A Million Suns (3 page)

4

AMY

I CHECK THE CLOCK ON A FLOPPY WHEN I GET BACK TO MY room in the Hospital. Crap. It's later than I'd thought it was. Every day I've been spending more and more of the morning in the cryo level. At first it was to run. But then I quit running. Now I just go and force myself to remember one thing I miss from Earth, one thing in as great detail as I can. And then, eventually, I force myself to say goodbye to my parents. Again.

The solar lamp clicks on, illuminating the entire Feeder Level. Even though I have the metal shade pulled over the only window in my room, a sliver of light slices across the floor.

Morning has officially sprung. Great.

I slam my hand against the button on the wall by the door.
Beep!
A few moments later, a little metal door in the wall slides open, and a waft of steam floats into the room.

“That's it?” I say to the small pastry that lies inside. I pull it out. Wall food has never been very appetizing, but this is the first time I can say that it's small. The whole thing fits in my palm in a flat, depressed sort of way. Two bites later, and breakfast is over.

Someone knocks on my door. Even though the door is locked, un­reasonable panic flares in my heart.

“Amy?”

“Doc?” I ask as I zip open the door to my bedroom. His solemn face greets me.

“I wanted to check in on you,” he says, stepping inside.

“I'm fine,” I say immediately. Doc has offered, more than once, to give me pale blue med patches. They're for “nerves,” he says, but I don't want to bother. I don't trust the little patches he doles out instead of pills; I don't trust any medication made on this ship that also once made Phydus.

“No,” Doc says, waving his hand dismissively. “I mean—well. Hrm. I'm worried about . . . about your safety.”

“My safety?” I plop down on my unmade bed. Doc glances at the only chair in my room, the one at my desk, but he doesn't sit down. A jacket is slung over the back of the chair, and floppies and books I've pilfered from the Recorder Hall clutter the desktop. He probably wouldn't want to sit anywhere without an antiseptic wipe and some Lysol.

Not that there
is
any Lysol here.

Doc's stance is awkward; he keeps his arms close to his body, and his back is too straight. But his face is very serious. “I'm sure you've noticed the increased . . . Well, it's clear now that there are no more traces of Phydus in the people's systems. And now we're left with . . . The ship's not especially safe at the moment, especially for someone who . . .”

“Someone who looks like me?” I ask, flicking my long red hair over my shoulder.

Doc flinches, as if my hair is a curse word shouted in church. “Yes.”

He's not saying anything new. I am the only person on this ship who wasn't born here. And while the residents of
Godspeed
had the individuality bred out of them so they're all monoethnic, I've got super-pale skin, bright green eyes, and red hair to mark how different I am. The former ship's leader, Eldest, did me no favors, either, telling the residents that I was a genetic experiment gone wrong. At best, most people here think I'm a freak.

At worst, they blame me for the way things have been falling apart.

Three weeks ago, I went for my regular morning run. I stopped near the chicken farm to look at the baby chicks. The farmer came outside with the feed—he's a huge man, his arms as thick as my legs. He set the bucket of feed on the ground and just . . . just
stared
at me. Then he walked to the gate and picked up a shovel. He hefted it up, testing the weight of it and running one finger along the sharp and shiny blade. I started running then, looking over my shoulder. He watched me, shovel in hand, until I was out of sight.

I haven't been running since.

“I'm not stupid,” I tell Doc, standing up. “I know that things aren't exactly peachy around here.”

I sling open the door to my wardrobe and pull out a long piece of cloth that's such a dark shade of maroon it's almost brown. The material is thin and a little stretchy. Starting behind my left ear, I drape the cloth over my forehead, then under my mass of red hair, then back around, wrapping up my hair so it's completely hidden behind the dark cloth. When I get to the end, I twist the wrapped hair into a bun and tie the ends of the cloth into a knot. Then I grab the jacket from the desk chair and sling it over my shoulders, pulling the hood up over my head. The last thing I do is tuck my cross necklace under my shirt so no one can see it.

“It's not perfect,” I say as Doc inspects my apparel. “But if I keep my head down and my hands in the jacket pockets, it's hard for anyone to notice how different I am unless they get up close.” And I don't really plan on getting up close to anyone.

