Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I (2 page)

I chew on the inside of my lip and step through the door. The surprisingly large room smells like lemons.

Willow walks around the L-shaped counter in the kitchen and pulls a mug from one of the cherry wood cabinets. “Make yourself at home.” She gestures to a horrid puke-green sofa across the room.

“I know. It’s great, right?” she says after calculating my expression.

“It’s hideous,” I retort.

She thinks this is funny. “Well, that’s subtle.”

“I’m not subtle,” I say.

“So I’ve seen.”

“What does that mean?”

She shrugs and says nothing else.

I make my way toward the atrocity, the old hardwood floor creaking under my feet, and sit beside a guitar that’s seen better days. Sheet music littered with scribbles and a chewed-up pencil lay on an aged trunk turned coffee table. The ache in my chest burns.

“You a musician?” I ask over my shoulder, glad that she can’t see my face.

“Observant. That’ll come in handy as a Satellite. So, what brought you here?”

“Cancer.” I force my eyes away from the yellowed paper.

“Well, isn’t that just a kick in the crotch. Tea?”

I twist around to see her. Do I really look like a guy who would drink tea? “How about a Coke?”

“Dude, that crap’ll kill you.” She smirks at her own joke. “Water, then,” she decides, hurling a bottle in my direction. After years of my father throwing things at me, I catch it easily.

She bounces over and plops down in the guitar’s place. The instrument hits the floor with a groan. “So, kid, tell me what you know so far.” She picks at her electric-blue fingernails, completely oblivious to how obnoxious she is.

I take a deep breath. “I know I’m dead, I’ve abandoned my fiancée, and apparently I’m supposed to watch over some stranger. This blows, if you want my two cents.”

“I don’t want your two cents, but you should feel honored to be chosen. Being a Satellite is major. Very few people are cut out for it.”

“Lucky me,” I snap.

“You can sulk all day, but it’s not going to change anything. It will, however, make me crazy, so get over it already.”

Deflated, I sink into the couch even further. “I don’t want to be dead.”

She stares at me. “Done?”

“For now.”

“Don’t worry about your fiancée, kid. You’ll forget all about her soon.”

I sit back up. “Forget?”

“Uh-huh. Most of your memories will be gone within a week,” she says, as if it’s no big deal.

“But I don’t want to forget.” Panic causes my voice to hitch.

She laughs. “Nobody wants to forget, but it’s part of the process. I lost my memories of my husband and daughter, so I get it.” She looks at the bookshelf across the room. “It’s necessary, though.”

I try to keep my breathing in check. “Do you remember anything about them?”

She looks back at me. “Just their names, mostly. It’s critical for us to forget. As Satellites, we can’t afford to be distracted by our pasts.”

Suffocating, I tug at the collar of my sweatshirt and keep the acid in my throat at bay with a swallow. “Will you ever see them again?”

“Of course. As a matter of fact, my husband, Troy, is joining me soon.”

“What about your lost memories?”

“There’s a department called Programming that brings them back.”

Even though I’m internally freaking out, I’m able to raise an eyebrow.

“Your memories don’t die, kid,” Willow explains. “They just get buried.”

Oh, OK.
That
makes perfect sense. I don’t even bother to ask.

“Moving on to Tragedies,” Willow continues.

“Me being here is tragic,” I say under my breath.

“Wrong context,” she says matter-of-factly. “‘Tragedies’ is the term we use for those being protected.”

“Of course it is.”

She glares at me, repositioning herself on the ugly cushion. “Look, kid, you need to get over yourself. You’re connected to a much larger purpose now. Someone out there is going to need your help.”

“That wouldn’t be necessary if everyone had a fair shot at living,” I shoot back.

“Well, isn’t that all rainbows and lollipops,” she mocks, pouncing up like a cat.

When her mug clinks on the black counter I twist to look over the back of the sofa. “What’s wrong with everyone dying of natural causes?” I try to keep the resentment out of my voice.

“Natural causes? Come on, kid—really?” Willow laughs when my eyes narrow. “There’s no such thing as natural causes. Every person’s life is planned beginning to end, period. Your genetics make you built for this.”

“I don’t buy that. I’m as average as they come.”

She moves a tea bag up and down in her mug. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Well, someone made a mistake.”

“There are no mistakes.” She flings her spoon into the sink and shakes her head.

Since we’re clearly getting nowhere, I change the subject. “Can we be Satellites for someone we know?”

She leans against the countertop. “No.”

“That’s stupid! Why not?”

“Nice vocab, kid.” She comes around the counter and walks back to the sofa. “For one thing, it’s against the rules. For another, you’ve gotta be on your best game. Devastating things can happen in an instant. Get it?”

