Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I (22 page)

He looks at me like I’m pointing a gun at him. “You bought that for Tate when you went to the Arch.”

The city, now enclosed in my sapphire-blue energy and balanced on my finger, falls to the linoleum. The nurses never notice because they’re too worried about sedating Tate, who’s putting up a decent fight.

I think back to how I felt during coding when things went wrong.

“She’s erasing my memories,” I whisper. It all makes sense now. I’m not losing my memories; Tate’s stealing them away from me.

Liam’s questioning expression is replaced with one that says I’ve lost my mind. I’m starting to wonder myself.

“Every time she destroys something, I forget the memory connected to it,” I explain, standing up but keeping my eyes on the glass fragments. “This can’t be happening!” I growl, pacing between the closet doors and the hospital bed.

“I don’t want to sound like Mr. Negative or anything, but when you’re around, she’s worse. It’s like she can sense you,” Liam says.

He’s right. I know he’s right; I see it, too.

“I didn’t mean—”

I raise my hand to cut Liam off. “Just stop.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but I displace before he gets a word out.

Back at Ryder’s, I’m too terrified of what Tate is capable of to notice Ryder’s pen scratching against the paper while he works on his Sedimentology homework.

After a quiet night of contemplating whether to visit Tate or not, I decide that I should stay with Ryder. I need to be more focused on him, I know, but Tate doesn’t make this easy. She’s all I can think about, which makes me feel even more guilty about what I’m doing to Ryder. He needs me, but I’m so distracted.

Ryder does well through the next day; his spirits are actually better than they’ve been in a while. I’m sure this is largely due to his excitement about making dinner for Hannah tonight. When he hung up the phone with her last night after making the plans, his smile was the first genuine one I think I’ve seen since being here. With everything that has happened, this significant gesture made me feel happy for a brief moment. Today, he appears as anxious as I am to get out of school in the afternoon.

Not able to stand the separation from Tate any longer, I displace while Ryder’s strolling through the grocery store. Break is less than an hour away. Plus, he’s humming. Humming! He’ll be fine.

I get to the hospital, but Tate and her stuff are gone. I glance at the floor by the closet (now glass-free) before throwing my body through the wall and landing outside, three stories below. I jump into the air and fly over the houses to Tate’s, praying that she’s there. I don’t relax until I see her.

“When did they release her?” I ask Liam, trying to use my nice voice.

“No! No more questions.” Liam is obviously in an extra sour mood. “I’m not telling you anything. I’ve spent too many years working my tail off, and now there’s finally a position open for an Elite. I’m not going to let a nancy like you ruin my chances of being selected just because you’re choosing to break the rules.”

Sheesh. What is it with everyone wanting to be an Elite?
“I’ll be the one in trouble, not you,” I assure him.
And whatever the punishment is, it’ll be worth it.
Realizing I need Liam to help me, some of my anger towards him evaporates. “Please, man, give me something,” I plead.

Liam appears to be having ethical issues. Or he’s constipated. Probably the first, considering we’re dead and no longer need the facilities. Finally, reluctantly, he asks, “Know anything about a concert?”

“Should I?” A brick settles in my stomach.

“Probably. She shredded some tickets earlier.”

“At this rate, she’ll have my mind erased in a week.” I slide down the wall beside Tate. On the floor by her desk, she punches through a playlist on her iPod and ignores me because I’m dead. I’m dead!
Get it through your thick skull, man.

What am I gaining here? There’s never going to be a happily-ever-after for us. In truth, I’m here for me; I’m being selfish. There’s a good possibility that my being here may cause her to erase me completely. If I can’t see her anymore, at least I could have my memories. It’s not a lot, but it’s better than nothing.

Liam does a fantastic job of pretending I’m not here. So well, in fact, that I forget he’s even in the room. Breathing in Tate’s sweet scent, I close my eyes and imagine that I’m still alive with her.

A knock at the door pulls me out of my own head. The door slowly swings in, and Fischer’s head appears around the side like it’s floating.

Tate pulls out one of her earbuds. “Hey Fish,” she says in a croaky voice.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

She licks her dry lips. “Sure.”

He walks over to her and I move out of the way before he sits on me—or, more appropriately, in me.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better. I didn’t like when you were in the hospital.”

