A Million Suns atu-2

by Beth Revis

  “There aren’t any—” I start, but I stop abruptly. There are few locked doors on the ship — and fewer doors still that my biometric scan can’t break through. But there is one area that is full of locked doors, doors locked with a keypad whose code even Eldest didn’t know.

  “The doors on the cryo level,” I say. “The ones near the hatch.”

  Amy nods. “It has to be.”

  “Still got that vid screen with you?” I ask. Amy pulls it out of her pocket, and I snap the mem card into it. Amy runs her finger on the ID box on the screen. The screen comes alive with Orion’s face. After hesitating a moment, Amy leans in closer to me, close enough to see the screen, but not so close that she touches me.

  <>

  Orion is barely visible, hidden in shadow. He sits on the fourth step of a large staircase extending out of view behind him. His right hand taps against his knee in a jittery, almost nervous way.

  “Where is that?” Amy asks.

  I shake my head, intent on the video.

  The camera wobbles as Orion adjusts the image. He speaks softly, almost kindly.

  ORION: First, I want to say I’m sorry about Kayleigh. I never meant for her to die.

  “He killed her?” Amy gasps.

  I say nothing, but a heavy stone sinks in my stomach.

  ORION: I didn’t kill her. But I might as well have. She figured it out. Eldest’s biggest secret. The one he doesn’t want anyone to know.

  “What could that be—”

  “Shh.”

  Orion pauses, swallowing hard as if overcome with emotion.

  ORION: Amy, you should know this — if you decide to keep looking — Kayleigh’s murder was a warning. Eldest may have killed Kayleigh, but there are things I can do. Locks I can change. Fool that he is — he hasn’t thought to check them.

  Orion stops abruptly. His eyes lose focus.

  ORION: I don’t know what’s right or wrong anymore. Not since Kayleigh died. I don’t know if what she knew was something the whole ship should know. I don’t know if she should have found the truth.

  Orion shifts on the steps.

  ORION: I don’t know if killing her was worth saving the ship.

  He shrugs, as if there’s a possibility that killing her was excusable, or even understandable.

  ORION: Maybe it was. Maybe Eldest is right. This truth… I don’t think anyone wants it.

  Orion tucks a piece of hair behind his ear.

  I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear.

  ORION: That’s why I need you, Amy. You will know. Because you were born on a planet, but you’ve lived on Godspeed. You’re the only one on the whole ship who can know what to do with this truth.

  Orion turns to face the camera, and his eyes seem to lock with mine.

  ORION: I’ve seen the armory. Eldest showed it to me once. Just before… Anyway, I started asking questions. Like: If we are on a peaceful, exploratory mission like Eldest says, why are we armed for war?

  I glance at Amy, but her attention is focused on the vid screen. Inside me, the stone grows larger. Amy never believed Orion had a reason to kill the frozens — she thought he was crazy and that his theory that the frozens would exploit those of us born on the ship was a delusion. I don’t think she believes there even is an armory behind one of the locked doors, even now, seeing Orion talk about it.

  Orion looks over both shoulders, fear filling his face. He looks guilty or afraid or both.

  ORION: So here’s what you need to do, Amy. You need to see the armory for yourself. You were from Sol-Earth, your father was in the military. You should know what is a reasonable amount of weaponry a ship like ours should have. So, go to the armory. See for yourself.

  Orion shifts out of focus, then leans forward, his face filling the screen.

  ORION: Oh, right. You need the code to get past the locked door, don’t you? Well, I’ll say only this, Amy. Go home. You hear me? Go home. You’ll find the answer there. GO HOME.

  The screen fades to black.

  <>

  24 AMY

  GO HOME? GO HOME? WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SUPPOSED to mean? Earth? Yeah, I wish. The new planet? Just as impossible.

  “Maybe he means the next clue is hidden inside an atlas or something?” Elder says.

  Ha ha, Orion, funny joke. My home is nothing but a book of maps to places that I can’t even reach anymore.

