Page 104 of Shades of Earth (Across the Universe 3)

“And we might be able to take some hostages. ” Dad’s voice is softer as he thinks aloud.

I hadn’t thought of hostages.

I glance at Dad. I hadn’t thought of Dad as the kind of person to take hostages.

Once we have enough of the purple string flowers gathered, Dad has his men start digging a shallow trench. The idea is that we’ll load the flowers into the trench along with a fuse and if we see the aliens approaching, we’ll light the fuse and smoke them out.

We rip up anything that would be flammable—paper, cloth, dried leaves—and roll it around in the sticky purple string flowers. One of the Feeders has a small jar of petroleum jelly, and we use it sparingly, spreading a thin coat on the flammable mixture so that the fire will burn hotter and spread quicker. It takes hours to set everything up and place it in the trench.

We’re hoping that if the aliens are already watching us—which, let’s face it, they probably are—they’ll assume we’re just making a runoff ditch or something similar. We’re also hoping that the fuse will light up quickly, the wind won’t blow

the smoke back on us, and the plan actually works.

Basically, we’re hoping for a miracle.

58: ELDER

“Bartie?” I say into my wi-com.

“Yeah, Elder?”

“Start counting. ”

I unscrew the tops of the oxygen tanks so they blow oxygen straight down. I hope to use them as jets to help propel me where I need to go, but the force isn’t that strong, and the decompression of the boarding chamber will likely be more than I can handle. I bite back a grin, imagining how many ways Amy would call me an idiot if she saw me now.

No going back now. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Oh, stars, Amy, I’m sorry.

I slam my fist into the OPEN PORTAL button.

The metal panels on the opening to the bridge zip open and I hurtle into space. My vision is filled with chaotic flashes of the shiny metallic cloth of the tube. I tumble through it, banging against the side of the tube, praying I don’t make everything worse. Things smack into my head—the loops of ropes along the top of the tube, used for handrails. My brain plays tricks on me: I’m flailing about, tumbling in every direction, but I feel as if I’m constantly falling down, a sick feeling in my stomach. Despite the fact that I can see the rippling cloth of the tube and feel the looped ropes, there’s no sound. My brain is screaming at me: This is wrong! Everything is wrong!

The gaping maw of the end of the tube rushes toward me. Frex! Frex! The decompression of the boarding chamber was so much more violent and quick than I thought it would be. The tube is acting like a wind tunnel as the air from the boarding chamber pours out all at once. I twist my body, and the air rushing from the oxygen tanks strapped to my hips slows me just enough that I’m able to wrap my fingers around one of the looped ropes. . . .

My body feels puffy, my joints slow. The rope slips out of my grasp.

I scramble, trying to grab another loop.

My lungs scream at me. Oxygen!

I feel cold, and my mouth feels fuzzy. My vision is blurring.

My hands grab for another loop of rope.

No.

My shoulders ache. I feel as if I am being pulled apart.

I lunge, twisting my body. I can feel the oxygen tanks, still pouring air out against my legs, and they help propel me up—to the very last loop. I stick my whole arm through it and push my palms against the huge metal edge of the magnetic seal. I can barely see; my vision is red and watery.

But I’m almost at the hatch.

I shift, pointing my hips—and the oxygen tanks—down. The end of the tube moves to right. The hatch. I can . . . almost . . . My body feels as if it will break in half, but I reach for the hatch anyway.

I cannot hear the click of metal on metal because there is no sound in space, but I know—the magnetic seal locks into place.

But there’s no air in the tube.