Oh, wow.

  The bathroom is something. Jeez, the Captain lived like this while we were curled up in our stupid little bunks and squashing ourselves into hygiene pods for our daily sluice down?

  The room is tiled with some kind of pale, creamy stone, dotted with sparkling specks of natural gems. Who knows what planet they mined this from, but it’s lovely. There’s a sink made of the same stone, with a huge gold-framed mirror over the top, and a shelf filled with expensive soaps and creams. A rack full of fluffy towels. A sleek toilet. A spacious glass shower cubicle, where the water will fall on you like rain. And best of all: an enormous bathtub. There are buttons along the side, to release all kinds of colorful, scented waters and froths.

  It’s beautiful. Immediately, I feel like a grubby little urchin; like I’ll spoil it just by touching anything.

  They say that your first thought is what you were conditioned to think, and what you think next defines who you really are. My next thought is that I deserve a nice bathroom as much as the next person — and I ought to prove it by diving into that bathtub like a swimming pool.

  But that would have to be under entirely different circumstances.

  As it is, I double and triple check that the door is locked, before using the toilet as quickly as I can. It’s a relief to use a real bathroom, after almost two days of peeing in the corners of maintenance crawlways and hoping that none would drip into a vital computer system. What an embarrassing way that would have been to short-circuit the ship again.

  The toilet is the fancy bidet kind — I shriek in surprise and almost fall off the seat when it starts spritzing me from below. At the enormous sink, I wash my hands, and indulge in just one treat: splashing cool water onto my face, to wash days of grit out of my eyes. It will help me stay awake, I tell myself.

  I retreat quickly back to my corner — but I feel restless now. Even the sensation of a full bladder was a useful distraction from my anxiety. Without that, there’s nothing else to think about.

  At any minute, Roth could come back. I fret, picking at my fingers until I tear the skin. I jump at every sound. I can’t stop imagining every horrible possibility — every inch of suffering that might lie ahead of me tonight. My breaths get faster and faster. Will I even be alive by the morning? Will I want to be?

  Just as I’m on the brink of a full-blown panic attack, I look up, out of the window above the Captain’s dining table.

  As soon as Roth’s goons dumped me in this room earlier, I was drawn to the window. It’s the first time I’ve seen outside the ship since I came on board. But I soon discovered that staring into the suffocating vastness of space is a bad idea when you’re trying to stay sane. All that nothingness. How alone we are. A cursed ship on a cursed mission, and truly damned to hell.

  So far, there’s been nothing out there but black, black, black, sprinkled with faraway stars.

  But now, in the distance, I can see something more distinct: a nebula. It looks like a cloud with a bright light at its center, illuminating plumes of hydrogen and cosmic dust. The colors are fantastical: neon pink with a purple halo. My eyes widen as I take it in.

  It doesn’t look that big from here, but a nebula like this may be hundreds of light-years from side to side. Someone else, far away (perhaps on a planet in the Theta Zone, or perhaps standing at a telescope on Earth) might also be looking at it, right this second, and thinking how beautiful it is. It might even have a name.

  And one day, these clouds of matter may gather together to form new stars or planets. I could be witnessing the birth of something.

  I feel like the universe has thrown me a life ring. It’s a connection to a reality outside of the Hades — and it brings my spiraling thoughts back down to the ground. No matter what Roth does when he gets back, there are whole worlds out there where good things are happening.

  Somewhere, somehow, it’s all going to be okay. For somebody, if not for me. And weirdly, that’s enough.

  Thank you, little nebula, I think, before tearing my eyes away.

  Okay. Sitting here panicking clearly isn’t helping me. I need to get up and do something — ideally something that will help me be stronger or more awake when Roth returns.

  To the kitchen, then. That must be behind the remaining mystery door. There’s also the door where we came in, the bathroom, and the one Roth disappeared through to… somewhere? I don’t actually know where he went, but there’s no way I’m following him.

