Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I (3 page)

“Everyone brings a food with them. Family recipe?”

I nod in shock, and my mouth is unhinged again. “Uh, my mom’s.”

“Well, let’s give it a shot and see how they did.”

After filling my bowl, I add lasagna, a brownie, and some chicken wings to my tray. “So let me get this straight. All this food is from other Satellites?”

“Yep. Studies done centuries ago found that we benefit from a little taste of home.” She winks at me. “Stew and coding—they’ll be your two favorite things.”

I continue piling a little of everything on my tray. “Which food’s yours?”

“The lime Jell-O.”

Of all the food in the world, her favorite is lime Jell-O? I shake my head. “You are such a weirdo.”

She ignores my comment and pulls me across the room. A bowl of jiggly green squares appears on my already full tray. Still, I succeed in adding a roll, a can of Coke, and a piece of cheesecake onto it. No one would ever know that I wasn’t the least bit hungry.

“How’d you know mine was the stew?” I ask on the way back to the table.

Willow adds even more bounce to her step; it’s obvious that she’s enjoying herself. “New Satellites are so predictable.”

Our table made some friends while we were away. Two guys and a girl stare at me as I sit down.

“Who’s your pet?” a guy with an English accent asks Willow. He pushes a hand through his dirty-blond hair and looks sour faced at my overflowing tray.

“Grant.” I match his glare and quickly add, “I thought this was the American base.”

“Liam,” he finally says, smirking. “British transplant to the States when I was thirteen. How are you fancying Progression?”

The others relax and he flashes a wider grin, compliments of a good orthodontist.

“The food looks great, but I got paired with this nutcase.” I point my thumb at Willow. “Is there any way to trade up in this Legacy program?”

“You’re gonna wish. She’s raving mad, that one. Looks like you pulled the short straw.”

Willow chimes in. “Liam, you could only wish you had a rock star like me as your Legacy.”

The blonde girl at the table clears her throat; her wide, clear-blue eyes are fixed on me. She’s supermodel hot, but much too thin. “I’m Clara,” she says in a quiet voice.

“Hi.” I lean over the table and shake her hand, which is child-sized inside mine. “Nice to meet you.”

Her eyes dart down, and her green turtleneck compliments the blush on her light skin. Her polished, stick-straight hair is a stark contrast to Tate’s reddish-brown, unruly hair, but her lips are glossy like Tate’s always were.

Willow continues with the introductions. “Grant, this is Owen. Owen, Grant.”

“What’s up, man?” Owen says to my nod. He looks and acts so much like an excited dog I’m afraid he might pee down his own leg. His plastic-looking hair, black as oil, is flattened against his head. His eyes are not deep-set like mine, but they are the same generic brown shared by half the world. “Don’t worry about remembering names. It took me months to learn them all,” he says, still pumping my hand up and down.

“Good to know. How long have you been here?” I ask, jerking my hand out of his.

“Sixty-three years,” Owen says.

I cough back my shock. “How old are you?”

“You mean how old was I when I died?”

“Uh…?” I shake my head and look at the others, who offer no help.

“Thirty-one, but I’m physically twenty.”

I cock my head in confusion.

“I was thirty-one when I died. I reverted to twenty when I got to Progression,” he states simply, as though I’ve just asked him about the weather.

Willow jumps in. “Our bodies reflect our best physical form, which typically falls somewhere in the late teens or early twenties.”

“Unless you’re a bloody decrepit like Wilhelmina here,” Liam says, carelessly juggling a Matchbox car.

I choke on my drink. “What did he call you?” I ask Willow.

She tsks. “Ignore Liam. He died
way
too early.”

“Seriously, Willow. Case in point—you still use the word ‘groovy,’” Liam says.

She shrugs. “What can I say? I’m forever a product of my generation.”

“Yeah, except for your dreads and tats.” Liam gives me a sympathetic look. “Willow was influenced by the grunge scene of the nineties. But I guess the clothes are better than the eighties garbage she used to wear.”

