Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I (8 page)

I’m totally confused when Willow begins running in place. “Come on,” she whines, sticking her tongue out.

I mentally curse her for volunteering, and then I sprint. Even with her head start, her short legs can’t carry her across the field as fast as mine. I’ll have her in two seconds.

“Haze!” she yells, and darkness curtains around me like black ink. The temperature plummets to ice.

Almost before my mind can register the chilling claustrophobia, my sight is back and the temperature has returned to normal. I’m overcome with such an urge to sit down that I’m afraid my knees are going to buckle. My own voice screams in my head to park it. I willingly fall onto the soft grass.

Willow, stopped just a few feet away, is happily panting like a dog.

“Wonderful!” Jonathan places his clipboard under his arm to clap. “And that, my friends, is what we call blocking.”

The gaping crowd applauds while I remain utterly baffled. What the heck is going on?

“Excuse me?”

Jonathan turns to me, smiling. “Yes?”

“Am I missing something?” The crowd, quickly becoming as exasperating as Willow, cracks up, even though I
know
I haven’t said anything funny this time.

“Please, Grant, take a seat on the bleachers. Things will become clearer when you witness blocking from the outside.”

I climb the cedar planks back to my spot as another pair is selected: a Legacy named Shyla and the redhead who gave Rigby a dirty look on our first day. In a Southern accent, she corrects Jonathan that it’s “just Whitfield” when he calls her Janie Whitfield.

“Sounds familiar,” I whisper to Rigby.

“Hardly,” he hisses back, but then grins.

“Whitfield, do you have any problems attacking your Legacy?” Jonathan asks.

“None, sir,” she replies.

A few things happen at once. Whitfield lunges for Shyla, who in turn yells, “Haze!” A bubblelike wall of rippling water materializes around Shyla and then extends out to Whitfield, obscuring both girls.

“Block!” Shyla shouts a second later.

The water splashes to the ground, and the droplets bounce on the grass before evaporating. Whitfield freezes in midstrike, like a cow looking at a new gate. She drops her arms to her sides.

“And there you have it,” Jonathan says. “Through the haze, the Legacies are transmitting their thoughts and, in effect, changing their subject’s mind.”

Everyone responds with applause. Except me. If Willow blocked me, how do I not remember something about it? My muscles tense at the chilling thought.

Jonathan selects three more unfortunate pairs for demonstrations, and when the applause ends, he addresses us again. “This will be all for today. Thank you for a wonderful session. Tomorrow you will have the opportunity to practice blocking. Please return to your quarters and begin studying your assignments. But first, feel free to take a short break and enjoy this lovely day.”

“So whatcha think, kid?” Willow asks on our slow walk back to the doors.

“I think you’re a madwoman. You
volunteered
!”

She disregards my insult. “I’m asking about blocking.”

I stare back at her for a few seconds and cross my arms. “It’s creepy.”

She considers this. “Maybe, but it works.”

“I have my doubts,” I mumble.

“Do you remember anything from my block?”

“I’m not convinced that you blocked me.”

“Of course I did. Remember? You sat like an obedient dog. That is, unless you truly couldn’t catch me?”

“Oh, I could have caught you!” I dispute. It would have been easy.

“See. That’s the beauty of a block. There’s no trace in the subject’s head that it ever happened.”

“Stop gloating. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

As if she knows her overly chipper attitude irritates me, she offers me a cheeky grin and practically starts skipping. She beams when we catch Rigby at the doors. “Yo, Rig, did you catch that killer block?”

“Yeah, that was sweet!” He pops a new toothpick into his mouth.

When I speak, my tone is caustic. “I’m glad you both enjoyed it.”

“Get over it, kid. You’ll like it from the other side. I gotta check in with Programming, so I’ll catch you later. Start studying your assignment.”

“Sure thing, Momma Willow.”

She winks at me before being absorbed by the passing crowd.

“She’s right, you know,” Rigby says.

“About what?”

