by Lee Davidson
Copyright © 2014 Lee Davidson
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 1494892863
EAN-13: 9781494892869
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62346-255-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014900428
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
For Nanna.
Your love for books, stories, and writing in general has been an inspiration like no other.
I miss you.
Did you never know, long ago, how much you loved me—
That your love would never lessen and never go?
You were young then, proud and fresh-hearted,
You were too young to know.
—Sara Teasdale, Did You Never Know?
Prologue
Jonathan Clement sits in his ceilingless, octagonal office, re-inking his pen and scribbling notes in a book. When the door opens, his dancing feather halts on the page and Jonathan looks up from his desk.
“Great to see you, Beaman. Any news today?” Jonathan asks.
“None sir. He seems to have forgotten everything.”
Jonathan is pleased by Beaman’s response. He rolls his chair back a few feet, removes an iron rod from the fireplace behind him, and stamps the cover of a book before responding. “I foresee some obstacles in his future. Would you mind continuing to monitor him?”
“Not at all. Should I still report daily?” Beaman asks.
Jonathan dips his pen into the ink well. “Yes, thank you.”
Beaman narrows his eyes on the feather. “You do know we’re in a digital age now, right?”
Jonathan laughs. “Ah, yes. Old habits die hard, it seems.”
1. It’s the name of the game
Willow
“You wanted to see me?” I wish my candlelit dinner with Troy wasn’t being interrupted.
“Yes, thank you for arriving so promptly, Willow.” Jonathan stops a few feet from the K hall in the grand marble lobby. “I am in need of your assistance with an assignment.”
Anxiety hits quick, making my heart rate spike when my mind ticks through all of my Tragedies. “For who?”
“I am saddened to say, Tatum Jacoby. She is careening off course once again.”
Tate. I’d bet the farm she is off course. Things like this tend to happen when the natural order gets altered. “But you said…never mind. What’s going on with her?” Aside from the fact that she erased all of Grant’s memories is what I want to say, but don’t.
“Grant’s inherent memory loss is a natural part of the process,” Jonathan says, using his unnerving mind reading ability—he can deny having this gift all day long, but I’ll never believe him.
“We both know the way his memories were erased was not natural,” I taunt.
“Despite how his memories were taken, losing them was essential, especially now that—”
“Now that he’s an Elite,” I mumble, knowing Jonathan is right. Probably, anyway.
“As a member of the Elite team, distractions in our work can be treacherous. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I hesitate before nodding. Regular Satellite assignments are strenuous enough. The kid has no idea how agonizing the road ahead is going to be. “Working towards the greater good,” I say with phony enthusiasm.
Jonathan smiles. “That’s the spirit. I would like you to accompany Liam on Tate’s assignment until we can get her advancing forward again.”
“I’m guessing you need me to go now?”
Jonathan nods and squeezes my shoulder.
So much for my chicken marsala, and more importantly, my husband-time.
“Thank you. You are one of our most exceptional, though you mustn’t need me to tell you that.”
How is it that this guy knows flattery always brings him forgiveness? “Oh, come on Johnny, you say that to all the Satellites,” I tease. “Am I expected in training?”
“Unless you feel the need, I think you can manage without. I’m here if you need anything. Good luck.”
“Will you get a message to Troy that I’ll see him at break?”
When Jonathan nods, I thank him and dig in my bag. When my fingers find Tate’s gold necklace, I whisper, “Displace,” and fall through the dark marble floor of the lobby. On my way down to Earth to save another Tragedy, I think of Troy. At least he will understand. God love my husband. He’s more than a girl could ever hope for and I’m somehow lucky enough to get eternity with him. Not a bad trade for missing out on a few years of my mortal life.
I breathe deeply to pull the zooming wind into my lungs and then I grin. Being a Satellite will always be a close second to being with my husband. As the houses below quickly approach, I still find it difficult to believe there really is something better than this. Six months ago, before I was reunited with Troy, I didn’t believe it myself.
When Liam almost jumps out of his Sketchers from the shock of my landing, I can’t help but snicker.
“Bloody hell, woman!”
“What’s up?” I ask beautiful, British Liam. Shocked expressions always look silly on him. He should really lose the hat; his wavy, sand-colored hair is too perfect to be covered. I shift my eyes toward Tate. “I hear our girl is still going all mental-ward on us.”
Tate appears normal enough, minus the black jeans, black tee, and black make-up. The protruding ribs aren’t overly flattering either. Not that I can blame the poor thing, having lost first her fiancée and then her brother within a few short months. If she knew Grant and Elliott were both Satellites and that she would see them again, it would make my job a lot easier. Until then, Liam and I will have to keep her slogging on through life. “She’s still on the black kick, huh? Pity. She wears color so much better.”
“Her attitude is as dark as her clothing. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m glad you’re here. I could certainly use the help.”
“I can see that. Have you been coding during breaks?”