  Like the bathroom, the kitchen is seriously fancy. It’s made of the same glittering stone, and fitted with every gadget and modern convenience. There’s even a walk-in stasis unit, instead of a refrigerator like I’m used to. These units are very rare, and so expensive. I’m shocked to see one, even in the Captain’s quarters.

  Stasis units use the same superluminal technology as the ship’s core, so that time passes reeeally slooowly inside relative to outside. Through the glass door, I can see all sorts of food, still just as fresh as the day it was placed on the shelves: pink grapes with misty skins, nectarines, melons and apples, crusty bread, butter and cheese in porcelain dishes, glass bottles of milk, cured meats wrapped in brown paper, vegetables, and bundles of soft green herbs.

  In the cabinets are the shelf-stable goods which don’t require clever preservation: wine, honey, tea leaves, spices.

  There’s a freezer, too, stocked with pre-plated meals and lots of ice.

  That’s all pretty cool, but it’s not my favorite thing I find. Rummaging under the counters, I see glasses, china, and silverware — including a set of cooking knives.

  Scarcely believing my luck, I pocket a paring knife. It’s small enough to conceal, but wickedly sharp. I wrap the blade in a strip of fabric torn from the bottom of one of my jumpsuit legs, so that I don’t accidentally stab myself when I slip it into my pocket.

  I don’t plan on starting any fights with Roth. I don’t have a death wish. But I would like to know that I can end one, if I have to. I should remember that the faucet in here can instantly dispense water at any temperature, too; a cup of boiling water would make a passable weapon, in a pinch.

  The knife is the second best thing I could have found in here. The very best would have been what I’ve checked every room for: a maintenance hatch.

  There aren’t any. Tried rattling the door, too, but it’s locked tight. No escape for me.

  I might as well eat again, to keep my strength up. I find a few containers of nutrient porridge in the pantry (shoved at the back, like they were never really expected to be used) and rehydrate one with hot water.

  My eyes keep drifting back towards the delicious things in the stasis unit. I should really keep this meal simple, and not touch any of the good stuff. It would be wrong to take any pleasure in my captivity, while my crewmates are suffering down in the cells — wouldn’t it?

  On the other hand, this meal could very well be my last. Anything that I eat, Roth doesn’t get to. Plus, I really am starving — and I never get food like this.

  I don’t just mean on the Hades (although I’ve eaten nothing except that stupid mush since day one), but back home, too. The Cavalier Estate, that is. I’m not calling it home anymore. There, I got to see fresh food like this all the time — more than most people ever do, since I worked in the kitchens and the garden. But I so rarely got to taste any of it.

  Just a mouthful couldn’t hurt.

  I step into the dry air of the stasis unit, and am immediately paralyzed by choice. Should I eat a hunk of bread and cheese? Or cut a slice of melon? It brings back a lot of childhood memories, standing here looking at good food that’s not meant for me, and trying to decide what to steal a bite of.

  In the end, it feels rebellious enough just to pluck one grape from the bunch, and grab a bottle of milk. I pour a glassful of the milk, then take a jar of honey from the cupboard and drizzle a golden spoonful over my hot porridge.

  First, I eat the grape. It’s sweet and crisp. Then I lick the honey from the spoon — and almost moan out loud, it’s so good. Next, I gulp several cold, creamy mouthfuls of milk, closing my eyes as it slips down. Real flavors wash across my tongue for the first time in months.

  “Good?” asks Roth.

  My eyes snap open. I leap around, brandishing the spoon.

  He’s stood behind me, blocking the doorway to the kitchen, watching me eat.

  I’m all ready to leap into my own defense — it’s not even his food! — but the look on his face arrests me. Roth is… smiling. It’s an expression I’ve never seen on him before, and it startles me into silence.

  It strikes me suddenly that under the horns and the marks on his face, Roth doesn’t look all that much older than me. He must be in his late twenties, at most.

  That doesn’t mean he’s not scary, though. He seems even bigger now that we’re enclosed in a small space together. Without thinking about it, I find myself stepping backwards, sucking in a nervous breath when my butt hits the edge of the surface behind me.