Tate yanks her black sleeve down to cover her bandaged wrist and puts her other arm around Fischer. “I know. I’m sorry.” She pauses and pulls him closer. “I love you. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know. I love you, too.”

“It’s just you and me now,” Tate says in a sad voice.

Fischer sniffs and leans his head against Tate’s chest. “Wanna hear a joke?” he asks a couple minute later, his face brightening a little.

“Absolutely,” Tate answers, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“Why was six afraid of seven?”

Tate already knows this one. She’s told me the same joke before, but she plays dumb. “Don’t know. Why?”

“Because seven ate nine.”

Tate takes a deep breath and stares down at her brother. For a second, her eyes shine with life.

“Get it? Because seven
eight
nine. Like you’re counting!”

Liam laughs first because Fischer is just too damn cute not to laugh at. Then Tate joins in. Fischer, thrilled that his joke was such a success, cracks up with her.

Frozen, I watch her. Her whole face has brightened; it’s a stark contrast to her black wardrobe. The glow lingers in her eyes like a spark ready to ignite dry kindling. She’s stunning.

A tear runs down my cheek. She could get better with enough time. She could live again. This makes me so happy, yet so sad, all at once.

I push my calimeter to shut it up. Tate and Fischer become motionless and as silent the rest of the house.

No—stunning isn’t a strong enough word to describe what Tate looks like right now, frozen in happiness. There’s no word spectacular enough to encompass her beauty. I barely notice the frailty of her arms or her black fingernails.

Even Liam’s spirits have lifted. “For what it’s worth, you should be thankful you forgot about the concert,” he says. “If the music she was listening to earlier today was any indicator of the show, it was a total chick-fest.”

I laugh under my breath, partly because Liam is funny when he chills out, but mostly so I don’t think about my insides being ripped apart.

Seeing Elliott during break makes Progression feel more like home. He’s doing a decent job of hiding his real feelings toward his Legacy, Henry, but he can’t fool me.

“Something funny?” Elliott asks when I chuckle to myself. Every time he chews on the inside of his cheek, I know he’d rather be spitting a four-letter word.

“Nah, just thinking about Willow,” I lie. Except that now that I’ve said it, I am thinking about her.

“How is she?”

I shrug. “Good, I guess. I don’t see her much these days.”

“That sucks. She seems cool.” Elliott glances in Henry’s direction.

Henry smoothes his cuff and picks an invisible piece of lint off his sleeve. “Ready for training?” he asks.

“Yep.” Elliott stands and messes up Henry’s hair.

“Hey, uncalled for!” Henry tries to put each piece of hair back in place. “Please don’t encourage him,” Henry says to Clara, Liam, and I when we laugh. Anna smiles at us from two tables over, where her and Owen are on a
date
. Mental eye roll.

“I though
you
were uptight,” Clara says to me after Elliott and Henry are gone.

“Funny.” I smirk and then tell her and Liam that I’ll be right back.

I jog out of the room and catch Elliott and Henry at the courtyard doors. “Hey, mind if I talk to him for a second?” I ask Henry.

Henry agrees and disappears behind the massive door.

“What’s up?” Elliott asks.

“How are you doing with your memories?”

“It sucks. The ones of Mom and Dad are going the fastest. Any advice to make the transition easier?”

I shake my head. If he only knew. “Sorry.”

“I figured as much. I’m sure this is tough for everyone.”

“Do you remember if Tate had a black eye recently?”

He looks confused. “Why?”

I look around to be sure no one else is close enough to hear our conversation. “No questions.”

Uncertain, he says, “Yeah, I remember that, but how’d—”

“Any chance you remember how she got it?” I ask before he can finish.

“In a fight, but—”

“What!” So much for keeping things on the down low.

“Tate ran into some girl who’d had a major crush on you. The girl told Tate you were a player and there was no way you were ever going to marry her.”

What?
“Who was she?”

He shrugs an I-don’t-know. “Holly something or other, I think. Tate came unhinged on the chick. It took four people to peel her off.”

“That’s terrible.” My voice is quieter and I shake my head. “I don’t get it. She’s not a fighter.”

“Tate became a lot of things after…well, you know.” Elliott pauses while I absorb this information. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of guys that tried to get with her after you were gone. It was crazy-annoying. But Tate—oh man, you should have seen her. She got real creative with her excuses when she turned them all down. It was humorous, to say the least.”

