Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I (9 page)

“Speaking of Tragedies,” Willow continues, “have you even looked at your assignment?”

I bite my lip and study the dirty creases in my leather boots.

She huffs. “Do you realize how bad you’re going to make me look? Go. Sit. Rest—for the love of Pete!”

I get up. It’s probably best to not make her tell me twice.

“And put a shirt on!” she demands behind me.

The closet, not just larger than my old bedroom but my old living room and kitchen, too, is filled with clothes that are obviously not all mine. My earthly wardrobe would hardly fill one corner. I pull an unfamiliar green shirt over my head as I walk past Willow in the kitchen. She chucks my assignment book at me. Still tangled in the shirt, I fumble to catch it.

The coffee scent follows me into the living room, and Willow’s sitting beside me with two mugs a minute later.

I take a cup from her and nod at the bookcase across the room, trying not to think about the empty frame on the bottom shelf. “What’s up with the pictures?”

“That’s our Satellite family tree, so to speak.” She places her coffee on the trunk, crosses the room, and grabs the Popsicle-stick frame I was scoping earlier. “This is me with my Legacy. Julia was seriously vexing, but she was a rock star, which is why I’m so good.”

“From what I’ve seen, you’re not that good.”

She tsks. “You live in a sad world of denial, kid. Anyway, the frame itself is mine. My daughter made it.” She traces the bright Popsicle sticks before exchanging the frame for another. “This is Julia with her Legacy, Madden. Her frame is much more polished than mine, pun intended. When you’re cleared as a Satellite, we’ll have a photo taken together for your frame.” She bends down and scans the shelves, stopping at the lowest one. “Very nice. Yours looks homemade as well.” She straightens herself and turns my frame over in her hands.

I swallow and focus on my calloused thumbs instead of the frame. “Yeah. Tate said it was supposed to make my hospital stays more cheerful. Can you believe that? Like a hospital stay could ever be cheerful.”

I look up at Willow when she doesn’t reply.

“You still remember that?” she asks after a few seconds.

“Sure, why wouldn’t—?” I stop, realizing I just outed myself.

“Why haven’t your memories faded?”

“I don’t know. They just haven’t,” I blurt out defensively.

“At all?”

I decide honesty is the best way to go. I shake my head and brace myself for her wrath. When she comes toward me, I succeed in getting my mug to the trunk—though coffee splashes over the lip—before leaping over the back of the sofa.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting away from you!” I yell.

She’s obviously confused.

“You were going to hit me again, right?”

“What? No! Seriously, kid, you need to get your head checked.”

“Me? You’re the one who goes around punching people!”

“You should have forgotten most of your memories by now, regardless of whether you were trying to or not,” she whispers.

“So what’s wrong with me?”

“Where do I begin?” She squeezes the bridge of her nose. “Truthfully, I don’t know.”

All this time I thought Willow was the mental one. Turns out, it’s me.

“I’m gonna track down Reed again. Maybe he’s come up with a theory by now,” Willow says, checking her calimeter. “Shoot. I gotta go. Would you please study your assignment?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And keep your mouth shut about all this,” she orders.

“Fine by me,” I agree, but she’s already disappeared out the door.

.

6. If I’m right, you owe me dinner

After Willow’s gone, I lounge back on the sofa and trace the gold wings on my assignment book. The binding creaks open, delivering a musty smell. Like the cover, printed in bold text on the first page is
Grant Bradley
,
Assignment One
. I flatten the inner spine with my palm before reading the handwritten letter on the next page.

Dear Grant,

It is with great appreciation that I welcome you to the Satellite program. You have been chosen because you possess the unique genetics that make you perfectly suited for this lifestyle. Your remarkable qualities of integrity, empathy & kindness will assist you in protecting your Tragedy in the coming months, as well as in future assignments.

Being chosen as a Satellite is a very high honor, and it is my hope that you find the program to be rewarding. If you should need assistance at any time, please do not hesitate to contact me.

