Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I

by Lee Davidson

  “No! Not my baby. Not my baby!” Mrs. Jacoby wails from the floor. Tate’s dad holds his distressed wife and stares blankly across the room.

  Tate gasps for air while Fischer absorbs the nightmare from the safety of her arms.

  I react in the only way I can. “Haze!”

  Calm. Calm. Calm. Calm.

  I stumble back in pain; the shock is worse than I’ve ever felt before.

  “Block!”

  Mrs. Jacoby’s volume decreases, but sobs continue to rip through her.

  “Haze!”

  Calm. Calm. Calm.

  My scars rip apart before I choke out the order to cease the current.

  Tate becomes quieter, but then Fischer’s cries ramp up. I stumble, both mentally and physically, before repeating the process one more time. Agony screams through my convulsing muscles, and I slump to the floor like the rest of the family.

  When Tate’s aunt and uncle make an appearance in the foyer, the hysterics resume. From the floor, I pull as much energy as possible, but the filter is just a light-blue tint.

  “Haze,” I murmur.

  Calm. Calm. Calm. Calm.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t focus.

  “Block,” I choke out. Tate barely reacts to my unimpressive persuasion.

  “I don’t understand. He was just rock climbing,” Tate’s dad says in a dead voice.

  I don’t have the strength to block; I don’t have the strength to do anything. Instead, I endure a pain much worse. Tears sting my eyes while I focus on a chip in the tile floor and try to tune out the wailing from Tate’s mom.

  And Tate—what will this do to her?

  My mind stops my thought and works again to find my energy. When I finally pull some, the blue ball is the most transparent it’s ever been. I try for another block, but I am physically unable.

  In pain, I push across the floor to Tate, and her crying slows. “Shhh,” I whisper.

  “Grant?” she breathes, so softly that no one else could have heard.

  I try to use my energy to squeeze her arm as a sign that I’m there, but I’m entirely depleted. My blood boils in anger. I think of the Schedulers—of what they have done to Tate, to this family. How much can one person be expected to suffer?

  I’m about to find out.

  Bolting from my room to find Jonathan turns out to be unnecessary. He’s already sitting on the sofa.

  “Grant,” he says calmly.

  Wild-eyed, I shoot a look at Willow. Sure, now she decides to come around.

  “Are you all right, kid?”

  “What do you think?” I snap, well beyond pissed at this point. “I want to see the Schedulers.”

  “That’s not possible,” Willow begins, but she is hushed by Jonathan’s raised hand.

  “Grant, please sit. We have much to discuss.”

  “Frigging right we do! I want to see the Schedulers now!”

  “That will not be possible unless you calm down,” he says. I grit my teeth.

  “Are you in control of your emotions?” he asks three minutes later.

  I nod my head, not trusting my voice.

  “All right. Let’s go.”

  Willow can’t hide her surprise. The Schedulers must not make a habit of mingling with the Satellites. Funny, they have no problems ruining their lives.

  Jonathan leads Willow and me in silence to the Orders hall downstairs. He bangs his fist three times on the unmanned golden desk. A bell chimes with each hit, and then a panel of marble recesses back and slides to the left, creating a doorway.

  “Here we are,” Jonathan says, motioning for me to go ahead. “After you.”

  I huff and walk past Willow, who’s lamely gaping at the opening. The marble panel thunders closed behind us. Jonathan leads us out of the small lobby and through a maze of narrow corridors. If I wasn’t so ticked, I’d find the old-school trim work in the bright, candlelit passages impressive.

  One of the hallways finally opens into a large room. We approach two giant doors on the far side and Jonathan says, “If you’ll give me a moment, I would like to announce our arrival.”

  Willow and I move five paces back so one of the doors can swing out. It closes quickly behind Jonathan, and the seeded-glass panels obscure what’s inside.

  Willow flings her arms around me like a madwoman.

  “They can’t do this,” I say numbly.

  She pulls back and holds my arms out to examine me, as if I could be injured. I consider screaming to her that I’m already dead, but I’m too drained.