I scowl as my own D-day replays in my head: Tate clutching my clammy hand like I might die right there in the sterile office, the yellow lights making my skin look sickly and transparent, the doctor explaining all the medical terms and then dumbing them down. My brain was frozen on just one part:
“Your cancer is aggressive.”

Willow interrupts my trip down memory lane. “It helps to remember that sometimes the living need to lose someone to find their purpose.”

Right, like that makes it easier to swallow. “I seriously hope you can come up with something better.”

“I’m serious. My daughter would have been a different person with me in her life, and Troy a different kind of father. Neither of us would have become what was intended. Tragedy alters people, and that change is necessary for each person to fulfill his or her purpose.”

My eyes stay fixed on a dark knot in the floor, and I bury my anger more deeply with each breath, pretending the fury won’t return. “I still say it sucks.”

Willow unfolds her legs from under her, pats my knee, and then pushes herself up from the sofa. With half an ounce of pity playing in her voice, she says, “I know it seems that way, but try to stay open minded. Being a Satellite is totally stellar. Trust me, you’re gonna love it.”

.

2. Here come the little stunners

Willow returns from going down the hall and tosses a musty-smelling blue book onto my lap. Pushing the music sheets aside, she parks herself on the trunk and rolls a pencil between her palms.

My eyes scan the thin book that’s certainly secondhand…or third…or hundredth.
Satellite Basics
is in cracked text on the curled cover. “Some title,” I sneer.

“Hey, kid, I didn’t write it. Besides, you look like the type who needs simple instructions. Think of it as Satellites one oh one.”

I frown at her cheerfulness and open to the first page, discolored and stained with spots.

“Read aloud,” she instructs.

I stare at her, realizing she’s serious. I hesitate before reading the black typewriter text. “Rule number one,” I recite mockingly. “Satellites must keep their Tragedies on course.” I look up from the book.

“Seriously, kid. I thought that one would be self-explanatory.”

“Yeah, I get it,” I snap, insulted. “They have to make this a rule?”

“I told you—one oh one.”

“More like
Handbook for Dummies
,” I mutter.

“That’s quite perfect for you, then.”

I throw her my dirtiest look.

She sighs. “Listen, it’s written because it’s important. The Schedulers tend to frown upon rewriting the future because of a Satellite’s carelessness.”

“The Schedulers?”

“It’s exasperating that you know nothing.”

Tell me about it. “I assume that’s what you’re for, as my…whatever you’re called. So enlighten me.”

“I’m your Legacy.” She stares at me as if considering the best way to torture me. “The Schedulers write every person’s life course.”

“Including mine?”

“Including yours. Don’t go hating on them for it.”

I wonder if I’ll get to meet these Schedulers. I smirk, thinking of the choice words I’d share. When the dramatic performance in my head is over, I flip to the next page. “Satellites cannot protect Tragedies they have known in their mortal life.” I look up at Willow. “No explanation needed.”

Because her expression resembles a clown high on cotton candy, I have to bite my cheek to keep from smiling. This turns out to be a big, fat fail.

“That’s the spirit!” Willow sings.

I shake my head and turn the page. “Satellites are forbidden to share information about their assignments with other Satellites.” I pause. “This seems easy enough. Keep my mouth shut.”

“That one seems to be the most difficult rule to obey around here,” Willow says, half to herself.

I ignore her and move on to the fourth. “Blocking will be used only to protect one’s Tragedy or under supervision in training.” I look up from the book. “Should I even ask?”

“You’ll learn all about that one in training.” At my questioning expression, she adds, “We can’t send you dimwits out there blindly.”

Biting my tongue, I turn to the last page. “The Schedulers have outdone themselves.”

Willow twirls a frizzy dreadlock. “Just read it.”

“Satellites must allow themselves to separate from their pasts.” I stare at the page. “What do they mean by ‘allow’?” I ask evenly.

“The quicker you accept your new life, the easier you will transition. You’ve gotta let go of your past, kid.”

I can’t look away from the words. “And if I don’t let go?”

“Fighting it will only slow the inevitable,” she says quietly.

I inwardly rebel. The Schedulers may have cut my life short, but they won’t get my memories without a fight. Keeping my expression level, I look up and follow Willow’s eyes to her unusual watch. She catches me staring.

“It’s a calimeter.” She extends her arm toward me.

Regardless of what it’s called, it’s impressive. The oval face fits inside a thick leather strap. A silver disk floats above a gold disk, and a tiny triangle is cut into the edge of each circle.

