《As They Slip Away (Across the Universe #2.5)》 Page 1 1. Three Months before I Die I stare at the basket of hypodermic needles. So slender and pretty, each filled with a yellow liquid that reminds me of gold paint. ¡°Inoculations, ¡± I say. I consult the floppy that contains my instructions for today¡¯s labor. Across the top of the screen is a chart and the words GENETIC MODIFICATION. That¡¯s . . . not right. These needles are filled with inoculations. Eldest told me so. That¡¯s what he said this morning, when he brought me the basket himself. ¡° Selene,¡± he had told me, his voice warm and kind, ¡°these are inoculations for the rabbits. Inject one full dose per rabbit today. ¡± My eyes burn with pain as I scan the text on the floppy. There¡¯s nothing about inoculations here. Sharp pain shoots through my head. Eldest told me these were inoculations. ¡°Inoculations, ¡± I say, a soft smile curving my lips. I pat the basket of needles as if comforting it in the knowledge of what it truly is. It doesn¡¯t matter what the chart and words on the floppy say. It only matters what Eldest says. Everything is only what Eldest says it is. The rabbit field is quiet, but not silent. That is what I like about it. I like sounds. Soft thumps on the ground as the rabbits hop around. The little chirruping noises they make. The gentle clacky-chewy sounds as they nibble on grass. I sit down in the grass field. For a moment, I look up at the sky. Made of metal and painted with clouds that never move. My sky is a certainty. That¡¯s nice. Sometimes, I think about how I¡¯m living aboard a spaceship hurtling through the stars toward a new planet. But those thoughts are too big, and so I don¡¯t think them often. I blink and see darkness. I open my eyes and see blue. Blink. Dark. Light. Blue. Blink. Dark. Dark. I don¡¯t open my eyes. Dark. Bloodbruisespainbetrayalalonealonealonealonealone. I open my eyes. I do not like the dark. I stand. There is work to do. The rabbits are fat and lazy. But they do not like it when I try to grab them. Perhaps they know that sometimes when I snatch them up, I send them to the butcher and they are made into food. But if they do know this, they¡¯re not too concerned about it. They scamper away, but only a meter or so. Then I sneak. I sneak behind them, where they can¡¯t see, don¡¯t know I¡¯m coming. They think I am their friend. And then I lunge. I tackle the nearest rabbit, pinning it down by its shoulders. After scanning its identification chip¡ª Number 424, the screen says¡ªI plunge a hypodermic needle into its back leg. ¡° Number 424, inoculated,¡± I say aloud. I don¡¯t have to say it aloud. But I like sound. This is my day. Sneak up on rabbits. Lunge. Grab. Hold. Inoculate. Sometimes I look at the sky. Sometimes I look around me, at the green hills. I see someone running through the fields, a swing of color, bright against the normal green. I hum, and I work. And then. Then a girl shows up. She is a freak. Eldest told me she is a freak, told all of us on the ship. A genetically modified experiment gone wrong. She looks like a freak. Pale skin, almost the color of the fluffy white tails of the rabbits. Bright, bright hair. Red hair. With orange and gold in it. Like the koi in the pond by the Hospital. Friendsgonegonegonealonealonealone. ¡° Hello,¡± the girl says. I look at the girl. I look at her koi-fish hair. ¡°Hello,¡± I say. She is different. She reminds me of . . . something. A sharp pain shoots through my head again. I look down, away from her. ¡°You¡¯re the genetically modified experiment,¡± I say. I wait for her to confirm this is true, even though I know it is because Eldest said she is. ¡°Eldest has said we don¡¯t have to speak to you. ¡± The girl is mad at me. I know because of her voice. I like sounds. I pay attention not just to which words are said, but how they are said, and this girl says them angrily. But she doesn¡¯t go away. She keeps talking to me. She asks about the rabbits. She asks about the needles. She talks a lot. ¡°I saw you running,¡± I say suddenly, realizing that the person I saw before was this girl, the bright color in the green fields was her koi-fish hair. A strange feeling washes over me. My heart is loud and slow, and my head hurts. ¡° What were you running from?¡± I ask. My voice cracks. I pay attention to sound. Even the sounds I make. And the sound I am making is fear. Hewillgetmerunrunrunrunrunhide. ¡° Just running,¡± the girl says, as if it isn¡¯t strange to run for no reason. She talks more. Questions, questions. I have work to do. But then I remember more about what Eldest told us about this girl. That she was to live in the Hospital. I ask her, and she confirms it. She lives in the Hospital. ¡° My grandfather was taken to the Hospital,¡± I say. Gonegonegone. ¡°Is he better now?¡± the girl asks. ¡° He¡¯s gone. ¡± Gonegonegone. ¡°I ¡¯m sorry,¡± the girl says. Her voice surprises me. She means it. She means that she¡¯s sorry. ¡° Why? ¡± I ask. ¡°It was his time. ¡± The girl stares at me for so long I think she¡¯s done speaking. But then she says, ¡°You¡¯re crying. ¡± I touch my face. My fingers come away wet with salty tears. ¡°I have no reason to be sad,¡± I say. It¡¯s true. I have no reason to be sad. None at all. 2. Seven Years before I Die I suppose I should be upset that I¡¯m crazy, but I¡¯m actually quite pleased about it. Being crazy means I don¡¯t have to work in the fields or the City. It means I get to stay here, in the Hospital. With my friends. ¡° Selene,¡± Kayleigh drawls from the sofa in the common room. ¡°Come sit with us. ¡± Victria, who had been by the window staring at the open fields that separate the Hospital from the rest of the ship¡¯s population in the City, plops down in the center seat of the orange sofa made of scratchy wool. She wiggles in closer to Kayleigh, and the two girls look almost like sisters, with the same shade of olive skin and same length of dark brown hair. Everyone on the ship has similar coloring, but I think Victria tries to make herself into a shadow of Kayleigh. She deigns to glance in my direction. She doesn¡¯t mind me, exactly, she just likes to know the order of things. And the order of things here is that Kayleigh comes first, and Victria is always beside her, and sometimes, trailing at the end, is me. It¡¯s almost time for lessons. Doc and the nurses like us all to take meds at the same time, just before the solar lamp in the metal ceiling clicks on. ¡°I hate the meds, ¡± Kayleigh says under her breath as Doc walks into the common room. He and the nurses distribute the pills, and we all swallow them down obediently. Except Kayleigh. She stares at the pill until Doc notices, and he doesn¡¯t look away from her until she gulps it down with some water. I don¡¯t mind the Inhibitor pills, not like Kayleigh does. Swallowing one blue-and-white pill a day is a small price to pay for life at the Hospital. So we¡¯re loons. So we have to take mental meds. It¡¯s not so bad that Eldest keeps us here, removed from the rest of the ship, on the other side of Godspeed, in the Hospital, away from the normal people. It¡¯s not so bad being abnormal here, where everyone else is weird too. But if that pill is supposed to keep me from being crazy, it doesn¡¯t do a very good job. Instead of making me less loons, sometimes I worry it makes me more. I¡¯m different. We¡ªall of us in the Hospital¡ªare different. I didn¡¯t have to see the way my parents¡¯ glassy eyes would flicker with concern when I spoke to know that the things I said weren¡¯t normal. Doc says we¡¯re special, but ¡°special ¡± is just a nice way of saying ¡°freak. ¡± ¡° Sometimes,¡± Kayleigh whispers, ¡°I think it¡¯s everyone else who¡¯s weird. ¡± Victria¡¯s eyes dart around the common room, lingering on the nurses gathered around Doc by the door. One of the first things we learned was not to ask too many questions or draw attention to ourselves, and Kayleigh¡¯s words are incendiary. ¡° No, ¡± I say. ¡°We¡¯re the freaks. ¡± And we are. Everyone else on the spaceship Godspeed doesn¡¯t stay up late at night, worrying about whether or not the ship will ever land. They don¡¯t spend their time doing useless things like singing songs or drawing pictures. They never worry about whether Bartie will be able to rip his gaze off Victria long enough to notice anyone else. . . . ¡° We¡¯re not that freakish,¡± Victria says. ¡°I heard Elder takes the mental meds too. ¡± I gasp in surprise. Elder, our future leader, is on mental meds like us? He¡¯s still young¡ª living in the City now, awaiting the time until he comes of age and joins Eldest on the Keeper Level of the ship¡ªbut even the hint of madness in our leader disturbs me. ¡°Will he come to live at the Hospital?