"ALL THE SHIPS HAVE LEFT THE PLANET," I say. "Ms. Maasland, I read it online. All the ships—"
"The Nassau encountered technical difficulties. We couldn't leave on time."
"We," I repeat. "You have a place on a ship?"
"Lottery?" Mom asks.
"No. Skills. I'm sorry—the ship is full. They can't let you stay. But they'll let you in for the impact itself, just like a temporary shelter, I'm sure of it."
I fall quiet. I'm too busy studying the ship—the Nassau. I've seen projections of other generation ships. This one is smaller, I think, although it's hard to compare. Seeing the lot the ship is parked on—and parked seems like entirely the wrong word for a ship like this—I suddenly remember a photo Dad sent me months ago. It showed dozens of planes lined up on Schiphol, ready to fly to their final destination, decommissioned after commercial air travel had dropped to near zero. The ships and shelters being constructed had need of the planes' metal.
This might be that same lot from the photo. The Nassau takes up all of it, and more besides. Turning my head all the way, I can just about see the ship extend over grass and roads and even what must be a runway.
The bottom of the ship is a meter or two off the ground at its center, elevated by either legs or scaffolding; around the edges, it's easily twenty, twenty-five meters tall. I don't know how high the ship rises at the top.
"There's still one bay open," Ms. Maasland's wife rasps.
We drive closer to the ship, practically underneath. I lean forward to keep my eyes on the almost-white metal. The ship is a circular shape as far as I can see, its bottom half like a shallow bowl.
Windows flash past to the right and above us. I swear I see people inside.
When I say the ship is big, this is what I mean: I look at the display by the steering wheel, then again when we reach the loading bay Leyla indicated, and we've driven more than six hundred meters. The ship must be just as big—maybe bigger—end to end.
It might be small compared to the other generation ships. Still, for someone like me, who's never seen anything bigger than a double-decker airplane or a cruise ship in the Rotterdam harbor, it's enough to make my head spin.
"Keep going," Ms. Maasland urges Mom once we've reached the ramp. "They're going on lockdown—they must've seen us or they'd have closed it already."
Mom drives the car toward the ramp. The ground changes from smooth asphalt to something different, subtly ridged. The car's hum turns to a growl.
I give up on scratching the seat belt. Instead, I clutch it tight. The sides cut into my palms.
The ramp trembles. Then starts moving. I push myself into my seat, hard. It takes a moment to realize what's happening: they're lifting the ramp. With us still riding on it. The world twists in my peripheral vision, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
We're horizontal now. We start to pitch forward. Mom makes a surprised sound. Moments later, the ground underneath smooths out and we come to an abrupt stop inside.
Mom lets out a high, nervous laugh. "That was almost fun. Denise? Are you OK?"
"Mmm," I say, not trusting myself to speak yet.
The ramp closes behind us with a sequence of loud, steady clicks, then makes a hissing sound.
"We made it." I hear Leyla shifting in her seat. She groans. "Els … I really need …"
"I'm getting help," Ms. Maasland—Els?—says, and I hear the car door opening, followed by resolute footsteps. Mom follows her out.
We're no longer moving, but I've still got my eyes screwed shut.
"Denise?" Leyla says. "Are you all right?"
"Mmm."
Fingers rest on my shoulder. I squirm out of reach. Finally, I know something to say: "Sorry."
I edge back into my seat once Leyla withdraws her hand and relax my grip on the seat belt. My thumb runs over the threads, making the same sound as before, like nothing has changed. I open my eyes. I'd known we were no longer moving, but confirming it helps some of the tension drain out.
"OK," I say, not sure who I'm saying it to. My fingers hunt for the seat belt release, then I half turn in my seat for the first time. Automatically, I fluff up my hair after squishing my curls against the headrest for so long.
Leyla is sprawled on the backseat. Bloodstains mar her jeans. Her face is twisted from pain, but she's pretty in an old-lady sort of way. Turkish, I think. Dark hair with silver strands falls in curls by her face. "You're sweating," I say. Her forehead shines. She's clammy-looking and yellowish-pale. "It's painful just looking at you."
It occurs to me that I'm being rude. I almost flop back into my seat again, because I know what comes next—that frown on people's faces, having them mentally adjust their image of me—but Leyla either doesn't mind or hides it well. She barks out a laugh. "It's painful being me, too."
I nod. Then: "It's time."
Leyla doesn't need me to clarify. "Any minute now. We shouldn't feel the impact much in here. Just shaking." She peers through the rear window, where I can see what must have been the ramp, which now forms a ridged wall.
Slowly, I take in the rest of the area. We're inside a loading dock: massive crates are stacked in one corner like Lego blocks, along with layers of barrels bound together with thick straps. I see two—no, three—small cranes parked haphazardly around the area, which is maybe twice the size of my school gym. My gym was always brightly lit, though, while here only a handful of panels in the ceiling offer a watery yellow light. The cranes' empty hooks cast misshapen shadows across the floor.
Mom and Ms. Maasland are standing in one corner by a wide, arched door. Their backs are turned to me. They're talking to a third person, half hidden from my sight by the doorway.
I climb from the car and start in their direction.
Ms. Maasland turns when she hears me coming. "Denise, meet Driss van Zand. The Nassau's captain." She gestures at the third figure. He's short, with broad shoulders and a round belly, tan skin, a light scruff on his cheeks. He's in his fifties, I think. He reminds me of our neighbor, except he looks more annoyed than our neighbor ever did.
"This is my daughter, Denise," Mom says.
Captain Van Zand does that double take I've grown used to, glancing back at Mom, then at me, before it clicks. Mom is white as can be, green-eyed and sallow-looking, her hair stringy but straight; I share none of those features. My skin is a warm gold-brown, and my hair is coarse and springy, resting across the width of my shoulders. Mom and I have only our high foreheads in common.
Iris gets the same looks. She always waits, chin raised, as if daring people to ask rather than use their brain for two seconds. She'll stand upright, look people in the eye. I try to do that now. We make brief eye contact before I let my gaze drift sideways. "It's good to meet you, sir." As an afterthought, I tell him, "My father is Surinamese."
I'm not Iris.
Jogging footsteps sound from the hallway behind Captain Van Zand. A woman dashes past us. She carries a suitcase on a shoulder strap, and one arm drags a floating stretcher behind her.
"Thank God you're here," Ms. Maasland says. She guides the medic to the car. "It's Leyla's leg …"
Captain Van Zand looks from Mom to me. "We can't just bring anyone on board this late," he says. "In fact, Els risked expulsion in doing so. In other words … you got lucky."
"Does that mean—" Mom starts.
"While you're on board, you eat your own food, you drink your own water. And once you're gone, you don't tell anyone there's a ship out here. Family, friends, boyfriends." His eyes linger on me.
Boyfriends. I wish. If he knew me, he'd know how funny that is. I bite down a nervous laugh. I should be more concerned about something else he said. We're not even allowed to drink the water? "Can we use the bathroom?"
"Toilet. No showers."
We can't drink, but we can flush a toilet? What about washing our hands? And how is that different from cupping my hands and—At the last second, I hold my tongue. People get annoyed when I demand details.
The questions still nag at me like a needy cat batting at my leg. But what if and How come and Then does that mean … ? I twist my lips into a smile instead of letting any of those words escape. "OK. Sir."
"You can stay two days," he says. "Then you're gone."