All My Best,

Jonathan Clement

I skim back over the penned note, and those three words specifically: integrity, empathy, and kindness. These are my so-called remarkable qualities?

Integrity. OK, yes—that I have. Though these past few days, my behavior probably hasn’t been exactly top notch. My father would flip if he knew the lies I’ve been telling. He would certainly take the opportunity to spew his famous phrase:
“No son of mine is going to grow up to be dishonest.”

The kindness is from my mother, no doubt, and I’d like to think I’ve done a decent job there (minus my first meeting with Tate, anyway), but I wouldn’t consider this quality anything special. Both Tate and my mom are much kinder than I could ever hope to be.

I can’t think of anything that would pertain to empathy, aside from my extended hospital stays. I formed dozens of relationships while I was doing time, and certainly I empathized with the other patients, but it’d have been impossible not to, since I was going through the same hell myself. The Satellite pool must be pathetic if I’m the kind of guy they’re looking for.

I turn to the next page, titled “The Beginning.” Below the bold text is the outline of a hand with simple instructions: place hand here.

I flip through the rest of the pages, which are blank, offering nothing more than a stronger musty smell. Half laughing because I’m forced to play by the rules, I backtrack.

I sit like an idiot with my hand on the page. Nothing happens. Then, just as I start to pull away, I feel a tugging from my palm to my wrist, followed by a hard yank.

My arm is practically ripped from its socket and my stomach drops. Forced through a tight black space, I feel a stinging pressure against my body, like needles scraping my skin. For what seems like an eternity, I squeeze my eyes closed and give up gasping for oxygen that’s not there.

I finally land with a thud and open my eyes, panting. Hunched over, using my knees for support, I take in the dirty encircling stone wall that’s punctuated with rusty doors. The damp earthy scent here levels my breathing, unlike the blackness high above me.

“Welcome, Grant Bradley. Please hold while I configure your assignment.”
Oh, super. GPS Jeanette is back.

The circular wall spins into a blur of dull colors while the floor stays stationary. Dust cyclones around my legs. I focus on my boots, which, for the first time, don’t look so out of place.

Thirty seconds later, the wall abruptly stops and a ding echoes off the stone. Instead of, “You are now free to move about the cabin,” GPS Jeanette says, “Your assignment begins in the year 1988, with your introduction to Tragedy Ryder Collin Beckmann. Please proceed through the door ahead.”

Contrary to the previous wall of doors, now only one remains, appropriately labeled
1988
in iron numbers. My hand grips the oxidized handle and a light current shocks me. I quickly push down on the lever and the door swings open.

A sterile smell burns my nostrils, and I shudder at the memories the sensation brings. I step across the threshold, and the door clicks closed behind me. My breath curls like smoke from my mouth, but the hospital hallway is not the least bit cold.

Under fluorescent lights, a man and an older couple are peering through a glass window. A little girl bounces on her tiptoes beside them, hanging onto the narrow metal sill in order to gape into the room of babies.

“Ima big sistah!” she declares in a Boston accent.

A passing nurse stops and kneels down to the brown-eyed girl. “You are?”

“Uh-huh. Today is my brother’s birthday.”

“How exciting! I bet you’re going to be a wonderful big sister.”

“Oh yeah. I’ve been practicing.”

“What’s his name?”

“Ryder Collin Beckmann,” she recites. “Dad says he weighs seven pounds and forty ounces—right, Dad?”

“That’s right, honey,” her dad says in the same thick accent, neither looking away from the glass nor catching the weight mistake. His daughter didn’t hear the tremble in his voice, but I did.

The little girl also doesn’t notice the nurse’s face waver because, once again, she’s beaming through the window.

The nurse stands and touches the man’s arm. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “If there’s anything I can do…” She turns to the little girl. “Honey, would you like to get a snack from the nurse’s station?”

“Dad, can I?” The girl’s dress comes to life when she bounces up and down.

