I touch my wi-com and reconnect with Bartie. “Are you at the hatch?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Bartie says. “Elder, are you really—”

“Yes, I’m here. If all goes well, you should be able to open the hatch in a few minutes, and I’ll be on the other side.”

“If?” Bartie asks.

“Don’t break the com link, okay?” I run my fingers through my hair. “I’ll need you to open the door for me if I’m on the other side.”

“If?” Bartie repeats.

“Be ready, okay?” I mute him without waiting for a reply. I need to focus.

I turn on the control pad by the tube. The screen lights up immediately. Once I figure out the controls, I turn on the mechanical arms.

There’s a grinding sound, and the tube starts to extend from the auto-shuttle. The screen shows an image of the area outside of the ship; there must be a little camera embedded into the tube door. The tube stretches out, closer and closer to Godspeed.

Matching seal lock not discovered, the display reads. Automatic connection not detected.

Of course it’s not detected; we’re not at the space station, we’re at Godspeed, which doesn’t have a matching seal lock. I pray that my guess is right and the magnets on this side are going to be enough to lock into place in Godspeed’s hatch.

Manual connection required.

I try to push buttons to operate the arms, but the same message displays across the screen: Manual connection required.

I check the display from the outside. It looks as if the mechanical arms have extended the tube, but the end of the tube is still several yards off from the hatch on Godspeed.

I go back to the control panel. Nothing works. Every button I push that would move the tube around just makes the screen flash the same message.

“How the frex do I make a manual connection with this frexing thing?” I mutter, staring at the screen.

The end of the tube isn’t that far off. If I could just give the tube a good push to the right . . .

I go over to the porthole. The metal flaps closing the door are firmly shut. If I open the door, the boarding chamber will be depressurized, and I’ll be sucked out into space. Can’t move the tube from here.

I briefly consider trying to move the ship. But the tube is off the hatch by no more than a few yards at best, and I don’t think I can control the ship to move in such a small space.

I just need to wiggle the bridge, just a little, to make the end meet up with Godspeed’s hatch. The hatch on the ship side is much smaller than the opening on the bridge tube. All I have to do is get the larger end of the bridge tube to cover the smaller hole of the Godspeed hatch and the magnetic lock will create a seal against the ship’s metal surface.

I bite back a little laugh.

All I have to do is somehow move a tube a few yards to the right. In the vacuum of space. Without a space suit.

Just to be sure, I check the rest of the transport shuttle, looking for an emergency space suit. The closest thing I can find are cans of oxygen strapped to the wall of the boarding chamber, but that does me no good. If I try to go into the vacuum of space breathing oxygen, my lungs will blow up like balloons and burst inside my body.

Staring at the tanks of oxygen gives me an idea, though.

A dangerous idea.

A stupid idea.

But an idea.

I know what I need to do.

I push my wi-com. “Bartie, you there?”

“I’m here, Elder,” Bartie says. “Are you at the hatch?”

“Not yet,” I say. “Look, it’s a bit more difficult than I thought. I’m going to have to . . . anyway, listen. I need you to stay very focused and don’t break this com. I’m going to try something. When I say go, start counting. If all goes well, before you reach thirty, I’ll ask you to open the hatch.”

“What happens if I get to thirty and you don’t tell me to open the hatch?” Bartie asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “Keep the hatch closed.”

“And we’ll try something else?”

“There is nothing else. I’ve only got one shot at this,” I say. Bartie starts to protest and if Amy were here, she’d kill me, but still I add, “Please. I need to focus. I say go, count to thirty. Open when . . . if I say anything.”

I head over to the emergency oxygen. Pressurized tanks are connected to tubes and face masks. I grab an oxygen tank and yank out the tube but leave the valve closed. I won’t be able to breathe this in space, but I don’t need the oxygen for breathing. I strap four tanks around my body, two at each hip. Each tank points down to the floor.

I head back to the control panel.

There’s one button I didn’t push. Open Portal.

Pushing this button will make the round metal flaps move away. It will open the door—and I will be sucked out into space. I’ll have maybe half a minute, but probably less than that, to grab one of the loops on the inside of the tube and move the bridge over the hatch. There will be no oxygen—no air at all—and I would have no protection. And I know just how quickly someone can die from being in space without a suit.

I’ve seen it happen.

I suck in a deep breath. Shut my eyes. Blow out all the air in my lungs. Count how long I can go without breathing.

Twenty seconds.

My heart’s racing.

I breathe in. Breathe out. Hold. Count.

Twenty-eight seconds.

I silently apologize to Amy.

That will have to do.

57: AMY

Dad consults with a handful of scientists who worked with Mom to see if Chris’s theory of using smoke made from the purple flowers will work against the aliens. While the smoke seems even more effective at making people pass out, their study doesn’t really tell us anything. The aliens aren’t people. They have strange crystal-like scales and leave weird footprints. That’s about all we know. We’ve never even seen them, let alone analyzed their weaknesses and susceptibilities. Maybe they don’t even breathe. Maybe the purple flowers make them stronger rather than make them pass out. We don’t know.

And that’s the worst part of all this.

We don’t even know who—what—we’re fighting.

They know all about us, though, and exactly how to kill us.

“I don’t like it,” Dad growls at me as he sends five of his military to the forest to collect strands of the purple flower. “I don’t like building the colony’s entire defense around some flowers.”

“Running away and hiding is no defense at all,” I say. “We have to try.”

“It will only work once—if it works at all,” Dad says. “Once they see what we’re doing, they will know how to avoid the smoke the next time.”

“It only has to work once,” I reply. “We only have to survive a few more days before Earth arrives, right?”

“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.

No air in me.

59: AMY

All that’s left is to wait.

And so we do.

Dad distributes water—a bucket to each building, with a warning that going to the latrines might be dangerous. We finish the last of the rations we had stored in the colony by noon—all the rest of the food was in the shuttle. We thought sealing the things we needed the most, like food and medicine, behind the steel doors of the shuttle would make it safer. The irony of it makes me want to vomit.