Nova (3 page)

The cafeteria is tucked into the back arc, its patrons a mix of military personnel and refugees. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who was thinking of food after being processed in. Tucking my sleeping kit under his arm, Michael grabs a tray for me.

“So what do you like?”

I take the tray and look around at the dizzying array of food, not entirely sure how to answer. I was engineered without a true sense of taste, or smell for that matter. To me everything gives off the same odor: a pale sour-and-sweet tang that tickles around the edges of my nostrils and lays lightly across my tongue. Only the intensity varies. The odor was persistent on the transport. Here in the cafeteria, it is hardly noticeable.

The lack of smell or taste hardly mattered on the transport. The soldiers offered us no choice, and it was either eat what they gave us or go hungry. While I recognize most of the dishes, I have little preference for one over the next. Food holds no pleasure for me. It is a means to survive, nothing else. I suppose I could choose based on nutritional content, but there seems little point when I have less than thirty-six hours of existence left. I try to think back to what I ate before the transport ship, but for some reason I can’t call to mind a single meal I had before boarding.

Shrugging, I choose a medley of items: a piece of chicken, a stalk of celery, an orange, some fries. Michael raises his eyebrow when he catches sight of my plate.

“I thought you hated celery.”

I do? I struggle for an answer. “They gave us lots of celery on Tiersten. I guess I got used to it.”

“They did? Celery? Glitchy.” Michael shakes his head, then shrugs and helps himself to a piece of cake from the bakery corner.

After swiping our chits for the cashier, we find a place at a small table in the corner. I concentrate on my food, using it as an excuse to stay silent. With Lia’s memories submerged firmly beneath the surface, I don’t dare talk any more than I have to. It would be too easy to say something Lia would not.

To my surprise, Michael seems just as uneasy, his earlier confidence somehow diminished now that we are sitting face-to-face with nothing to do but talk. He drums his fingers on the table.

“You’re so quiet,” he finally says.

“I am?”

“When we were kids, you never stopped talking. My mom used to say you were a regular little chatterbug.”

Just by staying silent I have erred. I search my mind for Lia, hoping to find the words she might say, but she’s not there. I shrug uncomfortably. “Things change.”

It’s not a great answer by any means, but he seems to accept it.

“I noticed your parents’ names weren’t on the list,” he adds carefully. “Are they . . . ?”

My parents died in front of me from starvation and sickness.

His eyes widen, and I realize I spoke the words aloud, the catchphrase automatically tumbling from my mouth before my brain could even process it. “I’m sorry,” Michael says. “I really liked your parents. You must miss them a lot.”

“I wept for them.”

Another manufactured answer, for I have no other. I have no sentiments of my own; no words besides the ones they put in my head. Even my name is not my name, but another girl’s treasured possession, now taken and bestowed on me. And like any piece of stolen property, it has been worn in by the original owner, and I know it will never fit me quite as well as it did her.

We eat in silence, or at least attempt to eat, Michael poking at his cake with his fork and me absently swirling a slice of orange in my ketchup before I catch myself and surreptitiously stick it in my mouth. Would the real Lia be this tongue-tied if it were she meeting Michael again for the first time in seven years?

Michael glances around, as if hoping a topic will condense out of thin air, and his eyes fall on my tray. “You never got dessert,” he exclaims.

“Oh, well—”

“That was the whole point of coming up to Five, remember? The desserts. Here, try some of mine,” he offers, stabbing his fork into the uneaten side and holding it out at me.

“I really don’t—”

I duck my head at the same time he jabs the fork forward, and instead of the cake going in my mouth, it ends up all over my nose. Michael starts apologizing, and for a moment I freeze, unsure what the protocol is for a situation like this. I only know that I don’t want him to feel bad.

I tentatively reach up and catch a daub of frosting on my finger, then stick it in my mouth. Michael’s stricken look slowly dissolves into a grin, a chuckle coming out of his mouth as he asks, “How is it?”

It tastes exactly like the ketchup. Which is to say, it doesn’t taste like anything at all.

“It’s really good,” I tell him, accepting the napkin he offers and wiping off my nose.

