! Pam-pa-NITO! My dad tried to catch me, but he hit himself on the head trying to crawl through one of the small doorways. Almost knocked himself out.” She gives a tiny laugh, but the sound dies quickly. I glance up from the list—Amy’s staring at the wall, her eyes glassy.

I will do anything to make her happy again, so I give her the stars. I type the key code in quickly—Godspeed—and the hatch door flies open, exposing the millions of glittering dots in the sky.

I remember the first time I saw the stars. I thought they changed everything. I thought they changed me, like I’d become a different person just by seeing shining specks of light a million miles away. Now when I stare at them, I feel nothing. I don’t believe in them anymore. When I first told everyone on the ship that I was giving them the freedom to be themselves, I took those interested in seeing the stars—the real stars—here. Some came. Far fewer than I’d expected. And then I realized: when you’ve lived your entire life within ten square miles surrounded by steel, it’s easier to forget the outside. It makes it less painful to be trapped on a ship if you tell yourself it’s not a trap.

That’s the whole reason why I can’t tell everyone about the stopped engine.