The man turns in my direction, away from his daughter, and wipes tears from his glassy, red eyes. “That’d be fine,” he answers.

The little girl skips at the nurse’s side. When they disappear around the corner, the man says to the older couple, “Ryder will never know any different, but how are we going to tell Mya her mom is dead?”

My feet are sucked out from under me, and a second later, I land (somehow still upright) back on the dirt floor. The metal door thunders closed. Inhaling the earthy scent to slow my pulse, I barely have time to process the scene because the wall spins into a blur.

With a ding, another labeled door is presented. “Please proceed to 1990,” GPS Jeanette instructs calmly.

I take a deep breath before the shock of the handle zings up my arm. When I step into the campground before me, my breath hangs in the air like the smoke over the fire pit beside the faded canvas tent.

The man from the hospital is different in this scene—he happily chases a shrieking boy. The little girl from the hospital has changed, too. She’s taller, and her face is less round. She casts a fishing pole into the glassy lake while the little boy runs behind her like a maniac.

“Mya, fish!” her dad yells when he passes by her.

She jerks her head up and frantically reels the line.

“Come on, Ryder, let’s see your sister’s fish!” Breathless, he scoops up Ryder and circles back. He sits Ryder down beside him before working on freeing the hook from the spotted fish’s mouth.

“Dad, can we come here every year?” Mya asks, never looking away from her newly caught prize.

“I don’t see why not.”

I’m sucked away from the smiling trio and hear the metal boom of the door. After a light rumble, the wall circles around me again.

The motion finally halts. “Please proceed to 1993,” GPS Jeanette says.

I step through the door and breathe heavily scented air. I try to force thoughts of Tate out of my head, but the overwhelming peppermint smell makes it difficult. A spindly Charlie Brown-looking Christmas tree fills the tiny room. On the floor beside it, Mya is painting her already clownlike face with more makeup. Her dark hair is to the middle of her back now, and her face looks even thinner when she pouts into the lighted mirror.

Near Mya, Ryder pushes a truck through an explosion of wrapping paper. His spaghetti arms and legs are too long for his red pajamas. As he plows the paper into a pile, he vibrates his lips to effectively produce the motor’s noise.

“Ryder, I think Santa left something else for you,” their dad says, sporting plaid pajamas and more gray in his hair. “Look what I found in the garage.” He holds up a squirming ball of fluff.

Ryder rockets up. “No way! Is he really mine?” he asks, grabbing the yellow puppy from his dad.

His dad grins. “He’s all yours.”

The dog drenches Ryder with slobber.
Yuck.

“You did good,” Mya whispers to her dad, who sits beside her on the floor.

He winks back at her. “How about you? You made out decent, huh?”

“Best Christmas ever!” she exclaims, smiling. Then she asks Ryder, “What are you going to name him?”

“Granite,” Ryder says immediately.

“That’s a great name.” Mya looks away from her dad when she sees him blink away tears.

After being unceremoniously yanked away and dumped back inside the stone room again, I yell, “Is it necessary to remove me so abruptly?”

I’m answered with a spinning wall. When the door positions itself, GPS Jeanette instructs me to proceed to 1995.

Metal spoons clink together in an otherwise quiet room. Ryder’s dad and Mya are behind a table with three others, filling plates for a long line of haggard faces. Granite, now huge, almost runs through me. Ryder, lankier than ever, follows him. They stop at one of the tables, and the people shoveling meat and bread into their mouths pause expectantly. Granite’s tongue hangs to the side, and his tail beats against a metal folding chair.

Ryder pushes a dark curl behind his ear and removes a stack of cards from his vest pocket. He places one of the cards into the ribbon of the top hat he’s wearing. After everyone pulls a card from the deck, he pulls his own from his hat and turns it over to show the crowd. He asks a girl with a dirt-smudged face if her card matches his. Her reveal wins him applause.

After a formal bow, he and Granite move to the next table, and I’m sucked away.