Somehow I did the right thing, because as Michael starts telling me a story about his first time at the station cafeteria, his easygoing manner suddenly returns. He eats some of my fries, and I nibble on his cake, content to just listen and nod.

After a while he stops, shaking his head in self-deprecation. “Listen to me. Now I’ve become the chatterbug.”

I shrug. “I don’t mind.”

He gives me a look I can’t read, then busies himself gathering up our trays and plates. I grab my sleeping kit, and together we bus our table and head out of the cafeteria. We wander along the outer edge of the level until we reach the concourse at the edge of the quadrant, one side bordered with yellow lights, the other green. Sliding doors at the end of the concourse periodically open to let people come and go from spoke to hub and vice versa. Michael jerks his head toward the doors.

“I should probably go before Gran starts to worry.” He hesitates. “I’m really glad to see you again, Lia. Maybe I could come by tomorrow? Where are you staying?”

I think back to PsyLt. Rowan’s directives. Cargo Bay 8A.

“With the refugees in Cargo Bay 7C,” I tell him.

“Okay, great.” He raises one hand in a wave as he takes a couple backward steps down the concourse. “See you later, Lia.”

*34:17:02*

No, Michael,
I think as he strolls through the doors and disappears,
you won’t.

3
MY CONFIDENCE RETURNS THE MOMENT
Michael walks out the door. The last hour was difficult, confusing, me trying to put on a performance without knowing the lines. Now that he’s gone, everything is clear again. My identity, my purpose, my existence. They are all one and the same.

I take the concourse back to the lift station, drifting along among all the others coming and going. No one pays any attention to me, a pale, sixteen-year-old refugee who is small for her age, but I pay attention to them, examining their clothes, analyzing their movements, listening to their conversations.

“. . . have those reports to the colonel by eighteen-hundred . . .”

“. . . afford to get behind schedule, what with the
Santa Maria
’s arrival in a few weeks . . .”

“Our docking pass expires in three hours. We have to secure that shipment . . .”

“. . . so I told him, not on my milicred, he’s not . . .”

A woman in a flowing red dress, its hues rippling in time with her movements, sweeps past me complaining of a produce sickness in hydroponics, and the white-haired man with her mentions Chinese cabbage. Their words hold no meaning for me, all part and parcel of lives I have never lived and could never comprehend. Perhaps that is why they intrigue me so.

I reach the lift station, but instead of joining the busy line to go down, I step on a platform going up. No one else is headed in this direction, the platforms above and below me all empty as far as I can see. I pass the divider and Four comes into view, an administrative level with offices and conference rooms. It holds no interest for me, and I crane my head up, watching as the lift comes even with the ceiling and then slides into Three. Station Control.

Getting off, I find myself in a small vestibule created by four metal walls completely enclosing the lift. Aside from a bench, an artificial plant, and a piece of framed artwork, the room is empty. A keypad and retinal scanner are mounted by each of the two doors. Clearly not just anybody can enter this level.

Climbing back on the lift, I ride up to Two, which is an exact match for Three, except for the artwork. I let my fingers drift over the keypad, wondering if it will spark a memory, an instruction of some kind, but it doesn’t. Dropping my hand, I turn back toward the lift just as the door slides open and an officer comes striding through. He collides with me before I can avoid him, and I jump back from the contact, nose wrinkling as the sour-and-sweet odor sharpens. He must be wearing a pungent cologne.

“What are you doing up here? This level is for technicians and military personnel only.” He narrows his eyes, taking in my jumpsuit with a suspicious look.

My mind flips back to my conversation with Michael.
Don’t worry, we won’t go splat. I promise.

“I just wanted to see if it was true,” I answer.

“True?”

“That if you forget to get off the lift at Level One, you’ll go splat into the ceiling.”

He lets out a bark of laughter. “Who told you that?”

I shrug. “Some boy on Level Five. He dared me to come up and try it, but I got scared, so I got off at the last minute.”

His suspicion is gone, replaced with reluctant amusement. “Kids,” he grunts. “If I had a milicred for every time I’ve heard that.”

I tense up as he puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a gentle shove toward the lift, but my quick search reveals no half-star on his uniform. I let him guide me around to the down side.

