Beth Revis - A Million Suns

— I unlock Eldest’s door.

Dust particles swirl in the light as I enter. I breathe deeply, expecting to smell Eldest’s musky soap, but instead it smells like mildew. My feet stick to the floor. Near the door lies one open and spilled alcohol jar, dried into a gummy mess. That’s my mark on Eldest’s room.

The room itself is messy and cluttered, but that’s the way Eldest kept it. The bed’s unmade, the blankets a swirl of cloth at the foot. Spilling out from underneath the bed is a pile of wrinkled clothes. A dirty plate that’s still littered with a few crumbs rests perilously close to the edge of his nightstand.

I feel like an interloper, a trespasser in Eldest’s private space, but I remind myself that, technically, I’m Eldest now, and this is more my room than a dead man’s.

On the desk are the scattered remains of a model engine. I pick up the small resin nuclear reactor core, wiping the dust carefully from the surface. The first time I saw the frexing thing was when Eldest hid it from me. I weigh the model engine in my hand. He knew something was wrong, even then. If he had just told me the truth from the start, maybe we could have worked together to solve the engine’s problems. If everyone would just be frexing honest, we’d probably be at Centauri-Earth by now!

I hurl the model engine across the room. It crashes over Eldest’s bed, sprinkling cracked resin across his pillow, still dented from where he laid his head.

Shite.

I rub my hands across my face.

Shite.

With the hacked message on the floppy network and Marae’s eagerness to form my police force, I’d pushed from my mind the hardest truth of all.

We’re not going anywhere.

Stopped.

Staring at the broken engine bits on Eldest’s bed, I realize something. I’m not going to tell the rest of the ship. I’m not. I never thought I’d get tangled up in the lies Eldest wove around Godspeed … but I can’t tell them. I can’t tell them we’re not just going slowly. We’re stopped. If just taking them off Phydus has calls for revolution leaking through the floppy network, then surely they’ll rip this ship apart if I tell them we’re not going anywhere; they’ll tear through the metal with their teeth and let themselves be swallowed into the black of space.

Just like Harley.

I run my fingers through my hair, snagging them on tangles. What am I doing here? Eldest might have suspected we were stopped, but it’s not like he hid the secret to reviving the engine in his bedroom.

A floppy on Eldest’s desk flashes. The bright white words fade to black. The floppy beeps and reboots itself. After a moment, it shows the start-up screen as normal. Whatever Marae and the first-level Shippers did worked, and the hacker’s message is wiped from the screen.

My wi-com beeps again.

I start to answer the com when I notice something — another door. I silence the beeping in my left ear and move toward the door, stepping over piles of Eldest’s dirty clothes. Why is there another door here? There’s the one to the bathroom, of course, but I’ve never noticed this one before — I’ve only been in Eldest’s room twice, and both times I was focused on finding something else: first the model engine, and then later the alcohol.

There’s a rainbow scratch along the floor; Eldest used this door frequently. My hands shake as I reach toward the old-fashioned knob — it’s metal, from Sol-Earth. It won’t twist, but when I pull, the door opens anyway. I stare curiously inside.

A closet.

Closets are rare; most bedrooms have wardrobes instead, but I must admit I was hoping for something more here. Disappointed, I turn away, but something catches my eye. A rag pokes out from the top box on the floor of the closet. It’s an odd sort of greenish blue, a color I remember in the deepest part of me.

I suck in my breath, then forget to breathe out again. When I reach down and pull the scrap of cloth from the box, my hands are numb.

When I first moved into the Keeper Level, one of the only things I brought with me was a blanket. Small, stained, and worn threadbare in spots. A particular shade of greenish blue.

This blanket was the oldest thing I owned. At the time, I thought that it had come from my parents. As Elder, I was never allowed to know who they were, because otherwise I’d be biased toward them. Or so Eldest told me. In reality, I’m a clone, manufactured, not born.

Eldest had me moved from family to family until I was twelve — six months with the shepherds, six months with the butchers, six months with the soy farmers.

And with all that moving, I never knew which family belonged to me.

But the blanket was mine.

My earliest memory is hiding under the blanket when I was told I’d have to move again. I don’t remember which family I was with or which I was moving to, but I remember cowering under the blanket and thinking that maybe, when I was a little baby, it had been my mother — my real mother — who had wrapped me in it and held me against her.

After the first few days on the Keeper Level, Eldest and I got in a fight, and he called me an impossible child, babied and spoiled. I promptly stormed into my room and punched the walls, knocking everything in sight off my shelf — and then I saw my blanket. The epitome of being a baby.

I’d tried to rip it in half but couldn’t, so I chucked it in the trash chute.

And, somehow, Eldest saved this piece of me. Kept it for years. I press it now against my face and think about all Eldest was, and all he wasn’t.

The only thing hanging from the rod in the closet is a heavy robe, the ceremonial robe Eldest only wore on important occasions. I drop the blanket back into the box and reach for the robe. It’s much heavier than I expected. Definitely wool — I’ve carded and spun enough from my time before Eldest began training me to recognize the waxy-rough feeling of the cloth. The embroidery spans the entire length and breadth of the robe. Stars dance along the top, crops grow along the hem, and between them is a band of horizon that never ends.

The clasp opens at my touch, and I slide under the robe. The weight of it pushes my shoulders down, makes me hunch over. The hem drags the floor by a good inch or two, and my chest isn’t broad enough to fill out the robe; the stars cave in around me.

I look ridiculous.

I pull the robe off and shove it back into the closet.

I HAVE TO GET OUT. I HAVE TO LEAVE. NOW. I CAN’T STAY here. Not with him. Escape. Must escape. Now. NOW. But there’s nowhere to go. He crosses the threshold and is at me in two strides. Luthor draws closer to me, so close that I can feel the heat of his body burning my skin. When I suck in a lungful of air to scream, I suck in some of his exhaled breath too. Luthor reaches toward me, and the scream in my throat dies, choking me and leaving me breathless.

Luthor flips the hood away from my face. He grabs hold of my maroon head wrap, and I jerk away, my hair spilling out over my shoulders. The bookshelf behind me is an unyielding wall. Luthor slides his hand down the side of my face and grabs a fistful of my hair. He yanks it, hard, pulling me closer to him. I strain against his grip. I don’t care if he rips the hair out of my head, I am not going to let him control me. I reach behind me and grab two books from the shelf by their spines. As Luthor twines my hair around his hand, forcing me to face him, I whip out the books, slamming them on either side of his head.

“Augh!” Luthor shouts, an inhuman roar of pain. He clutches the sides of his head, a string of curse words — some I know, some I don’t — following me as I drop the books and duck under his arm.