Doc nods. “I'm glad you've thought of this sort of thing,” he says. “I'm . . . well, I'm impressed.”

I roll my eyes.

“But I don't think it's enough,” he adds.

I push the hood out of my face and stare at Doc, making a point to meet his eyes. “I. Will.
Not.
Stay locked up in this room forever. I know you don't think it's safe, but I
won't
be even more of a prisoner than I already am. You can't keep me here.”

Doc shakes his head. “No. You're right. I can't. But I think you need—” His hand moves to his neck, where his wireless communicator is embedded beneath his skin.

“No!” This is another argument we've had plenty of times before. Doc—and Elder too—neither of them understands why I refuse to get a wi-com. I know Elder wants me to have one because he cares and worries about me. And—it would be nice, to be able to talk to him whenever I like. Touch a button and I could ride the grav tube up to Elder's level, com him, or just find out where he is on the ship.

A wi-com is the ultimate cell phone, always keeping you plugged in.

Always keeping you tied to this ship, this ship that is
not
my home. I won't get a wi-com any more than I'll lock myself up in this room. Wi-coms are just too . . . too . . . too
not
-Earth. I can't just let myself be wired into the ship. I can't let them cut me open and implant something not-Earth
into
me, beneath my skin, wiggling into my brain. I can't do that.

Doc reaches into his pocket and pulls something out in a fluid motion that seems contrary to his usually stiff persona. He holds the thing out to me.

“This is a”—Doc pauses—“it's a special wi-com.”

I force myself to look at the thing in his hand. It's essentially a tiny button, not any bigger than a dime, with three wires coming from each side. In a regular wi-com, the button's hidden underneath the skin behind your left ear and the wires burrow into your flesh. But Doc has braided the wires into a circle, making a bracelet. Tiny words are printed along the red wire, so small I can barely see them.

“Give me your hand.”

I raise my arm obediently, then hesitate, drawing it closer to me. Doc snatches my wrist before I have a chance to object and slips the bracelet wi-com over my hand. He tightens it quickly—not enough to cut off my circulation, but enough to stop it from slipping off my wrist. Before I can say anything, Doc secures the wires with a metal cinch.

“You'll have to hold it to your mouth to speak,” he says. “And then hold it to your ear to hear coms. There's an amplifier there.” He points to the tiny black mesh that circles the button. This whole thing is smaller than the earbuds I used when I went running before school, but it's clearly far more powerful. When Doc tests it by sending me a com link request, it beeps loudly enough for me to hear from my wrist. Intrigued, I raise my hand to my ear and listen to the tiny electronic voice of the wi-com say, “Com link req: Doc.”

“You made this?” I ask, awed.

Doc hesitates. His unease is so unnatural that I stop staring at the bracelet wi-com and instead turn my gaze to his nervous face. “No,” he says finally. “I didn't make this. I found it.”

“Where?” I ask. Dread wriggles through my veins like worms writhing in mud.

“In the Recorder Hall.”

I glance down at the wi-com on my wrist in revulsion. All I can think about is the angry, spiderweb scar that marred the side of Orion's head, just under his left ear. I imagine the wires braided around my wrist being ripped from his flesh, dripping in blood and gore. “This was
his?”
I hiss.

Doc nods. “I found it among his possessions. He altered it himself. I don't know why he kept it, even—but the design works perfectly.” Doc pauses. I didn't know it was possible, but he looks even more uncomfortable as he meets my eyes. “There was . . . a note. He made this wi-com specifically for you.”

“For me?” I ask, peering down at the thing entwined around my wrist.

“He wrote that he feared for your safety, if something happened to him and the Eldest system faltered, as he thought it would. As it did.”

I don't know what to do with this information. That Orion, who tried to kill my father, who
did
kill other people from Earth, helpless, frozen, and defenseless, that he would care enough about me to remake his wi-com . . . A twisted sort of emotion, part gratitude, part revulsion, snakes around my insides.

“Not that I really want a wi-com, but can't you just make another one? A
new
one? One that wasn't under someone's
skin
?”