¡± Victria nods. ¡°I heard Doc talking to Eldest about it. Elder will be moving here in a few months, after going to one of the farms for a bit. ¡± I want to know more, but Kayleigh interrupts us. ¡°It¡¯s better. Being on the mental meds. I hated it before I started taking them,¡± Kayleigh says. Her voice is clear and slow, as if she¡¯s measured the weight of each word and determined its worth before speaking it. ¡°You don¡¯t remember what it was like before. None of us do. ¡± ¡°I remember,¡± she insists. ¡°Yeah?¡± My voice is a challenge. ¡°What was it like?¡± ¡° Nothing. ¡± ¡°Tell us,¡± I demand. ¡° Nothing. It was like nothing. It was like being empty inside. ¡± Victria and I exchange a look. ¡° Sometimes . . . ¡± Kayleigh sighs. ¡°There¡¯s a lot about this ship that doesn¡¯t make sense. ¡± ¡°Liiiike,¡± a voice calls out from the other side of the room, ¡°how you won¡¯t let me kiss you! ¡± Kayleigh picks up a pillow from the sofa and throws it at Harley¡ªnot too hard, but hard enough. Harley tosses it aside easily, laughing. If I had to describe Harley as nothing but a sound, that would be it: laughter. He¡¯s always smiling, his white teeth unable to bite back the sound. He sees the world in shades of joy. Harley picks the pillow up from the ground, and I notice paint is caked under his nails, leaking out onto his fingertips. ¡° We were having,¡± Kayleigh says, her voice punctuating each word, ¡°a private conversation. ¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah, and meanwhile the rest of us are going to lessons. ¡± ¡° Going to lessons? ¡± I ask, leaning forward. ¡°But the lessons have always been here before. ¡± I don¡¯t know if there¡¯s much of a point in teaching crazy people things, but Doc insists that it¡¯s our duty to ¡°hone our inherent talents. ¡± Every day, he or the nurses leads a discussion on topics relevant to studies: art, math, science. Things like that. And they¡¯re usually done here, in the common room, where there are enough seats for everyone and nothing to distract us from learning beyond the perfectly symmetrical and evenly spaced green fields outside the window. ¡° We¡¯re going to the Recorder Hall,¡± Harley says, a mischievous light in his eyes. Kayleigh rolls her eyes. ¡°You made it sound like we were doing something important today,¡± she says. ¡°We¡¯ve been to the Recorder Hall before. ¡± Page 2 ¡°Yeah,¡± Harley says. ¡°But Doc¡¯s not doing the lesson there. The Recorder is. ¡± My eyes grow round at this. The Recorder is going to teach us from now on? But . . . ¡° Why? ¡± I ask. Harley shrugs. A moment later, Doc starts calling out names. Harley was partially wrong: most of the other residents of the Hospital are going to lessons on the Shipper Level. Doc tells them they¡¯re being apprenticed. It¡¯s people like Buck and Britne and Tailor¡ªthe ones good at the science and math lessons. People like me and Kayleigh and Harley¡ªthe ones who like art¡ªare being sent to the Recorder Hall. By the time Doc¡¯s done announcing our new roles and sending the studious ones to the Shipper Level, only a handful of us remain to go to the Recorder Hall. ¡°This should be fun,¡± Bartie, Harley¡¯s best friend, tells me as we enter the elevator. I grin at him, hoping the heat I feel rising up in me isn¡¯t reflected in my cheeks. I can¡¯t rip my eyes from him until he turns to Harley and says something that makes him laugh, the sound of his voice jolting me out of my reverie. Victria shoots me a look, and my eyes drop to the metal floor of the elevator. I don¡¯t want her to know how I feel about Bartie. I don¡¯t want anyone to know. I want to keep it in the secret place of my heart, the part of me that still clings to hope. 3. The Recorder Hall is dark and musty, like always. We¡¯ve only been here a few times, to be honest. Lessons about the ship and its mission are given to every child, mad or not, at least once a year until their apprenticeship. It¡¯s vital that every person on Godspeed knows and understands the significance of what we¡¯re doing. We¡¯re carrying the hopes of an old planet across the universe in order to create a whole new world. The entryway to the Recorder Hall is huge, with a tall ceiling and tiny, narrow windows that are supposed to stream in light, but really just cast everything in shadows. Digital membrane screens stretch from floor to ceiling along the walls. We call them wall floppies, which is a stupid name, really, but they hang on the wall and they¡¯re, well, floppy. Each one glows now with an image¡ªone shows a constellation, another a painting, another a sculpture. We stand awkwardly in the center of the room, six teenagers surrounded by the history of both the old world and the ship. The nurse who escorted us slips out the door and closes it behind her, the sound a solid thud compared to the electronic doors of the Hospital that zip shut with a whisper. ¡° So . . . ¡± Harley says, his voice ringing throughout the tall room despite his hushed tone. ¡°This is boring. ¡± Bartie, standing behind him, snorts with laughter. Victria rolls her eyes at them both, and Bartie silences immediately. I turn away, my stomach twisting with envy. My eyes are drawn to clear hazel eyes¡ªthose of Luthor, the straggler of our group. He¡¯d been watching me, staring at me, and he doesn¡¯t bother trying to hide his interest. I blush and turn away. ¡°Thank you for coming out here today,¡± a voice booms throughout the Recorder Hall. A man emerges from the other end of the entry way. He¡¯s very tall, with long, unkempt hair that almost covers a spider web scar on the side of his neck. ¡°Like we had a choice,¡± Victria mumbles. The man¡¯s head whips around. ¡°You do,¡± he says. ¡° You always have a choice. ¡± He opens his mouth as if to say something more, but swallows the words. Instead, he says, ¡°I am Orion, the Recorder. ¡± ¡° Why are you teaching us today?¡± Kayleigh asks. ¡° Why not Doc?¡± ¡° Or one of the Shippers?¡± Bartie adds. ¡°Are we not getting an apprenticeship?¡± ¡°Apprenticeships are for labor,¡± Orion says. ¡°You are not going to be laborers. ¡± ¡° Because we¡¯re loons,¡± I can¡¯t help but say. ¡°Are you?¡± Orion asks sincerely. He blinks at me, as if trying to determine if I really am loons or not. ¡°I take the mental meds every day,¡± I snap. I don¡¯t like the way he¡¯s looking at me. ¡°That¡¯s not a very good indication of whether or not you¡¯re crazy,¡± Orion replies. I start to snap something back, but Kayleigh¡¯s elbow jabs me in the ribs and I silence. ¡°The Recorder Hall is not just a record of knowledge and history,¡± Orion says, sweeping his arms toward the wall floppies hanging from the ceiling. He crosses the room to the floppy labeled HISTORY. We all trot obediently behind him. The screen lights up as he swipes his hand across it, and a map of a peninsula and islands illuminates the screen. ¡°This is Greece, a country in Sol-Earth,¡± Orion says. My eyes slide to Kayleigh¡¯s. There¡¯s an intense sort of focus to her gaze, and no wonder. While the giant clay model of Sol-Earth hangs from ceiling of the entryway, its countries aren¡¯t labeled. We are taught that the world was divided into nations, but not the names of these divisions. The very fact that the old world was broken up into different countries proves why life aboard the ship is better. There¡¯s no point in learning the history of Sol-Earth¡¯s nations, except as a warning of bad civilizations we cannot let Godspeed emulate. ¡°The Greeks, they knew how to appreciate art,¡± Orion continues. ¡°They believed in art for art¡¯s sake, that a sculpture or a painting doesn¡¯t have a higher purpose¡ªit just is. ¡± A sinking sadness fills my chest. The ones in the Hospital who were better at math and science have been apprenticed because they have something to contribute to the ship. But us¡ªme and Kayleigh and Victria and Bartie and Harley and Luthor¡ªwe¡¯re just artists. We have nothing to contribute. ¡° Or, ¡± Orion says, talking to the map in a contemplative tone, ¡°perhaps it is better to say that art is a higher purpose in and of itself. That¡¯s what the Greeks understood¡ªthat¡¯s something even Eldest understands. Art is important. There is value in art that can¡¯t be tallied like the right or wrong answers on a test. Even here, even on this frexing ship, art is important. ¡± Victria shifts uncomfortably beside me. No one speaks ill of Godspeed or its leaders, but Orion¡¯s dancing around contempt in a way that makes us all nervous. Except for Kayleigh. She¡¯s hanging on every word Orion says, her eyes glistening. ¡°Your assignment is to research the Greeks. They made heroes of their artists¡ªsome they even made into ¡®gods.