“I bet you’ll think blocking is sweet once you do it yourself.”

“Doubtful.” There’s nothing sweet about mind manipulation.

“You gotta admit, it’s cool to watch.”

“Not from the inside.”

“Well, anyway, it’s still sick. Willow was, by far, the best blocker. Completely seamless. You’re lucky you’re not stuck with Techie Shane.” Rigby looks over his shoulder to make sure no one is behind us.

“Try spending more than an hour with her. You’ll disagree,” I scoff.

“What’s it feel like to be blocked?” he asks.

“Like nothing, really. I mean, all I can remember is wanting to sit down.”

“Seriously? That’s it?”

“Well, there was something else. It was black and cold for a second. Although, who knows, my head could have just made that part up.” My head has been known to make up crazier things, like seeing my fiancée while I code.

Anna bounces over to us, beaming. I sullenly wonder if she’s the spawn of Willow, minus the dreads.

“Hey, guys!” she crows. “Willow’s block was outstanding!”

Sigh.

“I hope Jordan blocks me so I can see what it’s like,” she adds.

“I prefer to have people
not
invade my head.”

“Dude, it’s mind control. That’s got to be the best superpower ever!” Rigby acts like he’s just won an all-expense-paid vacation to a tropical island.

“Really?”
Anna turns and gives Rigby a disgusted look, which he then mimics behind her back. “Anyway, it’s necessary for our Tragedies,” she continues. “I’m at least glad to know we have a way of keeping them on course.”

“She’s got a point,” Rigby concedes, flipping his toothpick over in his mouth.

I guess she does, but I don’t say this aloud.

Anna and I leave Rigby at the
R
hall. When we reach our own elevator, I turn to her. “Did you have any luck remembering the conversation with your brother?”

We step inside the lift, and Anna twirls the end of her dark hair. “Huh?” she asks, choosing her floor number from the gold wall of buttons.

“You were trying to remember your last conversation with him,” I remind her.

“I was?” she doubts, obviously still puzzled.

“Do you remember your brother at all?”

“Oh, absolutely. I miss him. But we’ll see each other again. Until then, I plan to be an amazing Satellite!”

The doors ding open, and GPS Jeanette wishes her well. Anna says good-bye and steps out.

“Anna?”

In the hall, she turns back to me. “Yeah?”

“What does your dad do for a living?”

Anna stares at me blankly before the elevator doors close.

Back in Willow’s apartment—or I guess I should say
my
apartment—the smell of coffee hangs in the air. My body collapses onto the sofa I hate; I feel deflated by Anna’s memory loss. As I sink further into the cushions, it kills me to admit the sofa is comfortable. I look around, doubting this place will ever feel like mine.

I pull my assignment book from my backpack and set it on the trunk. I stare at the unmarred binding and wonder what lies ahead. Then, like clockwork, my thoughts go back to Tate. Deciding the assignment can wait, I push myself up to take advantage of Willow’s absence.

In the room down the hall, I sit on a black mat and face the mirrors. My shock at my reflection has lessened, but I still run my hand through my hair for good measure.

Closing my eyes, I picture my bedroom and Tate as I did before. After just one breath, she’s lying on my chest, humming quietly and tracing my abs. Her familiar, sweet scent impales me, making my insides scorch like burning coal. The desire to stay with her forever crushes me.

“Tate,” I whisper, surprised and elated that I can talk this time.

Her finger pauses and her breathing stops for a second. She pushes her hand under my T-shirt, and a deviously tracing fingernail paralyzes me. When she raises her head, I suck in a sharp breath at her appearance.

A pooling tear in her sunken, bloodshot eyes rolls down her face and hits my chest. The moisture burns through my shirt, but I can’t look away from her raw eyes. She contemplates my hair, twirling a strand around her finger.

I lean forward to kiss her, and she responds as urgently as she did during the kiss after my diagnosis. One hand grips and tugs at my hair while the other clutches the back of my neck. She wraps her right leg around me. I run my hand down the length of her arm and over the curve of her hip, stopping under her thigh. She pulls back but my arms react and draw her closer, refusing to let her go.