“We don't have unlimited resources. There are more babies coming than we have wi-coms ready for, and the Shippers are already scrambling to make more. Besides which, I can't program a used one for a baby; it runs a greater chance of wearing out over time.”

I fiddle with the metal clasp, trying to get the blasted thing off.

Doc's hand twitches, but he doesn't reach out to stop me. Instead, he says, “Amy, you need a wi-com. It's this or get one implanted.”

“You can't make me—” I start.

“No,” he says, “but Elder can. And we both agree—and you know it too—that you need to be able to call for help if . . .”

My hand stills.
If.

Frex. He's right.

Doc nods, satisfied that I'm not going to rip the thing off and throw it away. “Well. I just wanted to give you this. Let me know if . . . if you need anything.” He walks away, shutting the door behind him.

But me, I remain as frozen as when I lay in the glass coffin and the ice stilled my beating heart.

Frex is one of
their
words.

I am not one of them.

I, with a wi-com on my wrist, am not one of them.

I'm not.

 

I'm not.

5

ELDER

The words take a long time to sink in. “We're . . . stopped?” I say. I scan the Shippers' faces, hoping for some hint that this isn't true, but the grim set of Marae's jaw is evidence enough for me.

Oh,
frex
. How am I going to tell Amy
this?

“How long have we been stopped?” My voice rises. I sound like a tantrum-throwing child, but I can't help it.

“We're . . . not sure. For some time. Maybe since the Plague.” Marae bites her lip.

“There was no Plague,” I say automatically. She knows this; she's just used to calling the mutiny that happened so many gens ago the Plague, perpetuating the lie the Eldest system is based on.

Behind me, the ship's heartbeat continues:
whirr-churn-whirr
. “How can we not be moving?” I ask. “The engine is still working.” Even to me, I sound desperate, a child refusing to believe the fairy tales aren't real.

“We've been diverting energy since the Eldest system began, actually. We need it for the internal function of the ship. The solar lamp alone isn't strong enough anymore.”

I force myself to meet Marae's eyes. “So where are we?”

Marae shakes her head, thrown off by my question. “What do you mean?”

“How far away are we from Centauri-Earth? If we've been stopped for . . . for so long, then our projected planet-landing is . . . inaccurate, to say the least. So, how far away are we?”

“We don't know,” Marae says. “We cannot be concerned with planet-landing now. We have to hold
Godspeed
together.”

The authority in her tone—the way
she
has given
me
an order—claws up my spine. “Here's what we're going to do,” I command. “One of you will be assigned to navigation. Exclusively. If we know how far away we are, we'll know how big a fix we need to do on the engine. Maybe we can make the ship limp along, long enough to reach the planet. Maybe eventually we'll have to discuss more drastic measures.” I level my gaze on Marae. “But we
are
going to focus more on making this ship actually reach Centauri-Earth.”

Second Shipper Shelby opens her mouth to speak, but Marae throws her hand up first to stop her. “I'll do it myself,” she says, “but first, we want to make a
request
of you.”

The way she says “request” makes it feel much more like a demand, but I nod anyway.

“We want the Feeders to be put back on Phydus.”

My hand slips into my pocket. For a moment, I wonder if Marae knows that I've carried the wires from the Phydus machine with me every day since Amy ripped them out three months ago.

“No,”
I say, firmly, as much to myself as to them.

“It wouldn't be hard to fix the Phydus machine,” Marae says. “In fact, Second Shipper Shelby has already done a preliminary repair report—”

Marae holds her hand out, and Shelby gives her another floppy already flashing with a mechanical diagram.

I glance down at the floppy. It would be an easy fix. An easy fix—and an easy solution. A little bit of Phydus—maybe not even as much as Eldest used before . . . we could eliminate a lot of the conflicts we're having . . . get people back to working without fuss . . .

“No,” I say adamantly, my voice low. “We're not using the pumps.”

“It doesn't have to be through the pumps,” Marae says. “Doc's been working on some med patches for us using the Phydus compound.”

I cut her off. “No one
needs
Phydus.”