  “Maybe,” is all I say aloud. “I guess it’s worth checking into.”

  Elder places the painting down on the ground gently, reverently, and looks over his shoulder at it as he follows me out of the tiny bedroom, through the bathroom, and into the next bedroom. Lil’s still on her bed. She sits up when she sees us.

  “You’re taking it, aren’t you?” she spits.

  “No,” Elder says. “It’s yours.”

  Lil blinks, and her eyes focus on him. She glances at me, but her eyes dart quickly away again, unable to bear the sight of me, I suppose.

  “And I’ll make sure food is sent to you,” Elder says. “I’m going to send Doc over here too. He’s been working on some med patches I think will help.”

  Lil nods, but she doesn’t get up as we leave her home. Part of me wonders: will she jump out of bed, race to her precious painting? Or does she care enough to even do that?

  As we head down the stairs back into the City streets, Elder pushes his wi-com and starts issuing orders, first for food delivery, then for medication. He’s so intent that he doesn’t notice the angry man who spots us as we descend.

  “Where is she?” the man demands. The man leans forward so close that Elder backs away until he bumps into the handrail of the stairs.

  “Who?” Elder asks.

  “Lil. You gonna make her work? ’Cause it ain’t fair I’m working if she’s not!”

  “Stevy, she’s sick. She needs some time. I’ve commed Doc—”

  “She ain’t sick! Just lazy!” the man roars.

  Elder puts up both his hands. “Stevy, I’m doing what I can. She can go back to work when she’s read—”

  But he doesn’t have a chance to finish his sentence. His eyes widen with shock as Stevy rears back his fist and slams it straight into Elder’s jaw. Elder crashes to the ground. As soon as he manages to get back on his feet with the help of the handrail, Stevy slams his fist into his face again. Elder staggers back, but this time, he doesn’t fall.

  I don’t realize I’ve screamed until the sound is out of my throat. Behind us, the group of spinners who were outside plying yarn have all noticed — they’re standing up; they’re rushing forward; they’re screaming too; they’re holding back; they’re whispering to each other behind their hands.

  I spin around. “Someone do something!” I shout at them. I’ve witnessed enough high school fights to know that a girl like me would be stupid to rush between them — they’re both at least a foot taller than me, and one of Stevy’s punches could easily knock me out.

  Three of the spinners — two men and a woman who’s not that much bigger than me — rush forward. But before they reach us, Stevy falls to the ground, clutching his head. The spinners stop short, staring.

  Elder wipes his bleeding lip with the back of his hand.

  “Make it stop,” Stevy says, his voice somewhere between a whine and a demand.

  “It will automatically stop in about two minutes.” Elder speaks calmly, but there’s a cold impassivity to his voice that frightens me. “By that point, I think you should have learned punching me is a very bad idea.”

  “What have you done?” I ask.

  His lip won’t stop bleeding; his teeth are outlined in red. “Something I told myself I’d never do,” Elder mutters. “Come on.”

  He doesn’t continue down the main street. Instead, he veers down an alley that heads toward the Greenhouses.

  “It was something with his wi-com,” Elder says even though I’ve dropped the question. “Eldest did it to me once. It’s pretty effective at stopping someo
ne.”

  “Elder!” a voice bellows after us. Elder freezes, then turns slowly back to the scene of the crime.

  Stevy is lying on the ground, whimpering and clutching his head. Bartie looms over him, pointing at Elder. “What right do you have to punish this man like this?” he roars. “You said you were so much better than Eldest, but look at you! The first time someone protests against you, you punish him so severely he can’t even stand!”

  Elder narrows his eyes and storms back to Bartie and Stevy. “Okay, first? He can stand. It’s just a thing that makes your wi-com make noise. And second? He punched me. He punched me.”

  Even though Bartie and Elder are close enough now that they could talk in normal tones, both of them are yelling. Bartie has his guitar strapped to his back, and for a crazy moment I think he’s going to grab it by the neck and swing it at Elder’s head. Instead, he just shouts, “What will you do the next time someone disagrees with you? Kill them?”

