I look closer at the wi-com — small black letters are printed along one of the wires. I wouldn’t really notice them if I wasn’t inspecting the wi-com so closely. I dig my finger into the braided wires, separating the red wire from the others so I can see the letters more clearly.

It’s one phrase, three words repeated over and over and over in tiny print: Abandon all hope.

My first thought is, how did Doc miss this? He said he cleaned the wi-com. But, I suppose, this is just another mark of how disturbed — by which I mean downright psycho — Orion was. I wouldn’t be surprised if Doc saw the message and gave the wi-com to me regardless — words printed on a wire don’t actually change whether or not the stupid thing works. Doc cares more about practicality than whatever leftover bits of Orion’s insanity are braided up into the thing.

Beyond that, the phrase is apt. If there’s one thing I don’t have any more of, it’s hope. It’s almost like Orion left that message just for me.

And then I realize: he did.

Doc said the wi-com came with a note. It is, in a way, my inheritance.

My mind spins. Orion doesn’t have to tell me there’s no more hope for me aboard Godspeed; I figured that out on my own. But… maybe he meant something more… Because — I know where this phrase comes from. It is, according to my tenth-grade English teacher Ms. Parker, one of the most recognizable lines in literature, right up there with Rhett not giving a damn about Scarlett and Hamlet waffling on about whether to be or not to be. Abandon all hope is the phrase written above the gates of hell in Dante’s Inferno.

And, since books were pretty much off-limits until Elder took over as ruler of Godspeed, that’s not something Doc would have known. Of everyone on the ship, I’m probably the only one who knows about books from Earth.

Other than Orion, that is, who spent most of his life hidden in the Recorder Hall with only words and fictional characters for company.