2003002

Rorie worked quickly to collect the uniforms and blankets. Her mother left them piled on the boiler to keep them warm, which stood in a dark corner of the bowels of the Neb. The engines hummed behind her and bare bulbs cast sharp shadows and sickly yellow light through the room. Rorie told herself that she wasn't frightened, she was just in a hurry. She'd grown up playing hide-and-seek in the nooks and crannies of this ship – down here, nothing should be a mystery. But it all looked strange tonight, more sinister, as if the ship itself were angry.

As Rorie grabbed the last pair of slacks, a loud pop exploded from somewhere over her shoulder. A burst of light and cascades of sparks rained down on her. She screamed as the room went black. Running with her arms full, she sprinted toward the open hatch through which she came, guided by the triangular sliver of light pouring in from the loading bay. She didn't stop or look back until she arrived, slamming the door behind her, pressing her back against the metal and panting.

It was only a power surge, she told herself, feeling a mixture of terror and foolishness. She'd dropped some things along the way but had no intention of going back for them. At the end of the loading bay was a ladder, which she climbed to the quarter floor. At the top she was faced with a long corridor lit by a line of red flood lights. She stood still for a moment and listened to the eerie stillness, punctuated by a dull beat she could not identify. Part of her thought it might be the pulse of the ship, giving life and tempo to the vitriol which had followed her up from the belly of the beast. This idea, as irrational and silly as it was, unhinged her. Briskly, she marched to her parents' cabin door. The sound became louder, more hollow, tinny.

Rorie hesitated, remembering. For a moment, she wasn't a young woman but a child again, scurrying from her room to her parents' bed in the middle of the night, scared of some imaginary sentinels living in the closet. She'd slip under the covers and wedge herself between the two warm bodies, mindless of where and on whom her knees and elbows landed. Her mother complained, but her father, who had the patience of a saint, would hold her. How many this time, he'd ask? She'd give him a number. Three. Eighteen. Six hundred and twelve. Can you kill that many, Daddy? And his answer was always the same. I can kill five times that many, he'd say. Tomorrow, I'm going to go into that closet and kill every last one.

It was true that old habits were difficult to break. Rorie put the pile of clothing aside and knocked on the cabin door. "Dad?" she called softly. "Are you awake?"

He didn't reply, but the knocking became more pronounced. She couldn't tell if it was coming from inside. "Dad…?" Her hand trembled as she placed it on the knob. She pulled, but it was locked. Locked? She pulled at the wheel more urgently. "Dad!"

Her mother had locked the door, or her father had locked himself inside. She didn't like the implications of either possibility. Panic was setting in. She stopped herself from yelling to him, knowing that her mother would hear her. Instead, she ran to the mess hall for the master keys and was careful to be quiet about it. With shaking fingers, she manipulated the lock, opened the bedroom door and stepped into a puddle of blood.

Her father was mummified like a corpse, bound tightly in white sheets flowered with crimson handprints. He writhed like a worm – periodically knocking his head against the wall. His face was covered in his sweater and a pair of socks was stuffed into his mouth.

Rorie would have screamed were it not for a sudden bitterness that gurgled up her throat, into her mouth. She swallowed just in time, falling to her knees by her parents' bedside, fumbling with the gag and blindfold. Tears made her clumsy and slow.

What was he saying to her? He was saying something, but she wasn't listening. It looked as if he'd been stabbed. "Untie me. Untie me now. Hurry up. Do it," he said. "Hurry!"

"Don't move. You're hurt."

"Untie me."

"Dad, what's going on?" she cried. "What's happening?"

"Untie me now."

Rorie wanted more than anything to do as he said, but whoever had done this to him had used duct tape on his wrists and ankles. Rorie yanked open the first drawer in the bedside table and found a pair of scissors.

"Yes," he gasped. "That's a smart girl. Now cut me free."

Rorie poised the sharp blades at his wrists and hesitated. She looked at her father's bruised face. His eyes were all pupil and mad with agitation.

"Cut them!" he barked. "Do it. What are you waiting for?"

"Dad… I'm scared. Who did this? Did Mom do this? Why would she do this?"

He let out a harsh, short breath that sounded like impatience. But when he spoke his tone was softer. "Everything will be fine. I'll protect you. But first… you have to let Daddy go. Hurry or she'll get you. She's not right in the head."

"Who?"

"Your mother. She's gone crazy. You have to let me go before she comes down here and does the same thing to you."

"What? Why? What are you talking about?"

"It'll be okay. We'll take her to Zion and get her professional help. That's what we'll do. We'll help her."

Rorie heard footsteps descending from the core. They were fast and heavy, coming straight for them. Panicking, she cut through the tape at her father's wrists and ankles. When she finished, he sat up and took the scissors away, putting his arms around her. "Shhh, now," he whispered. "Don't cry. It'll all be over soon."

Rorie flinched as the scissor blade dug into her neck.

"Just don't scream," he said. "Don't you dare make a sound."