EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, I VENTURE out to one of the communal bathrooms, and I hear the patter of rain from dozens of meters overhead.
I look up out of habit. My eyes take a moment to adjust. The sky is so dark, I shouldn't be able to see a thing of the rain I'm hearing.
My mouth goes dry.
It's not rain. It's debris.
Slowly, my eyes adjust to the contrast of the dark outside and the light inside, and I see—I see pebbles and rocks and drops of mud hailing down on top of the dome. Some pieces are the size of my fist; some are too small to see from this distance except as movement. Mud streaks down the glass. Stones bounce and rattle and slide off harmlessly. A handful glow red. They approach so fast, it's hard to keep track of any individual one, but my eyes try automatically. It gives me an instant headache.
I cast my gaze downward. A few meters ahead is the vine-entwined balcony rail. Treetops poke out just beyond.
Just like that, it's like I'm hearing rain again. Fat drops splashing against my bedroom window.
I use the toilet, then stand indecisively at the sink. I'd like to wash my hands. Hell, I'd like to wash my face. I should've asked Captain Van Zand those questions. I settle for washing my hands—briefly, like someone'll storm in and kick me out if the tap runs for too long—and return to our cabin before I change my mind. Since I can't shower afterward, I skip the morning squats and push-ups that have become part of my schedule since I left the Way Station—the end of the world is no place for weakness—and try not to think of how wrecked my hair will get without showers in the long run. It shouldn't matter at a time like this, anyway. I spoon up half a can of mushroom ragout as breakfast, then slip out, leaving Mom asleep.
I scan the walkways curving inside the dome. Doors, hallways, the occasional staircase to other balconies. A couple of people are already out and about. A cane tap-tap-taps on the floor. Voices murmur. Mostly in Dutch, but a handful speak English, with accents ranging from Finnish to Bulgarian to Arabic. The Nassau must have taken on comet refugees.
As I approach the nearest person—a boy not much older than I am, stepping out of a bathroom—I keep my eyes straight ahead. I don't react to the sound of rain.
"Are you going to the dining hall?" I ask.
The boy muffles a yawn. He has reddish-blond hair, glowing pale skin. A loose long-sleeved shirt with some programming joke on it makes him look like he stepped right out of a secondary school classroom. He looks big—broad build, square torso—but I can't tell if it's from muscle or fat.
He studies me with bleary eyes. Does he realize I'm new? I have no idea how long people have been on the ship together. "Yeah," he finally says. "Why?"
"I don't know where the dining hall is. Any of them. Can I follow you?"
He stares, like he doesn't get the question, then nods. It looks more like he's convincing himself than like he's answering me. "Yeah, yeah, of course. I'm"—yawn—"Max. By the way."
I follow Max down two flights of stairs, along a wide hallway, then finally through a doorway with DINING HALL D printed above it. The room is surprisingly cozy—the size of a family restaurant, not the huge American-style cafeteria I was expecting. People sit at round tables, and leafy plants in pots are scattered throughout. On one side of the room stands a long counter with basic breakfast foods: sliced bread, jams, sugared sprinkles, cereals, packs of soy milk.
I don't linger. We drink our own water, we eat our own food. Besides, I'm already busy studying the room's occupants—a sea of white faces, with a single darker family near the buffet table, and a bald brown-skinned head that I see mostly from the back but which still sparks relief. I'm at least not alone on board. I'm about to ask Max about the other halls when I spot Ms. Maasland at a corner table. She's hunched over, working on her tab and talking distractedly to a woman across from her.
I remember to thank Max—who yawns in response—then move awkwardly between the tables. The other woman falls silent. Ms. Maasland still has her eyes on her tab. Approaching her is just as uncomfortable as it was at school. Not that I was the kind who approached teachers often; I was the kind who lingered at the back, last into the classroom and first out, responded with one-word answers, head bowed so my hair hid me from the world.
I'm done with that. I don't need to go back.
"Ms. Maasland?"
"Huh?" She slaps her wrist. The tab projection fizzles out. "Oh. Denise."
I eye the available chair at the tiny table, unsure whether taking it is rude, or whether asking is any better. I settle for standing with my arms by my sides. My middle fingers tap a simultaneous beat against my thighs. I let them. Better this than something big, something they'll notice. "I have to find my sister," I tell Ms. Maasland.
"She's not on board, is she?"
I laugh. "Of course not."
Ms. Maasland watches me with a look I can't figure out. The other woman frowns.