Marae's lips tighten. She reaches across me and swipes her finger across the top of the floppy. The mechanical diagrams are replaced with a line chart. “Productivity decreased by ten percent the first week the Feeders were off Phydus. It's down to nearly thirty percent now, and there seems to be no indication that it will rise again.” She offers me the floppy, but I don't take it. “Our food supplies are dangerously low. This is a primary concern, but we're running out of other necessities, such as clothing, as well.”

I open my mouth to speak, but she continues in an even voice. “We have crime now. Never had it before. But now we do. Domestic violence, theft, vandalism. With Phydus—”

And there it is. Doubt. They trust the drug more than me.

“I'll take care of the people,” I say, my voice firm. “You take care of the ship.”

“But Eld—Eld
er
,” Marae says, resting one slender hand on my arm. “Why bother? They don't need to be anything but workers. We don't need them to be anything else.”

“I understand what you're saying.” I grip the edges of the floppy.

I don't tell her that I've thought of all of this before.

I don't tell her that's why I carry the wires to the Phydus machine around in my pocket every day.

Instead, I say, “What we need is a police force. Like they had on Sol-Earth. I need people who I can trust, who can help me ensure that everything runs smoothly.”

Marae stands straighter. “A poe-leez force?”

This time, I'm the one who swipes the floppy and starts tapping on the screen. After a moment, I hand her an article about police and social sciences. She scans it briefly, then hands it to Shelby.

“Basically, I need people who can help enforce the rules. Investigate crime, stop people from doing wrong. If there's trouble, I'll need backup.”

“The Shippers have always been obedient to the Eldest system. We will make sure the system does not fail. In whatever capacity it becomes.” She means: she's willing to try using police instead of Phydus. I'm not confident enough in her words or my position to ask what will happen if my latest suggestion fails.

I know the first-level Shippers better than nearly anyone else on this ship, even though I've only worked with them in the months since Eldest died. I can read their faces. Haile and Jodee and Tailor are nodding along with Marae, eager to accept this role. Prestyn, Brittne, Buck, and even Second Shipper Shelby look wary. I know they will follow Marae, though, even if they wouldn't follow me. And while Marae sometimes still tries to boss me around because I'm younger, she never truly forgets my position as Eldest, even if I won't take the name.

This might just work.

And, as soon as I think that, Shelby makes a noise of surprise. We turn to her. In her hands is the floppy she'd taken earlier. She holds it out first to Marae, but then she thinks better of it and hands it to me. The Shippers break their ordered line and crowd around me as I read the giant white words flashing across the black screen.

 

DO NOT ACCEPT THE OPPRESSION OF THE ELDEST SYSTEM

THERE IS NO LEADER

LEAD YOURSELF

 

“Someone has hacked into the floppy network,” Marae growls. Her fierce eyes meet mine. “Is this what you meant by needing a poe-leez force?”

“Yes.” My voice lacks her passion. These words flashing across the screen say I am nothing, and for the first time since Eldest died, I think they may be right.

Marae slides the floppy from my fingers and tries to swipe the screen clear. The last two words—
LEAD YOURSELF
—grow larger, filling the whole screen. Marae slides her fingers across the screen again. Nothing happens.

“Frex!” I've never heard her curse before.

The Shippers gather close to the screen. They look worried—Haile and Jodee start whispering to each other, and Brittne's hand moves to her wi-com. Shelby's eyes keep reading the phrase over and over, mouthing the words silently.

“Calm down,” Marae snaps, and I—and every Shipper—focus our attention on her. “This is our first task as poe-leez. And we will
not
fail the Eldest.”

She hands the floppy to Fourth Shipper Prestyn. “This is a good hack,” he says after a moment of examination. “I'll get my group started on breaking it right away.”

Marae nods curtly, and Prestyn heads to the door, already barking orders into his wi-com.

“I'll check all our security feeds,” Second Shipper Shelby says.

“And we'll need to start researching methods to add increased security to the floppy network,” Marae says. The rest of the Shippers break away from the group, a buzz of activity already drowning out the sounds of the churning engine behind me.

Marae touches my elbow and draws me aside. I can still see the bright white words on the floppy, mocking me.

“What are you going to do, Elder?” she asks.

I meet her eyes. “I really don't know.”