“Go back to your friends, kid, and try to stay out of trouble. Remember, we can always find you if you stray,” he says, tapping meaningfully on his palm chit. I look at my own. So it’s not just an identity and credit device, but a tracker as well. Of course.

The officer watches me while I wait for the next down platform. As I’m getting on, he grudgingly calls out, “If you really want to explore, you could try Level Thirteen. There’s an ob—”

His words are cut off as the platform descends below the floor. Not that it matters. I have no interest in poking around the station like some curious child away from home for the first time. Not unless it will aid my mission in some way. I search my mind for instruction; surely my makers left me with some sort of direction for carrying out my assignment.

Nothing surfaces.

Uneasiness fills me, but I shrug it off. I’m sure if there was something I needed to know, I would remember it. Again, that nagging sensation flits through me that there was something I was supposed to do on the transport.

I let the thought go. It doesn’t matter now. Thirty-three hours, fifty-five minutes, forty-nine seconds. In mere hours, nothing will matter anymore.

The levels float by, one after another, and I think about my next move. With so much time at my disposal, I might as well find my quarters and set down my sleeping kit.

Getting off the lift on Eight, I thread my way through a group of refugees and set off in search of Cargo Bay 8A. By some luck, I manage to find it without too much trouble. The bay looks similar to the one where PsyLt. Rowan processed me a couple short hours ago, with cargo pushed up against the walls to make way for rows of cots laid out in the middle of the floor. Well, rows more or less. With the arrival of the refugees, bunches of cots have been pulled together in clusters, blankets propped up with makeshift supports to create small bits of privacy within the vast space.

An officer peels away from the wall as I step farther into the bay. “Chit, please?”

I hold out my palm, and he scans it with his tip-pad. “Johansen, Lia. Yes, Cargo Bay 8A is correct. Hygiene units are in those corners there,” he points, “and there. Take any bunk you want.”

“They’re not assigned?”

“Well, that was the original plan, but . . .” He grimaces and waves a hand at the chaos.

Ah.
With an understanding nod, I locate an empty cot in the corner near an elderly couple. By some miracle they are asleep, harsh light and the noise of the crowd notwithstanding, their cots pushed together and their hands entwined. In the grip of sleep, they don’t look like refugees sacking out in a cargo bay teeming with people, but a couple at home in their own bed, each secure in the knowledge that they are not alone. Feeling strangely like I’m somehow intruding, I push my cot up against the wall as far as I can.

My sleeping kit contains bedding—a thin mattress, sheets, and a blanket—which I lay out on my cot. I look at my new bed a bit longingly, exhausted though it’s only midday by station time, but knowing I have no chance of finding rest in this noisy maze. Too bad I’m no longer Lia. Lia could curl up in this nest and be asleep within a minute. She could sleep anywhere. I’m sure she wouldn’t feel the sharp edge of unease dogging her steps every moment since the memory overlay shattered.

Since I can’t sleep, I join the line for the hygiene units. The wait for the showers is long, but it’s worth it even though all I have to put on afterward is my spare change of clothes from the transport, which aren’t much cleaner than what I already have on. At least my hair is clean again, the once filthy ponytail now falling in damp strands over my back.

For the next several hours, I pass the time as best I can. After combing out my hair as slowly as possible, I take a turn around the bay, scouting my temporary home. I find nothing of particular interest, though by late evening the stationers have set up a makeshift laundry service, collecting dirty jumpsuits and passing out the first batch of clean clothes some of us have seen in weeks. Their supply is exhausted by the time I reach the front of the line, but they take my other jumpsuit with a scan of my chit and a promise of a clean replacement by the following morning. Afterward, I catch a second meal in the hub cafeteria, this time going down to the one on Nine just for a change of scene. Michael was right; the selection of desserts on Five is far superior to that on Nine. Not that it matters to me, of course. It’s simply an observation.

To my surprise, the bay is quiet when I return from my meal. The lights are dimmed and a feeling that could almost be described as restful has descended over the room. Most of the refugees are sleeping, or at least pretending to, and the ones who aren’t keep their voices low in deference to the others. A screen on the wall shows the time: 2349. Almost midnight. No wonder everyone has finally settled down.