  “Oh, come on! Quit exaggerating!”

  But no one else seems to think Bartie’s exaggerating. They’re all watching Stevy moan and writhe on the ground.

  “It’s not that bad,” Elder tells Stevy. “And besides, it should be over now.” But Stevy doesn’t get up. I wonder, is he playing up the pain to get attention, or does it really hurt as badly as it seems?

  “We can’t trust you, Elder,” Bartie says, still shouting loudly enough for everyone to hear. He’s drawing a crowd — the spinners have all hopped up from their spinning wheels to see what’s going on. The bakers, covered with flour, are poking their heads out of their shop windows. The butchers walk out, meat cleavers still in their hands.

  “When have I lied?” Elder says. “When have I proven dishonest?”

  I try not to think about how Elder hasn’t told everyone that the ship’s stopped. It’s not a lie, after all, just… not quite telling the whole truth.

  “Everything I’ve ever done has been for this ship!” Elder bellows.

  “Even her?” Bartie asks, pointing past Elder. At me.

  “Don’t bring Amy into this.”

  I stand, rooted to the spot, as everyone, even Stevy, turns their gaze on me.

  When I first woke up on Godspeed, I went running and found myself in the City — but it was a different City from this. The people had hollow eyes and seemed robotic; they were frightening because they were so empty inside. Now their emotions are boiling over, and the fear and anger and distrust all writhe together inside them, spilling out in narrowed gazes and snarling lips and clenched fists.

  “Get out of here, Amy,” Elder mutters, casting a worried glance at me. I reach up and he grabs my hands, giving them a gentle squeeze before releasing me. “Go back to the Hospital. Go to where it’s safe.”

  But I want to stay here. I want to show Elder that I’m not another mistake that Bartie can use against him. I want stand behind him and prove my loyalty.

  That is, until someone in the crowd moves forward.

  Luthor.

  Just an anonymous face in an angry crowd. Bartie shouts something else, and Elder snaps back, and everyone’s attention shifts to their argument.

  Except Luthor’s.

  His eyes are locked on mine. His lips curve in a smile that twists at the corners, reminding me of the Grinch who stole Christmas.

  He mouths something, and although I can’t tell what he’s soundlessly saying to me, I can guess the words. I can do anything I want.

  I run — I race — I flee.

  25 ELDER

  I’M GLAD AMY LEFT — I DON’T WANT HER INVOLVED IN THIS argument. I hate how quickly Bartie drew her into it.

  And I hate how quickly the crowd has grown.

  I touch the wi-com on the side of my neck. “Marae, get down here. Bring your police force.”

  She starts to respond, but I cut off the com link. I need to focus on Bartie.

  “Oh, calling for backup?” Bartie sneers.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask. “I thought you were my friend.”

  “This isn’t about friendship.” His voice isn’t raised now; these are words for just me, even though the entire crowd is listening. “This is about having a chance to turn this ship into the kind of world we want to live in.”

  “And there’s no place for me, huh?”

  “There’s no place for an Eldest. Even an Eldest who calls himself Elder.”

  From the corner of my eye, I can see blurs of dark blue and black zipping through the grav tube at the City. Marae will be here soon, along with about a half-dozen Shippers.

  Stevy groans and struggles to his feet.

  “Okay,” I say. “It’s all over. Let’s just get back to work.”

  Some of the people in the crowd start to break away. The tension is already diffusing.

  “Everyone break it up!” Marae roars, rushing forward.

  And there’s the tension back again.

  “Ah, here comes Elder’s latest idea — the police force,” Bartie sneers, his voice raised again. “Here to make sure we work like good little boys and girls or else.”

  “It’s not like that,” I say — to both him and Marae.

  “Can’t anybody see what’s going on?” A new voice cuts through the mass of people surrounding us. It’s Luthor. Of course it is. He always has been one to revel in a fight, even years ago, when we were living in the Ward. Only now he doesn’t bother to hide it. “He’s scared. Our Elder is scared. He’s scared of you! You! You have the power. He can’t control all of us!”