  “We’ll figure this out,” she says firmly.

  “They can’t do this,” I repeat in a restrained voice.

  “I can’t believe we’re here.” She looks around like a kid in the world’s largest candy store. “I’ve never heard of a Satellite meeting the Schedulers. Ever. This is major.”

  “Glad I could help you out with that,” I scoff.

  “I’m sorry, that came out wrong. You must be sick about Elliott.”

  The knot in my stomach grows. Jonathan opens the door and pops his head around the side. “The Schedulers have been notified.”

  We walk into a space that’s more like a coliseum than a room, except this coliseum isn’t anything like the Roman Colosseum I’ve seen in pictures. This one is much more pristine, without the slightest hint of crumbling, and instead of stone bleachers, a double-tiered desk structure surrounds its perimeter. Unlike Willow, my expression remains level. At this point, I don’t expect anything less spectacular from the ostentatious Schedulers.

  Dozens of freestanding marble columns are joined together by arches to create a circular sort of wall that separates the desk structure from the overgrown, grassy field. A picturesque forest and mountain range surround us far in the distance. An evergreen scent drifts through the area and I swear I can hear a stream flowing.

  Jonathan leads us to the center of the room, and I envision man-eating lions being released into the pit. At this moment, consumed by rage, I’d happily take on a dozen grisly animals and still come out the victor. We stand dead center, where the bright floor tiles form a bull’s-eye within a sunburst pattern.

  “The Schedulers will be here momentarily,” Jonathan says, looking up at the scarlet tanagers perched along the thick arches.

  When he shifts his gaze, I follow his eyes across the space to one of the arches. The archway swings out, and the grassy landscape beyond is replaced by a dark-paneled hallway. When an inordinate amount of people file through, I keep my face level, refusing to let Progression’s magic impress me. I’m not sure what I expected—maybe monks’ robes or judges’ garb—but the group’s regular, casual clothing throws me. I rub my thighs, and the scar on my knee prickles.

  The mob settles into their golden chairs, filling both levels of the massive circular desk, and hundreds of eyes are suddenly on me.

  “Thank you all for meeting with us on such short notice,” Jonathan says to the alert audience. “As you know, this is Grant Bradley and his Legacy, Willow Beckmann. He would like to speak with you regarding a new arrival, Elliott Jacoby. Since this meeting has been convened at Grant’s request, I will allow him to continue.”

  Following Jonathan’s lead, I address the guy sitting in the center of the elevated portion of the inner desk. Well, not address per se, as that would require me to remain calm, and I feel my anger and frustration toward these people building steadily. “Elliott can’t be here! You have to send him back!” I ball my fists, but that doesn’t stop them from shaking.

  A chair scrapes on the tile, and the man in the center of the group stands. “Hello, Grant. Let’s start over, if you don’t mind. I’m Landon, and these are my fellow Schedulers.” He looks and talks like an politician, which pisses me off even more. “We have been doing our job for many, many years. Our planning is careful. It is precise. Let me assure you, we do not make mistakes.”

  “A mistake was made,” I interrupt.

  “I realize this is difficult for you, but as I
said, a mistake has not been made,” he repeats.

  My blood boils and I clench my teeth. “Let me correct you. It’s not difficult for me, it’s difficult for Tate. She’s been through enough!”

  “Facing a great deal of adversity in a lifetime is not uncommon.”

  “We’re not talking about a lifetime, we’re talking about a few months! What is wrong with you people?” I accuse, spinning to see all of the staring, calm faces lined along the desks. I give Willow an apologetic look when my hand forcefully smacks against her arm.

  “There are reasons for these events—a larger picture—though I realize that may seem unclear at the moment.”

  “Give me just one good reason,” I growl.

  “We cannot share this information out of respect for Tatum’s privacy.”

  “You didn’t show her any respect when you wrote her future!”

  “Two deaths in such a short time is excessive. However—”

  I cut him off. “Excessive?”

