A Stranger Thing (The Ever-Expanding Universe) (5 page)

“Elvie . . . ,” he says, trailing off. I take a step forward and dip down slightly so that I can look him in the eye.

“It’s okay, Cole,” I say. “It’s not your fault. I’m just glad you’re all right. That we’re all together.”

“I can see your nipple,” he replies.

•  •  •

A space elevator, for the record, is just like a regular elevator, except that—similar to those of the Willy Wonka variety—this one’s not stuck inside a building. According to Dad, our resident expert on such matters, the elevator component moves down on a long loop of reinforced cable, harnessing the Earth’s own gravitational pull to generate the power it needs to lift us back up, up, up into space to a satellite station, which will then navigate the orbit around the planet down to Antarctica, where we will take the elevator back down and transfer to the high-speed mag rail on the other end.

Out the window to our right swoops the elevator car, speeding along like, well, a speeding train. We all watch, silent (except for the occasional wail from Olivia and the occasional nauseous burp from Ducky), as the train’s and the elevator’s speeds begin to match up. And then, suddenly, this crazy speeding bullet from outer space has actually
docked
with our car. That’s when Alan ushers us over into the elevator. Honestly, I want it to feel like a more momentous experience—this moving from our past world to the futuristic spacecraft that will shuttle us to our doom—but the ride is (yes, Dad) so smooth that I’ll be damned if it doesn’t feel just like walking from business class to the snack car.

Once we’re all aboard, the door
whooshes
shut and the elevator detaches from the train. Suddenly we’re shooting up into the sky, using the built-up kinetic energy from the trip down.

“So,” Dad explains, “from here we’ll deboard at the satellite station, which will take us counterclockwise around the Earth on about a twelve-hour”—Dad looks to Alan for confirmation, who merely grunts—“yes, about a twelve-hour journey, until we’re above Cape Crozier. Then we’ll dock with
another
mag-rail train, and we’re home free.” I frown. “Or, er,” my dad corrects, “in prison.”

“It sure is a long way down,” Ducky says, looking out the window the way a condemned prisoner might look at the guillotine.

“It is at that, Donald,” Dad says. “But you shouldn’t worry. These cable cars hardly ever fail.”

“
Hardly
ever?” Ducky asks. His face is changing colors faster than a chameleon on a speed bender.

“These cables are very sturdy,” Dad replies, “and most of the electricity on board is generated by the motion along it. So malfunctions and explosions are rare.”

“Explosions?”
Ducky is a quivering ball of lunchroom-quality mac ’n’ cheez.

“You’re getting scared out of proportion with the risk,” Dad says, frustrated by Ducky’s seeming lack of pragmatism. “It’s not as if we’re going to need to jump out the window or anything. Besides, there are evacuation procedures. I can go over them with you if you’d like.” Dad points to one of the walls, which has a bright red panel with the word
EMERGENCY
in big block letters. Underneath the panel is a lever. “That
would be where you’ll find all the equipment you would need for a safe evacuation.”

“What’s in it?” Ducky asks, hardly sounding reassured.

“Well, some sort of parachute device, I would imagine,” Dad muses. “I don’t know how they grade for high altitudes. Perhaps something that could survive atmospheric reentry? I’ve read about some metallic mesh fabrics that NASA has been working with . . .”

“We could always just fly down on capes,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

Ducky gives me a long cold stare. “Elvie, that’s not even a little funny,” he tells me.

When Ducky and I had just graduated from fourth grade, Dad planned a day trip with us where he
said
he was taking us to the amusement park on the boardwalk down the shore. Instead (and really, in retrospect, this should have come as no surprise), Dad had signed us all up for a daylong training seminar on emergency evacuation scenarios. The only “event” that Dad could convince Ducky to participate in—and again, I stress that we were both
nine
—was the building jump, and that was only because they used gliding capes, which Dad managed to convince Ducky would make him look like a superhero. The capes, which made us all look like flying squirrels more than anything, were, in theory, meant to help an evacuee of a troubled high-rise ride the wind currents safely all the way down to the ground. The capes used sensors imbedded in the nylon fabric to automatically adjust tensile strength, creating the appropriate lift and drag as you “flew,” so they were supposed to be foolproof. They did not, it turned out,
end up being Ducky-proof. Poor old Duck managed to flail around for a few seconds before sailing right past the safety net and dropping like a stone to the concrete below, breaking his ulna in the process. After that the seminar center instituted a minimum age limit to participate, and Ducky’s folks didn’t let Dad plan any more trips until we were in high school.