¡¯ Find a Greek that matches your artistic style. ¡± I try to imagine it for a moment, a world that values people who sing. I¡¯ve never been able to think of my singing as anything more than a worthless, throw-away skill. Harley clears his throat. ¡°I don¡¯t understand. ¡± ¡°Your parents are weavers, right?¡± Orion asks. Harley nods. His usual carefree attitude is immediately hidden behind an emotionless mask: He doesn¡¯t like to talk about his parents. None of us do. Moving to the Hospital means leaving behind your parents. But if Harley¡¯s parents were like mine, it¡¯s not like they cared when he left. Or even noticed. ¡°In Greece,¡± Orion continues as if nothing¡¯s different, ¡°the best weaver in their history was a woman named Arachne. She was so good that the gods were jealous, and they turned her into a spider so she could only weave webs. ¡± My eyes drift down Orion¡¯s neck, to the spiderweb scar behind his left ear. He notices my glance and touches the scar before catching himself and lowering his hand. ¡°And what?¡± Bartie asks. ¡°You want us to write a report on her, or whatever god matches our skills?¡± ¡° No, ¡± Orion says eagerly. ¡°I want you to create. If, for example, you chose Arachne, then I want you to weave her story into a tapestry. ¡± I can see the moment when understanding washes over each of our faces¡ªhe wants us to make art. A sloppy grin spreads over Harley¡¯s face. Luthor mutters to himself, as if coming up with ideas of what he¡¯d like to do already. Even Victria looks ecstatic. Godspeed isn¡¯t Greece: No matter what Orion says, it doesn¡¯t feel as if art is very much valued here. Doc has had us research art, sure, but never really experiment with it. He was much more focused on what our art could do for the ship, how we could turn it into something useful. I catch Bartie¡¯s eye. Doc has never been able to give us assignments that use our talents. He could have Luthor make scale models out of clay instead of sculpting, or Harley can draw architectural plans instead of painting, but there wasn¡¯t much he could do with Bartie¡¯s skill with instruments or my singing voice. ¡°Your assignment,¡± Orion repeats, ¡°is to research art . . . and then make some. ¡± It is a delicious challenge. 4. ¡°This is brilly,¡± Harley says as we sit in a circle on the floor in the entryway of the Recorder Hall. We each have our own personal floppies, each flashing with images from ancient Greece. Orion ventured further into the Recorder Hall with promises to show us real books from Sol-Earth. ¡°I know! ¡± Kayleigh says. She¡¯s so excited she¡¯s forgotten that she wants to be aloof in front of Harley. ¡°I can¡¯t believe he¡¯s encouraging us to do art! ¡± Harley lights up at the joy in Kayleigh¡¯s voice. ¡°What are you going to research?¡± he asks, leaning closer to Kayleigh while she lets him. ¡°I think you could be Poseidon. ¡± He holds his floppy out to her. Kayleigh scans the information on this Greek ¡°god. ¡± It seems ridiculous that the Greeks actually worshipped these people, thinking they had any kind of real power. Silly Sol-Earth fairytales and religions. ¡°Ew,¡± Kayleigh tosses the floppy back to Harley. ¡°This man is half-naked. ¡± Harley laughs. ¡°Yeah, but he¡¯s the god of the ocean, and you love to swim. ¡± ¡° Maybe you should study Aphrodite,¡± Kayleigh says in a sticky-sweet voice, ¡°and dress up in some seashells. ¡± ¡°I ¡¯m not a flirt,¡± Harley says so seriously that the entire room silences. ¡°Not with anyone but you. ¡± Kayleigh blushes furiously and gets up to sit on the other side of Victria, putting me beside Harley instead. Harley doesn¡¯t seem to mind. Maybe he¡¯s confident; maybe he just doesn¡¯t see a point in pretending to have any other feelings than those he holds for Kayleigh. He turns to me next, as if nothing¡¯s happened. ¡°What about you? You could be a Siren. ¡± I tap the word into my floppy and am greeted with an image of something that looks like a cross between a girl and a fish. ¡°This looks more like something Kayleigh would like,¡± I say. She is the one who spends every morning swimming in the pond behind the Hospital. ¡° No, read,¡± Harley insists. I start reading, the sounds of everyone else¡¯s gentle arguments disappearing as I focus on the story. I see now why Harley thought this particular mythological creature suited me: the Sirens sing too. My fingers trail along a portrait of a Siren perched on a rock, a stringed instrument in one hand as she stares impassively at the boy drowning in the water below her. Page 3 Yes. I like these Sirens. By the time I look up, Orion¡¯s returned with the books. Harley flips through the pages too quickly, careless with the ancient paper made from real trees from Sol-Earth. We don¡¯t have trees on Godspeed, and we hardly ever use the synthetic paper made by the Shippers¡ªeverything¡¯s recorded on floppies instead. Orion scowls at Harley until he sets the book gently down on the ground. ¡° Have you selected your topic?¡± Luthor asks. I nod and hold out the floppy to him. He smiles as he reads about the creatures that sing to lure men¡¯s ships to dangerous waters and sure death. Harley glances up as Bartie leans over to read too. ¡° Ha! Your voice could make men suicidal! ¡± He crows with laughter, but I snatch the floppy out of his hands and read about the Greek that he selected. I know he didn¡¯t mean the words to sting, but they do. ¡° Your music is so bad Hades would keep you in the underworld to save us all from having to hear it! ¡± I try to keep my voice light like his, turning the words into a harmless joke among friends. Nothing more than friends. ¡°It is not! ¡± Bartie snatches the floppy away. ¡°Orpheus was the greatest musician of all time. ¡± ¡° Bet he couldn¡¯t sing,¡± I snap back. ¡° Who have you all chosen?¡± Orion¡¯s voice calls out over our argument. ¡° Sappho,¡± Victria says. Harley snorts. ¡°You would pick her. ¡± ¡° What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡± ¡°I can¡¯t decide between Hephaestus and Prometheus,¡± Kayleigh says, drawing attention to her. Victria shoots her a small smile. ¡° Why Prometheus?¡± Orion asks. Harley taps the name into his floppy. ¡°You don¡¯t want him. He gets his liver eaten out by a giant bird! ¡± ¡° But I like the way he brought knowledge to people,¡± Kayleigh says. ¡° But you¡¯re more of an inventor. ¡± Orion lifts the floppy out of her hands and swipes the screen, bringing up an image of a huge, ugly man with a forge behind him. ¡°Hephaestus is probably more appropriate. And less dangerous. ¡± Even here, we have to remind ourselves that Eldest is more of a god than any of these long-dead Greeks, and he can do much worse that have our livers ripped out. ¡°I ¡¯m selecting Pygmalion,¡± Luthor says. I jump a little; I¡¯d forgotten how close he was to me. He¡¯s so quiet. ¡° Piggy, piggy! ¡± Barite taunts. ¡°That sounds about right! ¡± ¡° Pygmalion was a sculptor,¡± Orion says. ¡°Good choice, Luthor. What about you, Harley?¡± ¡°I can¡¯t find any painters, ¡± he grumbles. ¡° Why don¡¯t you do a fresco¡ªit¡¯s like painting, but with plaster¡ªand you can use the Muses as your subject?¡± Orion suggests. He bends down to show Harley the Muses, but I¡¯m distracted by Victria. She mouths something to me, indicating Bartie and Luthor with her head. ¡° What?¡± I mouth back. Her eyes widen at me, and she jerks her head to Luthor. Then she glances significantly at Kayleigh, who¡¯s leaned in close to Harley, and jerks her head back. ¡° She wants us to give them some privacy,¡± Luthor whispers in my ear. ¡°I¡ªoh! ¡± I say, blushing. Victria rolls her eyes. Scooping up the floppy and one of the books, I follow Victria and Bartie further into the Recorder Hall, passing closed doors leading to rooms full of books and Sol-Earth artifacts. Luthor trails behind me, chuckling at how Harley and Kayleigh remain ignorant of our plot. Victria pauses at the door to the entry way. ¡°I¡¯ll distract Orion in a minute, give them some real alone time. ¡± When I don¡¯t move, she adds, ¡°You go on,¡± and waves her hands at me. I head further down the dark hallway. Luthor hesitates, then follows me, but Bartie winks and drops back to stay with Victria. I¡¯m disappointed¡ªI would actually like to talk to him about maybe working together on our project. He could compose music and I could write lyrics and maybe we could . . . But he¡¯d rather stay with Victria. Fine. Whatever. I don¡¯t care. ¡°Let¡¯s go upstairs,¡± Luthor says softly, so I follow him. I¡¯ve never explored the Recorder Hall this much before; I know that the second and third stories hold relics from Sol-Earth, but not much else. Luthor leads me to a room on the second floor¡ªa huge gallery with double doors. Unlike the entryway, this room is filled with light, illuminating the objects inside. ¡° What is this?