Nor did she ever have her hair down, not out in the corridor at least, not where everyone could see it. Once, Victor had seen it down when he had gone to her family's quarters and found the door ajar. Janda's mother was inside the room braiding Janda's hair. It had surprised Victor to see how long and full it was. He had left immediately before anyone had noticed him, feeling awkward, as if he had witnessed something no boy should ever see.
Yet now, seeing her here, he had no such feelings. This was how her hair and dress should be, how he was meant to see her.
Janda smiled to him, and Victor felt such instant relief. He had worried that the scout ship had done something to her, harmed her somehow, yet here she was. He had so many questions. What was the scout ship? Had she made any friends among the Italians? Had she spotted any potential suitors whom she might one day consider taking as a husband? It lifted his heart to consider that last question without feeling a pang of guilt or loss. It meant he was moving on, that Janda was still t
he friend he had always taken her to be and not someone he had fallen in love with. It meant they could see one another and not be clouded with awkwardness and shame.
She beckoned him to follow her, then turned her body and pushed off with her bare feet. They moved through the ship. The halls were empty. Neither of them spoke. They didn't need to. Not yet. They were with each other, and for now that was enough. She looked back and smiled often, seeing him there behind her, still following her.
The airlock was open. The bay doors were open. They went through both of them. There were stars everywhere, silent and small. They faced one another. A star behind Janda moved, sliding across the sky to her, as if attracted to her, as if it were hers and she were calling it home. It reached her and disappeared, winking out. Then other stars came, slowly at first and then all at once, sweeping to her. Janda seemed not to notice. Her eyes were on Victor, her smile still strong.
His hands were in her hair. Her hand was around his waist, drawing him. Her lips were warm.
A hand shook Victor awake. He was in his hammock. Father looked down at him. "The scout ship has gone."
Victor was out of his hammock instantly. He and Father went directly to the helm. Toron was moving his stylus through the holospace above the table, drawing a line across the system chart. "It left ten hours ago," Toron was saying. "We didn't know it because the Eye is only giving us muddy data now."
"Why?" asked Concepcion.
Toron shrugged. "We may be hitting some dust. I don't know. It's not clean data around the site, that's all we know. As for the pod, it's now heading in this direction, away from us, which is good."
"Pod?" Victor asked.
"That's what Edimar and I are calling the scout ship now," said Toron. "It's not shaped like anything we've seen before. It's very smooth, very aerodynamic."
"Any word from the Italians?" asked Father.
"Still nothing," said Selmo. "Radio is silent."
There were a lot of reasons why the data from the Eye might be "muddy" or unclear--any obstruction in space, however small, could throw off the data. But all of the reasons that Victor could think of, all of the reasons that Toron no doubt had already considered, seemed unlikely save one. There wasn't dust between El Cavador and the Italians' position. There was dust at the Italians' position. Where there had been four solid ships, there was now something else, something harder for the Eye to interpret. Smaller, more random pieces that didn't coincide with any ship design within the Eye's database. Moving dust, spinning scraps, unrecognizable clumps of steel. Victor refused to believe it. It was too dark a possibility. The Italians were fine. Janda was fine. El Cavador was a piece of junk. Why should they put any faith in the Eye? It was just another part on a ship of broken parts and barely-held-together machines. Muddy data meant nothing.
They flew for eight more hours, but by the time they reached the site Victor knew what they would find. The wreckage from the four ships was a scattered trail of scorched debris at least five kilometers wide.
CHAPTER 10
Wreckage
Victor flew down to the lockers in the cargo bay, moving fast. He landed, threw open his locker, grabbed his pressure suit, and quickly began putting it on. There were miners all around him doing the same, stepping into suits, grabbing rescue equipment: winch hooks, coiled cable, medical pouches, hydraulic spreaders, and shears. Victor's mind was racing. The Italians were dead. The pod had attacked, and the Italians were dead. Janda. No, he wouldn't think it. He wouldn't even consider the idea. She wasn't dead. They were putting together a search party. They would look for survivors. There were big pieces of wreckage out there. Some would have people inside them. Janda would be one of them. Shaken perhaps, frightened even, an emotional wreck, but alive.
How long ago had the pod left? Eighteen hours? That was too long to go without fresh oxygen. If there were survivors, they would have to have masks, with plenty of spare canisters of oxygen. Most canisters held up to forty-five minutes of air, but maybe the Italians had canisters that held more. It was possible. Plus there would be air in whatever room the survivors had sealed themselves up in. And that's what survivors would do. They'd seal themselves off in a room somewhere that hadn't been breached and wait for rescue. The Italians were smart. Surely they had rehearsed for emergencies like this. Surely they had emergency gear throughout the ship. They would be prepared. They would have a stockpile of canisters and masks. Both for adults and for children.
But air wasn't the only problem, Victor told himself. They would need heat as well. Without battery heaters or warmer blocks or some other emergency heat source to keep out the cold, survivors would freeze to death. It wouldn't take long. The cold this far out was relentless. It made Victor nervous. That was too many variables. If the survivors had sealed themselves off, and if there were no breaches, and if they had masks and canisters to spare, and if they had a heat source, then maybe they had a shot.
The locker beside Victor opened abruptly, startling him. It was Father, who grabbed his own pressure suit and hurriedly climbed into it.
"What are someone's chances after eighteen hours?" asked Victor. "Seriously."
"This could have happened more than eighteen hours ago," said Father. "The pod was here for twelve hours. It might have attacked when it got here instead of immediately before it left. In which case we're thirty hours in, not eighteen."
Victor had considered this, but he said nothing. Thirty hours was too long. That drastically reduced the likelihood of them finding anyone alive, and he wasn't going to accept that as a possibility. Besides, it didn't seem likely anyway. Why would the pod stay after it attacked? To scan for life? To make certain the job was done? No, it seemed more plausible that it had tried to communicate or observe or scan. And when those efforts had ended or failed, it had attacked and run.
Father closed his locker and faced Victor. "You sure you're up for this, Vico?"
Victor understood what he was asking. There would be bodies. Death. Women. Children. It would be awful.
"You've never seen something like this," said Father. "And I would rather you never did. It's worse than you can imagine."
"I can help you, Father. In ways none of these miners can."