“You’ll receive your own with your first assignment. The discs move in opposition. When the notches are aligned, it signals the beginning of break.” She pauses. “We do get breaks around here, kid.”

“And that’s a good idea? Leaving all those Tragedies unprotected?” I can’t believe the conversations I’m having.

Her arm muscles sharpen when she stretches. “There’s a lapse that occurs—a sort of time warp. Anyone on Earth within an eighth-mile radius of a Tragedy freezes while we break. Anyone not frozen who stumbles into the radius will freeze, too. Our break is two hours, but in Earth time, it’s just seconds. There’s one break cycle per day. It’s plenty of time to rejuvenate your mind.”

Now I’m laughing. “What are you—some kind of New Ager or something?”

Willow yanks an orange pillow off the chair beside us and launches it at me. “Honestly, you have to be the most irksome person ever!”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Her mood lightens. “Come on, kid. I’ll show you around Benson and introduce you to the crew. You have the distinct honor of hanging with me, which is sure to make you überpopular.”

“That’s doubtful,” I mumble.

Her elbow meets my ribs, and the playful gesture brings bittersweet thoughts of Tate to mind. My sudden attitude change doesn’t go unnoticed by Willow.

“Let it go, kid.” Her voice carries a warning that infuriates me, and I glare at her in defiance. “Understood?”

I swallow and push myself up from the sofa. “Yeah, I got it,” I spit back in a tone that matches hers.

Willow’s fist hits my cheek like a brick and I stumble backward.

“What was that for!” I yell, shocked that someone so tiny could knock me off balance. Plus, aren’t girls suppose to slap? Fitting, I guess, since nothing about this chick screams
girl
.

She drops her arm. “I’m not kidding. Let it go.”

“It’s none of your business.” I rub my jaw as I head for the door.

“Don’t walk away from me! If your head is not in this game, everyone loses. As your Legacy, I’m not willing to have that on my conscience.”

“Oh, well, in that case…I wouldn’t want to go messing with your conscience or anything,” I sneer, twisting the doorknob.

“Would you want someone in your condition guarding Tate?”

My fingers fall from the knob. On one hand, I get Willow’s point, but on the other, much heavier hand, I’m not capable of letting Tate go. Not yet. No—not ever. The thought of such emptiness brings me to my knees.

“I can’t do it,” I whisper, not even caring that my hands are trembling. “I can’t be without her.”

Willow’s suddenly on the floor beside me. “I know this is difficult. Trust me, I get that. But I need you to promise you’ll try.”

I pause for a long time, and then shake my head. “I’ll think about trying. It’s the best I can do. I’m sorry.”

“You have no idea how important your decisions ahead will be. If a distraction causes you to falter, even once, the results could be devastating.” She keeps her eyes on me and stands. “Come on, let’s see what’s cooking in Benson,” she says, pulling me up by my arm.

My hand rubs along my jaw. “You’ve got some uppercut.”

“You’re not going to whine about that for the rest of the day, are you? We heal three hundred times faster than when we were human, so that means”—she looks up at the ceiling, mentally calculating—“you shouldn’t even feel it anymore.”

I continue rubbing, hating that she’s right. It doesn’t hurt at all.

She uses her toes to flip over one of the dingy purple flip-flops by the door. “You should be thanking me. I think I made an improvement to that pretty-boy face of yours.”

“You are such a flake.”

She misinterprets this as a compliment. With both feet shoved into her beach shoes, she digs through the contents of a brown corduroy bag before lifting the strap over her head and across her short body. Then she throws a green backpack at me.

“Where’d this come from?” I examine the familiar frayed bag.

“I’m guessing your house.”

“How did it get here?”

“Must have followed you,” she jokes. “Convenient, huh?”

“No, seriously.”

“I am serious. You’re going to need a bag for your stuff. You should have some clothes in the hall closet as well.” She pulls her collection of dreads into a ponytail while I stare at my bag in confusion. “Just put your rulebook in there and let’s go already.”

I do as she says, following her out the door and down the copper hall. The elevator opens the instant she touches the button. We’re delivered to the ground floor at a speed not quite as fast as my ride up.

“Have a fabulous day,” GPS Jeanette pipes after us.

“What’s with the birds?” I ask when we pass by the three doorways on the far side of the lobby.

“You mean in Alogan?” She pauses. “That’s the room you were in with Jonathan,” she explains, reading my puzzled expression.

“Oh, right. The birds?”

“Scarlet tanagers. Beautiful, aren’t they?”

“They’re loud. I bet they leave one heck of a mess.”