¡± I whisper. Canvases hang from the walls, illuminated by the windows. Sculptures dot the tiled floor; a mobile made of glittering glass hangs from the ceiling. ¡°It¡¯s the art from past gens,¡± Luthor says. He steps inside, and while I just stand there, gazing around, he watches my expression as if eager to see if he¡¯s pleased me. ¡°I . . . I didn¡¯t know,¡± I say, awed. And I didn¡¯t. It¡¯s not that the Recorder Hall is banned or kept hidden¡ªalthough you do have to have permission to see the books. It¡¯s that it never occurred to me that a ship led by Eldest could hold such treasures. ¡°And look,¡± Luthor says, stepping over to the wall, where an electronic box is embedded. He adjusts a dial, and music drifts through the room. ¡°These were all made by people who lived on this ship,¡± he says. I close my eyes and listen. The singer is a soprano, like me, and her voice is clear and rich. She sings about impossibilities: stars within reach, solid earth at her feet, and ocean mist kissing her cheeks. When the song fades to static, I open my eyes. Luthor¡¯s motionless, staring at me with a look on his face that I don¡¯t recognize. ¡°Let¡¯s make this our studio,¡± he says suddenly. ¡°You and me. Let¡¯s work on our projects here. ¡± He pauses, wetting his lips. ¡°Together. ¡± I think about the adoration Harley showers on Kayleigh, the way Kayleigh¡¯s mouth twitches whenever he tries to snatch her hand in his. I think of the way Bartie hung back to stay with Victria. ¡°Yes, ¡± I say, and in that moment, nothing exists beyond him and me and the lingering strains of the music that hang between us. 5. Orion gave us a whole month to complete our projects, but we waste no time getting started. An opportunity to dedicate our days to the arts we love has been rare in the Hospital, and none of us is taking that that time for granted. Kayleigh works outside¡ªshe¡¯s using metal and a blowtorch to make . . . something, but only she knows what. Harley has decided that he needs to work outside too, to keep his fresco wet, and the two of them have set up spaces near the koi pond Kayleigh likes to swim in. Bartie tags along wherever Victria goes, and Victria wanders through the fields and to the City, scribbling in the little leather-bound book that Orion gave her after she told him her idea for a collection of poetry. It almost seems as if Bartie¡¯s taking his assignment too literally¡ªhe¡¯s following the object of his affection blindly no matter where she leads him. Still, I suspect Bartie would be devastated to discover what her notebook actually contains¡ªmy guess is that more than half her poems are in fact dedicated to Orion. And Luthor and I? We meet each other every morning, before the solar lamp clicks on, and sneak into our little makeshift studio together. ¡°I ¡¯m glad you didn¡¯t decide to work with Bartie,¡± he says after the first week. ¡° Why would I work with Bartie?¡± I ask innocently, even though that¡¯s what I¡¯d thought I wanted before. I focus on typing notes on my floppy so he doesn¡¯t notice my blush. Luthor smirks at me and turns his attention back to his own floppy. Orion has ordered clay for him, manufactured chemically in the labs on the Shipper Level, but when it arrives, he¡¯ll have to work quickly to finish his sculpture before it dries out. For that reason, Orion¡¯s insisted that he come up with a design before he actually starts sculpting. ¡° Seriously, Luthor,¡± I say, ¡°I¡¯m really glad we¡¯re working together. ¡± He mumbles something. ¡° What?¡± I ask. ¡°Luthe. You could call me Luthe. My friends do. ¡± I wonder whom he means by ¡°friends. ¡± Bartie? Probably, even though if you asked Bartie, I¡¯m sure he wouldn¡¯t have applied the term ¡°friend¡± to Luthor. Luthor has been living at the Hospital as long as anyone¡ªin fact, I think he was one of the first Doc selected to move in. Even so, he¡¯s always been stand-offish at best. I shoot him a quick smile. ¡°I¡¯m glad to be your friend,¡± I say. ¡°Would it be okay if I still call you Luthor, though? It¡ªsuits you. ¡± He turns back to his floppy, but he can¡¯t hide his smile. At the end of the second week, Victria taps on my bedroom door. It zips open before I have a chance to get up from my desk and answer her knock. ¡° Don¡¯t just come in! ¡± I say, jumping up. Victria rolls her eyes and plops down on my unmade bed. There are no locks on Godspeed. We don¡¯t need them. The ship is so small that everyone respects privacy. On Sol-Earth, people had to worry about things like theft, but not here. Godspeed is perfectly safe. Except from Victria when she wants to talk. ¡° Seleeeeene,¡± she draws out my name. ¡° Whaaaat?¡± I mimic her whine. She crashes into my pillows dramatically. ¡°I¡¯m bored. ¡± I shove aside the sheet music I¡¯d been working on. ¡° Where¡¯s Kayleigh?¡± I ask. ¡° With Harley. ¡± Her voice drips with disdain, as if even his name disgusts her. I glance to the window. ¡°It¡¯s nearly time for the solar lamp to go dark. They¡¯re still working on their projects?¡± Victria props herself up on her elbows. ¡°I am certain that the one thing they¡¯re not doing is working on their projects. ¡± I let her words sink in. ¡°Oh! ¡± ¡°Yeah. ¡± ¡° Well . . . ¡± I pause, careful about which words I use. ¡°What about you and, uh, Bartie?¡± ¡° He¡¯s annoying,¡± she snaps, sitting up and tossing my pillow up in the air. She catches it, then stares at me. ¡°What about you and Luthor?¡± I shrug, not meeting her eyes. ¡°You¡¯ve been working with him in the Recorder Hall a lot,¡± she adds, leaning forward. ¡°Yeah, but . . . ¡± ¡°Listen, be careful with him. ¡± She doesn¡¯t meet my eyes; her whole demeanor has changed. She sets the pillow back on my bed, carefully smoothing it out and pretending like the simple task deserves her full focus. ¡°Luthor¡¯s harmless. ¡± Even as I say it, I can hear the doubt in my own voice, the question seeking confirmation. ¡° He¡¯s . . . creepy,¡± Victria says. ¡°I just . . . I worry. ¡± ¡°You don¡¯t have to worry about me,¡± I say as I shove her off my bed. ¡°It¡¯s Kayleigh you should keep your eye on! ¡± But the concern wrinkling Victria¡¯s brow doesn¡¯t fade as she leaves. Someone knocks on my door before the solar lamp clicks on the next day. ¡°Who is it?¡± I call, yawning. I pull my cotton tank top over the waist of my soft knit shorts and stagger blearily to the door. At least I know it¡¯s not Victria; she¡¯d have just barreled in before I had a chance to get up. Page 4 Luthor¡¯s waiting on the other side, looking excited. ¡°I know what I want to sculpt,¡± he says, stepping into the room. ¡° What?¡± After the door zips closed behind him, I push the large button in my wall and soon the room is filled with the scent of breakfast. Wall food isn¡¯t that great¡ªwe could go to the caf instead and get something a little better¡ªbut it is convenient. I pull out the warm meat pasty from the cavity built into my wall and break it apart, offering half to Luthor. He takes it, a flicker of surprise on his face. ¡°Thanks,¡± he mumbles. ¡° So, ¡± I say, spraying bread crumbs before I think to swallow. ¡°What¡¯re you going to make?¡± ¡°You. ¡± ¡° What?¡± ¡° You.¡± Luthor sets his half of breakfast down on the desk. He¡¯s too excited; he needs both hands to fly around as he speaks. ¡°I read more about the Pig-guy. ¡± ¡° Pygmalion,¡± I say, smiling. I know the name better than he does. ¡°Yeah. And he made a sculpture of what he thought the ideal woman would be like. That¡¯s the whole point of his story, that he created this perfect woman with his art. And that¡¯s what I want to do. I want to make the perfect woman. ¡± ¡°And you want . . . me?