Page 9 of Bound by Stars

Weslie

Thirty-five days to Mars

ILSA moves to shield me from the towering woman with thick neck muscles barreling around the curve of the escape pod bay.

“Mr. Dall… Oh, my apologies.” She bows her head, observing ILSA before she meets my stare. “Did anyone pass through this way?”

“Nope.” The point of coming to the escape pod bay was the lack of humans.

Her eyes narrow like she suspects I’m lying, but she nods, her face pinched, and continues on, pumping her arms, hands balled into tight fists.

When the sound of her stomping fades, I sit against a narrow window and pull the bread roll out of my pocket.

Unwrapping the cloth napkin, I tear it in half and take a bite.

The crust is tough, and I wish I had some of that gorgeously melty agave butter they served at lunch, but I can live without it if it means avoiding the pretentious circus that is sure to be dinner on the Boundless .

“Unopened video message from Mom. Would you like me to play it?”

The view of my home planet is getting smaller. No longer filling the window, the entire sphere of Earth is visible, pole to pole, the details lost by the distance. I sent Mom a message last night, but I haven’t listened to her responses yet. And they’re piling up.

“Play it,” I instruct ILSA.

Her face screen goes dark and then bright, casting against the gray wall opposite the window a closeup of my mom talking into her comm device.

“Wait, stop!”

The projection disappears and a question mark pops up on ILSA’s dark face screen.

Do I want to listen to anything she has to say after what she did?

I don’t know if I’m ready for her excuses.

I can’t imagine there’s one good enough to try to take this experience away from me and condemn me to a future exactly like hers.

Aren’t parents supposed to want more for their kids?

My face burns and hot, angry tears build in the corners of my eyes, but then I glance at the planet outside the window again, getting farther away by the second.

“Play the message, ILSA.”

“Are you certain? It seems you are having a negative physical reaction to the first still of the video.”

“Play it.” I wipe my face with the sleeve of my sweater.

The projection reappears. The slanted roof of our little house is behind her. She’s sitting next to the garden, her hair as disheveled as when I last saw her. She takes a long breath, running a hand over her forehead, brushing back the wisps at her temple.

“We…eh, eh, eh…” The video glitches into a collection of still pictures of my mom’s tired eyes lifting to meet the camera. “I can’t believe you just…”

I think it’s cutting out again, but she drops her head, pausing and holding her face in her hand. My heart sinks. I hate that I made her feel like this, but it’ll make more sense after I get us a permanent place on Mars. She’ll forgive me then.

“I’m so…” She rubs a hand over her mouth, staring off to the side like she’s searching for words somewhere in our overgrown vegetable patch.

“Look, you’re up there. I can’t demand you come back.

And since you forced my hand, I’ll have to…

” The video goes hazy, then shifts into abstract blocks of colors.

When it clears, her mouth is moving, but there’s no audio.

I bump ILSA with my palm.

“…and he…” Static. “…on Ma-a-a-rs.” The glitch turns her words into a series of indecipherable tones.

I smack ILSA again and the video pauses. “Is that it?”

“The video message seems to be damaged,” ILSA states, the image on the wall disappearing and her face screen going neutral. “Would you like to view the remaining video in this state or are you going to continue to resort to violence?”

“You don’t have pain receptors, ILSA. Stop being dramatic.”

Her face stays blank.

I lift my hands in surrender. “Play the rest of the message, please.”

The video stalls through another series of images of my mom in various stages of speaking, but the only sound is an occasional sharp tone. Then it comes together again. “Please be careful, Wes.”

“End of message,” ILSA announces.

My repairs to her message processor must have damaged her video storage. The errors on this bot never end. At least I have thirty-five more days of travel time to figure it all out. She has to be perfect by the time I present her to the panel on Mars.

Thud, thud, thud . A muffled rhythm comes from down the hall.

I creep along, craning my neck to look around the curve as I go. It’s empty. Quiet.

Thud, thud . I jump back from the airlock door next to me as a face appears in the small, circular window. Wide, gold-brown eyes. Pale lashes. Jupiter.

“Thank the universe. It’s locked from the outside. Will you open the door, please?” His voice sounds hollow through the thick, airtight door.

One corner of my mouth pulls into a half grin.

“Just turn the latch and open. It’s pretty self-explanatory.” He points down like I don’t know where it’s located.

I raise my eyebrows, recalling what he said in class, and splay my hands like I’m examining a complex circuit board instead of a door latch. “I don’t know if I can figure it out. None of the buttons are lighting up.”