“Tate, please, stay with me,” I plead when she breaks free.

Her face contorts. “Why are you doing this to me?” she demands.

I open my mouth to respond—to ask what she means—but before my words come out I’m back in the coding room, panting and covered in sweat.

No! I have to go back!
I squeeze my eyes closed and think of my room. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing! I need more strength from my worthless, drained body.

After three more attempts, I give up and fall back on the mat in defeat. Sweat drips down my face and neck while I glare at the wood beams overhead. My hand rubs at my stinging chest, and despite the exhaustion that hits me like a truck when I sit up, I manage to crawl to the mirror.

A small hole graces my T-shirt at the source of the stinging. After wrestling myself free from my sweaty shirt, my breathing stops. My finger traces over the burning, tear-shaped lesion on my chest.

Tate’s tear did this.

“Hey, kid—where you at?”

Crap!

With no time (or strength) to put on my shirt, I use it to wipe my face instead. The wet fabric is about as helpful as drying off with a water hose.

“You back here?” Willow calls, her voice just outside the door now.

“Yeah,” I answer, but she’s already in the room.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” Of course, she doesn’t buy my answer.

“I thought we agreed you’d chill with the coding.”

Busted, I know continuing to lie will only make things worse. “I’m sorry, Willow. Here’s the thing, though—I need to learn it, don’t I? I mean, I’m going to need to code once my assignment starts.” I hope my argument is convincing enough.

“But after last time…” She exhales deeply. “Why’d I get stuck with the stubborn Satellite?” she says to the ceiling.

“I prefer
persistent
.” I almost laugh.

“I guess I can’t say I’m surprised. Honestly, I’d probably be more surprised if you hadn’t tried. So, out with it. How many times?”

“Just twice,” I respond, biting my lip.

“And the results?”

“Huh?” Playing stupid has worked a time or two in the past, but she just stares at me shrewdly. Apparently, it won’t work this time.

“Yeah, the results were the same. But it wasn’t…it wasn’t…What’s the big deal?” I stammer.

“Oh, come on, Grant! Even you’re smarter than that.”

“All right, fine—but I’m not intentionally reaching out to Tate.” It’s not entirely a lie. I don’t have much control over the outcome.

“I’m not blaming you, kid. It just doesn’t make sense.”

She chooses the dry mat for her seat. I opt for the hardwood floor, leaning my bare, damp back against the mirror.

“So you saw her again?”

I nod and stare at the frayed ends of my jeans.

“Did she talk to you?”

“Yeah.” My head raises. “There’s no way it’s real, right?” I hate to be hopeful, but I am.

Willow slumps her shoulders and looks at her bare feet. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you’re a lot of help,” I jab, trying to make a joke.

“This shouldn’t be happening. Even Reed agrees.”

“Who’s Reed?”

“Another Satellite.”

I give her an accusing look. “I thought we weren’t talking about this.”

“Reed’s cool. Anyway, he’s never heard of it, but he doubts that you’re the only one who’s ever experienced this.”

“Why?”

“No offense, but can you honestly believe your situation is unique to our entire Satellite history?”

“Well—no. I guess not.”

“Reed thinks the Schedulers keep experiences like yours under wraps.”

I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

“Satellites have one focus. Even you should know that by now. If all the newbies worried too much about their transitions, they’d have difficulty focusing on their Tragedies, wouldn’t you agree?”

After considering, I nod, though I don’t necessarily see the problem. Except, I guess, that I’ve yet to open my assignment book.

“I may have you code again. Under my supervision,” she adds pointedly. Seeing my expression, she goes on. “Settle down, kid. Not now. You need to rest—you look terrible. If you don’t code the right way soon, you won’t be strong enough to watch over anyone.”

I think better of letting Willow in on how truly wrecked I am. Chemo doesn’t even compare. At least I’m not puking, though. Yay for small favors.