  My teeth grind together and my mom’s voice rings in my ear as if I’m nine again: “You’ll only be defeated when you’re heated.” I almost laugh out loud. Partly because I can hear her singsongy voice like it was yesterday, but mostly because I think I really have lost my mind. “Has a mistake ever been made?” I ask in a calmer voice.

  “Let me assure you that Tatum’s future would not have been written as such had we thought she was not strong enough to handle it.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” So much for my mom’s advice.

  “Please allow the events to unfold as they will. There are reasons.”

  “So there’s no way you can send Elliott back?”

  “I’m deeply sorry, Grant.”

  “What about Fischer? He’s just a child! Did you even consider what this is going to do to him?” My voice raises with my blood pressure.

  “Oh yes—Fischer. He is going to accomplish great things.”

  Landon’s cocky smile infuriates me. I bite my tongue until the taste of iron runs down my throat. When the lesion heals, I bite again.

  “I assure you that Tatum will come out of this as planned,” he says.

  “Let me assure you that if she doesn’t, you’re going to wish this was handled differently,” I say, walking out of the circle. “Although I guess you already knew that, since you’ve written my future as well,” I yell over my shoulder.

  “Grant, I know this is difficult, but please have faith. We still need to discuss you extracurricular activities—” Landon’s saying as I’m pushing through the door.

  When I realize I need Jonathan to lead me out of this fun house, my fist attacks the wall. The wall wins. I should have learned from Ryder’s mistake, but at least now I can understand his rage.

  Jonathan and Willow step out of the room as I’m shaking the pain out of my hand. Jonathan eyes my red knuckles and then silently leads the way back. Willow grabs my arm and squeezes it. When our eyes meet, she looks away. Even the freak is at a loss for words.

  Halfway through the maze, Willow leans closer to me and whispers, “They know you’ve been visiting Tate.”

  I should probably be more concerned about this, but I honesty don’t care what they know. I hate them. If the Schedulers think I should stay away from Tate, then I’m going to see her even more. Those idiots don’t have a clue what they’re doing.

  We finally get back to the lobby. Jonathan pulls down on one of the iron sconces like a lever, and the marble wall retracts and slides to the right. Jonathan follows Willow and me out and the panel closes behind us, leaving no trace that it ever existed.

  “Willow, would you mind if I speak with Grant privately?”

  Willow throws herself around me, but my arms hang dead at my sides. “It’s going to be all right,” she whispers before letting go.

  Jonathan leans against the golden desk and addresses me after Willow leaves. “Grant, you must have faith that the Schedulers know what they’re doing.”

  “That’s slightly problematic for me. Certainly you can see my point,” I sneer.

  “I can, and I deeply sympathize with you.” He does look sincere. “There is an issue we need to discuss. We’ve overlooked your visits to Tate in the hope that you would gain closure and say good-bye. But the time has come for your visits to stop.”

  Nothing like getting right to the point.

  “You’re not helping her as you think you are, and you’re also putting Ryder in danger. You cannot be distracted. He needs you.”

  I stare at Jonathan hard enough that he should have a smoldering hole in his forehead, but I refuse to speak.

  “Ryder’s life course is at risk. I’m sure you’ve seen in his behavior—he is deeply struggling with the loss of his father. His grieving is beyond what we consider normal. Are you willing to face the consequences of failure? More importantly, are you willing to face Willow if something happens to Ryder?”

  He’s so not playing fair. I still won’t answer him, though. I respect him too much to lie to his face.

  “I’m not going to reprimand you any further, as I trust that you will make the right decision.” He pauses. “I think it would be helpful for you to speak with Elliott. He was shaken up after your earlier encounter. Would you mind?”

  I shake my head. Of course I want to see him, just under different circumstances.

  “Thank you. I believe it will help him a great deal.” Jonathan silently leads me to a small room off one of the hallways past Benson. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Elliott will be here shortly. If you’ll excuse me,” he says, squeezing my shoulder before leaving.

  Staring at the jumping flames in the stone fireplace, I drum my fingers on the table to the rhythm of my racing thoughts. My foot stops bouncing when the door finally opens.