“Aren’t we supposed to be just souls when we die?” I shift uncomfortably when the others laugh at my question.

“It’d be tough to do much without a body, mate,” Liam says, mocking me.

Willow shoots him a dark look. “Our bodies give us a sense of normalcy, making the transition to Satellite smoother.”

“And who wouldn’t want all this?” Owen flexes a meaty arm at Clara. From her response, that kind of humor is not Clara’s bag.

“Having our physical bodies means we can still feel pain, but we heal quickly, as you’ve already experienced,” Willow says.

“He just got here. What could he have possibly experienced already?” Liam asks.

“I punched him,” Willow states flatly.

The others roar with laughter. Could Willow be more irritating?

“The exhaustion—don’t forget about that one,” Owen adds, after the hyenas have settled down.

Willow nods. “Right. We get tired, too.”

Still trying to make sense of the age thing, I ask Willow, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.” Her face brightens, and she pushes her chair back from the table. She raises her shirt high enough to reveal her tiny stomach. Before I can stop it, my face cringes at the white vertical lines marring her skin.

Liam smirks at me. “Not hungry anymore, are you?”

Willow’s still smiling. “Haven’t you seen stretch marks before, kid? They’re from my baby girl.”

I continue to stare at her bare stomach, horrified. “Did she try to claw her way out?”

Willow howls with laughter and rubs her hand across the white scars. “I love them. They’re one of the only reminders I have of my daughter.” She pulls her shirt down and hops her chair back to the table. “And as you’ll soon see, they haven’t affected my strength one bit.”

“How old are you?” Clara asks me in a small voice. Her blue eyes dart back to the table after briefly meeting mine.

“Eighteen.” I shock myself with my immediate response. That explains my disease-free body. I was diagnosed at twenty-one, six months before I was supposed to marry Tate.

“You’re just a pup!” Owen says.

“The bloke’s barely old enough to vote,” Liam adds.

They are nowhere near as funny as they think they are. “This comedy show sucks,” I complain.

“How about a gun show, then?” Owen flexes his arm again.

“Ha! More like freak show.”

“Says the tatted girl with the dreads,” Liam replies. “Grant, don’t sweat it about being so young. Looks like Clara finds you pretty fit. You two could be the next Ken and Barbie.”

“Liam!” Clara turns tomato red. She clears her throat and regains her composure. “You’re only nineteen, so you don’t have much room to talk.”

He was kidding,
I remind myself, and unclench my fists.
I can’t imagine being with anyone else…Stop! Don’t even think it.

I focus on my food, which is as delicious as it looks. The hot stew is a perfect match to my mom’s, and I’m scraping the bottom of the bowl too soon, not caring in the least about the heat burning my throat. Owen distracts me from going back for more by teaching me a card game called “Sats.” The game is similar to Spades, and Liam is, by far, the best player at the table.

I’m picking the eight of diamonds out of my hand when Liam announces, “Catch you cats on the flip.”

When I look up from my cards, Liam’s gone. I look around, wondering how he made his escape so fast.

Clara looks at her wrist and touches the tiny oval on her beaded bracelet. “Nice to meet you, Grant.” She blushes and slings on a gold bag as big as her before mumbling something under her breath. Then she vanishes. Literally. Into thin air, like a frigging magician.

I squeeze my eyes closed to clear the deception. When I open them, Owen forms a gun with his hand and playfully shoots me before vanishing as well. Around the room, others vaporize the same way, minus the gun gesture.

“That’s our cue, kid. May as well get a jump on some coding,” Willow says.

“Where’d they go?” I ask, after putting my eyes back in my head.

“I’ll explain on the way.” She stands and pushes her feet into her flip-flops. I grab my tray from the table, impressed that I ate everything but one chicken wing.

“Don’t bother.” As soon as Willow says this, my tray is gone, along with all the other trays on our table.

“What happened to everyone?”