“Yeah, but my relaxed state is usually diminished within the first ten minutes of being with her.” At the same time Liam says this, Tate cranks her radio up to ear-piercing volume. “Here she goes again,” Liam shouts over the noise.
“I got this one,” I yell back and focus on pulling in my filter. When my energy is formed into a pretty, purple ball floating in front of me, I say, “Haze,” and then send my thoughts to Tate through the film than has enclosed the two of us.
Turn it down.
Oh, it hurts! My body clenches in pain. Labor, Willow, labor! Remembering childbirth always snaps my mind back into the game.
“Block.” The connection between Tate and me is severed, making the vapory filter fall to the carpet in droplets before vanishing.
In my head, my arms raise in victory when Tate spins the volume dial down.
When she switches her attention to the family photograph on her nightstand, I ask Liam, “Has Elliott forgiven Grant yet?”
Liam shakes his head. “I can’t blame Elliott. The bloke put down his sister.”
“He didn’t really put her down. According to Clara, Grant just said something along the lines of ‘so what if Tate was a Rebellion’.”
As usual, Liam isn’t buying my downplaying attempt.
“All right, his tone probably wasn’t super-sweet.”
“A Rebellion, Willow. The worst-case-scenario for a Tragedy, and Grant pretty much told the girl’s brother he didn’t care. Don’t forget, he and Grant were almost brothers themselves. It was cold.”
“I understand Elliott’s point, but in the kid’s defense, his memories of her are gone, so he really didn’t know w
hat he was saying.”
Liam lets out a loud breath.
“I guess this means you’re still mad at Grant, too?”
“I had to endure watching Grant here, remember?” He points his eyes at Tate. “He broke every rule we have to be with her, even leaving his own Tragedy—whom he should have been watching—unattended.”
I wince, knowing my own son was left unprotected while Grant was making illegal visits to Tate. Liam continues and paces around the room. “She erased his memories one by one. She destroyed all the reminders of him from her life: photographs, music, even her clothes.”
“I know!” I immediately regret my sharp tone that was merely a result of wishing he’d stop with the rehash. “I’m not cool with how his memories were wiped from his mind either; it’s not the way they were supposed to disappear, but there’s nothing we can do about that now. The fact is they’re gone like they should be, like how it is—or was—for all of us. It’s not his fault and it’s not fair of you and Elliott to blame him.”
“He’s changed,” Liam says in a quieter voice.
“We all changed when we became Satellites, Liam. It’s the name of the game. You forgot your life, I forgot mine. That’s what Programming is for: to return our memories when our loved ones join us. You weren’t so quick to lose your memories either, and as I recall, you were able to keep more of them than a lot of people around here.” Oh Christ have mercy; I wish I could take the words back as soon as they are out.
Liam squints his eyes and his hand freezes on his ball cap. “Do you think I want to remember my death?”
“No, I’m—”
“Do you think I want to remember the look on my son’s face when he pulled my body from the water?” Liam shouts.
“No! I’m sorry. But how about the alternative, Liam?” I yell back before I’m able to calm myself. “How about not remembering you had a son at all? How about not remembering you died while giving birth to him?”
We both retreat to our respective corners, speechless.
“Just try to cut the kid a break, Liam,” I finally say. “Being a Satellite isn’t always an easy road. If it were, there’d probably be a lot more of us.”
I take the next block, which is better than any apology I could give him. His grateful expression says so.
2. Now that we all know each other, let’s get down to it
Grant
A single knock at the door jerks me from my coma-like state and forces me up from the puke-green sofa. I swore I’d destroy the atrocious couch my mentor left me, but the truth is, the thing’s too comfortable to part with. I’d never admit that to Willow, though, because if her head got any bigger, it’d explode like a firecracker.
When I check the door, the hallway is empty except for an abandoned roll of parchment at my feet, delivered, no doubt, by the magic of Progression. On my way to the kitchen, I untie and drop the leather cord on the hardwood floor, knowing it will disappear, compliments of, yes, the magic of Progression. The musty odor of the curled letter is quickly covered by the scent of coffee.
Dear Grant,
We are honored to welcome you to the Satellite team of Elites. Please go to the courtyard at break to begin your training. Also, please commence reading your assignment. You know we only ask because it is important.
—S
I laugh out loud, recalling a similar note from S, when I missed a block on my first—and, so far only—assignment. Apparently, the life-planning Schedulers are fully aware that I haven’t started my reading yet. Imagine that.
In truth, I have been putting off getting acquainted with my next Tragedy because I’m nervous about what lies ahead. My time protecting Ryder wasn’t what I’d call easy, and that was a normal case. I can only imagine what an Elite assignment will entail.
I gulp down the extra strong coffee on my way back to the sofa, then trade the mug for my assignment on the dilapidated trunk used as a coffee table (another of Willow’s eclectic touches). The book is too heavy for its size, much heavier than Ryder’s book was. I try not to think too much about what this could mean.