Humorous. I bet. I can’t find anything funny about this. I knew the guys would be lining up for her, but hearing Elliott confirm it makes me so sad I could cry. Eventually, she’ll say yes to one of them.

“You have to know there will never be anyone else as good for her as you were.” Elliott pauses and looks up at the giant carved doors. “I should probably get in there.”

I pull my torn insides back together. “Yeah, big day—first day of training and all. I’m sure you’re throwing Henry’s whole schedule off.”

“He’s completely ridiculous.” Elliott sighs and then passes through the doors. I watch him stop on the stone path before the door swings closed between us. I’m smart enough to guess his expression. No one can walk out to the courtyard for the first time without being blown away by its sheer magnitude.

“Everything cool?” Liam asks when I’m back to the table. Unless I’m imagining it, there’s an undertone to his statement, like he’s asking if
we’re cool
. After considering for a few seconds, I nod.

While we play Sats, Clara shares a couple of stories from her past. I keep my mouth shut, because I still remember much more than I should. For now, anyway.

.

17. I’m all about doing the impossible

While displacing to Ryder’s, I remind myself that Liam is with Tate, and then try to forget about his momentous screw up. Not that it matters, as my presence only seems to be making her worse. If only there was a way to keep Fischer on hand 24-7. I’d at least take comfort in knowing that Tate had a real shot at recovering.

I hang onto the frozen image of Tate in a jovial mood while I drop rapidly to the ground. Colorful streaks glow in the distance; other Satellites are plummeting back to their Tragedies, too.

I land in the passenger seat of Ryder’s Shelby, and when the dash lights and radio flicker on, I notice our speed immediately. Gripping the dashboard—out of habit, I guess—I look over to Ryder. He swipes tears off his cheeks and then wraps both hands tightly around the steering wheel, leaning back in his seat like he’s bracing himself.

I focus my energy into a tight blue ball and shout, “Haze!”

Slow down. Slow down. Slow down.

Before the paralyzing jolt hits me, I’m rocketing forward, ghosting through the Shelby’s dashboard and then through the innards of the engine. My shoulder breaks my fall and my muscles tighten, prepared for the terrible pain that’s sure to follow, but nothing comes. Kneeling in the slushy, melting snow, I spin around.

On no. Oh no!

The once beautiful Shelby is beautiful no more. I spring up and am standing next to the car’s door in under a second.

I force my eyes away from the smoke pouring from the hood, away from the front of the car that’s horseshoed around a massive oak tree, away from the windshield that looks like a spiderweb. Instead, I focus on Ryder, wishing I didn’t have to look at him. There’s too much blood.

This is all my fault. I’ve failed Ryder. I’ve failed Willow.
Oh no—Willow.
I feel so sick my head becomes groggy.

I need to do something—anything—so I form my filter around the crinkled door. With my energy focused, I am able to pry the metal away from Ryder’s body, but I have to stop when someone runs to us from the house across the street.

Backing away from the wreckage, my hands tremble in fear. What have I done? An ambulance sounds in the distance, quickly growing louder, but not fast enough. Ryder’s finger twitches, but this is the only movement he’s made. He has to be all right.

I pace the sidewalk, keeping my stare locked on Ryder’s hand, willing his finger to move again. It doesn’t. More neighbors have joined the scene and are trying to set him free from the imprisoning metal. I dig my fingernails into my palms and feel sicker, knowing that I could pry the door open in just a few seconds.

The emergency vehicles come with more sirens wailing in the distance. A few minutes later, the high-pitched scream of a metal-cutting saw makes me cover my ears. They reach in for Ryder’s body and—

Whoosh!

As I’m yanked upward, the g-forces flatten my hair against my head and pin my arms to my side.

I land, trying to figure out what’s going on. I never said displace. Why am I back here? And why are all the Schedulers staring at me?

“Grant, it seems we have quite a problem on our hands,” Landon says from the raised portion of the circular desk.

“What’s going on?” I ask Jonathan, who’s standing beside me in the center of the circle. I spin around slowly, taking in the mix of disappointed faces and accusing eyes.

“What’s going on is you have repeatedly left your Tragedy unattended!” Landon’s voice is raised and unhappy.

