A Million Suns: An Across the Universe Novel

by Beth Revis

And there’s the tension back again.

  “Ah, here comes Elder’s latest idea—the police force,” Bartie sneers, his voice raised again. “Here to make sure we work like good little boys and girls or else.”

  “It’s not like that,” I say—to both him and Marae.

  “Can’t anybody see what’s going on?” A new voice cuts through the mass of people surrounding us. It’s Luthor. Of course it is. He always has been one to revel in a fight, even years ago, when we were living in the Ward. Only now he doesn’t bother to hide it. “He’s scared. Our Elder is scared. He’s scared of you! You! You have the power. He can’t control all of us!”

  “We can do what we want!” another voice from the crowd shouts.

  “We can lead ourselves!” Bartie calls back.

  The call becomes a cheer. Lead ourselves! Lead ourselves! Lead ourselves!

  Marae and the other Shippers try to drown out the chant with their own shouted orders for silence. Expletives mingle with the chant—sneers and threats. The Shippers respond in kind. Their threats lead to action. Marae shoves a man twice her size back as he draws too close to us; another man takes a swing at Shelby.

  I slam my hand against my wi-com. “Communicate area: within fifty feet of my location,” I order. As soon as the wi-com beeps that the connection has been made with every other wi-com in the area, I say, “Everyone, calm down. There’s no need for this.”

  A few people stop; they’re listening to their wi-coms, I can tell. But not enough. “EVERYONE STOP,” I shout, and my voice echoes in all of their ears. “Look around you!” I order, and most of them do. “These are your friends, your family. You’re fighting each other. And there’s no need for that. Stop. Fighting. Now.”

  I take a deep breath. For the most part, the crowd has stilled.

  “And what about Food Distro?” Luthor roars through the quiet.

  “What?” My head whips around to Marae. “What’s going on at Food Distro?”

  “Don’t you know?” Bartie says, disgust in his voice. “How can you call yourself a leader if you don’t even know that food distribution stopped?”

  I turn again to Marae. “We were aware of the problem,” she says apologetically. “We were just about to com you.”

  I don’t bother waiting for another answer. I take off down the street toward Food Distro. The crowd around us is surprised—they weren’t expecting me to suddenly start running straight for them. A few don’t get out of my way fast enough, and I bump into them but don’t stop. I can hear their voices and the thudding of their feet on the pavement following me, but I’m so frexing angry that I can barely think straight. I do not need Food Distro, of all things, added to my problems.

  Frex. Frex, frex, frex.

  The Food Distro is a giant warehouse so far on the edge of the City that it butts against the steel walls that encase the Feeder Level. Food distribution is automatic—or it’s supposed to be. When I get to the huge steel-and-brick building, the manager, Fridrick, has chained the doors shut. He stands in front of them, arms crossed, eyes trained on me, waiting for a fight.

  Everything in me tenses—my fists, my teeth, my eyes.

  “What’s going on?” I growl. The crowd that had gathered around Bartie and me now presses against me and Fridrick—and it is even bigger than before. Marae and the Shippers try to move around the edges, urging people to leave and let us take care of the problems, but they’re not listening. Instead, the crowd is growing.

  “I’ll distribute food manually,” Fridrick says. “I’ll make sure everyone gets their fair share.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He’s keeping the food for himself!” a woman shouts.

  “It’s not right!”

  “Let’s break down the doors!”

  “Calm the frex down!” I bellow, spinning on my heel and glaring at the crowd. They don’t calm—but at least they quit shouting. “Now,” I say, turning back to Fridrick, who’s been in charge of Food Distro since before I was born. “What’s the problem with food distribution?”

  “No problem,” Fridrick says. “Once everyone leaves, I’ll begin distributing the food.”

  I cast a doubtful look at the chain on the doors.

  “He’s only going to give food to some of us!” a deep male voice calls out from the crowd.

  “For the ones who deserve it!” comes another voice.

  I risk another glance behind me. Marae and the Shippers are all directly behind me, keeping the crowd from surging forward. There’s at least two hundred people here, maybe more. They move in waves, not as individuals, and the waves are pressing closer to Fridrick and me.

