“We’re missing a hundred passengers,” he says. He’s raised his hands with the declaration and then lets them fall, flopping to his sides. His eyes are wide with excitement and agitation—I’ve never seen him so animated.
“Wait, what? Missing how? When?”
“Remember we were talking about how five hundred passengers arrived on Faloiv when the Vagantur crash-landed? That’s correct: five hundred people—astronauts, scientists, engineers, anthropologists—were on the ship when they set the emergency course to land here. There was a meeting of agreement with representatives of the Faloii. But when the agreement was made and we started building a camp, they took count of the settlers in a beginning census. And that number was under four hundred.”
“Four hundred?”
“Yes.”
Alma starts to speak. “How do you know all—”
“Sometimes he hacks N’Terra’s files,” I say. “Rondo, what does this mean?”
“I don’t know! I have no idea! But it’s important, you know? All those people! They just disappear from N’Terra’s records. I tried different files and databases to hunt down some reference to them. Nothing.”
It wouldn’t be as significant if it changed from five hundred to four hundred and ninety-five. But one hundred people . . .
“They must have died in the landing,” I insist. “Right?”
“No,” he says. “The landing was rough because of the meteor, but it mainly damaged the ship. I found records of injuries and two deaths, but both of those names were accounted for.”
“Maybe it’s just a clerical error?” Alma suggests.
“I thought the same thing,” he says, shaking his head. “But there are names missing. Specific names. I accessed the entire passenger list of the people who were aboard the Vagantur. I cross-referenced those names against the list of injuries and the list of settlers in the initial N’Terra settlement. None of those names was on the list. It’s not a numerical error. One hundred actual people are missing.”
“Disease,” I counter. “Is there any record of major illness? I mean, they were new on Faloiv. Maybe part of the population didn’t survive the transition.”
“Nope. I checked. No record of any catastrophic loss to the Vagantur’s population. No disease, no violence. There were a number of minor illnesses based on bad reactions to food, but very few. These were mostly people of science and their families,” he says. “They weren’t going to make any stupid mistakes.”
“Whoa,” Alma says, but nothing more. A woman passes us, walking toward the bridge, and we all avert our eyes. When I look back up, Rondo looks uncomfortable.
“There’s one more thing,” he says.
“What?”
He pauses, looks at Alma, and then back at me.
“Your grandmother’s last name was Lemieux, right?”
I stare at him.
“Yes.”
“Was your grandfather Jamyle Lemieux?”
“Rondo, why?” I say.
“You said your grandfather died on the Origin Planet,” he says.
“He did.”
He shakes his head slowly.
“I don’t think so.”
“What?”
He bites his lip.
“Rondo, what?” I demand.
“According to the passenger list, he was onboard when the Vagantur crashed. But then he disappeared.”
CHAPTER 12
“Octavia? Octavia?”
Rondo’s mouth is moving, but his voice seems to be coming through a thick cloud. For as long as I can remember—since I was old enough to speak—my parents have told me that my grandfather died on a planet far away. That he never saw Faloiv. What Rondo is telling me contradicts everything I’ve known my entire life.
“I think we should sit her down,” Alma whispers, like I’m not right in front of her listening. But I can’t find the way to make my mouth reply.
“Octavia?” Rondo says. He gives my shoulder a gentle shake.
I look at him. The only thing I can think to say is, “So my parents have been lying about that too.”
He blinks, raises an eyebrow. He wants to tell me yes, but is afraid to actually say it. He thinks I’m breakable right now, fragile. I almost smile. I wrap my fingers around this new secret and hold it tightly.
“We’re going to find out more,” I say.
They’re both looking at me uncertainly and a vague current of annoyance floods through me. What did they expect? That I’d cry? Break down? An echo of a whitecoat’s voice whispers, For what purpose?
“You said you’ve looked in every database for mention of the missing hundred?”
Rondo nods. He’s swallowing his uncertainty, the excitement gradually returning to his face.
“Right,” he says. “There’s nothing.”
“What about personal files? Can you get access to those?”
He raises one eyebrow.
“So much for being worried about me getting caught, huh?”
“You won’t get caught,” I say. “Just cover your tracks or whatever it is you do.”
Then I remember something else.
“Didn’t you say that you saw someone else in the files last time you were poking around?”
“Yep. Their footprints are all over the databases. Still don’t know who it is though.”
“But that means somebody else knows about the missing hundred.”
“I’m certain.”
“I bet a lot of people know, actually,” Alma says. Her worry has softened and she’s back into problem-solving mode. I’m glad I brought her with me. “Think about it. Our people all boarded the Vagantur together to come here. They’d notice if a hundred of their friends and family disappeared. A lot of the old folks who are still alive probably know something from the landing. Some of the people who were older kids when we landed probably remember too.”
“Like my parents,” I can’t resist saying. “Pretty sure my mother would remember her father disappearing when we crash-landed on a new planet.”
They both look at me helplessly. I know how I must sound: emotional. Angry. But I have a right to my anger for the moment. So many secrets, some with roots that stretch back for decades. If they’d keep my grandfather’s disappearance a secret from me—what else would they hide?
“We’re going to find out more,” I repeat. “I wish we could get into the Zoo now.”
“And do what?” Alma says. “We’ve only had access to the sorting room, and we know there’s nothing to see there but eggs. Even if one or two of them are . . . different.”
“I don’t know.” I groan. “Something. Who’s someone we could talk to that might get us some answers?”
“You mean a whitecoat? No one,” Alma says. “We’re not even actual scientists yet, O. None of them is going to give us any time until well after we’ve taken the oath and started working on projects of our own.”
“What about Dr. Espada? We could ask him, right?”
She looks doubtful. I can’t tell if she’s thinking of our argument about me asking too many questions or if she’s just being logical.
“If anyone would answer our questions, it would be him,” I insist. “We could slip it into conversation like it’s something we heard in the Zoo.”
“Maybe, but I don’t know when we’ll see him again.”