A Million Suns (Across the Universe #2)

A Million Suns (Across the Universe #2) Page 8

I was the only person on the whole ship who hadn’t called her that.

And now I have.

Amy jerks her head, almost as if the words have struck a blow against her cheek. She spins on her heel and storms toward the Learning Center door—and the grav tube that would take her away from me.

“Amy!” I shout, racing after her. She ducks her head away from me, hair swinging down to cover her face, and darts through the door. I grab her by the elbow, spinning her around and pulling her back into the Great Room. She jerks out of my grasp, but at least she doesn’t keep running from me.

“I’m sorry,” I say immediately. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I raise my hand again, but she flinches from me, and I drop it immediately.

She doesn’t meet my eyes.

“You’re right,” she finally says, blinking rapidly and looking up at the artificial stars.

“No, I’m not, I’m sorry, you’re not a freak, you’re not.”

She shakes her head. “Not about that. About . . . I’m scared,” she whispers.

She twists the wi-com round and round her wrist, leaving a red mark. I’ve seen her silent before, brooding. There have been times when we’d be talking and she’d suddenly drop from the conversation, retreat within herself for a few moments before returning to me. Before, I’d always thought it had something to do with me—that she’d remembered my betrayal, or I’d said something to trigger a memory of the past she could no longer have. Now I’m wondering if it’s something else.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice lower, the fight in it gone, replaced with concern.

She jumps at the question.

“Has someone hurt you?” I ask. “Or threatened you?”

I move closer to her. I want to reach out, take her hands in mine, draw her closer to me. But she looks as hard as stone.

10

AMY

WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY? THAT I STILL HAVE NIGHTMARES about something that happened three months ago? How lame would that sound? If I was going to say something, I should have said it then. But then everything else became much more important—Harley and Eldest’s deaths, Orion’s capture, the elimination of Phydus. Elder has over two thousand people who all have a problem they expect him to fix. How could I burden him with one more from me? If there was anyone I could tell, it would be him—but I can’t. I can’t. It’s not just that three months have passed, or that he’s busy with the ship, or that I’m afraid he won’t believe me.

It’s that, when it happened, he wasn’t the one to save me.

And if he couldn’t save me then, how can he save me now?

“I could protect you,” Elder says, moving closer to me but not meeting my eyes. “You could move in with me . . .” His words fade to silence.

We’re so close we could touch. All it would take is for me to reach out my hand. But neither of us makes a move.

“I don’t need to,” I say automatically. I have control. I don’t need to run away and hide. I will not let Luthor turn me into a simpering child.

And I don’t want Elder to believe he has to take care of me. Because if he thinks I want his protection, he’s also going to think I want more.

I start pacing, but it just makes the walls feel closer.

Elder runs his fingers through his hair, making a rumpled mess of it. “You don’t have to stay here just to be safe,” he finally says, standing up too. “You could stay for—for other reasons. . . . ”

“No,” I whisper, knowing and dreading what he’s going to say next. I can’t—I’m not ready—I don’t . . . I don’t know. I don’t know what I want, but I know that I don’t want to hear what he’s going to say, just as surely as I know he’s going to say it anyway.

He grabs my arms, not in an angry grip like before, but in a gentle, soft way that invites me closer to him. I don’t move.

“Amy—I—” He looks down, takes a deep breath. “I . . . I care about you. I want you to want to be here.” He doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “With me.”

He lets go of me, raising one hand to brush the hair from my face. I can’t help it; I close my eyes and lean into his hand, feeling the warm roughness of his fingers against my cheek. His breath shudders.

I step closer.

I look up, and he’s searching my eyes, just like he did after kissing me for the first time in the rain. “What are you looking for?”

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t need to.

I know what he wants.

And it’s not fair.

“Just because we’re the only two teenagers on this whole ship doesn’t mean I have to love you. Why can’t I have a choice? Options?”

Elder steps back, stung.

“Look, it’s not that I don’t like you,” I say quickly, reaching for him. He jerks away. “It’s just . . .”

“Just what?” he growls.

Just that if I was back on Earth instead of on this damn ship, if I had met Elder at school or at a club or on a blind date, if I had my choice between Elder and every other boy in the world . . . Would I love him then?

Would he love me?

Love without choice isn’t love at all.

“Just that I don’t want to be with you just because there’s no one else.”

11

ELDER

“BUT . . .”

But she’s already gone.

12

AMY

THE NEXT MORNING, I GO STRAIGHT TO MY PARENTS. I STARE at their icy faces until my eyes hurt, then I squeeze them shut. But whether I see them or not, the truth remains: They are frozen. I am not. And Godspeed is stopped.

Stopped.

