Father poring over technical drawings in the Library. The sewing stool screaming against the pressure of the outer door. One of us is not feeling well. Jessi Ko said the only way to get out of your compartment was to tell Sybil that you weren’t feeling well. If Sybil detected something wrong with you, she’d send Dr. Cha and Engineer Goldberg to escort you to the Infirmary.
Father was not well. When he announced it, Sybil opened the door to Compartment 17 so he could be brought to wherever they were isolating sick crew members, but first he brought Konstance to Sybil’s vault. With enough supplies to last her six and a half thousand meals.
Hands shaking, she touches the Vizer on the back of her head and the Perambulator on the floor whirs to life.
Off to the Library? asks Sybil. Of course, Konstance. You can eat afterw—
* * *
No one at the tables, no one on the ladders. No books fly through the air. Not a single person in sight. Above the aperture in the barrel vault, the sky radiates a pleasant blue. Konstance calls, “Hello?” and from beneath a desk trots Mrs. Flowers’s dog, eyes shining, tail high.
No teachers leading classes. No teenagers sliding up and down the ladders to the Games Section.
“Sybil, where is everybody?”
Everyone is elsewhere, Konstance.
The numberless books wait in their places. The spotless rectangles of paper and pencils sit in their boxes. Days ago, at one of these tables, Mother read aloud: The hardiest viruses can persist for months on surfaces: tabletops, door handles, lavatory fixtures.
A cold weight drops through her. She takes a slip of paper, writes, How many years would it take a person to eat 6,526 meals?
The answer floats down: 5.9598
Six years?
“Sybil, please ask Father to meet me in the Library.”
Yes, Konstance.
She sits on the marble floor and the little dog climbs into her lap. His fur feels real. The little pink pads on the bottom of his feet feel warm. High above her, a solitary silver cloud, like a child’s drawing, crosses the sky.
“What did he say?”
He has not yet replied.
“What time is it?”
Six minutes past DayLight thirteen, Konstance.
“Is everyone at Third Meal?”
They are not at Third Meal, no. Would you like to play a game, Konstance? Do a puzzle? There’s always the Atlas, I know you enjoy going in there.
The digital dog blinks its digital eyes. The digital cloud grinds silently through the digital dusk.
* * *
By the time she steps off her Perambulator, the walls of Vault One have dimmed. NoLight coming. She presses her forehead to the wall and shouts, “Hello?”
Louder: “Hello?”
Difficult to hear through walls on the Argos but not impossible: from her berth in Compartment 17 she has heard water trickling through pipes, the occasional argument between Mr. and Mrs. Marri in Compartment 16.
She smacks the walls with the heels of her hands, then picks up the inflatable cot, still wrapped and bound, and throws it. It makes a terrible clamor. Waits. Throws it again. Each heartbeat sends a new stroke of terror through her. Again she sees Father poring over schematics in the Library. Hears what Mrs. Chen said, years ago: This vault has autonomous thermal, mechanical, and filtration processes, independent of the rest of… Father must have been making sure of that. He put her in here on purpose to protect her. But why didn’t he join her? Why not put others inside with her?
Because he was sick. Because they may have been carrying an infectious and lethal disease.
The room darkens to black.
“Sybil, how is my body temperature?”
Ideal.
“Not too hot?”
All signs are excellent.
“Will you open the door now, please?”
The vault will remain sealed, Konstance. This is the safest place for you to be. Best to make a healthy meal. Then you can assemble your cot. Would you like a bit of light?
“Ask my father if he’ll change his mind. I’ll put together the bed, I’ll do whatever you say.” She unstraps the cot, locks the aluminum legs into place, opens the valve. The room is very quiet. Sybil shimmers deep within her folds.
Maybe others are safe in the provision vaults, where the flour and new worksuits and spare parts are kept. Maybe those rooms also have their own thermal systems, their own water filtration. But then why aren’t they in the Library? Maybe they don’t have Perambulators? Maybe they’re asleep? She climbs onto the cot and tears the blanket out of its wrapper and pulls it over her eyes. Counts to thirty.
“Did you ask him yet? Did he change his mind?”