Page 1 of Bound by Stars
Weslie
Twelve minutes to departure
I push my legs to move faster against the burn of acid in my muscles, past another wall of posters.
They’ve been plastered all over the city for weeks.
Unmatched luxury. Indestructible design.
Unparalleled speed. The fastest ship in the universe!
The ship I’m going to miss. I sprint harder, my duffel bag bouncing against my hip.
“Protocol requires that you notify your guardian before leaving the planet. Send notification now?” ILSA restates the question I didn’t answer the other five times since we snuck out of the house.
If she weren’t the whole reason I had won the ticket, I would leave the insistent bot on Earth.
“I’m seventeen. Old enough to travel alone. I’ll send a message from the ship,” I say more to myself than her. If I let Mom know I’m leaving, she’ll try to keep me here again. She lost the right to a goodbye when she hid my notification letter.
This experience could change my life—both of our lives—and she was just going to throw it away without giving me a choice. What the hell else has she kept from me?
Her words repeat in my head again. I know you don’t understand, but it’s too big a risk, Wesi.
When I round the last building, the transport station comes into view. Draped above the arched entrance, a banner flaps in the wind. The Boundless : First voyage to Mars departing April 10, 2212 . Today. Now.
I’m almost there. Don’t leave without me.
“Protocol requires that you notify your guar—”
“ILSA! Transport status!” I’d put her in silent mode if she weren’t the only one who could access the station updates. I push my legs to move faster.
“Still boarding. Protocol requires that you notify your guardian before leaving the planet. Send notification now?”
“No!” Inside the station gates, I desperately search for where to go. A huge sign above the far end of the platform reads Earther Boarding. The line is short. The last two people are about to scan their tickets.
I take off again, too focused on where I’m going to notice before I slam into a passing shoulder. Papers fly and a thick book smacks the ground, encircled in a cloud of dust.
My knees hit the dirt. I scramble to collect the loose pages. My attention shifts frantically back and forth between the ground and the platform.
The porter crosses his arms, waiting as the second-to-last person in line searches their bag.
I snatch up another paper. A hand-drawn map of the city and the trees that obscure my house. I think maybe the artist included the pitch of our roof.
Someone grabs hold of the edge of the drawing. “Do you mind? You’re crinkling them.”
I look up, following a slender arm to wide shoulders, a long neck, and dark eyes, inches away. Deep brown with bursts of gold in the center surrounded by long, pale lashes. The sack slung from his body is all Earther, but his clothes scream Elysian. I’m lucky he’s not having me detained.
“Last call for Earther boarding!” The porter is roping off the entrance.
My gaze flicks down to the mess around me, pages dusted with copper slowly shifting away in the breeze, then back to the entrance.
The porter turns away, climbing the steps.
I shove the pages toward the long-limbed boy. “I’m really sorry.” I release them before he has a grip and run without looking back to see them fall to the ground again. “Wait!”
The porter pauses and squints at us from midway up the steps.
ILSA keeps pace with me. “Protocol requires—”
“Relax, ILSA!”
“Yes, Weslie.”
The sound of her powering down stops me in my tracks. “You have to be kidding me!”
I race back, manually switching her on and waiting the four painful seconds it takes for her to reboot. Mental note: make important commands less casual.
The porter slides one of the massive doors closed and then ambles across the platform to the other, glaring at me pointedly. He’s taking his time, but he’s not going to wait.
“If I miss the last flight to the ship, I’m going to dismantle you,” I say under my breath right before she comes to life again. “Platform. Maximum speed, ILSA.”
She zooms to the base of the stairs, and I sprint after her, blinded by the dust cloud trailing her.
The porter smirks. “You have a ticket?”
I flash him the solid black tab with the ship’s name in elegant script I’d found folded into my notification letter. Hot rage expands in my chest, but I push it down.
He walks back down to let me in and then nods to the half-open door. “Hurry to the scanning bays.”
ILSA and I are split up. I’m ushered into a pod that conducts a full-body scan, checking for weapons and signs of disease. The space is tight. The air feels thin. I clamp my eyes shut and follow the prompts, counting my breaths. The doors slide open, and relief washes over me.