“Break’s over. They went back to their assignments.” Probably noticing that I’m losing patience, she elaborates. “It’s called displacing. It’s how we travel to our assignments. You’ll learn all about it in training.”

“What’s it feel like?”

“It’s a major rush,” she says in a no-big-deal kind of way.

She isn’t paying attention to my inquisitive look. “And my tray?”

She flips her yarnlike hair over her shoulder. “It’s Progression, kid.”

I follow her out of the room, which is now—conveniently—as clean as when we arrived, and I wonder aloud how two hours could have passed already.

Just steps into her room, Willow returns to bare feet and then disappears at the end of the short hallway. “You coming or what?” she shouts.

I follow her voice into a small doorless room. This is not looking good.

“Clearly you’re super stoked. Please, try to control your enthusiasm.” She’s already settled on one of the two black mats like she’s either about to meditate or do yoga.

I cross the hardwood floor to reach her. “I would have never guessed you were a ballerina,” I joke, sitting on the other thin mat. The only thing missing in the empty room is a ballet bar along the mirrored wall.

Willow ignores me.

I freeze on my reflection. It’s as if the past year never happened—like my brown eyebrows and messy hair had never fallen out and my skin had never looked like ash.

“The purpose of coding is to find serenity by disconnecting from your physical body,” Willow says while I flex my arm in the mirror to confirm that my muscles are really back. “Come on, kid, stay with me here. Close your eyes and imagine your perfect place, thing, or smell—anything that will help you relax.”

When I realize she’s being serious, I squeeze my eyes shut and then laugh.

Willow stands and smacks the back of my head. “Come on!”

“I’m sorry. You have to admit, this is stupid.”

“Show a little effort. This is no walk in the park for me, either,” she snaps.

To shut her up (because this is absurd), I close my eyes and think of Tate—of the way we used to lay together on my bed and talk for hours. Soon I can picture my arms folded around her perfect curves and her head on my chest. I’m twirling one of her curls around my finger. After another minute, I can even smell her shampoo and feel her finger mindlessly doodling designs on my defined abs.

She lifts her head and the sunlight streams through the window, making her wild hair glow red. I trace my index finger down her cheekbone to her full, soft lips. She playfully nips my fingernail before stretching to kiss me. Her tongue moves with mine in the same dance we’ve done thousands of times before.

She pulls back and I bite my bottom lip, tasting peppermint. Her hazel eyes darken to smoldering when she stares back at me. She’s more stunning than ever. I cling to her and bring her lips back to mine, but when she gives in, the kiss is rushed, urgent.

I try to grab for her when she pulls away, but my arms won’t work. “No,” I whisper, but no sound comes. I can’t move; I can’t breathe.

“Why did you leave me?” Tate’s raspy voice floors me and my eyes pop open instead of my mouth.

“What’s wrong?” Willow asks, quickly looking me over. I claw at my chest and gasp for air.

“Grant, answer me!” Willow shouts two inches from my face.

“What happened?” I pant. My muscles sting when I reach up to wipe the sweat from my forehead.

“You tell me! You blanked forever. I couldn’t wake you up.”

No, she’s wrong. It was just minutes.

“Where’d you go?” she asks.

“I was with Tate.” I scrub my face despite the torturous pain the movement sends through my arms. After a long silence, I look through my fingers to be sure Willow is still in the room and find her glaring at me. “Hey, you said to chose a place of peace!”

The red in her face dulls a little and she turns away. “Certainly your memories are fading by now,” she says, but not really to me.

“Willow, I don’t think that was a memory,” I answer quietly.

She turns around. “What do you mean?”

“Tate…talked to me.”

Willow locks her eyes on mine. “What did she say?”

I don’t answer. I should have kept my mouth shut five seconds ago.

“What did she say?” Willow demands.

“She asked why I left her.”

Willow turns away too fast for me to gauge her reaction, then paces the room and chews her thumbnail down to nothing.

“What’s happening?” I finally ask.

She stops and looks up at me, shaking her head. “I don’t know. Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s good.”