His lips tighten and he stares back at me, his shoulders rising and falling with a steadying breath.

“I can’t remember”—I press a finger to my lip—“is it lefty loosey?”

He rests his forehead against the glass. “I wasn’t trying to offend you. I was trying to help. Hale can be an ass sometimes. So will you please just open the damn door?”

I tap my finger against my bottom lip and let my head fall to the side like I’m thinking really, really hard.

“Oh, for the love of the universe!” His gaze moves around the door like he’s given up on help. “I’ll figure it out myself.”

I lift onto my toes to watch him as he smacks a button, a triumphant smile spreading across his face, and tries the latch again. The light in the airlock goes red.

“ Decompression initiated ,” a robotic voice announces.

Our eyes lock through the glass. Neither of us is playing anymore. I pull at the latch with all my weight, but it doesn’t budge. The airlock is sealed, pumping air out of the chamber, and depressurizing to match the vacuum of space. And Jupiter’s not in a protective spacesuit.

I get right up to the little window, so I can see as much as possible inside. “There’s got to be a control panel somewhere along the wall. Find it now!”

Jupiter searches frantically, hands hovering over the mechanisms inside like he’s afraid he’ll accidentally eject himself into space if he touches anything else. “I don’t see a panel!” His voice is strained like air is being sucked straight out of his lungs. This is bad.

I feel along the door and find a port, grab ILSA, and hook her up. “Override decompression, ILSA.”

Inside the glass, Jupiter’s eyelids droop and I slap the wall. “Stay with me, Jupiter. I might need your help in there.” But he’s fading. “ILSA! Hurry!”

The red light shifts back to white. There’s a soft click inside the thick door. I yank the latch and heave it open.

Jupiter’s long body crumples. I try to catch him, but he flattens me on the pod bay floor. He’s dead weight. Unconscious. I can’t tell if he’s breathing. “Help, ILSA.”

She rolls him off me, so he’s on his back. ILSA was built for this. Life-sustaining. I sit up slowly, sore from another fall. We have to stop interacting like this.

“Your heart rate is elevated. Are you in distress, Weslie?” She’s specifically attuned to me, ignoring the unconscious boy beside me.

“Help him ,” I demand.

“How would you like me to proceed?”

Oh god. She isn’t programmed to read other people’s medical distress.

“I don’t know. Revive him.”

“Weslie, your heart rate and blood pressure are abnormal. You seem to be displaying signs of acute—”

“Help! Can anyone hear me?” I yell down the hall, but there’s no response. I could send a message if I were connected to anyone on this damn ship. What is the use of a lifesaving bot if it won’t do shit while someone is dying!

I slide to his side on my knees, lowering my ear toward his mouth. Nothing. “ILSA, give me instructions for CPR.”

“Step one: check for responsiveness.”

I grab Jupiter’s shoulders and jostle him, but he doesn’t respond. “Come on, wake up.”

“Step two: check for breathing and pulse.”

I press two fingers to the side of his neck, searching for his heartbeat. “I can’t find a pulse!”

“Step three: call for emergency services.”

I already tried that. “Next step, ILSA!”

“Step four: place your hands on the center of his chest. Keep your elbows locked and pump thirty compressions.”

I count out loud. When I finish, he’s still lifeless. “What now?”

“Tilt his chin back, place your mouth over his, and blow until his chest rises.”

I stare at his parted lips. “Is that really necessary?”

“Mouth to mouth is optional.”

“Great. Next step!”

“Check for breathing and pulse again and then do another round of thirty compressions.”

I place two fingers on his neck.

He coughs, grabbing my hand and curling toward me onto his side, sucking in air. Eyes clenched shut.

“Jupiter. Can you hear me?” I brush away the pale hair that’s fallen across his eyes. As he opens them, it immediately feels too intimate. I slide away, pulling my hand free.

He heaves in deep, gulping breaths, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt and rolling onto his back, blinking slowly.

Gasps turn to steady panting, and he runs a hand over his face.

He angles his head to peer up at me through long eyelashes, and I’m suddenly aware of how narrow the hall between us is, how closely I’m watching him.

His voice is hoarse.“Are all Earthers this ruthless?”

“Are all Elysians this brainless?”

I’m braced for a fight, but his mouth curves into a full grin, showing off his perfectly straight teeth and accentuating his dimples.

Of course he has dimples.

“Probably.” He laughs, propping himself against the opposite wall.