She snickers. “You have a lot to learn about this place. On Earth, they’re secretive and prefer flying high in the canopies, out of sight. Here, they don’t have to hide.”

“I still say they’re loud.”

“They’re not nearly as annoying as some
people
I’ve met.”

I bite my bottom lip to keep my grin from escaping.

The smell of something baking—cookies, maybe?—fills the air as Willow leads me through a forty-five degree opening off the corner of the lobby.
Benson
, written in various shades of earth-toned glass, spans the length of both walls. The stone floor is similar to my parents’ patio back home—the one I single-handedly installed with Tate serving as “foreman.” These tiles, however, are easily five times larger and must have been a nightmare to install.

Through each of the four archways, the weathered plank floor goes on forever, but the noodle rugs and leather furniture make the extensive space welcoming. The smell of food is so overwhelming that my mouth waters, even though I’m not the least bit hungry.

I stop and stare at the hundreds of iron-and-glass lanterns overhead, all scaled proportionately to the massive room. My mouth hangs open. “Are those floating?” I finally ask.

“Mmm-hmm,” Willow replies from a distance.

I pull my eyes from the ceiling and jog around the fireplace before snaking through a maze of curvy wood tables.

“So this is Heaven, right?” I say when I catch up to her.

She keeps walking. “Progression, actually. Thousands of bases are spread over the Earth, grouped by languages and regions. This is the American English base, obviously.”

“Obviously,” I mutter, but Willow ignores me.

“It does seem perfect, doesn’t it?” She looks around as if seeing it for the first time. “Don’t be fooled by the extravagance. Appearances can be deceiving. A Satellite’s job is difficult. Remind me to teach you coding after break.”

“Teach me what?”

“Coding. It’s the closest thing we’ve got to sleep. It’s kind of like meditation.”

“We don’t sleep?”

She shakes her head. “No, we code.”

I do my best not to laugh, thinking of my mom’s “find the cure” phase. I quickly explain to Willow that a “doctor” once recommended that I burn incense in addition to meditation, since meditation alone wasn’t working (big surprise). When I declared at the follow-up visit that the incense smelled like cat urine, Tate replied with an elbow jab to the ribs. Yes—Tate, too, insisted on subjecting me to nonsense remedies.

“I hope you’re not a fan of incense,” I say to Willow, as straight-faced as I can muster.

“Don’t be a hater.” She measures me for a few seconds before adding, “But please tell me you didn’t think meditation would cure your cancer.”

“Hey, it wasn’t
my
idea.”

She cracks up. “I can assure you, the point of coding isn’t to ‘cure’ anything. It’s to put you in a balanced state of mind, to help you cope with the job stress.” She sits at one of the larger tables, far enough over that we can see three of the four entryways around the fireplace.

I hop in a heavy chair beside hers and search the awed faces entering for Anna and Rigby. The redhead who caught Rigby’s attention earlier glances in our direction before sitting with another girl a few tables over.

Willow leans forward, putting her chin on her laced fingers. “Here come the little stunners.”

My fingers drum nervously on the smooth table and the muffled hum grows until…holy mother! Someone opened the floodgates!

In seconds, the entries and seating areas are hidden by a sea of bodies washing over them. A group of steroid-heads pushes to the front, laughing and hurdling over the chairs and sofas. They race to the back of the room and disappear through a doorway in the corner.

Willow follows my stare. “Wanna eat?”

“I’m not really hungry,” I say, bringing my attention back to the table.

“You’ll never be hungry. You’re dead, remember? Food is just a comfort from our human life. Oh, and bonus—calories don’t count!” she mocks.

Ugh, I hope she’s not one of
those
girls. One of the (many) things I love about Tate is that she’s never been overly consumed with her weight and appearance. Ironically, the few parts of her body she was unhappy with were the ones I loved the most.

“So what’ll it be, kid? You wanna eat or what?”

Whatever.
“Might as well check out the grub.”

“Trust me, one look at the spread and you won’t be calling it grub.”

Willow’s right. When we enter the back room, I have to pull my jaw off the floor for the umpteenth time today. The food spread is even more impressive than the picturesque mountains and 200-foot tall pine trees visible beyond the back glass wall. Some of the foods are so vibrant I actually have to squint. Upon closer examination, I realize that for every steak, casserole, or doughnut, there’s a not-so-appetizing choice. I turn away from the raw seafood and slimy things and go to the more appealing things like bread and—

Stew!

I beeline to the scent and grab one of the red ceramic bowls.

Willow appears from nowhere. “So that one’s yours, huh?”

The ladle in my hand freezes over the venison stew. “Huh?”