My next year, 1996, puts me back in the soup kitchen. The room has changed. It’s now covered in all things red and green, including a scrubby tree in the corner. Now it’s the lack of peppermint in the air—because the scent would be appropriate here—that has me thinking of Tate. Oh, how that girl loved Christmas!

The large crowd around me converses in accents so thick I may as well have landed on Mars. Granite sits patiently while Mya folds a large red bag and puts it under her arm. She pulls a bone from her pocket and tosses it in the air. Without moving from his spot, Granite snaps up the bone before it hits the ground.

“That was a great idea, Dad,” Mya praises.

“I’m still amazed at how many gifts we collected. We’re fortunate to be part of such a giving community,” her Dad says. Mya agrees.

“How about you, Ryder? Did you have fun?” their dad asks.

“Yeah! Did you see how many families showed up for presents?” Ryder, even taller and skinnier than before, plays keep-away with Granite by jerking a red ribbon up before the dog snaps it.

“I sure did. I’d say it was a great success.”

“Do you have the flowers for Mom?” Mya asks more solemnly.

“I’ll go grab them.” Their dad disappears into a room in the back.

Ryder gives up and lets Granite have the ribbon. “Do you think Mom watches over us?” he asks Mya in a whisper.

“Are you kidding?” She nudges his side. “I bet she’s totally trying to figure out how you do those great magic tricks.”

Ryder squares his shoulders and lifts his chin proudly. “They are pretty good, huh?”

Mya hugs him. “Absolutely.”

“After we visit Mom, I’m going to show Gramps my newest trick. I bet he’ll never figure it out.”

“I bet you’re right,” Mya agrees.

I’m pulled backward through the door and it slams closed. The wall finally settles with a ding.

“Please proceed to 1997,” GPS Jeanette says.

“Shut up, you little wimp—or I’ll punch your face in!” I hear, before I even step through the door.

Next to the slide, a red-faced, husky boy towers over a boy half his size.

“Leave me alone,” the smaller boy says, more to the ground than the giant.

“Or what?” Husky demands.

“Or I’ll tell.” The small boy’s voice hitches.

Husky pushes his finger into the boy’s chest and warns, “If you do, I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”

“Leave him alone!” a new voice shouts.

Husky tosses a glance over his shoulder. “Stay out of it, Ryder.”

“Leave him alone,” Ryder yells again.

“This is between me and him. Go back to where you came from.”

“He didn’t do anything to you.” Ryder places himself between the boys. Size-wise, he’s the perfect combination of the two.

“Look at you,” Husky growls to the smaller boy. “You deserve to be punched just for looking so stupid.”

Ryder shakes his head and puts his arm around the frightened boy. “Come on, let’s go.”

Husky grabs the small boy’s shoulder and pulls him back. “I said butt out!” he barks at Ryder.

Ryder frees the boy from Husky’s grasp and pushes him gently to the side. “And I said let him be!”

After Husky shoves Ryder, Ryder launches himself at Husky, taking him out at the knees. After shuffling back up, red-faced Husky hurls himself at Ryder again. This time, Ryder catches him in a bear hug and throws him to the ground like a wrestler.

A whistle blows in the background. “Boys! Boys! Stop it!” a woman commands, running to them. “Both of you, come with me—now!”

Before I can judge how much trouble Ryder’s in, the vacuum sucks me from the scene.

“Thank you, Grant. This completes your first session. Please return after training,” GPS Jeanette states calmly after the door thunders closed.

Her words don’t register until I’m yanked into the blackness overhead. Like before, I twist through the invisible needles, my lungs screaming for air. Not soon enough, I land on my feet, gasping. As if I dropped it, the book smacks against the wood floor and flops closed.

After catching my breath, I grab the book and toss it on the trunk. I’d swear it feels lighter.

I pour a cup of coffee and consider coding, but then Willow’s face replaces Tate’s in my mind. The little freak would have my neck for sure. Although, being dead already, how much damage could she really do?