¡± Luthor pauses in his flurried excitement, really looking at me, taking in my disheveled hair, wrinkled clothes, and sleep-encrusted eyes. ¡°Of course you,¡± he says simply, and my heart fills with song. I stand perfectly still in our little studio as Luthor sketches me. He wants to make the statue in a ¡°classical ¡± pose, as he says it, and he keeps telling me to rearrange my arms, or hunch my back more, or hold up one hand. ¡° No, no, no,¡± he says, frustrated. I¡¯m not offended¡ªhe¡¯s frustrated with my posing in the same way that I get frustrated with my voice when I can¡¯t reach a note. ¡°Like this. ¡± He strides across the floor and pulls my arms down. He runs both his hands down my arms, making my elbows straighten and pulling my hands slightly behind my hips. I glance down at him; he doesn¡¯t see me as a person in this moment¡ªI¡¯m not Selene, I¡¯m a model. Luthor slips behind me, pushing one hand into my spine so my back curves inward, making my chest jut forward. Slowly, he walks around, inspecting me and my pose, stopping when he faces me. ¡°Up,¡± he says gently, tapping my chin. I lift my face toward the ceiling, the warm light from the high windows cascading down my cheeks. ¡° Perfect,¡± he whispers. ¡°You¡¯re perfect. ¡± I glance down at him, careful not to move my body or my face. When he looks at me now, I know he¡¯s seeing past my skin, into the very heart of who I am. Orion approves Luthor¡¯s design quickly, and if he thought there was something odd about his selection of me as a model, he doesn¡¯t say anything. After lunch, workers from the Feeder Level bring a huge pillar of brown clay, and Luthor tells them to drop it right there, in the center of the floor, where the light from the windows hits it just right. He brings in buckets of water and lays out his tools in a neat arc next to the clay. ¡° We could go down to the pond with Kayleigh and Harley,¡± I suggest. Luthor shakes his head, his attention focused on lining up each tool correctly. They look almost like Doc¡¯s medical instruments: a dull-bladed knife, tiny needlelike picks, a scalpel. ¡°I want to work here,¡± Luthor says. ¡°With you. Alone. ¡± As if on cue, Victria barges into the studio. ¡°So, ¡± she says loudly, her voice bouncing off the walls, ¡°this is where you two have been hiding.¡± Bartie trails behind Victria. He carries his guitar on a strap across his shoulders, one hand unconsciously stroking the strings. ¡° We¡¯re working,¡± Luthor says pointedly. ¡° So are we. Looking for inspiration and all that. ¡± Victria ignores him and heads straight over to me. There¡¯s something almost protective in her stance. ¡°Look for inspiration somewhere else,¡± Luthor growls, and I can¡¯t blame him. He was just about to get started on the sculpture he¡¯s planned for two weeks; Victria and Bartie¡¯s interruption could not have come at a worse time. ¡°I need Selene. ¡± Victria lifts one shoulder, as if she¡¯s helpless in the face of her whimsical muse. ¡° So do I. ¡± Luthor hasn¡¯t moved away from his clay, but his hands are motionless, his body stiff. Victria leans over. ¡°You¡¯ve got a sketch. ¡± Her words are casual, but she touches my arm, pressing into my skin as if trying to convey a message to me through my flesh. Bartie shifts nervously by the door. ¡° But I¡¯ll still need her. ¡± Before the two of them can dissolve into a real fight, I speak up. ¡°Why do you need me, Victria?¡± ¡°I need a song. Music. ¡± ¡°You have Bartie.¡± I hope none of the others notice the bitterness in my voice. She does have Bartie, all of him, even if she doesn¡¯t appear to want him the way I used to. ¡° But I need singing. ¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± Bartie says, looking up for the first time. ¡° You¡¯re the Siren, remember. Sing us a song that¡¯ll make us want to drown. ¡± Victria and Bartie chuckle at the jab, but Luthor just scowls. ¡°Will you leave if she sings? ¡± he says. Victria hesitates, but Bartie says, ¡°Yes. ¡± ¡° Just get rid of them,¡± Luthor says, waving his hand as if he¡¯s sacrificing something to let me sing. ¡°I . . . I don¡¯t know what to sing,¡± I say, suddenly shy. ¡° Sing one of the songs you¡¯ve been working on for Orion¡¯s project. ¡± My hand moves unconsciously to the loose papers scattered on my makeshift desk. ¡°They¡¯re not ready. ¡± Victria rolls her eyes. ¡°Just sing. ¡± And so I sing. I start with a long note¡ªa high E¡ªand I hold it as long as I can, letting the strength of my voice lift the sound to the ceiling. I tilt my head back and shut my eyes, letting myself forget about Luthor and whatever it is about him that makes Victria nervous, forget about the way Bartie¡¯s presence fills me with regret, forget everything but the sound. I hold the note until my breath gives out, and I collapse a little on myself as I suck in more air, but I don¡¯t open my eyes. I know the notes I want, the words that will go with them. I start softly, a contrast to the opening of the song. I sing of being afraid, and of finding friendship. Of love and longing. Very softly, Bartie picks up the tune, adding simple chords in key with my voice. His guitar sounds hesitant at first, but as my voice rises, the chords grow stronger. My voice falters a bit, a little sad at the way we can make such beautiful music together, despite the fact that Bartie will never love me the way I had wanted him to. Then I glance at Luthor, and my song surges in my throat. I sing about the ocean I¡¯ve never seen in real life. I sing about loneliness. I make the Siren into something sympathetic. She doesn¡¯t mean to kill what she loves. She just can¡¯t help it. Silence wraps around me, and I fill it with my voice. I sing of everything that¡¯s wrong, and everything that¡¯s right, of hope and death. I sing of infinite wonder, of how everything must end. When I open my eyes, my chest is heaving, my head thrown back, my arms cast behind me. I¡¯ve unconsciously formed myself into Luthor¡¯s Pygmalion tribute. And even though I sang a love song, my eyes go not to Bartie, who stills his guitar string with one shaking hand, but to Luthor, who¡¯s snatched up his notebook and is resketching me, trying to capture the moment of my singing onto paper so he can carve it out of clay. ¡°Thanks, ¡± Victria whispers. ¡° Was that what you were looking for?¡± I ask. There¡¯s a sheen of sweat on my brow. ¡°Yeah,¡± she says slowly. ¡°I ¡¯m not finished. ¡± I¡¯m suddenly self conscious, aware of the way my voice cracked in the second verse, the cluttered lyrics I rushed through in the third. ¡°I mean, I¡¯m still working on the lyrics and the rhythm. ¡± ¡°It¡¯s good. ¡± ¡°It¡¯s really sad,¡± Bartie says. I laugh. ¡°It¡¯s not sad! It¡¯s a love song! ¡± Bartie stands, slinging his guitar onto his back. ¡°Love songs can still be sad. ¡± ¡° Come on,¡± Victria says, putting one hand on Bartie¡¯s elbow. ¡°Let¡¯s leave these two alone to work. ¡± She nods to me as she leaves, and although she still sidesteps around Luthor and avoids his gaze, there must have been something in my song to make her know that he¡¯s no threat and that our greatest focus now is on our art. As if to prove it, Luthor picks up a long-bladed tool and starts to saw at the clay. ¡°I¡¯ve got the perfect idea,¡± he says without stopping. ¡°I know exactly how to make this work. ¡± He glances up at me now. ¡°But¡ªwould you mind singing while I sculpt? You could practice some more for your presentation. ¡± I¡¯d intended to present Orion with a series of songs, an entire opera, but I only had pieces of each song done here and there. I hated to start singing something incomplete; the love song was bad enough, but at least it was mostly done. Still, there¡¯s something in the way Luthor¡¯s hands slide over the clay, in the silence of his work, that makes me want to fill the studio with music once more. I open my mouth and sing. Luthor works fast, not breaking for meals. The clay Orion ordered is chemically produced not to dry completely until Luthor applies a glaze to the outside, but the more he handles it, the more difficult it is to work with, becoming less pliable and more prone to crumbling. I don¡¯t even think about leaving. How could I? Still, my voice cracks and, despite drinking copious amounts of water, I slowly succumb to silence. I¡¯ve done more work on my songs today than on any day of the previous two weeks, and I know that a large part of that is because Luthor¡¯s infectious need to sculpt has influenced my need to sing. The gallery¡¯s overhead lights click on when the solar lamp clicks off. Luthor growls at the change in light, but barely pauses. I move behind him, inspecting the work he¡¯s done. The sculpture is beautiful, far more beautiful than me. The clay version of me is smooth and lithe, more graceful in her stillness than I could ever be when I move. ¡° Can you¡ª ¡± he starts, then gets distracted by his sculpture, smoothing down a ridge in the clay. I watch as his hands run over the surface. He must be nearly finished¡ªthe sculpture looks so real now, as if this perfect earthen copy of me will lift her feet up and step from the narrow base. Luthor¡¯s hands move to her forehead, four fingers on each hand swirling across the sculpture¡¯s brow, over her closed, delicate eyelids, along her cheeks, down the hollows of her neck, straining with a silent song, lingering on her collarbone and trailing, finally, finally, coming to rest on her clay breasts. I take a shaky breath. ¡°I like to make the lines smooth,¡± Luthor says, his attention still on his sculpture. Page 5 ¡°Everything has to blend together. ¡± ¡°It¡¯s beautiful,¡± I say, my voice softer than I¡¯d intended. He pauses now, and turns to look at me. ¡°You¡¯re beautiful,¡± he says. He lifts his mud-coated hands toward me, then stops. I lean forward. He touches me on my forehead, just as he