A Million Suns

“Maybe Bartie is right,” she says clearly.



I stride across the room and slam my hand against the switch. Beneath us, the Feeder Level is plunged into darkness. But here we’re not. I lean in close to Larin’s face. If Marae were here—frex, if Eldest were here . . .



She stares back defiantly.



Then looks away.



“Uncover the lamp,” I order.



Her hand shoots forward, flicking the lamp back on. She stares back at me, hoping that I’m about to leave. But I don’t. Instead, I wait another minute.



On the floppy, the vids show the people staring at the sky, trying to peer through the torrential downpour to see the solar lamp. It has never gone dark other than at scheduled nighttime. At least I’ve shocked them enough to stop the fighting.



“Cover the lamp again,” I say.



She hesitates, but doesn’t protest this time.



I watch the screens black out once more.



And I push my wi-com and do an all-call. “Attention, all residents of Godspeed. Everyone on board the ship—every single person—is to report to the Keeper Level Great Room this evening at dark time.”



“Bring back the lamp,” I tell the Shipper when I disconnect the wi-com.



She flips the switch immediately, but she doesn’t take her eyes off me.



I press my wi-com button one more time. It won’t take Bartie long to come up with his own sort of all-call, something about how I have no right ordering everyone to come to me or something like that.



“Wi-com, Eldest override,” I say. “Authorization code: 00G. Disable all communication; exception: Eldest device.”



I turn around and leave the solar lamp room, order Tearle to stop the rain, and then head down the hall. Now Bartie can’t com anyone. None of them can but me. At least Amy’s safely locked in her room.



As I cross the Shipper Level, I can feel them all watching me. The Shippers stop their work until I pass, eyes following me down the hall.



Before, I would have felt that their eyes contained questions and doubt, and that would have made me crumble.



But now, I don’t care. I’m taking the authority that should have been mine from the start.



For the first time in my life, I feel as if I am truly Eldest.



•••



Shelby and the first-level Shippers are waiting for me at the Bridge. I stride straight to them and lock the door behind me.



“What have the scans shown?” I demand. If it’s going to take a planet-landing to stop this shite from Bartie and his so-called revolution, I’ll land the frexing ship. But I won’t do it unless I know the ship can make it.



While Shelby brings up the scans on a floppy, I seethe. It’s irrational, but I can’t help but blame Orion for some of this. Maybe there really is something in his frexing clues that would get us to the planet easier, but the man was so loons he hid the information.



Shelby hands me the floppy. “All the scans indicate that the planet’s environment is habitable. The planet has water, breathable air, vegetation. . . . There’s nothing to indicate that we can’t land,” she says.



There’s a catch in her voice.



“What’s wrong?”



“Our records indicate that there are supposed to be a set of deeper-level probes on the Bridge,” she says. “We’ve looked everywhere and can’t find them.”



“Why do we need probes if the scans are clear?”



“We don’t technically need them. But—it’s in our records that the probes should be deployed. Besides, I’m worried. . . . Why have we been here, in orbit, all this time? Why didn’t we planet-land when we got here? And . . . not only are the probes missing, but so are the communication boxes.”



“The what?”



“There was a system set up to communicate with Sol-Earth. In our records, we have diagrams and manuals for operation and how to fix them if they break . . . but they’re not there. It’s not just that we lost communication with Sol-Earth—it’s that our only method of communicating with them is entirely gone.”



The other first-level Shippers all look nervous behind Shelby; they’re worried too. Something’s not right.



“Whatever the reason,” I say, “it doesn’t matter now. Now we’re at a point where we need to land. And we can. So we will.”



Shelby nods.



“Are you all prepared for planet-landing?” I ask.



Shelby straightens her shoulders. “I’ve gone over several sims with the first-level Shippers. We are good to go.”



I glance at the elaborate control panels at the front of the Bridge. “It looks complicated.”



“It’s not. Actually, there’s an autopilot—” Shelby finally leans up and points to the center of the long control panel, where there are only a few controls. “The ship is designed to land itself when directed. The rest of the controls are for if something goes wrong. This?” She points to a large black button. “Initiates the planet-landing launch.”



“But you said the engine’s thrusters weren’t working.”



Shelby laughs, and there’s relief in the sound of it. “They’re not—but we don’t need those. There’s a different set of thrusters with a separate fuel system for planet-landing—short, high-powered burst thrusters just for breaking orbit. It doesn’t matter at all that the main thrusters are out. We’ll . . . never need them.” There’s wonder in her voice. She’s only just realizing just how much has changed with the introduction of this planet.



“So, I just push this button,” I say, pointing to the big black one, “and we land?”