  “You don’t own the food,” I say to Fridrick. Now I speak loudly on purpose, intending everyone to hear.

  “I do.” He glares at me.

  “You can’t dictate who gets to eat and who doesn’t,” I shoot back.

  “The storage levels are low.”

  I know they are.

  “So what do I do?” Fridrick demands in a mocking tone. “Give everyone less? Or do what should be done—just distribute food to the ones who’ve earned it?”

  Angry shouts, cheers of agreement, curses and screams erupt around us.

  “There’s enough for regular distro for several more weeks. After that, we can discuss rationing.”

  Fridrick narrows his eyes. “I ain’t feeding the ones who won’t work.”

  “Everyone works!” I shout, exasperated.

  This was not the right thing to say. Fridrick doesn’t answer—the crowd answers for him. They shout names: the names of their neighbors, their family, their enemies, their friends. People who aren’t working. The weavers, who only went back to the looms because I mandated their strike to end but who continue to work at a slower pace. The greenhouse producers, who have been caught more than once hoarding produce for themselves. And individuals—specific people who have just decided to not work, either because they’re lazy or because of depression, like Evie and Harley’s mother, Lil.

  Rising above it all is a new chant: No work? No food! No work? No food!

  “And what about the Hospital?” a shrill voice rises above the chant.

  “I work!” a voice near the back of the crowd shouts back. My eyes skim over the people and I see Doc, looking nervous and anxious to hear his precious Hospital called into question.

  “What about all them at the Ward?” Fridrick says. What he doesn’t say is, “What about Amy?”

  Shite.

  “You’re right.” Bartie shoulders his way past Marae—who looks very much as if she’d like to punch him right in the neck. “I’m going to apply myself to productive work from this point on,” he says loudly.

  Silence falls. Every eye is on him. I stare in wonder: how did he do it? How did he command everyone’s attention so absolutely? While everyone quieted down to hear Fridrick and me, they weren’t respectful. They were waiting for one of us to slip up; they were searching for ammunition to throw back at us. But every single person is focused on Bartie now, waiting for his next words.

  He doesn’t speak. Instead, he raises his guitar high over his head and stretches the neck of it toward Fridrick. “Consider this payment for this week’s food,” Bartie says. “And, as there is no longer a Recorder at the Hall, I will take that job.”

  Fridrick takes the guitar and stares at it, unsure of what to do. Finally he nods, once. He will accept this payment.

  “And,” I add in as loud a voice as I can muster, “we will continue food distro for everyone.”

  Fridrick narrows his eyes.

  “There will be no further discussion,” I add in a quieter tone before he can open his mouth. “Food distro will carry on as usual.”

  I turn to go, not giving him the chance to disagree. When I reach Marae, though, I can hear Fridrick’s muttering slicing through the crowd.

  “For now.”

  I turn back, my mouth already open, though I’m not sure what I’m going to say, when
a scream rises up from the back of the crowd. The mob shifts—everyone’s focus moves from Fridrick and me to the woman on the other end of the block, kneeling on the ground next to a man’s body.

  I squint.

  That’s Stevy’s body.

  26

  AMY

  I’M OUT OF BREATH BY THE TIME I MAKE IT BACK TO THE Hospital. I’m not as in shape as I was when I ran track back on Earth. Kit stops me at the door.

  “What’s going on?” she asks. “Doc just commed me from the City.”

  I shake my head. “Some people were causing trouble. Bartie and Luthor and some of the Feeders.”

  “Doc says it’s getting pretty bad,” Kit replies. My face must have shown my worry, because she very quickly adds, “But some Shippers are with Elder, and I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  She rushes over to help when a nurse calls to her, leaving me with my worried thoughts. I start to head to the elevator—I could go to my room, but I remember Orion’s words from the last video: “Go home. You’ll find the answers there. Go home.” And while I don’t know for sure what he means, I do know one thing: that little square bedroom in the Ward may be where I sleep every night, but it is not my home.