“Then you should have left me alive!” I yell, equally outraged. “I’m not made for this. Everyone is so convinced for whatever reason that I am, but I’m not! I was made for Tate. I should still be with her, as I obviously suck at this Satellite thing. She was the only thing that ever made me good!” My last sentence is directed more at myself than at the Schedulers.

“On the contrary, you are an exceptional Satellite—but only when your head is in the game. This is precisely why memory loss is imperative. Your actions confirm that our decision many centuries ago was the right one.”

“You’re the reason why we lose our memories?” I question.

“Not just me. It was decided by our entire panel”—he signals to the couple hundred-plus people surrounding Jonathan and me—“during the formation of the Satellite program, by way of majority vote.”

Jonathan speaks for the first time. “Memory loss was not a unanimous decision.”

“No, it was not,” Landon concedes. “But I think we can all agree that allowing distracted Satellites into the world is a great disservice to our Tragedies.” He pauses. “Yes, we have quite a mess on our hands, Grant. I don’t know if you realize the amount of work that now needs to be done to get things back on track.”

“Is Ryder going to be all right?”
Please say yes.

Landon stares at me for so long that I turn to Jonathan, hoping he’ll answer me.

Jonathan almost looks mad when he stares back at Landon. “Ryder is going to recover,” he says, without turning to me.

“Which is going to be nothing short of a miracle. His body is broken beyond repair, and now, because of you, we have the grueling task of doing the impossible. There will probably be books written and, at the very least, television shows broadcast about his miracle story. Ryder’s course
doesn’t
include dying at this moment. Had you been where you were suppose to be, he
wouldn’t
be dying at this moment.”

There’s nothing I can say. I failed. Period. I was such a jerk to Liam, and here I’ve done so much worse.

“I never, in all my years, have seen such—”

“I think he understands the situation he has created,” Jonathan voices to cut Landon off.

But I wish Landon would finish whatever he has to say about me. However horrible it is, I deserve so much worse for what I’ve done to Ryder.
Ryder!
Willow’s son! My responsibility! Afraid of yacking my guts up, I keep my lips tightly sealed instead.

We all stare at each other—Landon looking ticked, Jonathan looking doleful, and me feeling guilty as all get-out.

“What happens now?” I finally ask.

Jonathan crosses his arms. “You’re going back to your assignment.”

“Which I think is a mistake,” Landon blurts out. The other Schedulers appear split—about half of them nod in concurrence with Landon, while the other half looks more pensive like Jonathan.

“That’s enough, Landon,” Jonathan asserts. “Grant, you will be going back to Ryder and seeing him through his recovery, first and foremost. You will
not
be going back to see Tate.”

I swallow in panic. I haven’t said good-bye. How can I leave Tate now?
I’ve never said good-bye!

“I suggest you get back to Ryder now,” Jonathan says as I internally panic. “You’ll need your tocket,” he adds a minute later, because I haven’t made a single attempt to move.

“Right,” I mumble, pulling the granite rock out of my pocket. I make the mistake of meeting Landon’s eyes before I displace. He’s clearly not a fan of mine.

Falling back to Earth, thoughts of Tate, Ryder, and Willow swirl through my head. I try to push Willow’s image away, but even in my mind she’s too stubborn to leave. When I land, the accident scene is in full swing. Looking again at the Shelby—because I don’t want to look at Ryder, blood-covered and strapped to the stretcher—I can’t believe what my inattention has caused.

I squeeze myself into the ambulance when Ryder is loaded and stare out the back window on our way to the hospital. The EMTs continue working on him, and already, the paddles have brought him back to life twice. If I didn’t have the reassurance that he was going to live, I’d be even more of a mess than I currently am, which is saying something.

Hours later, we finally get settled into a room, and I do my reading. Things have changed quite a bit from before. Now my instructions are to, quote,
wait
. Mya, her own family, and her grandparents are here now, as well as Hannah and her parents. Ryder has more tubes coming out of his swollen body than a soda fountain machine. Options are being laid out for the family regarding the multiple operations that Ryder will need. Every time another scan gets brought in, prompting the scheduling of even more surgeries, my stomach lurches. When the doctors tell Mya that Ryder may never walk again, I throw up at the side of the hospital bed. The vomit, of course, disappears before hitting the linoleum. All the Schedulers said was that Ryder had to live. They never mentioned the quality of life he was going to have.

