Zero Hour, Nine A.M.

Four

The comm system's beep seems so loud in the dark stillness of my room.

"Attention, former residents of Earth."

My eyes snap open, my skin twitching; it's definitely not just Theresa being nosy this time.

The voice is inhuman, almost metallic sounding, with intermittent screeches and clicks. I swear I can feel it like the skipping needle of a record player over the knobs of my spine.

"Congratulations! You have successfully reached the Earthen Refugee Camp and will soon be safely secure on the new planet. We have locked onto your position; prepare for our navigation system to guide you to the space station."

Brandon's arms tighten around my ribs as he wakes, the deep repetition of his breath beneath my ear giving way to a stuttered inhale. 

"What's going on?"

He's whispering, his voice barely more than an exhale against the shell of my ear. And after a second I realize why - the comm system never beeped off. 

We are being monitored.

"Nothing good, I don't think."

Brandon slides from the narrow bed and hurries to the door. He looks back at me, torn, but I shake my head.

"Go. Get dressed - we have to be ready for whatever this is."

He nods, once and decisive, and slips back across the hall.

I get up as quietly as possible and start pawing through my still-packed suitcase, pulling out leggings and a tank top and tunic. I dress quickly, lacing up my black leather boots and tying my tangled blond hair into a knot on top of my head.

At the bottom of my bag is a pocketknife that belonged to my dad; I slide it into my boot at the last minute.

The ship shakes and lurches once, hard, before being dragged in a different direction.

Then the engines stop; someone has taken over the entire system.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. When we left Earth yesterday, no one was even certain that there was life elsewhere in the galaxy.

And now, apparently, we're about to meet it.

The ship shudders again as I throw open my bedroom door. Brandon is dressed and standing in the hall, and together we race to the main cargo room where the others are already waiting. Theresa and Ken are trying (and failing) to keep their bland faces free of the worry that's pressing their lips flat and pinching the corners of their eyes.

And Brianna is crying again.

We didn't even make it 24 hours in space.

I run to the hatch and crouch down, plastering my face against it in the same way it was when I watched the Earth disappear yesterday. But this time I'm watching something approach.

A space station, but nothing like the ones we had at home. Those were state-of-the-art, beautiful creations of engineering and technology.

This looks like a junkyard, like it was hastily cobbled together out of scrap pieces of other things. Welded metal and thin plastic, exposed tubes and wires, life support systems that shake like they'll stop functioning if anyone looks at them wrong.

It's a skeleton, a scaffolding. A way station for things that aren't valuable enough to warrant more.

And while it can't possibly be true, it looks like when we are forced to leave the ship, we will be stepping out into space itself. The station has no walls.