  Physically, Elliott looks great—he’s older and more built than I remember. Emotionally, he looks like he got hit by a bus.

  “Grant, is it really you?” he whispers.

  15. You really are Captain Oblivious

  From Elliott’s confused expression as he gapes at me, I probably shouldn’t maul him, but in three strides, my arms are strangling his shoulders.

  “Dude, you shouldn’t be here. I can’t believe this is happening,” I say.

  “Grant?” His voice sounds muffled.

  I let him go so he can breathe. “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Where am I? What’s going on?”

  “Progression. You’re dead, Elliott.” I try to sound sympathetic.

  “I got that much. I just heard the spiel from Fabio.”

  “Jonathan?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “So you know you’re dead?” He’s handling this well.

  “Uh-huh. What’s all this about being a Satellite?”

  “Looks like you’ve been chosen, too.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I. Have you gotten your Legacy yet?”

  “No. Fabio asked me to come with him while the others were lining up.”

  “Your Legacy will be able to explain why you’re here.” The last thing he needs is my cynical explanation.

  “My family. How are they going to get through this? And Tate.” Just her name makes my stomach turn. “What’s going to happen to her?”

  His eyes burn into me for an answer. Not having one, I cross the room and avoid eye contact. “So, you’re still rock climbing, huh?”

  “Not anymore. Man, my mom must be a mess. I should have listened to her. It wasn’t worth this.”

  There’s no way I’m going to mention Mrs. Jacoby’s reaction. “Don’t beat yourself up too bad. That fall was out of your control.” And planned years ago by the monsters. I keep this part to myself.

  My calimeter drones just as Willow barges into the room. She’s found the time to change into a glowing pink shirt that hurts my eyes. “Hey, Grant,” she says, as if everything’s fine. She extends her hand to Elliott. Her acting skills are scary good. “I’m Willow, Gr
ant’s Legacy.”

  Elliott pushes his eyes back into his head and shakes her hand. “You’re Grant’s Legacy?”

  She winks at me. “Opposites attract.”

  “Apparently. Grant must hate you. He’s way more like his old man than he’d ever admit, especially when it comes his opinion of body art. Killer ink!”

  I open my mouth to argue, but the two are already engrossed in their own conversation about Willow’s self-induced, colorful scars.

  After a few minutes, she remembers I’m still here. “Oh, kid—I almost forgot; you’ve gotta get back to your assignment. You guys will have plenty of time to catch up later. It was great to meet you,” she says to Elliott before skipping out of the room.

  “She seems cool.”

  Instead of adding my two cents, I say, “Come on.”

  Elliott runs his hand through his hair. It’s exactly the same color as Tate’s, and, though much shorter, it has a trace of the same curls, making my mind wander.

  Elliott punches my shoulder when I dump him in line. “It’s great to see you. You look a million times better than Cancer Boy.” This was the nickname, much to Tate’s disapproval, that Elliott gave me when I started to look creepy from my treatments. After the cancer took a disgusting toll on my body, he was about the only one who could talk to me like I had a disease instead of like I was a five-year-old. I respect him for that more than he’ll ever know.

  “I’ve missed you, man.”

  Before I can stop myself, I hug him again. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  After saying good-bye, I turn the corner to displace so I don’t spook him more than necessary. Ryder and Hannah have already buzzed to life and are watching a movie.

  My mind is preoccupied through the night and never-ending day. Luckily, I only have to block Ryder once. When break finally arrives, I bypass Progression altogether. Even though I want to see Elliott, I need to see Tate—to know she’s coping all right. Screw the Schedulers. They’re the reason for this whole mess. If they don’t like my visits, then they’ll just have to find a way to stop me. Maybe, if I’m lucky, they’ll pull me from this whole asinine program.

  Who am I kidding? My luck ran out months ago. Plus, saying I don’t want to help Ryder would be a lie. Though our relationships with our fathers were very different, I feel a strong connection to Ryder because of our mutual loss. Maybe it’s a stretch, but helping him through his grieving is helping me as well, and my feuding emotions of anger and sadness toward my dad have lessened a bit.