Page 98 of A Million Suns (Across the Universe 2)

The window on the Bridge is gone.

The metal seam that connected the honeycombed glass is twisted, ripped apart, scraggly at the ends like the paintings from Sol-Earth of creepy dead trees in winter. The vacuum of space is sucking the air out of the Bridge and the Engine room so violently that we’re all caught up in its maelstrom, the chairs, desks, tables, tools—and people.

Shelby’s crew is hit the worst—some have caught onto the control tables or the bolted-down chairs, but I don’t see everyone. I do see blood and bone and organs at the front, near the hole—whatever blew apart the Bridge’s window also blew apart the people sitting closest.

A Shipper—Prestyn—tries to stand but stumbles, lunges, and flies through the doors. His body catches on the metal fingers of the broken seams, ripping through him. Great globs of blood float off him in crimson spheres.

I slam into the wall by the Bridge’s doors so hard my bones rattle, but the wall stops me from also flying out the window. I stand, pressing against the back wall for support, trying to breathe through the rushing wind. It won’t take long—minutes maybe—for the vacuum of space to suck out all the air from both rooms.

Clutching the metal supports on the wall, I twist my head around to peer inside the Bridge.

It’s too late—the gaping maw that was once the window has destroyed the Bridge. Shelby clings to a chair that’s bolted to the floor. Her hair is plastered back, and her eyes are red and streaming.

“Don’t!” she screams. “Don’t!”

She means the button. This one, here, by my hand.

The one that would seal the Bridge doors.

The one that would protect us from space—but leave her in it.

She’s reaching for me with one hand, straining, but she’s too far away, she’s just barely too far away, and I’ll never be able to get to her, it’s too late. Too late.

“No, no, no, no, no,” she pleads.

She reaches toward me. Her fingers are almost within reach. If I reached out—maybe I could pull her to safety before I seal the doors shut?

But I can’t take that chance. I can’t risk the whole ship to save one person.

“No,” she whispers.

But I push the button anyway.

The Bridge doors swing shut.

The violent winds die.

It takes a moment before everyone left can stagger back up. Some are bleeding—a few broken bones, a dislocated shoulder, a limp—from the debris that crashed into them. More than their physical injuries, though, is the horror that twists each face, a hollowed-out shocked expression that I doubt will ever fully fade.

It is silent here, but nowhere near as silent as the other side of the door.

58

AMY

I HAVE NEVER RUN SO HARD OR SO FAST AS WHEN I RACED from the Hospital to the grav tube. Still, I knew I would be too late.

And I was.

When I finally got to the Engine Room, I could hear the explosion from behind the door.

And the screams.

Now, the Shipper Level—already packed from the events of the day—falls into a sort of hushed horror. People crowd around me in the Energy Room. The door to the Engine Room dents inward, like a monster is trying to claw it out, but the steel reinforcements hold. We fall back against the far wall anyway, and some people race out of the Energy Room, heading for cover, as if they think Godspeed will continue to protect them even as it’s being ripped apart.

We all stare at the door, but it gives us no answers.

Red lights fade in and out along the edges of the floor and ceiling. The ship’s computer announces, “Breached hull: Bridge,” in a pleasant, cheerful sort of voice.