  Instead, I head back to the Recorder Hall. Maybe Elder’s right and the clue is hidden in an atlas, but I don’t think Orion would have done something that simple. Still, now’s probably one of the safest times to go, especially since Luthor is busy in the City.

  As I mount the stairs to the Recorder Hall, I notice that the little cubby­hole where Elder’s painting once hung is empty. I glance behind me. From here, it’s impossible to see what’s going on in the City, but I don’t like the way Kit assured me that everyone was fine. When people say that, they usually mean that nothing is.

  There are fewer people than normal in the Recorder Hall, and most of them aren’t watching the wall floppies or heading to the book rooms. Instead, they’re gathered in clusters, talking in low, anxious tones. Several look up at me as I enter, and I realize that I’m not wearing my head scarf or my hood. I move to cover my hair, but it’s too late. One of the men near the door approaches.

  “Were you in the City?” he asks.

  I nod. He looks more curious than threatening, but my leg muscles still tense, ready to run if I need to.

  “Is it true what they’re saying? That there’s a riot?”

  “I wouldn’t call it that,” I say. “Look, it was just a handful of people causing trouble.”

  A woman ducks her head down, listening to her wi-com. Their information is much more current than mine. They can com anyone in the City and get info, but I’ve only got Elder. My finger hovers over my wrist wi-com . . . but then I remember Bartie and Luthor riling up the crowd, bringing me in as evidence of Elder’s ineptitude. He’d be better off without me bugging him now, that’s for sure.

  The others don’t look convinced at my dismissal of the City’s problems, but I pull my hood up anyway and go to the book rooms in the back of the Hall. It takes me a while to find what I’m looking for, but eventually I discover one oversized book with a map of the world on the cover. I realize, as I pull the book off the shelf, that there really would not be much need for an atlas of Earth here on this ship or when we land on the new planet. This is just for records, I suppose, nothing else.

  There’s a whole section in the atlas on America. I flip first to Florida—that’s where I spent most of my childhood. I run my hands over the pages, but I can already tell there’s nothing unusual there, not a floppy, not a mem card, not a handwritten note. I flip next to Colorado. That was the last place I called home. Cold winters. Clear skies. Eternal starry nights.

  But empty pages—there’s nothing here either.

  I wonder if there’s anything else with echoes of Earth on this ship—a globe maybe—I remember seeing one on the Keeper Level. But this was a clue Orion left for me, and I don’t think he’d hide something on Elder’s level for me to find.

  I wander back out of the book room. I don’t notice the silence until I reach the main entryway. The entire Recorder Hall is, weirdly, empty. The few people who were here earlier are gone, leaving the entrance hall to me. I slip out of my jacket, and the cool air makes my arms prickle. It feels almost dangerous to be here, alone, without even the jacket to protect me—but freeing, too.

  I gaze at the wall floppies, wondering idly if I should bother trying to look at maps on them, and then my gaze drifts up. Hanging from the ceiling are two giant clay models of planets. A small model of the spaceship Godspeed flies between them on a wire.

  The planet Earth is smaller than the model of Centauri-Earth and so detailed that I can pick out the long arm of Florida, the bumpy ridges of the Rocky Mountains. I jump up to reach it, but my fingers can’t even brush against the South Pole. I briefly contemplate finding a ladder, cutting the Earth down, and smashing it open like a piñata, but I doubt any of Orion’s secrets will spill out like candy. The model was there when the ship launched; how could Orion have slipped something inside it?

  I glance at the model of Godspeed. That one actually looks like it could come down—it would be simple enough to lift the model off the hook it hangs from, and I could probably reach it if I stood on a chair. But . . . Godspeed is definitely not my home. Home may not be Florida and it may not be Colorado, but I know it’s not Godspeed.

  I hear a soft beep, beep-beep. Then again: beep, beep-beep.

  My wi-com! I raise my wrist to my ear and press the button on the side.

  “Com-link req: Elder,” the wi-com says.

  “Accept!” I say eagerly.

  “Amy?” Elder’s voice sounds frazzled.