My eyes move past my name and label Assignment Two on the dark purple cover, getting stuck on the third line: Elite. I reluctantly open the book and the binding creaks as if in defiance. I skim past the first page and am greeted with the familiar, neat handwriting.
Dear Grant,
It is with great appreciation that I welcome you to the Elite team of Satellites. You have proven to be a remarkable Satellite. Your qualities of integrity, empathy, and kindness will be pivotal in your upcoming assignments.
Being chosen as an Elite is the highest honor in this program. I have great hope that you will gain a respect and appreciation for your fellow Elites.
If you should need assistance at any time, please do not hesitate to contact me.
All My Best,
Jonathan Clement
The Beginning graces the next page in bold text above the instructions for dummies. I flatten the spine and do as I’m directed, placing my hand, fingers splayed, on the page. The drawn outline of the hand suits mine precisely.
The tugging starts lightly, but it doesn’t take long before my arm feels almost dismembered. When I’m yanked into the book, my eyes clamp shut as I move through the constricting, black space. I know better than to try and breathe. Instead, I make an effort to focus on anything other than the invisible needles scouring my body.
When my feet finally hit the dirt in the circular room that resembles the inside of a well, the dank smell is calming. The blackness overhead, however, makes me uneasy. “Well, let’s go,” I say out loud, anxious to get out of this stone, claustrophobic prison of rusty doors.
GPS Jeanette, the automated voice of choice in Progression, chimes through the space, “Welcome, Grant Bradley. Please hold while I configure your assignment.”
A rumble prompts the circular wall to spin into a gray blur. I focus on my boots and the dirt ground, thankful that both remain stationary.
With a ding, the wall stops and leaves just one door. “Your assignment begins in the year 1976, with the introduction to your Tragedy, Meggie Ann Lotashey. Please proceed through the door ahead,” GPS Jeanette instructs.
I suck in the smell of earth. The door that remains includes 1976 in iron numbers. When I turn the handle, an electric current vibrates through my veins. The room on the other side welcomes me with nose-burning antiseptic and bright lights. My breath swims like smoke each time I exhale, even though the temperature is as comfortable as Progression.
Six gender-neutral doctors in blue scrubs and matching masks crowd around a small table. Taller than all of them, I lean between two shoulders to see what has their attention, but cringe away in shock.
“More suction,” a male voice says, followed by a dry sucking sound that turns to a gurgle.
Probably because I’m a guy and, therefore, fascinated by gore, I go back for another look. A heart the size of a walnut frantically pulses inside a tiny, open chest.
“Clamp,” the doctor says and somehow finagles a silver instrument into the area.
Putting space between myself and the group, I grip the stainless steel table and swallow. The gore is one thing; twisting implements into the infant’s body is entirely different. I could never be a doctor.
After barking more orders, a male voice finally says, “Happy Birthday, Meggie. I think you’re going to be quite a fighter.” He takes a step back and pulls his mask down. “Close her up. Good work.”
My feet come out from under me and I grab at the air as I’m yanked out of the room. My boots hit the hard earth and the metal door closes with an echo.
The stone wall cyclones around me again. When the familiar ding halts the movement, instead of saying, it’s now safe to move about the cabin, GPS Jeanette says, “Please proceed to 1980,” in her creepy-calm voice.
I push through the door, past the shock of the handle, and step into a yellow kitchen. Ballo
ons and bodies fill the tiny area.
I push myself against the wall and exhale vapor, glancing through the doorway into an even smaller room that’s been taken over by a sea of pink bows, decorations, and wrapped boxes.
The crowd in the kitchen finishes belting out “Happy birthday, dear Meggie, happy birthday to you,” and the girl at the table shows her approval by baring all of her white Tic-Tac teeth.
“You belong in the zoo,” a boy beside her sings after Meggie half blows, half spits out the four candles. He’s double her size in both height and width, but has the same white-blond hair. If the boy on Meggie’s other side wasn’t wearing a red shirt instead of blue, I’d swear I was seeing double.
“Max and Ryan!” Twenty bucks says the woman is momma bear, as no one else in the room has hair as blond as the three kids.
Meggie sticks her tongue out at the twins.
I’m sucked away and the thunder of metal follows. When the cyclonic walls halt, GPS Jeanette tells me to move on to 1984. I step into the living room that had moments ago been filled with birthday gifts. A rancid odor hangs in the air. A piercing shriek makes me stumble and my back hits the drywall beside the couch.
“You’re a worthless excuse of a woman!” The voice belongs to a charmer who’s wearing the source of the smell on his shirt. The ugly stains match his weathered face. He rocks over momma bear while she hunches over little Meggie like a shield.
My instinct is to block him until I remember this is the past; blocking this scene would work about as well as trying to block the events of a movie.
Blood is matted in momma bear’s hair and her shoulders jerk in silent sobs. Little Meggie, however, wastes no energy trying to keep her shrieking quiet. My fingernails sting my palms when Mr. Drunk spits on the wall. He exits the room like a slow and swaying elephant.