  “We can do what we want!” another voice from the crowd shouts.

  “We can lead ourselves!” Bartie calls back.

  The call becomes a cheer. Lead ourselves! Lead ourselves! Lead ourselves!

  Marae and the other Shippers try to drown out the chant with their own shouted orders for silence. Expletives mingle with the chant — sneers and threats. The Shippers respond in kind. Their threats lead to action. Marae shoves a man twice her size back as he draws too close to us; another man takes a swing at Shelby.

  I slam my hand against my wi-com. “Communicate area: within fifty feet of my location,” I order. As soon as the wi-com beeps that the connection has been made with every other wi-com in the area, I say, “Everyone, calm down. There’s no need for this.”

  A few people stop; they’re listening to their wi-coms, I can tell. But not enough. “EVERYONE STOP,” I shout, and my voice echoes in all of their ears. “Look around you!” I order, and most of them do. “These are your friends, your family. You’re fighting each other. And there’s no need for that. Stop. Fighting. Now.”

  I take a deep breath. For the most part, the crowd has stilled.

  “And what about Food Distro?” Luthor roars through the quiet.

  “What?” My head whips around to Marae. “What’s going on at Food Distro?”

  “Don’t you know?” Bartie says, disgust in his voice. “How can you call yourself a leader if you don’t even know that food distribution stopped?”

  I turn again to Marae. “We were aware of the problem,” she says apologetically. “We were just about to com you.”

  I don’t bother waiting for another answer. I take off down the street toward Food Distro. The crowd around us is surprised — they weren’t expecting me to suddenly start running straight for them. A few don’t get out of my way fast enough, and I bump into them but don’t stop. I can hear their voices and the thudding of their feet on the pavement following me, but I’m so frexing angry that I can barely think straight. I do not need Food Distro, of all things, added to my problems.

  Frex. Frex, frex, frex.

  The Food Distro is a giant warehouse so far on the edge of the City that it butts against the steel walls that encase the Feeder Level. Food distribution is automatic — or it’s supposed to be. When I get to the huge steel-and-brick building, the manager, Fridrick, has chained the doors shut. He stands in front of them, arms crossed, eyes trained on me, waiting for a fight.

 
Everything in me tenses — my fists, my teeth, my eyes.

  “What’s going on?” I growl. The crowd that had gathered around Bartie and me now presses against me and Fridrick — and it is even bigger than before. Marae and the Shippers try to move around the edges, urging people to leave and let us take care of the problems, but they’re not listening. Instead, the crowd is growing.

  “I’ll distribute food manually,” Fridrick says. “I’ll make sure everyone gets their fair share.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He’s keeping the food for himself!” a woman shouts.

  “It’s not right!”

  “Let’s break down the doors!”

  “Calm the frex down!” I bellow, spinning on my heel and glaring at the crowd. They don’t calm — but at least they quit shouting. “Now,” I say, turning back to Fridrick, who’s been in charge of Food Distro since before I was born. “What’s the problem with food distribution?”

  “No problem,” Fridrick says. “Once everyone leaves, I’ll begin distributing the food.”

  I cast a doubtful look at the chain on the doors.

  “He’s only going to give food to some of us!” a deep male voice calls out from the crowd.

  “For the ones who deserve it!” comes another voice.

  I risk another glance behind me. Marae and the Shippers are all directly behind me, keeping the crowd from surging forward. There’s at least two hundred people here, maybe more. They move in waves, not as individuals, and the waves are pressing closer to Fridrick and me.

  “You don’t own the food,” I say to Fridrick. Now I speak loudly on purpose, intending everyone to hear.

  “I do.” He glares at me.

  “You can’t dictate who gets to eat and who doesn’t,” I shoot back.

  “The storage levels are low.”

  I know they are.

  “So what do I do?” Fridrick demands in a mocking tone. “Give everyone less? Or do what should be done — just distribute food to the ones who’ve earned it?”