“Don’t worry, Donald,” my Dad reassures Ducky. “I doubt you’d survive using a gliding cape from this high up.”

Dad sure knows how to make a guy feel better.

We make it to the satellite station without any mishaps or adventures, besides some world-class ralphing by Ducky, who finally can’t contain it any longer. No one seems to have much to say, shockingly enough. Even baby Olivia has cried herself back to sleep. I stare out the window at the blackness and the stars. I can see the Earth, kilometers below. A blue-green orb. And even though I’ve seen almost this exact same view so many times before, when I was circling the planet on the
Echidna
, this time it feels a lot different. Like, even though I’m about to go right back down, in another very real way, I’ve left the planet forever.

Antarctica. The Bottom of the Earth. They might as well cut this elevator cable and send us all floating out into the void.

All that’s left is to settle in for our half-day orbit toward the South Pole. And Ducky, apparently, has decided to use the entire twelve hours to puke on stuff.

“Ducky, these were my best sneaks,” I say, stepping out of the vomit that he just deposited at my feet.

“Sorry,” Ducky whimpers, wiping his mouth. His hands
are trembling, and he’s turned an even whiter shade of pale, if that’s possible. Guess he puked all the green out of his face. He really does look pathetic, crouched on the floor. “I’ll get you some new ones.”

“You reckoning on there being a Foot Locker in Antarctica?” I say.

Ducky lets out a low moan. I take a few steps back, just in case, but reach out my baby-free arm and rub his back in little circles. Cole keeps actively looking in any direction other than Ducky’s. Seems like my Almiri baby-daddy has a pretty loose gag reflex.

“I think your motion sickness may be psychosomatic, Donald,” Dad says, in what I can only assume is an attempt to be helpful. “After all, these transports are incredibly smooth. There should be no distress put on the inner ear, even one as sensitive as yours.”

“Maybe I should find a . . . ,” Ducky begins, before pausing to retch on my left foot—completing the matching set. “. . . good hypnotist while we’re in Antarctica,” he finishes. “But I’d bet that it’s more the rocketing through the atmosphere than my mind that’s doing it, Mr. Nara.”

“There are no rockets on the
Fountain
, Donald,” Dad replies, missing the point as only a science nerd can. “That’s the most spectacular thing about it. We’ve harnessed the power of the Earth’s gravitational pull to create near-perpetual motion without the use of conventional rockets or fuel. The theory is revolutionary, really.”

Ducky’s rebuttal splatters all over the floor, which at least temporarily quiets Dad. Even Alan and the other guards have
moved away from us in disgust. I look over at them with a contemptuous glare.

“Could you, like, get us a towel or something?” I ask. Alan, the tension almost visibly building in his neck muscles, doesn’t bother to respond to me, but motions to his buddies, who wander off down the corridor with him.

I leave Dad to tend to Ducky and walk over to the window with Olivia. The last thing I want is for this madhouse puke-fest to wake her from the first real nap she’s decided to take all day. “Don’t worry,” I whisper into her ear as I lean up against the window. The glass is cool, comforting. “I’ll find you something to eat soon, I promise.” She nestles her little mini-melon head farther into the crook of my neck, and I rub the ridges on the back of her head with my thumb, studying her perfect microscopic features.

Maybe I really could get used to this whole mom thing.

It’s funny, I think, because last time I was on a spaceship, I spent as much time as I could up on the observation deck staring at the view of the Earth, mesmerized by the hugeness of it all. Now that seems to pale in comparison to the teeny human being curled up on my shoulder.

Olivia has hair already, dark brown like mine, and fine as feathers. It’s short and straight, but you can already tell the girl will be sporting a cowlick when she gets older, right at the crown. She has big eyes—blue-green like her daddy at the moment, although who knows if they’ll change. Her eyelashes are perfect, like a porcelain doll’s, and her bitty nose isn’t too stubby and isn’t too pointy. She’s got my thick eyebrows, with the sharp arch, and the distinct Nara chin. Her fingers—one,
two, three, ten of them—are perhaps the cutest things in existence. You wouldn’t think they’d be able to fit all the right pieces into such a tiny package—knuckles and knees and earlobes and wrists—but there they all are.