Exiting through a wind tunnel that fluffs my hair and nearly takes my sweater off, I look back at the intrusive machine. Anger turns to shame when I realize it’s clearing the dust.
“Step into the next chamber, please.” Another porter, short and stocky, leads me on with a hand at my back.
I suck air into the depths of my lungs before I’m pushed through the next set of doors.
“ Hello, Boundless traveler .” An overly cheery robotic voice fills the small space, coming from every direction. Two bright blue footprints glow in the center of the floor. Instructed by the robotic voice, I line up my feet and stretch my arms wide. The walls slowly move in around me.
No, it’s just in my head.
“ Please line your hand up with the outline to your right and insert your ticket to complete identification profile .”
Chest heaving with shallow breaths, I comply.
Two quick tones, one high, one low, and the doors part in front of me. My ticket is released.
“ You are ready to board your expedition to Mars. Thank you for traveling with White Star Line. Please continu —”
“On the transport or we’re leaving without you,” an attendant in a gray jumpsuit calls over the roar of engines, glaring at me from the open door of the capsule where all the other passengers are strapped into their seats.
We hurry inside. ILSA immediately parks next to the luggage rack, settling low and engaging her magnetic stabilizer for the ride, and I claim one of the four remaining seats and buckle in.
The doors slide closed. A layer of sweat sheens my face. My pulse races. It’s too small. No windows. The doors seal. Airtight. What if we run out of oxygen? Don’t think about it. Breathe.
“Weslie,” ILSA announces loudly from the end of the aisle.
Half the passengers turn their heads toward her.
“Your heart rate has increased exponentially. Elevated heart rate can be brought on by exertion, fear, stress—”
“Silent mode, ILSA!” I call out, squeezing my eyes closed against the inevitable stares.
Someone tugs on my straps, and my eyes fly open.
The attendant twists her lips and raises her eyebrows like she’s silently telling me it’ll get scarier before this is over.
The fear must be written across my face. I’ve never left the ground, let alone Earth.
When she’s pulled on every set of restraints, the attendant takes her seat in the small cabin at the front, next to the pilot. “Preparing for departure.”
The engine noise grows louder and stronger, vibrating my bones.
Across from me, a man pinches his eyes shut, mouthing something that looks like a prayer. His lips move faster and faster like he’s trying to get out as many words as he can before he dies, while the woman to his left is slumped in her restraints, already peacefully asleep.
You’re more likely to die in a factory accident than a departure.
All the facts stored in my brain can’t stop my hands from shaking or my heart from pounding against my rib cage. I grip the straps at my chest and squeeze my eyes shut.
The aircraft lifts, leaving my stomach on solid ground. Noise presses against my ears, like hands clamping tighter and tighter around my head. The whir of the engines shifts into higher pitches. Taking off one by one. Our transport lurches forward. Accelerating. Up, up, up.
My stomach drops again, pinned to the bottom of the aircraft, as we hurl faster and faster through the air.
It feels too uncontrolled. Like we won’t stop until we crash into another ship and plummet back down to Earth.
But then we slow all at once. The sensation is gentle, like being softly lobbed into the air in slow motion. I open my eyes.
Across the pod, the sleeping woman’s limbs float weightlessly around her.
We’re outside of the atmosphere.
The clank of metal on metal sends my heart into my throat, and my nails dig into my armrests. The attendant, strapped to her seat, wears a placid expression. Everything is normal. Everything is fine.
As we wait, my mind shifts through images from the space travel documentaries they showed us in school, trying to piece together what could be on the other side of the door. Boxy gray halls, low ceilings, ladders, and small round windows in each cell.
The pilot and attendant are silent. The other passengers don’t speak. We wait.
The sleeping woman’s limbs settle.
I feel solid. Grounded by artificial gravity. But my insides flutter like I’m still floating.
All our restraints automatically release, and the door opens.
A slight man in a navy-blue cap and matching vest steps through, flashing a toothy grin. “Good evening, folks. Welcome aboard the Boundless. ”