My gaze shifts to the red paint by the keypad. Maybe one day the smears of paint Harley left throughout Godspeed will fade, and maybe the stars never will, but I’d rather have Harley’s colors.

Harley died for . . . well, I don’t know what he died for. I just know he’s not here anymore, and I miss him. But Kayleigh died for a truth, according to Orion.

His words echo in my mind, and I’m grateful. I don’t want to think about hollow stars and Harley.

Instead, I think about Orion’s puzzle. Orion seems to have known more about the ship’s engine than anyone else. If I can figure out his frexing clue, I might actually figure out why the engine’s stopped, maybe get us going again. Add it up . . .

I turn back to the list Amy found. Beside each of those twenty-seven names is their cryo-chamber number. What if I add those numbers together . . . ?

1,270.

“What are you doing?” Amy asks.

I try 1270 on all four doors, starting with the biggest door at the end of the hall.

The last door opens.

Everything is darkness. The room smells of dust and grease. I think about what Orion said, just before I froze him. The frozens plan to work us or kill us.

I want to see these weapons for myself.

Amy finds the light switch before me. It flickers on reluctantly, spluttering as if unwilling to show what the room contains.

And I can see immediately what made Orion fear that, when we land, we’ll be made into soldiers or slaves.

You know what’s really going to twist you? Orion had said just before I spun the dial to freeze him. The fact that Elder sort of agrees with everything I’m saying.

Pistols, rifles, larger guns than that. Blister packs of mustard bombs. Missiles—most about the size of my forearm, three that are bigger than me. Everything’s sectioned off in compartments, sealed in heavy red plastic bags that are stamped with labels and FRX symbols.

“We don’t know what’s going to be on Centauri-Earth,” Amy says, already defensive. “It could be aliens, or it could be nothing. It could be monsters or dinosaurs. We could be giants on the new world. Or we could be mice.”

“Better to be armed mice, huh?” I say, picking up a filmy bag that protects a revolver.

“I know this looks bad.”

“It looks like everything Orion said before was true,” I say.

“It’s not,” Amy says immediately, but how does she know? I can see her thoughts warring—on the one hand, she believes absolutely that her father and the rest of the people from Sol-Earth would never use the weapons spread before us, but on the other hand, she can’t deny that the weapons are here. And they seem so much more . . . I don’t know, violent than I expected.