The
Ark by Laura Liddell Nolen
Published by: HarperVoyager
Publication date: March 26th 2015
Genres: Science Fiction, Young Adult
Published by: HarperVoyager
Publication date: March 26th 2015
Genres: Science Fiction, Young Adult
SYNOPSIS:
There’s a meteor headed for Earth, and there is only one way to
survive.
With her criminal record, sixteen-year-old Char is never going to get a place on an Ark, one of the five massive bioships designed to protect Earth’s survivors. The Arks are reserved for the real goody-goodies, like Char’s mom, dad, and brother, all of whom have long since turned their backs on her.
With Earth on the brink of destruction, Char must use all her tricks of the trade to swindle her way into outer space, where she hopes to reunite with her family, regardless of whether they want to see her or not.
Once she arrives on the North American Ark, Char discovers that the remnants of humanity haven’t achieved the egalitarian utopia they’d planned for. For starters, the “Officers of the Peace” are anything but peaceful, especially since stealing a spot on an Ark is a crime punishable by death…
With her criminal record, sixteen-year-old Char is never going to get a place on an Ark, one of the five massive bioships designed to protect Earth’s survivors. The Arks are reserved for the real goody-goodies, like Char’s mom, dad, and brother, all of whom have long since turned their backs on her.
With Earth on the brink of destruction, Char must use all her tricks of the trade to swindle her way into outer space, where she hopes to reunite with her family, regardless of whether they want to see her or not.
Once she arrives on the North American Ark, Char discovers that the remnants of humanity haven’t achieved the egalitarian utopia they’d planned for. For starters, the “Officers of the Peace” are anything but peaceful, especially since stealing a spot on an Ark is a crime punishable by death…
EXCERPT:
My panic disappeared quickly. First of all, it never does any good.
Years of burglarizing high-level targets taught me that. And secondly, Cassa
had actually kicked me pretty hard. I leaned back, letting the cords on my
wrists support some of my weight. I barely felt the pain that spread through my
forearms. I closed my eyes. The harsh light from the ceiling collapsed into a
crescent, then blinked away. It felt good.
But I couldn’t let
myself sleep. Not yet.
The usual noise on
the block was gone, replaced by an eerie, soundless vacuum. I had been on
lockup for so long that I was no longer at ease with total silence.
In her haste to
leave, Cassa had missed the blade in my sock. Not that I could blame her. None
of us had showered in a week. My leg was heavier than it should have been, but
I managed to kick it up toward my mouth. I bit down on my shoelaces and yanked
the knot out, then kicked off my shoe.
The blade itself was
trickier, and it was several minutes before I had it between my teeth. From there,
cutting the cords was nothing. I pulled on my shoe, leaving it untied, and took
off for the commissary.
The only thought in
my mind was West. West would come for me. He would smile for me, and it would
be a sad smile, but it would belong to me. And I would tell him that he had
deserved a better sister, and that I had always been proud that he hadn’t
turned out like me. And that I would never forget him.
And he would say
that he would never forget me, either, and I would know that I wouldn’t be
forgotten. That I hadn’t already been forgotten.
I threw open the door to the commissary and was greeted by a total rager. People jumping on tables, singing, laughing, sobbing. The air was sour with the smell of liquor, which some kind benefactor must have brought in for our final hours. This was no place for my little brother.
I threw open the door to the commissary and was greeted by a total rager. People jumping on tables, singing, laughing, sobbing. The air was sour with the smell of liquor, which some kind benefactor must have brought in for our final hours. This was no place for my little brother.
My parents must have
had the same thought.
When I finally saw
them, huddled in a corner, backs pressed against the wall, they were alone in a
sea of dirty prison scrubs. West was nowhere to be found. My father had his arm
around my mother, but I could tell they had been fighting. Her arm was clenched
across her chest, and her face had that blankly pleasant expression she used in
public when something was wrong.
My tongue grew thick
as I pressed my way through the crowd. When I was close enough to my parents to
touch them, my mother cringed, and my father tightened his grip on her
shoulder, pulling her hard against him.
I cleared my throat
and forced my tongue to move. “Mom, Dad. It’s me.”
Dad’s brows
deepened, and his eyes slid away from my face to focus on a place behind me, as
though his real daughter might still emerge from the crowd.
“Where’s West?” I
asked.
“Your brother
couldn’t be here.” My father’s voice was strange, like listening to a
once-familiar recording that had grown warped with time.
“What happened to
your head?” My mother’s voice was exactly as I recalled: piercing and unhappy.
“You’re bleeding. Let me take a look at that.” I flinched as she reached for my
face, and she echoed my reaction back to me. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s
going to get infected, the state you’re in.”
“Not if I die
first.” My words had the intended effect of shutting her down, but it didn’t
feel like I wanted it to. Regret and fear crowded together in my stomach, and I
looked away from her. “So, why couldn’t West be here?”
“For Pete’s sake,
Charlotte,” my father began, but Mom cut him off.
“His OPT had to
leave.”
“You’re not all on
the same one?”
“No, we are,” Dad
said, and it was Mom’s turn to look away. I stared at her anyway, trying to
figure out how they were all going to be together, but West wasn’t here. In
this room. “It’s been hard for him,” Dad continued. I flicked my eyes up toward
my father, still confused.
“Michael,” Mom
whispered.
“It has. It’s been
hard for all of us. She should understand that.”
“It’s just not the
time.” She turned to me. “But he wrote you a note, sweetheart.”
My mother had not
called me sweetheart since I had called myself Charlotte. Dumb, I stared at the
torn envelope in her hands. I snapped back to my senses when I saw the
attention it was getting from the rest of the room. They were definitely
watching us.
My father noticed it
too, and stiffened. “We can’t stay here any longer. You were ninety minutes
late, anyway.”
Mom wrenched herself
from my father’s grip and wrapped her arms around me. I fit my face against her
collarbone, exactly like I had as a child. Her voice in my ear was no louder
than the slightest whisper. “I never gave up on you. I should have told you
that.” Her arms moved down my back, and her grip tightened. “I’m so sorry,
Charlotte.”
Everything I had
planned to tell them—everything from I
never meant to hurt you to please
don’t forget me— curdled into a cold wad in my chest, and died in my
throat. I tried to breathe in, but I heard myself make a sound like a gasp
instead. “Mom. Please don’t leave me here.”
She jerked a little,
as though something had knocked against her, and I didn’t feel her breath going
in or out anymore.
“Excuse me,
Senator,” a voice barked. I opened my eyes to peer over my mother’s shoulder. An
armed guard stood a few paces away.
My father reached
around my mother, so that for the briefest instant, he was holding me, too. But
then he closed his fingers around her wrists, and pulled her arms away from me.
“Goodbye, Charlotte. I can’t help but feel responsible for…” he began, then
stopped.
I watched them
leave, feeling numb, like floating underwater, before sliding the folded paper
out of its nest. It was my brother’s handwriting, but not as I remembered it. He’d
be thirteen now, not seven or eight, as I always thought of him, so it took a
moment to confirm that the lighter, sharper letters were his.
I’m sorry.
Yeah, I thought. Me too, kiddo.
Me too.
AUTHOR BIO:
Laura grew up in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, where she spent an
excellent childhood playing make-believe with her two younger brothers.
The Ark is the direct result of those stories and a lifelong devotion
to space-themed television. It received a Work in Progress Grant from the
Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. Laura has a
degree in French and a license to practice law, but both are frozen in
carbonite at present. She lives in Texas with her family.
Author links:
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