As we come around the stern to the starboard
side, we can see the wreckage mentioned in the file—a huge, gaping
hole torn into the hull, cabling like sutures dangling from the
open wound. The rooms beyond are gray, dead, empty. Fifteen people
were killed when this happened, twenty years ago. I wonder if they
were sleeping in these rooms at the time, or if this was part of
the working area of the ship, not living quarters. And what
about the others?my mind whispers. The forty-some people
who started out on this ship and aren’t among the living now? What
happened to them?
Dylan glides past the damage, coming back to
the landing strip, and now I can see it, a patch of cleared land
where the clay is packed down in a long, narrow run. “There,” I
tell him, and he nods, eases the craft down. It shakes around us,
reluctant, and for a moment I think we’re not going to be able to
hold the position, the skids slip in the clay and we’re going to