I force these thoughts from my head. Instead, I try to think of something to say to my parents, some memory I miss. But I can’t concentrate. I sigh, stand up, and slam my parents back into their cryo chambers. Nothing’s been right since Elder’s fight with me, and I can’t dwell on both their past and ours.

It’s strange. On Earth, I’ve been called a lot worse than freak. But here, that word carries a different meaning, and when shouted at you by one of the few people you trust, it carries a different hurt.

As I straighten, something digs into the side of my leg. I reach into my pocket and pull out the small rectangle of black plastic that I found yesterday in the Recorder Hall. I almost showed it to Elder, but . . . I couldn’t. When I got to the Keeper Level, I just wanted to be with him, without ominous messages from Orion to distract us. And then all I wanted was to escape from him.

The black rectangle looks like a small version of a floppy, so I swipe my fingers along the top of it. A glowing box lights up in the middle of the screen. Words flash across it: RESTRICTED ACCESS.

I glance up. Without meaning to, I’ve meandered past the cryo chambers and toward the gen lab on the far side of this level. Beyond that door are vats of genetic material Doc and Eldest used to manipulate pregnancies during the Season, the water pump used to distribute Phydus . . . and Orion. What’s left of him. A frozen shell like my parents.

I roll my thumb across the biometric scanner that locks the door to the gen lab and step inside once the door zips open. Someone’s placed a chair right beside the closest cryo chamber in the room, facing the thick glass window, like a Father positioning a chair to speak to the bedridden ill. I kick the chair out of the way so that I’m face-to-face with the man behind the glass.

Orion.

“I hate you,” I say.

His eyes bulge, his fingers claw, but he can’t reach me. He can’t respond, he can’t blink, he can’t even move. He’s frozen, as good as dead.

But I still hate him.

This is Orion’s punishment. For the murders of the frozens and for the death of Eldest. When—if—the ship lands and the other cryogenically frozen people awake, they are to judge him for his murders and do with him as they see fit. That is the sentence Elder laid on him when he pushed the button to freeze him. But I know—in ways that no one else on this ship does—the real punishment is in being frozen. My mind remembers what it’s like to be asleep but not asleep. My body recalls the way my muscles wouldn’t—couldn’t—move. My heart will never forget what it’s like to fade in and out of time, to never know if one year or a thousand have passed by, to torture yourself with the idea of your soul trapped behind ice for all eternity.

I know what torture there is behind ice.

Behind the glass window in the cryo tube, I can see the red veins popping in Orion’s eyes. I imagine myself mirrored in his pupils, but he’s blind. His hand is pressed against the tiny window in the cryo freezing tube. For a moment, I place my warm, living hand over his. Then I glance at his eyes and snatch my hand away.

In my other hand, I still hold the small floppy thing I found in the Recorder Hall. I look at the handprint I left on the glass in front of Orion’s face, then back at the box on the screen and the words across it: RESTRICTED ACCESS. Some information on the floppy network is restricted—Elder has to use his thumbprint, like on the biometric scanner, to unlock it. I doubt my thumbprint will be enough, but . . .

I press my thumb against the glowing box.

The entire screen lights up.

And I find myself looking into Orion’s face.

<>

On the screen, Orion looks exactly as I remember him just before he was frozen: unkempt dark hair that could do with a wash, eyes that seem oddly kind given his quickness to kill, and an easygoing, friendly curve of his lips that belies the lines in his face. He sits on the bottom of a staircase so large that it extends past him well out of view, up and up. I’ve never seen that staircase before, a fact I find oddly comforting. I like that there are still some things about Godspeed I don’t know.

The image wobbles as Orion adjusts the camera.

ORION: If you’re seeing this, then something went wrong.

I glance up at the frozen Orion. Yeah, something went wrong. The ship is stopped, Elder’s already hiding the truth from everyone else, and I don’t know how much longer we can survive.

ORION: I hope that no one ever sees this. I hope that all went as I had planned, that Elder joined my side, and that together we defeated Eldest and started a new system of rule on Godspeed based not on tyranny, but on working together.

Orion sighs heavily.

ORION: But I’m not certain Elder’s on my side, and I know Eldest isn’t, and there’s too much at stake to leave anything to chance. I have to have a contingency plan. And Amy—you are my contingency plan.

Orion turns toward me, as if he knew I’d be a little to his left, his eyes boring into mine.

ORION: I hope Elder’s the leader I need him to be—that this ship needs him to be. But if he isn’t and if I’m . . . well, if I can’t be there to help, all that I have left is this video and the hope that you, someone from Sol-Earth, will know what to do. I can’t leave this information for just the shipborns. They don’t know enough. They can’t make a choice about what to do when they only know one thing. But you—Amy—you know both the ship and a planet. You can be objective. You will know which is the greater evil. When you know all that I know, all that Eldest tried to keep hidden, then you will also know what to do.