I lie down on my cot and pull my blanket over me. The past few hours have been about marking time until the end, nothing more. I check my internal clock.

*26:22:13*

Just a little over a day to go; the station will be sleeping when I make my final exit.

I like that—the station quiet and still, my final moments a meditation before I go up in a blaze of sound. The idea feels peaceful, serene. Safe. I close my eyes and let the thought slowly lull me to sleep. And when I dream, I dream of white.

Pure, brilliant, dazzling white.

When I wake the following morning, I’m pleased to see I’ve slept almost ten hours. Lines are long for both the laundry and hygiene units, but I don’t mind. Every minute that passes is another minute drawing my wait nearer to a close. Perhaps I should feel differently. Perhaps I should cling to every second I have, dig my fingernails into each moment until the pressure of time’s passing rips them from my fingers. This is what Lia would do—fight for her life with every breath.

Of course, Lia’s purpose was to live. Mine is to die.

Mindful of Michael’s promise to come see me today, I keep an eye out for him as I emerge from the bay, ready to melt back into the crowds should I see him. I do not want to meet Michael again. His presence only complicates things, confuses them when they would otherwise be clear. In his way, I can’t help sensing he’s almost as dangerous as PsyLt. Rowan, though I don’t understand how.

It doesn’t matter, for I never see him. Not when I slip down to Nine for some breakfast, or later, as I wander aimlessly through the levels, my itchy feet unable to stay still. My misdirection was successful, or else he didn’t care enough to come find me again. The reason isn’t important.

Despite my disinterest in exploring, my restlessness is enough to make me look around anyway. With One through Three blocked off, Four nothing besides offices, and Five and Nine already known quantities, I spend a good deal of my time on Six, Seven, and Eight. The three levels are mainly taken up with docking rings, landing bays, and more cargo holds. A customs office at the center of the hub does a brisk business processing in new arrivals and issuing various station permits, their dealings mostly with the array of freighters and passenger liners stopping off to deliver their goods and take on new ones. No one seems to notice me in the bustle, everyone in a hurry to get where they’re going, whether they’re returning home after a long trip or dropping off cargo or just looking to kick back in a good bar for a much-deserved rest. It’s no wonder my creators thought a sixteen-year-old girl would be the ideal operative.

It is only mid-afternoon—eleven hours, ten minutes, fifty-nine seconds to go—so I take the lift down to the lower levels. A cursory glance shows Ten to be a barracks for select military personnel, so I head down another floor. My heart practically stops when I see the half-star emblazoned on the doors leading from the glass vestibule into Eleven. PsyCorp.

I don’t even bother to get off the lift, but let myself continue riding down.

Twelve and Thirteen are the bowels of the hub, the facilities that keep the rest of the place going. Not power, which I presume is on one of the top levels, but everything else. Waste management, in particular, seems to be the staple of Thirteen, though I don’t get very far before a worker in coveralls and a face mask stops me. He makes a face when I tell him that an officer suggested I might find the level interesting. His expression suddenly clears.

“Oh, he must have meant downstairs.” He stares at me for a moment and finally nods. “Okay, come on. Just don’t be telling all of your little friends about this place, huh? We can’t have an influx of refugees coming down here and making a mess of things.”

The worker leads me down a corridor to the outer edge of the level and opens a door in the wall. A staircase on the other side descends to a space just below. I immediately understand why they didn’t bother to designate it a level. The area is small, the ceiling barely high enough for a grown man to stand without bending over. Pipes run along the ceiling and crates are stashed in erratic stacks throughout the area—unofficial storage for the personnel that work down here, I would guess.

The worker leads me through the labyrinth to a trap door in the middle of the floor. With a twist of a handle, he throws back the hatch and unrolls a rope ladder down into the hole.

“Have at it, sweetheart. Just make sure to roll up the ladder and close the hatch when you’re done, okay?”

I watch his retreating back, my forehead furrowing in a frown as I wonder just what’s down there. There don’t seem to be any lights inside the long, narrow tunnel; nothing to show what’s below. For a moment I hesitate. Then sitting at the edge of the opening, I grasp the ladder and carefully inch my way down. My feet hit the decking below, and I gasp.