Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I

by Lee Davidson

  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.

  “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.