  Roth’s smile drops off his face as if it was never there.

  “I am pleased to see you up and exploring,” he says. “Please, eat whatever you want.”

  And then he’s gone, striding back into the bedroom. The kitchen door slides shut behind him.

  …What am I supposed to make of that?

  He really seemed to want me to eat. Is the food spiked?! No, no, we’ve been through that; I’m too weak for him to bother poisoning me.

  Ugh. Alright, screw him. If he’s going to leave me alone in here, then I’m going to eat — because it’s what I want, not because he told me to.

  I take my time finishing my meal, savoring every sip of milk and mouthful of honeyed porridge. When I’m done, I carefully place the dishes into the washer under the counter. It only takes three minutes before they’re clean and dry.

  I still feel so dirty and gross all over… I’d love to climb inside the machine and get the same treatment myself. A nice wash and blow dry. I’d even happily accept dish soap as shampoo right now.

  Eventually, there’s nothing left to fuss over in the kitchen. With a nauseous lurch, I realize that I can’t stay in here forever. I may as well head back out and face him.

  When I enter the bedroom, Roth isn’t there. The bathroom door is closed.

  I press myself back into my safe corner by the table. I look out of the window, trying to see the pink nebula again, but it’s not there anymore. The ship must have traveled too far.

  Now that my stomach is full, my drowsiness comes back with a vengeance. My blood has been bubbling with adrenaline for hours — but the roller coaster can’t keep going up. Eventually it’s got to crash back down. I started today in the crawlways, plotting to break my friends loose. Somewhere around lunchtime, I thought I was going to get beaten to death. And now I’m a prisoner myself, with not one clue what the future holds. That’s pretty fucking exhausting.

  Leaned back against the wall, listening to the faint background hum of the engine, staring at the stars… My eyelids start drooping. I fight to keep them open, but it’s too hard…

  * * *

  I WAKE UP with a start. Roth is in the room now. His back is to me. He must have just showered, because he’s wearing a towel around his waist. His skin is still glistening damp. I’ve seen him undressed before, so this is nothing new. But last time, he wasn’t unsecured, alone in the room with me, and stood beside a bed.

  Dread fills me. Is this what it was all leading up to? I knew there would be something. There was no way he was just going to feed me milk and keep me like a plump little pet.

  “You expect us to share the bed?” I ask shakily. My voice seems too loud in the quiet room.

  Roth turns to face me, and he’s so much bigger than me — such an expanse of solid muscle. He looks down into my eyes, and I want to look away, but I can’t. I’m like a rabbit frozen in the gaze of a predator. I press my back harder against the wall, working hard to keep my face from crumpling in fear.

  This is it, I think. It’s happening now. All day, he’s just been lulling me into a false sense of security: leaving me alone, speaking to me gently, letting me eat. Maybe he just wanted the final moment of revelation to be a cruel shock. Or maybe he wanted me clean and fresh before I came to his bed, and that’s why he gave me a few hours on my own. More fool you, you blue son of a bitch. My crotch is a biohazard right now.

  Roth turns away from me, breaking our eye contact. He resumes laying out some clean clothing on the bed, and speaks without looking at me.

  “No. I will sleep on the floor. You will sleep in the bed.”

  Huh? It takes me a second to recalibrate to what he just said, it’s so unexpected.

  “No,” I say slowly. “I’ll sleep on the floor.” That feels safer. The floor has fewer unwelcome connotations. He would wake me up if he rustled the sheets getting out of bed. He wouldn’t be able to sneak up on me.

  “Very well,” Roth says. Now he’s busy gathering what must be dirty laundry and placing it into the chute in the bottom of the closet. He moves with quiet grace; power in every inch of him, his movements purposeful and controlled. He’s still not looking at me, as if I’m just not that interesting. “We will both sleep on the floor.”

  I frown. “No, that’s not…”

  That’s a waste of the bed. And the whole point of not sharing the bed was to get away from sharing a flat surface with him.

  “You may do what you want,” he says, insufferably calm. “I will be sleeping on the floor.”