touched his sculpture, and I close my eyes, pressing my face into his hand. I ignore the clay he leaves on my skin, relishing the feel of his gentle finger trailing over my face, down my neck, across my collarbone . . . but he stops. I open my eyes. He pulls me closer to him. And the kiss we share makes me glad that I¡¯m not just an empty, clay girl. 6. I don¡¯t go back to the Hospital until well after dark, and when I do, I leave Luthor in our studio. He¡¯s still working like mad on the sculpture, even though, to me, it looks complete. I wander down the path between the Recorder Hall and the Hospital. I¡¯ve spent half my life in love with Bartie, who never really noticed me, and now here¡¯s Luthor, who I¡¯d never really seen before, and there¡¯s this thing between us that I¡¯ll never be able to ignore again. Near the pond, a huge monstrosity grows up from the ground. Kayleigh¡¯s work¡ªa mobile metal sculpture that looks half organic, half nightmare. She¡¯s used some sort of reddish-clear gel to create the appearance of fire at the base, and added groping metal arms reaching through the flames, up to the sky. But our sky is made of metal too, and if this sculpture is grasping for freedom, it will just meet another wall. Harley¡¯s fresco looks like nothing but a plaster sheet¡ªI suspect he¡¯s been busier looking at Kayleigh than doing any work. He usually paints every day, but he¡¯s been rather distracted by the fact that Kayleigh¡¯s no longer turning him away. I¡¯m in a silent, contemplative mood by the time I make it back to the Hospital. ¡° Hey, Selene! ¡± I jump, surprised by the sudden voice. ¡°I ¡¯ve been waiting for you,¡± Bartie says, smiling up from the comfy couch in the common room. A trill of music follows his words; his guitar lies on his lap, his fingers unconsciously strumming the strings. I cross the room and sit in the chair opposite him. A month ago, finding out that Bartie had been waiting up just to see me would have made my face flush and my knees shake. But now, I can still feel Luthor¡¯s kiss on my lips. ¡° Why? ¡± I ask simply. ¡°Victria . . . ¡± His voice trails off. This would be the point, a month ago, that would have made me want to cry. But the part of my heart that will always recognize that Bartie was my first love is silent. ¡°I ¡¯m sure she¡¯ll come around,¡± I say. ¡°Victria¡¯s not a very, I don¡¯t know, emotional person. But I bet she¡¯ll fall for you eventually. ¡± Bartie laughs. ¡°No, that¡¯s not what I meant! ¡± Still, he¡¯s pleased with what I said. ¡°Then what?¡± Bartie shifts uncomfortably, his hand going back to his guitar, running his fingers up and down the strings. ¡°Victria said you . . . and Luthe . . . ¡± ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± I say immediately. Better than fine. ¡°Luthe . . . he¡¯s not . . . ¡± Bartie shifts again, glancing out the dark window. ¡°He¡¯s said things . . . I just . . . ¡± ¡°Victria should pay more attention to her love life and less to mine,¡± I snap. ¡°Listen,¡± Bartie says, leaning closer. ¡°If Luthe has friends, then I¡¯m one. And the way he talks about people . . . about girls . . . ¡± ¡° Girls? More than one?¡± I ask, my heart plunging. ¡°That¡¯s not what I¡¯m trying to say. ¡± I can¡¯t help but let a sigh of relief escape my lips. ¡° Just be careful, okay?¡± Bartie finally mumbles. I nod, but I¡¯m still not sure what he means. Bartie¡¯s hands drift back to his guitar. ¡°Want to jam a bit?¡± ¡° Jam? ¡± I laugh. ¡°I read about it. It¡¯s what they used to call making music, back on Sol-Earth. ¡± ¡°Jam. ¡± I say again. Such a ridiculous word. ¡°I ¡¯ve been working a bit on this,¡± Bartie adds, and he lifts the guitar up into its proper position, his calloused fingers pressing into the strings on the neck. He fumbles, listening to the chords, until he finds the right harmony. The song is fast, and gets louder as he goes, but it still sounds melancholy to me. I think it¡¯s the way that the notes weave in and out, always going back to the same deep, resonating chords, as if, no matter how quickly Bartie¡¯s fingers dance on the strings, he can¡¯t help but fall into the same sad melody. When he glances up at me, he stops the song abruptly. ¡° What is it?¡± I ask as the music dies. ¡°You looked as if you were going to cry,¡± he says. I touch my cheek, but it¡¯s dry. ¡° How about this instead?¡± Bartie says, smiling, and he starts up on the same melody he¡¯d made to match the song I wrote. I smile, and as soon as I catch the rhythm, I open my mouth to sing. I don¡¯t let the music rip from me as I did in the studio before; instead I force the song to stream from me like a steady flow of quiet water. I don¡¯t want to wake anyone up, and even if the common room is separated from the rest of the Hospital, it¡¯s not soundproof. Still, the music overwhelms me. By the time I¡¯m at the end, my voice is raised, and I am breathless. And it¡¯s not until then that I notice Luthor, standing in front of the elevator, watching me. Bartie presses his palm into the guitar strings, silencing them. Luthor doesn¡¯t make a sound as his eyes dart from Bartie to me and back again. I¡¯m suddenly aware of how close I am to Bartie, of the flush on my cheeks, of the way my fingers are almost touching his knee. I snatch my hand back. Luthor walks out of the common room without saying a word. When I wake up the next morning, my door is open. I know I closed it the night before, but it¡¯s open now, light from the hallway streaming inside. I get up, rubbing my eyes and pulling my tank top down over my hips as I press the button to zip the door closed. I wonder if it was Victria, come to talk or barge in as usual, and if at the last minute she decided to let me sleep. Or maybe it was just a door malfunction. I press the button on my wall for food delivery, and while I wait, I stick my fingers into the small cavity by the door. A small blue-and-white pill waits for me there. I stare at the capsule, wondering at how this tiny pill separates me from nearly everyone else on the ship outside the Hospital. I swallow the pill dry. Doc says we¡¯re loons, that our restlessness and artistic expression comes from this insanity, and that the Inhibitor pills are the only thing that keeps us from really losing it. But I think Kayleigh is probably right. The Inhibitor pills don¡¯t keep us from cracking; they keep us human, they keep us from turning into the passive nothingness the rest of the Feeders feel. The little compartment in my wall opens, and steam wafts out of it, leaving behind the scent of a meat pasty. I gobble it up as quickly as I can; wall food isn¡¯t the best, and it¡¯s unbearable to eat cold. I must have overslept¡ªno one¡¯s around the common room, and the Hospital is empty. I head straight to the Recorder Hall. Orion nods at me in the entryway, but is busy working on a floppy. Something blocks the door of our little studio, and I have to push hard to get inside. The first thing I notice is Luthor. He¡¯s brown with clay, covered up to his elbows, with splotches of it decorating his clothes and great swaths over his brow. Little lines of sweat trickle through the dirt on his face. Underneath the clay and sweat is a scowl angrier than any I¡¯ve seen.. The next thing I notice is the sculpture. While Luthor¡¯s face radiates with emotion, the clay face of the sculpture is blank. No wonder Luthor¡¯s hands are caked with mud. He¡¯s smoothed every feature from the sculpture¡¯s visage, making the cheeks so flat that they¡¯re almost gone, smoothing the nose into nothing but a bump, completely erasing the lips. The eyes¡ªhe¡¯d worked a solid day on the eyes alone, using a tiny pick-like tool to carve in eyelashes¡ªare now nothing more than slight indentations under the barely-there brow. There is an eerie quality to the sculpture now: The body is still intact, perfectly beautiful and meticulously detailed, but the face is nothing but a flat shadow. Still, it seems to stare at me with its nothing eyes. ¡°It¡¯s better now,¡± Luthor says flatly. ¡°It was lovely before. ¡± My voice comes out weak. Luthor levels his glare at me. ¡°It¡¯s better now,¡± he repeats. My hand reaches behind me for the door, my body seeking an escape before my mind can tell me what I need to do. ¡° What were you doing with Bartie?¡± Luthor asks. ¡° What?¡± ¡°Last night. In the common room. What were you doing with Bartie?¡± He bites off each word as if it tastes foul in his mouth. ¡° Nothing. Singing. Nothing. ¡± Luthor reaches toward me with his clay-covered hands. I flinch. He notices, and, rather than becoming gentler as he would have a day before, his hand tenses and his eyes narrow. He touches my brow, his fingers raking across my skin forcefully as he drags them down, over my eyelids, leaving brown streaks on my face. ¡°You¡¯re mine,¡± he whispers. ¡°Mine. ¡± I get the frex out of there. 