held out. There’s no use in begging, I know. Hell, heknows that. But he’s overwhelmed. That’s what comes from having people to care for. My mother made me promise to be selfish for exactly this reason. “You’ll be okay,” he says to his son, the one being held by the Low, and he sounds like he believes it. I wonder if he actually does. The other boy is behind him, cowering. If they tried—if they let the Lows have the one child—they might be able to escape. I’m impressed that the father hasn’t tried to run already. He could, he totally could. He could take his other son, find somewhere safe. That’s what most people in his situation would do. They’d cut their losses and start again.
That’s what I’d do.
I put the panel back on the floor. They can’t be helped now, and this is not my fight. Mother’s rules, and her voice in my head as if her ghost is actually here with me, whispering into my ear: Stay out of trouble. Be selfish. Don’t die.
I remember Agatha’s story about finding my mother. I hear the child crying. I hear the Lows wheezing.
Be selfish.
I promised her I would be, but then . . . I need to sleep. And I can’t sleep with that noise happening. I can’t sleep unless I know how this ends.
Screw it. I have to do something.
I leave my berth and run to the closest stairwell, and I jump down to the forty-ninth floor. I could try to distract the Lows, give the man a chance to grab his boys and run. They might make it. Or I could pile in, fight them. Maybe that would give the father the confidence to join in, and maybe wecould beat them. I wait, hiding in the shadows, watching them. I’m breathing hard, so I try to control that. Don’t want them to hear me; that would ruin any chance I have of taking them by surprise.
I don’t know what the best choice is. I can’t tell.
I don’t get the chance to decide. It all happens in an instant. The Low who’s holding the boy laughs and throws the child over the side of the balcony. The kid screams as he goes, and the father rushes forward, charging the Low. There’s a sickly crunch, a blade going through flesh—through bone—and then the father stops crying. I see him fall forward, his face smacking the gantry floor, his eyes already empty. That just leaves the other boy, and he screams in one terrifyingly loud burst before falling suddenly silent. I can’t see what happens to him, and I don’t go any closer. They’re done.
I was too slow.
I shut my eyes for a second and try to calm down, holding my breath until my heart stops hammering, and when I open my eyes I’m calm. I climb back up to the fiftieth floor and I’m in my berth, on my bunk, listening. Usually you can hear your neighbors moving, talking, having sex. But now no one is making a sound, and the ship’s engines, the sounds that are all there always, they fade into the background, fade away completely.
The silence that’s left is so deep, it’s overwhelming.
It’s morning. Agatha listens to me talk about what happened and doesn’t say a word. She isn’t one for interrupting. When I’m finished telling her about the family I didn’t manage tosave, she sits down on the grass. In her hands there’s a basket of berries. We’ve been picking them together. I don’t like picking berries—it’s time-consuming, and there’s no peace, swarms of people around the bushes—but I wanted to speak with her. From the minute I woke up this morning—and I’m amazed that I managed to get back to sleep after what happened—I didn’t want to be alone. She scoops a handful of the berries out and examines them for damage, finding an overripe one and popping it into her mouth. She hands another to me.
“They were gone when you went to sleep?”
“The Lows?” Stupid question, I think, as the words leave my mouth. That’s another thing she hates. Of course that’s what she meant. “They were gone, yes. No sign of them.”
“Had they taken
That’s what I’d do.
I put the panel back on the floor. They can’t be helped now, and this is not my fight. Mother’s rules, and her voice in my head as if her ghost is actually here with me, whispering into my ear: Stay out of trouble. Be selfish. Don’t die.
I remember Agatha’s story about finding my mother. I hear the child crying. I hear the Lows wheezing.
Be selfish.
I promised her I would be, but then . . . I need to sleep. And I can’t sleep with that noise happening. I can’t sleep unless I know how this ends.
Screw it. I have to do something.
I leave my berth and run to the closest stairwell, and I jump down to the forty-ninth floor. I could try to distract the Lows, give the man a chance to grab his boys and run. They might make it. Or I could pile in, fight them. Maybe that would give the father the confidence to join in, and maybe wecould beat them. I wait, hiding in the shadows, watching them. I’m breathing hard, so I try to control that. Don’t want them to hear me; that would ruin any chance I have of taking them by surprise.
I don’t know what the best choice is. I can’t tell.
I don’t get the chance to decide. It all happens in an instant. The Low who’s holding the boy laughs and throws the child over the side of the balcony. The kid screams as he goes, and the father rushes forward, charging the Low. There’s a sickly crunch, a blade going through flesh—through bone—and then the father stops crying. I see him fall forward, his face smacking the gantry floor, his eyes already empty. That just leaves the other boy, and he screams in one terrifyingly loud burst before falling suddenly silent. I can’t see what happens to him, and I don’t go any closer. They’re done.
I was too slow.
I shut my eyes for a second and try to calm down, holding my breath until my heart stops hammering, and when I open my eyes I’m calm. I climb back up to the fiftieth floor and I’m in my berth, on my bunk, listening. Usually you can hear your neighbors moving, talking, having sex. But now no one is making a sound, and the ship’s engines, the sounds that are all there always, they fade into the background, fade away completely.
The silence that’s left is so deep, it’s overwhelming.
It’s morning. Agatha listens to me talk about what happened and doesn’t say a word. She isn’t one for interrupting. When I’m finished telling her about the family I didn’t manage tosave, she sits down on the grass. In her hands there’s a basket of berries. We’ve been picking them together. I don’t like picking berries—it’s time-consuming, and there’s no peace, swarms of people around the bushes—but I wanted to speak with her. From the minute I woke up this morning—and I’m amazed that I managed to get back to sleep after what happened—I didn’t want to be alone. She scoops a handful of the berries out and examines them for damage, finding an overripe one and popping it into her mouth. She hands another to me.
“They were gone when you went to sleep?”
“The Lows?” Stupid question, I think, as the words leave my mouth. That’s another thing she hates. Of course that’s what she meant. “They were gone, yes. No sign of them.”
“Had they taken
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