Right. I didn't start this off properly. "I'm sorry. I mean: I have to find my sister. She's been missing for days. I think she's at the shelter in Gorinchem that Mom and I were supposed to be at." Mom. Not "my mother" but "Mom." I sound like I'm six instead of sixteen. "We can't leave yet, can we?"
"Not even close. Haven't you seen what it's like outside?" Ms. Maasland says.
I imagine one of those rocks landing on my head. I see her point. "So the ship is still on lockdown?"
"Absolutely. No one is safe going outside in this."
I make brief eye contact, the way you're supposed to when something is important. It's too much. It just—it makes me cringe. My eyes drift upward to Ms. Maasland's silvery hair almost immediately. It's knotted in a messy bun and hangs in strands over her ears.
"What if we drive out?" I suggest. "We'll have cover that way."
"I've seen your car."
Of course she's seen it. She was inside it just yesterday. I wish I knew her better, so I could figure out the look she's giving me. I'm better at recognizing expressions than people give me credit for—sometimes when we watch TV, Mom still thinks she has to explain when actors make faces—but times like this make me wonder.
"A car like yours wouldn't withstand being hit by one of those stones," Ms. Maasland continues. "Not that it matters. Lockdown means we can't get out without the captain's permission. All the individual door locks are overridden. The only way out is through the emergency shuttles. Look, once it's safe for you and your mother to leave, I'm sure you'll find your sister."
"And when you do," the other woman adds, "you can't tell her about the ship. You know that. Yes?" She tucks a curly black lock behind her ear.
"Yes." I step back. I'm reminded of the captain's words yesterday. "Did you get into trouble for bringing us, Ms. Maasland?"
"I could have. He understood the situation, though," she says. "Call me Els, by the way. I'm not your teacher anymore. Now, Michelle and I really should …"
"One more thing." I'm briefly pleased to be able to call her Els so there's no longer the disparity of Ms. Maasland and Leyla, but I push that aside. I shouldn't have gone on about the lockdown. I'd known what answer to expect. I can't do anything about Iris, not yet, and until I can, I should focus on the opportunity in front of me. "I haven't seen a lot of people here."
"The Nassau is a small ship. We carry six hundred seventeen passengers."
"But it can hold more, right? Anke showed us empty cabins."
Els glances at her tab. Then she sighs. "The short answer is that we're a generation ship." Even after half a year, I recognize her teacher tone. "We have to feed our passengers for generations to come. We need to set up a fully self-sustaining farming system. When we do, we can more comfortably accommodate a larger population. That'll take years. Until then, we rely on a limited amount of supplies."
Her words match what I've read about the ships. I wish I could argue. Three extra mouths! I'd say indignantly, like some character in a movie. What would it matter?
"And we can't even properly set up those farms until we launch on Thursday"—two days from now—"and the vacuum lets us generate power. That's why the captain doesn't want you and your mother eating our supplies," Els explains. "And that's why I can't tell you that you can stay."
"I didn't say I wanted to."
"But you do. Anyone would."
"What did you and Leyla do to be allowed on board?"
"It doesn't matter. We've been on board for weeks—the ship isn't taking new passengers. I'm sorry."
I avoid their gazes. "OK."
I cross the room, shoulders hunched. I suppose I knew it wouldn't be easy. Earth means death. Every single person left on its surface would kill to be allowed on board this ship. It just feels preposterous to walk these halls and imagine myself walking straight out again tomorrow. I ignore the smell of bread as I go, and Els and Michelle resuming their talk, but can't avoid picking up on snippets of other conversations.
"… the size of my skull!"
"Have you been to the lower levels? You can see the asphalt through the windows. Those rocks are leaving craters. The ground looks like damn spiderwebs." The man spreads his hands wide.
"I wonder what my house looks like," someone says.
"Yeah." Spiderweb Guy sounds more subdued now. "I'd like to find mine one last time. To say goodbye, you know? I mean, I'm from Badhoevedorp, so close I could walk home. I just don't know if I could handle it. From the lower levels you can see … Blew down every single pole in sight …"
"I wouldn't want to see my house, either," the other one answers. "We should've been gone long before this happened."
I stop tapping my thighs, curling my hands into fists. I knew what to expect. I've had these images in my head for months. But now it's no longer an image in my head. And it's not just the shaking and the sound of almost-rain.
Tomorrow, I'll see just how real it is.
I spin and march back to Els and Michelle's table.