7. From that point on, I don¡¯t work in the studio. I go at night¡ªwith Bartie and Victria, both wearing looks of concern and worry¡ªto get my notebooks and sheet music from the Hall. Luthor¡¯s covered his sculpture up with a large cloth, and I don¡¯t have the courage to look at the blank face again. My music takes on a different tone as I write with Victria and Bartie, who¡¯ve turned the garden behind the Hospital into their studio. It¡¯s nice to be able to get help from a poet when I work on lyrics, or advice from a fellow musician when I¡¯m struggling to find chords. I work quicker¡ªbut at the same time, it feels as if I¡¯ve lost some of the emotion behind the music. I¡¯d started out writing love songs, and ended up writing sad ones. Perhaps appropriate for the Sirens, but not for me. And then, almost before I¡¯ve really had a chance to put everything together the way I want, it¡¯s time to present our work to Orion. Kayleigh and Harley enlist all of our help to get their pieces from the pond behind the Hospital up to the Recorder Hall. Harley wanted to do the presentations by the pond, but Orion insisted they be done inside the Hall. Besides, the projects are supposed to be installed in the galleries on the upper floors once we¡¯re done with our presentations. I assume that means Luthor had to clean up as well, that our studio is once more just the gallery, but I try not to think on it too much. The gallery seems darker with three hulking new additions¡ªKayleigh¡¯s metal sculpture, Harley¡¯s fresco, and Luthor¡¯s covered-up clay sculpture. Orion asks us each to explain our work as part of our presentations. Kayleigh goes first, followed by Harley, but I barely hear them. I¡¯m too busy staring at the bumpy cloth over Luthor¡¯s sculpture. It doesn¡¯t have that same familiar shape I¡¯d come to know. It seems shorter. Page 6 Orion nods to Luthor, indicating that he should go next, but Luthor shakes his head. Instead, Victria begins reciting her poetry. It¡¯s not until Bartie goes that I am able to draw my attention away from Luthor¡¯s too-short sculpture. His music is hollow in the best possible way. It speaks of longing and sorrow, and I want to fill it with my voice, but I don¡¯t. It¡¯s better this way. As his music fades, I step forward with my own. I close my eyes and forget about everything and just sing. And for that short moment, everything is right. But then the moment disappears. I open my eyes, and I¡¯m still here. And so is Luthor. ¡°Thank you, Selene,¡± Orion says. ¡°Now, it¡¯s your turn, Luthor. ¡± He doesn¡¯t bother introducing his work. Instead, Luthor steps up to his sculpture and in one swift motion rips the cloth off. I gasp¡ªthe only sound in the silent gallery. The sculpture is no longer faceless¡ªit¡¯s headless. From the rough marks at the decimated remains of the neck, I can easily imagine him wrapping his fingers around the clay, carefully and precisely squeezing, squeezing, squeezing until the head simply popped right off. From the neck down, the sculpture is beautiful¡ªeven more graceful and elegant than I¡¯d remembered. There are cuticles etched in the fingernails, veins at the delicate wrists. Individual toes curl around the base, and the draping gown looks as if it is made of silk, not mud. But from the neck up¡ªnothing. ¡° Well. ¡± Orion¡¯s voice cuts through the ringing silence. ¡°This is quite . . . illuminating, Luthor. ¡± Luthor lets the sheet that had been covering his sculpture drop to the floor as he turns and storms out of the gallery. Even Kayleigh and Harley, as wrapped up as they are in each other, have noticed the way Bartie and Victria never leave my side. Their worry is palpable. ¡° Go to Doc,¡± Harley finally says. ¡°Ripping the head off a sculpture of someone is loons. Maybe he can up Luthor¡¯s meds. ¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think the meds we take have anything to do with being loons,¡± Kayleigh says. ¡°They just¡ª ¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t the time for that,¡± Victria snaps. I¡¯m surprised; I¡¯ve never seen her be short with Kayleigh before. ¡°But Harley¡¯s right. We should talk to Doc. Or maybe even Eldest?¡± We let the weight of her words sink in before I say anything. ¡°Not Eldest. It¡¯s just a creepy sculpture. No reason to contact Eldest. ¡± Although no one says anything, the tension in the room dissolves a bit now that I¡¯ve said to leave Eldest out of it. ¡° Still¡ªDoc?¡± Bartie says. I shake my head. ¡°It¡¯s just a sculpture. ¡± I can¡¯t sleep that night, which is why, when my door zips open, I¡¯m awake to see Luthor standing in the doorway. ¡°You were supposed to be asleep,¡± he says. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to be in your own room,¡± I snap back. He shrugs and steps inside, letting the door zip closed behind him. ¡°I didn¡¯t say you could come in! ¡± He just stands there. ¡° Get out! ¡± I say, my voice rising. In two steps, he¡¯s at my bed, his open hand covering my mouth. I try to shout, but the sound is muffled. He presses his weight against me, pushing me into my mattress. I thrash around, but can¡¯t escape his grip. ¡°You were supposed to be mine,¡± he says. His breath is hot, his pupils dilated. I shake my head the best I can under his grip. ¡°I don¡¯t like to share. ¡± His hand slips down. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about! ¡± I yell. But his hand isn¡¯t letting me go¡ªit¡¯s just moving further down. His other hand joins the first around my neck. I am hyperaware of the situation. I can feel each heavy thud of my heart growing stronger and faster. I can feel each of his fingers around my throat, each pressing into my skin. He¡¯s not choking me; he¡¯s just making sure I know that he could. Unbidden and unwanted, an image of his sculpture comes into my mind: a perfect body with its head squeezed off. My eyes burn. ¡°Don¡¯t, ¡± I whisper, afraid to say more. The word has to fight its way up my throat to my mouth. ¡°I could,¡± he says. ¡°I could. I can do whatever I want. ¡± ¡° Don¡¯t, ¡± I plead. ¡°You sing. You become someone else when you sing¡ªmore beautiful, more perfect. ¡± His index finger strokes the front of my throat, where my vocal chords are. ¡° Don¡¯t sing for anyone else,¡± he orders. I nod my head¡ªanything to make him go away. His grip tightens around my neck, pushing me further into my mattress. He lifts his right leg, and, without removing his hands from my throat, he climbs over me so that he¡¯s straddling me in my own bed. His full weight presses down against me. Tears leak from my eyes, dripping into my hair. ¡°You¡¯re mine, ¡± he whispers. It is a very long time before he leaves, but when he finally does, a part of me has already died. My back is uncomfortably straight in the blue plastic chair across from Doc¡¯s desk in his office. He steeples his fingers as he looks at me. ¡°But, ¡± he says in a carefully controlled voice, ¡°he didn¡¯t actually do anything?¡± For answer, I remove the scarf around my neck. Ten long fingerprint-shaped bruises decorate my throat. ¡° But¡ªnothing else?¡± Doc shifts uncomfortably. ¡° He threatened you, yes, I understand that, but he didn¡¯t actually . . . ?¡± ¡° Would it matter if he did?¡± I ask. My voice is raspy, a mixture of the gasping sobs that raked through my throat in the shower this morning and the pressure Luthor exerted on my vocal chords as he¡ª Doc leans forward. ¡°This is very serious, ¡± he says. ¡°I think perhaps I should give Luthor some hormone suppressants, at least until the Season. . . . ¡± ¡° Pills? You¡¯re just going to give him pills?¡± ¡° His, er, desire for you isn¡¯t entirely natural. We can tamp down that desire, at least for a few years, until the Season. ¡± ¡°I ¡¯m not just worried about his desire. ¡± Doc¡¯s eyes drift lower, to the bruises on my neck. ¡°I could bring Eldest into this,¡± he mutters, half to himself. ¡°But the thing is . . . ¡± ¡° What?¡± My feeble voice cracks. ¡°What is it? Why are you trying to nicely say that Luthor won¡¯t be punished for what he¡¯s done to me?¡± ¡° But if he didn¡¯t actually do anything¡ª¡± ¡° What do you want me to say?¡± I stand up, my voice straining against my desire to shout. ¡°That he held me down on the bed, even when I begged him to get up? That he crushed my throat until I couldn¡¯t make a sound? That he laughed at me as I struggled against him?