Beth Revis - A Million Suns

“Don’t tell Doc,” she whispers, slipping me a patch. I hide it in my pocket, next to the floppy I found in the armory.

I pull my jacket hood up before I leave the Hospital, but, armed as I am with a Phydus patch, I don’t bother with the scarf around my hair. I head directly to the Recorder Hall. It’s a long shot, but Orion left the clues — the real clues — for me. Even if the last clue was tampered with, Orion’s had a pretty solid plan to make sure I’ve gotten where I needed to go. So far, the clues have come from Harley’s paintings or the Recorder Hall. Maybe the next one will too.

Yeah. Right. It’s going to be so easy to find one clue out of all the book rooms, art galleries, and artifact rooms in the Recorder Hall— if the clue is even there. For the first time ever, Godspeed actually feels… huge. I’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell to find this thing.

I can’t help but smirk. After all, Dante’s hell was made of ice.

As I approach the Recorder Hall, I see a group of people standing in a tight cluster on the porch. I pull my hood lower and slip my hand into my pocket, fingering the Phydus med patch.

“The ship needs guidance,” a man says.

I stop near the handrail, hesitant to go up the steps. Instead, I turn around so, if the group looked at me, they’d only see the back of my jacket.

“Bartie?” a woman asks. “Maybe Luthor?”

“Maybe one of them. But not necessarily. Just someone… older. More experienced.”

I try to look casual and uninterested as I strain to hear more.

“Elder’s been training for this his whole life,” a female voice says. I want to cheer — at least someone’s sticking up for Elder.

The first man’s laugh is harsh and mirthless. “Elder never listened to Eldest. They’re too different.”

I think of the giant cylinders hidden on the cryo level, filled with clones of Eldest. They’re more alike than the man could guess. Part of me thinks that, perhaps, Elder should have told them about the cloning. It was one of the few things he kept secret, and I don’t begrudge him this — after all, the only person this secret affects is him.

“Haven’t you noticed how slim the rations are getting? There wasn’t even lunch today. Elder thinks if he controls our food, he can control us. And if that doesn’t work, he’ll patch us. Those patches are dangerous — they’ve already killed.”

“I’d like to know how those frexing patches got everywhere,” a woman with a deep voice says. “I half think Elder did it after the trouble at the Food Distro. He might not be putting that frexing drug in our water anymore, but he’s making sure the troublemakers get it somehow.”

“Doc said the patches were stolen,” the first woman, the only dissenter in the group, says.

“He says ,” the man shoots back. “But Doc’s always brownnosed the Eldest. I bet Elder told him to make sure anyone causing trouble gets patched.”

“Yes, but—” the woman starts to say.

I’ve had enough. “Are you really going to stand here and spread lies about Elder?” I demand, whirling around and striding up the steps toward the group. “You’re going to start a rebellion, talking like that.”

The man in the center of the crowd turns, but he doesn’t seem to care much that I’ve overhead him. If anything, he’s proud.

“This isn’t about rebellion,” he says gently, as if explaining something to someone very young. “Have you read Bartie’s manifesto?” He waves the floppy at me, but I don’t take it. “This is about doing what’s best for the ship. About keeping everyone safe and happy.” He pauses. “The ship is more important than any one person. Even Elder.”

“Happy?” I shoot back. The kinder the man’s voice is, the angrier I’m becoming. “What has Elder done to make you un happy?”

The woman with a deep voice shakes her head. “It’s not that Elder’s bad . It’s that he wasn’t our choice.”

“Bartie lists all kinds of books in the Recorder Hall,” the man says, waving the floppy at me again. I still don’t take it. “All those governments on Sol-Earth. They had systems. Voting and elections, things like that. Things where people could choose and have a voice.”

“Taking the ship from Elder isn’t the right thing to do,” I insist. They seem so — I don’t know, logical —that I think if I could just sit them down, show them how hard Elder’s working, how much he really cares, maybe they wouldn’t be so willing to trash him.

“I’m sorry,” the man says. “But we can’t trust you either.”

“And why not? I live here too!”

He shakes his head. “But you’re not one of us.” His eyes drift down to my red hair spilling from the jacket. I try to stuff it back under the hood. The man smiles smugly. He looks perfectly at ease, as if he’s in complete control. In contrast, I can already feel my face is hot. “All I know,” he says, “is that we didn’t need police before you. Everything was fine before you.”

I back down the first two steps. “Maybe Elder would be the leader we need him to be if he didn’t have any distractions,” the deep-voiced woman says in a conversational tone, as if she’s not talking about eliminating me as a distraction.

I back down the next two steps. “It did all start with her,” the other woman says.

I’m gripping the Phydus patch in my pocket, deeply aware that one won’t subdue everyone in the group. Why did I bother trying to say anything? I should have known better.

Orion’s list brushes against the back of my hand.

No. I won’t let them scare me away from the chance to find the next clue.

I storm up the stairs and shoulder past the woman with the deep voice. The man steps out of my way, but he does so with an eerie twist on his lips, watching me as I push open the doors to the Recorder Hall and enter. I don’t like that look. It reminds me too much of the way Luthor looks at me, as if I’m a thing, not a person.

Inside, the Recorder Hall is mostly deserted. A single man, tall and skinny, reads an essay by Henry David Thoreau on the Literature wall floppy, and four people are bunched together, reading about the Boxer Rebellion. But no one’s looking at the Science floppy at all. That’s strange. This is the first time since Elder took the ship off Phydus that no one’s analyzing the engine diagram, trying to improve efficiency, not knowing that the engine hasn’t moved us forward in years.

I make my way quickly to the book rooms. I don’t think the group on the porch is going to bother following me in here, but I’d rather get done as quickly as possible.

I bypass all the nonfiction rooms. Orion left this clue for me, and even if someone else has hidden it, I still think my best chance of finding it is either in fiction or art.

I have to have a chance of finding it. I have to.

Someone probably changed the last clue — deleted parts, probably added that text — but Orion left me a much more elaborate path. He’s put so much care and planning into hiding each clue. There has to be something else, some way to figure out the next step.

I trail my fingers along the shelf, looking for something that might hint at Orion’s next clue. I flip through Dante’s Inferno again, and then Paradiso and Purgatorio . I look through everything by Lewis Carroll, including that stupid poem Ms. Parker made us diagram, “Jabberwocky.”

This is useless. Orion may have left the next clue in a book, but he didn’t leave it in a book he’s already used.

I collapse into the chair in front by the metal table in the center of the room. A copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets lies in the middle, just where I threw it after finding it misshelved by Dante a few days ago. I guess the new Recorder, Bartie, is too busy writing manifestos and trying to start an unneeded revolution to bother with doing his actual job.