“Technically. But it’s not as simple as that,” Shelby explains. “You’d need that throttle to help direct where the ship goes after re-entry. And there’s always the chance that the re-entry doesn’t go smoothly; then you need—” She indicates the rest of the Bridge. “But don’t worry. Me and the other Shippers know how. And the controls work. Our records indicate that we’ve had to use the Bridge controls at least six times throughout the flight—we crossed an asteroid belt many gens ago, and our ancestors before the Plague had to adjust the flight plan.”



She meets my eyes and, despite herself, a grin spreads across her face. “We’re going to land this thing, aren’t we?”



“Oh, yes,” I say. “But before we do that, I’m going to show everyone what they almost lost.”



52



AMY



WHEN I CLOSE MY PARENTS BACK UP IN THE CRYO CHAMBER, I think about everything I wish I could tell them, but all I say is: “Soon.”



I think about returning to my room—my grumbling stomach would appreciate it if I got something to eat—but I doubt there’s any wall food at the Hospital, and I can’t reach Elder on my wi-com.



Part of me wishes that instead of coming here by the elevator, I’d explored the stairs I’d found with Orion’s clues. I’m desperately curious about where they lead—surely they go to the last locked door—but even though no one but me knows about the stairs, I’m half afraid to go down them without Elder.



Instead, I go to the hatch that leads to the stars. Maybe I can see the planet through the bubble-glass window if I look just right.



That’s odd.



The code for the door is Godspeed, or, on the numbered pad, 46377333. But the little window over the keypad already shows numbers: 46377334. The numbers fade to an error message: INCORRECT CODE. As the message changes back to the wrong numbers, I look inside the hatch.



Someone’s lying facedown on the floor.



My eyes widen. I clear out the incorrect code and type in the right one, opening the hatch door.



My heart drops. I know who this is. My hand flies immediately to my wi-com, and I try first for Elder, but the stupid thing just beeps uselessly. I stare at the body on the floor, my stomach churning. I can’t seem to catch my breath.



“Luthor?” I ask tentatively.



I try to com Doc too, but I can already tell from the stench that it’s too late.



I roll the body over. Green patches line his arms from wrist to elbow.



I look for the message Elder told me had been written across some of the victims, follow the leader. But there’s nothing here. Just patches and death.



His eyes are open, glassy. They stare straight ahead.



His body is stiff. Cold. He’s been dead awhile.



He died down here, probably before Elder gave his announcement about planet-landing. He died without knowing hope. He died cold and alone, blocked from the light of the stars, on a hard metal floor, surrounded by walls.



There’s nothing I can do. He’s dead.



I glance back at the keypad by the door. Whoever dumped his body in the hatch meant to type the code and open the outer door, sending the body out into the vacuum of space. They messed the code up on the last number and left the body by accident.



I bite my lip, trying to think who would do this—and what I should do if I figure it out. Does Luthor’s murderer deserve punishment? He tried to rape me, he did rape Victria, and he would do it again, given the chance. He’s been pushing for a rebellion not because he believes in any ideal of democracy, but because he thrills in causing chaos. He never showed any remorse. He didn’t make a mistake—he was evil, and he knew, and he relished in it.



I remember the rage in Elder’s eyes when I told him what Luthor had done, and how he went away for so long after.



No. No.



I force my mind to think of the future.



Planet-landing.



Fresh air.



My parents, awake and with me.



No more walls.



I turn my back very deliberately on the body and walk to the hatch door. I shut it, trying as hard as possible not to catch sight of the body through the bubble window.



I start to type the correct code into the control panel by the door.



G-o-d.



I pause.



Under my tunic, the gold cross necklace weighs heavily against my neck, as if it would like to pull me down, down. I feel the disapproving gaze of my parents, frozen and locked away in their cryo chambers. This—this is covering up a murder.



A murder of a horrible man who deserved to die.



But a man, nonetheless.



But he deserved it.



I think about Victria’s tear-streaked face.



I can’t do anything; he’s already dead.



I could tell Elder.



But what if I’m right and Elder—



Very quickly, I type out the rest of the code.



The door flies open; Luthor’s body flies out.



He’s gone.



Forever.



53



ELDER



I GET TO THE KEEPER LEVEL ONLY A FEW MINUTES BEFORE the solar lamp is due to click off—at its proper time—and I rush straight to Eldest’s room, swing open the door of his closet, and pull out the Keeper Robe. Stars are sprinkled across the shoulder, a planet along the hem. This robe symbolizes every hope and dream my people have ever known. And I’m going to make those dreams come true tonight.



I push my wi-com and do an all-call. “Everyone on board Godspeed is to come immediately to the Keeper Level,” I say, then disconnect the link. I don’t want to waste time on words.