¡± That he did things to me that I¡¯m too disgusted to even describe with words. Doc won¡¯t meet my eyes. ¡°Luthor is skilled in tactile and kinetic studies,¡± he tells his neatly ordered desk. ¡°He may be focused on creating sculptures now, but his skills could lead to an advancement in modular studies of the ship¡¯s engines, or help increase efficiency in the City or through the floppy network.. . . ¡± ¡°And all I can do is sing,¡± I croak. I collapse back in the chair, hoping for Doc to protest, but we both know it¡¯s true. There¡¯s not much room for art on Godspeed; I¡¯m superfluous at best. People like Kayleigh or Luthor will be able to find a productive way to contribute to the ship. People like me or Bartie will be able to do nothing more than provide some amusement for the real workers. Luthor¡¯s more important than me, because his skills can aid the ship. A song is nothing compared to productivity. I laugh, a bitter, cracked sound damaged by Luthor¡¯s chokehold on me last night. I can¡¯t even sing, not now. One day¡ªsoon, if Doc¡¯s right¡ªmy vocal chords will heal. But could I ever really sing again? If Luthor says I can only ever sing for him, and he can do whatever he wants on this ship that values people based on what labor or skills they can provide, dare I ever make music? ¡°I ¡¯ll start Luthor on hormone suppressants, ¡± Doc says in the silence. ¡°That should stop his . . . urges. ¡± But not his hands, his big, strong hands that choked the sound out of me, that popped the head off his sculpture, that held the razor-sharp scalpels he used to carve into clay, that he could use to carve into me. 8. ¡° We¡¯ll protect you,¡± Victria says. Kayleigh, sitting on my bed, nods her head. ¡°If Doc won¡¯t protect you, we will. ¡± ¡° What can you do?¡± I ask with a feeble laugh. Kayleigh and Victria exchange glances. ¡°The boys will help,¡± Kayleigh says. ¡°Harley and Bartie.¡± ¡°They don¡¯t know me that well. ¡± ¡°They¡¯ll still help. ¡± I can see it now: a lifetime where I¡¯m always watched by at least one of them. Before, I had thought of Kayleigh as a sometime friend and Victria as an occasional companion. Harley and Bartie were always in the background of my mind. But I know¡ªI can see it in the earnest looks both girls are giving me¡ªthat here is a chance for me to become something more to them all. Not friend. Ward. ¡°I can¡¯t ask that of you, of any of you,¡± I say. Victria shakes her head. ¡°We can¡¯t let that happen to you again. ¡± She looks at my neck, but she can¡¯t see the wounds I¡¯ve hidden behind my clothes. ¡°You can¡¯t protect me all day, every day. ¡± ¡°You can move into my room,¡± Kayleigh says. ¡° Or mine,¡± Victria adds. I stare out the window. ¡° Selene?¡± Kayleigh asks. Something in her voice draws my attention to her. ¡°You forgot to take your pill,¡± she says. She holds out the little blue-and-white capsule that holds the drugs that keep me conscious, aware of the world. I hadn¡¯t forgotten it. ¡° Silly me,¡± I mutter, taking the pill. Kayleigh watches me carefully as I put it on my tongue and pretend to swallow. But I don¡¯t. After a while, I plead a headache, and the two girls leave. They don¡¯t go far; I can hear them talking, guarding my room. They shout at Luthor when he gets too close; I can hear him denying their accusations, their voices raising until Doc comes out and silences everyone. I spit the blue-and-white pill out of my mouth and into the toilet, then flush it away. Kayleigh said the pills made you nothing, and nothing seems like a pretty good thing to be right now. Someone knocks on my door. I know it can¡¯t be Luthor¡ªhe doesn¡¯t knock. Doc stands on the other side. ¡°I¡¯ve sent your little guards to their rooms,¡± he says. Then his harsh expression melts. ¡°I¡¯ve also posted a guard¡ªa real guard¡ªat Luthor¡¯s room. I don¡¯t want you to feel threatened. ¡± But I do. Guard or no. Because eventually, in a few days or weeks or even a whole month, the guard will go away. And I still won¡¯t have a lock on my door. And Luthor won¡¯t have forgotten. Page 7 You can never escape from me. Those were the last words he said to me, just before he left my room that night. But in the end, it¡¯s remarkably easy to escape. As I walk past the common room, I can see the way things will one day be. Kayleigh is snuggled into Harley¡¯s arm on the couch by the window¡ªtheir love will grow and spread and be everything they want. Bartie plays a song for Victria. Victria may or may not fall for the guitar player, but their friendship won¡¯t fade. They are an idyllic vision of what I once wanted in my life. In the corner, watched closely by Doc, is Luthor. He stares at me, eyes narrowed, as I cross the room. He blames me for the close watch he¡¯s been under these past few weeks, the additional pills. He hasn¡¯t forgotten. But I almost have. I take the elevator down to the lobby, then stroll down the path that leads from the Hospital to the Recorder Hall. I think about going into the Hall, maybe seeing the sculpture one last time, but the idea doesn¡¯t create an urge in me to make the effort to continue up the stairs. Orion stands in the doorway. He starts to talk to me, but then he frowns as I pass by. The path bleeds into the road that leads deeper into the Feeder Level. I know where I¡¯m going¡ªI¡¯ve already talked about this with Doc, who got permission from Eldest for my reassignment. Kayleigh was right. Without the pills, you really do feel nothing. And nothing can be nice. I open my palm, letting my last blue-and-white pill drop heedlessly to the ground. I stand at the fence, staring down at the large rabbits used for meat on the ship. This is my new job. Not songs. Rabbits. I glance back once. Luthor will forget about me. He wanted my music, but empty people don¡¯t sing. I¡¯ll stay here. I will care for the rabbits. I will let myself become a nothing, and then Luthor won¡¯t want me, because there will be nothing to want. It took several days before I felt the fear fade. I didn¡¯t know that everything else would fade too. But it¡¯s nice to be without the fear. Without the sad. In the end, it didn¡¯t seem like such a big price to pay. My songs, in exchange for nothing. Nothing is nice. Empty is good. I cross over the fence. The rabbits hop. Up and down. Ears twitch. I will be this girl, the girl who cares for the rabbits. Luthor took my music when he took everything else from me that night. What does it matter to me if I let the emptiness fill my shell? 9. The Day I Die I hum a song. I do that sometimes. Hum. I like sounds. ¡° Hello, Selene,¡± a deep male voice says from the fence of the rabbit fields. I stop humming. ¡° Do you remember me?¡± the man asks. ¡°You¡¯re Luthor,¡± I say. Luthor nods. ¡°I told you before, call me Luthe. All my friends do. ¡± But . . . I don¡¯t think he is a friend. The fence around the rabbit field is nothing but chicken wire. He crumples it and shoves it away as easily as if it were made of paper. ¡° Selene,¡± he says. I like sounds, but I don¡¯t like the way my name snarls around his lips. ¡°You were always my perfect girl,¡± he says softly. The rabbits scurry out of his way as he walks slowly toward me. Runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun. My mind screams at me, but my body doesn¡¯t move. Everything is dull around me. A splintered memory jabs into my brain, trying to spark life into me, but everything is slow and steady. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, a dull, normal beat . .. beat . . . beat. Not the panicked racing of the rabbit¡¯s heartbeat when I hold it down. But I feel like a rabbit, one selected for slaughter. Luthor touches the side of my face, runs his fingers down my cheek, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. ¡° Sing for me,¡± he says. ¡° Singing isn¡¯t productive,¡± I say. But I do sing, sometimes. Or hum. I like sounds. The rabbits like sounds. Sometimes we sing together. But I don¡¯t want to sing for him. Luthor¡¯s hands slip down my neck, his fingers pressing slightly against my throat. ¡°Sing,¡± he commands. My mouth opens, my body automatically ready to obey the command. But there is something inside me that silences my voice. I will not give him what he wants, this rebel inside me whispers. I do not sing. Luthor¡¯s grip on my neck tightens, and he pushes me down, first to my knees, then to my back. ¡°You are mine,¡± he growls. ¡°If I can¡¯t have her, I will take you. ¡± My body doesn¡¯t protest. It has been trained by years of drugs and acquiescence. I shut my eyes. ¡°You¡¯re more like clay now than you were before.¡± I open my eyes. Luthor is grinning. ¡°In the story, Pygmalion turned his girl of clay into a human. But I have turned a human into a girl of clay. And that is, by far, the better option. ¡± I open my mouth. And I sing then. Not the song Luthor wants. I sing for myself, a dirge, a mournful wail. I sing¡ªI scream¡ªuntil Luthor¡¯s hands around my throat silence me. And I die. But at least I die in song.