The most curious thing about her, though, is her left cheek, where the “starkiss” has now vanished completely. I rub my thumb over the spot gently. Smooth skin, soft peach fuzz. No freckles.

“May I?” comes a voice from behind me. I turn, and there’s Cole. He shrugs dopily at me and holds out his arms, his hands still bound in front of him.

I smile. “Of course,” I tell him. “Just don’t poke her with those cuffs.”

“Look at those fingernails,” he whispers as he takes Olivia gently into his arms. He’s staring down at her in awe. And maybe it’s cheese-tastic, but watching the two of them—my baby and her daddy, together in front of me—I feel a bit like the Grinch after he figured out the true meaning of Christmas. Yep, definitely some elephantiasis of the heart happening in my chest right now. “Everything about her is just
so small
,” Cole goes on. “She’s like a . . .” He searches for the right word.

“Marvel of engineering?” I tease, and Cole laughs. “Not the Almiri bundle of joy you expected, is she?” I say, peering over his shoulder at our little girl.

“Nope,” he says. And he turns to grin at me. That dopey Cole Archer grin. “She’s better, Elvs. She’s
ours
.”

“You cornball,” I reply, but I’m tearing up, so I turn away toward the window.

We stand there for a moment, just the three of us. And it’s
nice, actually, staring at the Earth below. I catch a reflection in the window—Ducky, with my Dad standing over him, patting him on the back. Ducky’s looking at me, his expression making it clear that he is absolutely wrecked. I guess bringing up half your body weight in vomit has that effect on a person. But when our eyes lock for a split second in the window—when he sees I’ve caught him watching me and Cole—his gaze darts away quickly, leaving me with a confusing twinge in my chest.

“You know, I half expected to see Britta here,” I say to Cole, by way of refocusing my brain.

Cole doesn’t look up from gazing at his daughter, but the look on his face is one that might be described as “befuddled.” “Britta?” he says, all . . . well, befuddled. “Why would she be here?”

I shrug. “I could have sworn I saw her back at Almiri Headquarters, in one of those holding areas, like where they put me.”

Cole shakes his head at that. “Must’ve been someone else,” he replies. “They sent Britta home, like, a week before this little chica was born.”

“They sent her home?” I ask, totally not convinced. “Just like that?”

“That’s what they told me,” Cole replies. “They didn’t let me see her . . . or she didn’t want to see me. I dunno.”

For no rational reason, my neck goes stiff. “You tried to see her?”

“Well, yeah,” Cole says sheepishly. “I just . . . I guess I just wanted to see how she was. It’s probably good that I didn’t talk to her.” He shifts his grip on Olivia, making sure his cuffs don’t
rub her exposed skin. “I’d just make things ten times worse, like a total dumbass.”

“That’s true,” I agree, and already I feel the muscles in my neck relaxing. “You are a dumbass.”

That came out slightly less supportive than I meant it to.

“Anyway,” Cole says, rocking our baby slowly. “They told me they terminated the pregnancy. So that’s one less Jin’Kai invader to worry about, I suppose.”

My stomach does a little nauseous flip-flop, knowing just how close I came to being in Britta’s shoes. While I get to stand here, watching Cole and Olivia bond father-daughter style right before me,
her
mini-Cole was swapped out by the Jin’Kai for one of their genetically manipulated fetuses/parasites. I wonder just how much it must weigh on Cole, the fact that his unborn child with Britta was a casualty of this weird breeding turf war. And I wonder what it must be like for Britta, to have had not one but two different alien things growing inside you, and then, suddenly, not.

I lean a little closer into Cole and press my thumb into Olivia’s palm, her warm, tight grip helping to push the thoughts from my mind. ’Cause, let’s face it, I have a lot more to worry about right now than whether or not I’ll have to share a bunk in Antarctica with my high school arch-nemesis.

“What’s going to happen to us down there, Cole?” I ask softly. I wish the view out the window really was the one from the observation deck on the
Echidna
. If only I had bitchy Britta McVicker to be worried about, instead of this helpless infant. “How are we going to get out of this mess? I don’t even have the
start
of a plan.”