  With that, he heads back into the bathroom, holding the clean clothes. After a while, he re-emerges wearing undershorts and a white t-shirt. They’re the same as I’m wearing under my jumpsuit. He wears them better.

  Roth settles down on the floor with a pillow from the bed and a blanket from the couch. For a moment, I wonder why he doesn’t just sleep on that — but then I realize that he’s way too tall. He must have been very uncomfortable in his cell. And the cell before that. Probably for years.

  “Computer, dim the lights to five percent,” Roth says. The automatic lights dim, leaving just enough of a glow for me to see by. He’s rolled over so that his back is to me, and is lying still, as if he’s genuinely trying to get to sleep.

  I’m so tired. I can hardly keep my eyes open. For a moment, I consider the couch, but that seems pointless. If Roth wants to hurt me tonight, he will. Where I lie down isn’t going to be the deciding factor.

  Tiptoeing across the room, I look at Roth’s back, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He doesn’t visibly react, even when I kick off my boots and climb into the bed.

  The sheets smell of him — the same sweet, smoky fragrance that I noticed when I collected his laundry, in another life. He must have slept here last night.

  It’s a good smell. Comforting. I breathe it in slowly.

  No. Wrong. Not good. Very bad! Frowning at my own tired brain, I flip the pillow over to the fresh side.

  “Computer, turn off the lights,” I whisper.

  For the first few hours, I lie tense and alert in the dark, listening hard for any movement — expecting to find him creeping across the room towards me.

  But after a while, I hear the deep, slow breaths of sleep coming from Roth’s corner of the floor. Finally, I give in, and let go — drifting off into long-overdue oblivion.

  15

  Roth

  LAST NIGHT went better than I expected, given the circumstances. When I returned to the rooms, I was glad to find Finch exploring. She even helped herself to some food. She also did not try to murder me in my sleep, which was a pleasant surprise.

  I believe she has taken one of the knives from the kitchen. That is what I would have done, if I were her — and her gait was awkward, as it might be if there were something sharp in her pocket.

  Not that I am concerned about her little knife. In fact, I am glad for her to have it, if it helps her to feel that she is in control.

  Nor do I mind sleeping on the floor. The carpet in these rooms is softer than many of the prison bunks I have slept on in recent years. Warmer and quieter, too. I slept easily — especially knowing that the little bird was warm and fed, and in her bed mere feet away. Absurd though it may be, it does ease the constant pressure in my chest somewhat, knowing that she is there.

  It is peculiar… More than thoughts, I have sensations: tightness over my heart, shivers of awareness when she is nearby, and an ache when she is not. I am convinced that what is happening to me is physiological. It must be of my body, not of my soul.

  Perhaps, when my brothers come, they will be able to explain it. Perhaps they will even be able to make it stop. But for now, indulging the instinct seems to be less distracting than trying to ignore it. At least while I know that she is safe and close, I can focus on what I need to accomplish.

  When Finch first lay down and turned off the lights, I could hear her breaths, still shallow and panicked. But by the time I awoke this morning, she was deeply asleep. She did not stir, even as I readied myself for the day and left the rooms. I tried my best to be silent.

  As I walk into the canteen that has become the heart of the ship, I see that most of the men are already awake. Many are eating. I will break my fast with them.

  I join the queue for rations. Not all the men are creatures of chaos; they have impressed me with the level of order that they have maintained so far. It is true that the worst among them are hogging the crew bunks and forcing lesser men to fetch their food — and do whatever else they wish. Many others, however, seem to have grasped our collective responsibility to keep the ship functioning. They have stepped up to the task.

  My optimistic assessment is interrupted by a hard clap on the shoulder.

  “Roth!” calls a voice behind me. “So good to see you!”

  Turning, I recognize the man. A brute. British. His name is Blacklock, and he claimed a whole four-bed bunk room just for himself on the first night. He is here now to play cards and have his fun, not because he is one of the men who are forced to sleep on the floor of the canteen.

  “Blacklock,” I nod, and turn to face the queue again.

 

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