Since Ryder is in a drug-induced coma, there’s zero need for my blocking ability. My job now entails staring my mistake square in the face as the minutes tick by. Mya and Hannah refuse to leave his bedside. The night is long and uneventful, except when the story comes out about why Ryder was so upset.

According to Hannah, at the grocery store—when I wasn’t there—Ryder ran into a friend, who also happened to be Hannah’s ex-boyfriend. The guy, Mike, told Ryder that he and Hannah were still talking regularly and that he planned to get her back. Ryder went off the deep end, calling Hannah from the parking lot and chewing her out because he assumed she wanted Mike, too.

Since Ryder was being so irrational, Hannah canceled their planned dinner. This must have made Ryder even more upset, Hannah thought, hence the bad driving. Knowing how excited Ryder was about the dinner, the story makes sense. Hannah beats herself up, which makes me feel even worse.

The next day sucks. I wish Ryder would at least open his eyes or move his hand—anything that would prove it wasn’t just machines making him appear alive.

When break comes, I don’t want to leave, mostly for fear of seeing Willow. She hasn’t been around much, but she has the insane ability of making herself materialize when she’s least wanted. I’m dying to talk to Liam and find out how Tate is—and to apologize—but going out in public isn’t worth the risk of running into Willow, so I stay in my room until my calimeter buzzes.

Back in Ryder’s world, nothing changes. The time passes slowly, and he remains motionless through the night. Mya and Hannah make up for his lack of movement by wearing paths into the hospital floor.

The next morning, three doctors and a team of nurses wheel Ryder off to his first surgery. The operating room is bright and smells like bleach. The lights make his badly bruised skin look even worse, and his face is unrecognizable from the massive amount of swelling. A large staff prepares the surgical tools and the three doctors who will be operating take their places.

What the
—
?
I blink, sure my eyes are deceiving me as three ghosts fall out of the ceiling. They each stand behind a doctor, and then at the same time step forward so they are actually
in
the doctors. Knowing what it feels like to ghost through someone, this makes me cringe. Strangely, the Satellites stay in their positions and ignore me. I’ve never seen any of them before, although considering there’s thousands of us, this isn’t surprising.

“Hello?” I say, wondering why they are ignoring me.

No one answers. The guy closest to me moves his hand out over Ryder’s body. Half a second later, the doctor moves his hand in exactly the same way so the doctor and Satellite are matched up.
Weird.

“Hello!” I’m much louder this time. The other two Satellites move their hands, and their doctors mimic their movements. “What are you doing?”

Still no answer.

“Are these your Tragedies?” I wonder aloud, even though the idea doesn’t make sense. No one in their right mind would spend so much time inside a body if they could help it.

I realize then what’s happening. The ghosts are performing the surgery, not the doctors. Or, at the very least, they’re guiding the doctors.

“Are you Satellites?” I ask, figuring no one’s going to answer.

“We’re Menders,” one of them finally says in a deep, muffled voice like he’s speaking from behind the doctor’s surgical mask.

“You’re what?”

“Menders. You created a real mess here,” a female voice says in a not-so-nice tone.

“You’re not Satellites?”

“What’s up with this kid?” the third guy says, irritated. “We’re
Menders
—like George and Ivy just said.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“We’re here to repair your damage—which is extensive,” George says.

“Why haven’t I ever heard of you?” I ask.

“Because we’ve never been needed for a Tragedy,” the female, Ivy, says matter-of-factly. “Just like Satellites, we have our own department in Progression. I hope the Schedulers aren’t making a habit of allowing people like you into the Satellite program. I’ve never—”

“Ivy, I think he gets it. Grant, please allow us to do our work now,” the male ghost closest to me says.

I watch silently as they work, the doctors following their movements like machines on a one-second delay. The surgery takes a full six hours, plus some extra time to close Ryder up. The Menders rise out of the doctors’ bodies and disappear into the ceiling without saying a word to me.

I’m making all kinds of friends lately.

Three days have gone by and I still haven’t left my room during breaks. I’m not going to be able to hold out much longer. I have to talk to Liam. Not knowing about Tate is almost as bad as my daily exposure to my horrendous mistake.