  “Yeah. What’s wrong? What’s happening in the City?”

  Elder ignores my questions. “Where are you now?”

  I look around me at the empty hall. “The Recorder Hall. I thought it would be a good idea to look into Orion’s next—”

  Elder cuts me off mid-sentence. “Can you get somewhere safer? Go to your room, okay?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I just want to make sure you’re safe. Lock your door.” Elder had my door fitted with a biometric scanner lock the first week I was on the ship, making it one of the few truly private rooms on board.

  “Elder, what’s wrong?”

  “I just . . . I want you safe. I’ve got to go—” The com link disconnects before he’s got the words fully out.

  27

  ELDER

  “DON’T CROWD AROUND! GIVE US SOME AIR!” DOC’S BELLOWING does no good at all; if anything, the crowd presses closer.

  “I’m glad you were already here,” I say, dropping to my knees beside Doc as he examines Stevy.

  Doc touches Stevy’s neck, shakes his head, and leans back.

  “What happened?” Bartie says. There’s no more bravado in his voice. He’s my old friend again, the one who used to race rockers across the porch of the Recorder Hall. And he’s scared. “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I say.

  “You did something to his wi-com. Then he ends up dead.” His voice is louder now. He’s no longer my friend—he’s my adversary. “Is this what happens to people who protest against you, Elder? They die?”

  “Don’t be a chutz,” Doc says. He peels something sticky off Stevy’s arm. A small pale green med patch. Our eyes meet briefly. This is a Phydus patch—one of the patches Doc developed recently.

  “What kind of med patch is that?” Bartie demands. Behind us, I can feel the others’ gazes. Marae, as efficient as ever, has organized her Shippers into a sort of barrier around us, keeping the crowd largely at bay. But it won’t last.

  “It’s a specialized patch,” Doc answers Bartie. He looks at it closer, forgetting about Bartie and everyone else as he mutters to me, “Someone’s written something on it.”

  He holds the patch out. Bartie tries to snatch it, but I beat him to it. “Follow,” I read aloud. In heavy black ink, just that one word: f
ollow.

  “But how did this patch kill Stevy?” I ask.

  “This one didn’t,” Doc says. He pushes up Stevy’s sleeve, exposing the patches hidden under his clothing. “One patch is harmless. But two more is an overdose.” He peels the remaining patches off Stevy’s arm.

  I frown: med patches are supposed to be fast-acting, but the concentration of Phydus in these med patches seems too strong if just three will instantaneously kill a man.

  “What’s written on those patches?” Luthor calls out, trying to shove Marae aside so he can get closer.

  Doc starts to hand the patches to me, but Bartie snatches them from his outstretched hands. “The,” he reads off the first one, loudly so the whole crowd can hear. “Leader.” He looks up at me, and there is real fear in his eyes. He thinks I’ve done this. “Follow the leader. These patches—the special patches that killed Stevy—are a command. A warning. To follow the leader.”

  Before I can explain that none of this is my fault, that I didn’t write those words or put the patches on Stevy, Bartie turns to the crowd. “This is what happens when you don’t follow the leader.” He spits out the words and throws the used patches on Stevy’s cold body.

  “This is what happens!” Luthor cries out, picking up the charge from Bartie. His words ring across the City. “This is the price you pay if you don’t follow the leader! Don’t follow Elder—and he has you killed!”

  “Wait a minute,” I shout, jumping up. “No I didn’t! No I don’t!”

  But it’s too late. Bartie’s and Luthor’s words have spread like poison. I can see the fear and revulsion in people’s eyes as they break past the human barrier created by Marae and the other Shippers. They spill out, sweeping past me—knocking me down and shoving aside Doc as they scoop up Stevy’s lifeless body. They chant—follow the leader—but it’s a sneering, angry sort of chant. It’s mocking me.

  It’s a battle cry.

  More and more people—those who’d been waiting on the sidelines—join the shouting crowd. Stevy’s body becomes a banner of revolt. His lifeless form is passed around, raised over the crowd, roiling over the hands of the people like waves.