Cress

Chapter 13

BOOK Two

The witch snipped off her golden hair and

            cast her out into a great desert.

      Cress would not have believed   that  she  had  the  strength  to drag  Carswell
     Thorne beneath  the  bed  and   secure   his   unconscious   body   against   the
     wall  if  the  proof wasn't in her arms. All  the  while, cords  and   screens   and
     plugs  and dishes and food jostled  and   banged   around   them. The  walls of 
      the  satellite  groaned  and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying  not  to   imag-
       ine   the   heat   and  friction   melting through  the  bolts   and   seams, trying
       not  to   guess   at   how stable  this   untested satellite   could  be  trying  not to 
        think about plunging   toward  the   Earth—its mountains and oceans and
       glaciers  and  forests   and   the   impact that   a satellite  thrown from  space
        would  have  when  it crashed  into  the planet  and shattered  into  billions of
        tiny pieces. 
            She was doing a poor job of not imagining it all.
              The fall lasted forever, while her small world disintegrated.
     She'd  failed. The  parachute  should   have   opened   already. She   should
     have  felt it release, felt the snap back as  it caught their   descent   and   low-
      ered  them gently to  Earth. But  their  fall  was  only  faster  and  faster,  as  the
     satellite's  air grew   warmer. Either  she'd   done   something   wrong    or   the
      parachute hatch was faulty,  or  perhaps  there was  no parachute at  all  and
the   command was  from false  programming. After  all,  Sybil   had   commis-
sioned  this  satellite. Surely  she'd  never  intended  to  let  Cress  land   safely
on the blue planet.

         Sybil had succeeded. They were going to die.
         Cress wrapped her body around Carswell Thorne and buried her  face
    into  his hair. At least he would be unconscious through it all. At least he
    didn't  have  to  be afraid.
  Then, a  shudder—a  sensation  different  from the  drop—and she  heard
    the brisk sound of nylon ropes  and hissing  and there  it  was,  the sudden
     jerk  that seemed to pull them back up into  the  sky. She  cried  out  and
     gripped  Carswell Thorne tighter as her shoulder smacked into the un-
     derside of the bed.
      The  fall  became  a  sinking,  and   Cress's  sobs turned  to  relief. She
     squeezed  Thorne's  prone  body   and   sobbed and  hyperventilated   and
     sobbed some more.
              It took ages for the impact to come and when it  did, the jolt knocked
     Cress  into the bed again. The satellite crashed and slid,  rolled  over  and
     tumbled. They  were slipping   down  something   perhaps    a    hill    or
    mountain. Cress clenched   her teeth   against  a   scream  and  tried to
    protect Thorne with  one   arm  while  bracing them against the wall with
   the   other. She'd  expected water—so  much  of  the Earth's surface was
   water—not  this  solid  something  they'd  hit. The  spiraling  descent finally
     halted with a crash that shook the walls around them.
      Cress's lungs burned with the effort to take  in  what air they  could.
      Every muscle ached from adrenaline and the strain of bracing for impact
    and the battering her body had taken.
         But in her head, the pain was nonexistent.
        They were alive.
   They were on earth and they were alive.
         A  grateful, shocked cry  fell  out  of  her  and  she embraced  Thorne,
    crying  happily into the crook of his neck, but the joy receded when he
   did  not hold  her  back. She'd almost forgotten the sight of him  hitting
    his head  on the  bed's  frame, the way his  body was thrown  across  the
    floor,  he'd  slumped   unnaturally in   the corner and made no sound  or
   movement  as she'd  hauled  him  beneath  the  bed.