A Million Suns (Across the Universe 2)

“I’m fine,” I say immediately. Doc has offered, more than once, to give me pale blue med patches. They’re for “nerves,” he says, but I don’t want to bother. I don’t trust the little patches he doles out instead of pills; I don’t trust any medication made on this ship that also once made Phydus.

“No,” Doc says, waving his hand dismissively. “I mean—well. Hrm. I’m worried about . . . about your safety. ”

“My safety?” I plop down on my unmade bed. Doc glances at the only chair in my room, the one at my desk, but he doesn’t sit down. A jacket is slung over the back of the chair, and floppies and books I’ve pilfered from the Recorder Hall clutter the desktop. He probably wouldn’t want to sit anywhere without an antiseptic wipe and some Lysol.

Not that there is any Lysol here.

Doc’s stance is awkward; he keeps his arms close to his body, and his back is too straight. But his face is very serious. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the increased . . . Well, it’s clear now that there are no more traces of Phydus in the people’s systems. And now we’re left with . . . The ship’s not especially safe at the moment, especially for someone who . . . ”

“Someone who looks like me?” I ask, flicking my long red hair over my shoulder.

Doc flinches, as if my hair is a curse word shouted in church. “Yes. ”

He’s not saying anything new. I am the only person on this ship who wasn’t born here. And while the residents of Godspeed had the individuality bred out of them so they’re all monoethnic, I’ve got super-pale skin, bright green eyes, and red hair to mark how different I am. The former ship’s leader, Eldest, did me no favors, either, telling the residents that I was a genetic experiment gone wrong. At best, most people here think I’m a freak.

At worst, they blame me for the way things have been falling apart.

Three weeks ago, I went for my regular morning run. I stopped near the chicken farm to look at the baby chicks. The farmer came outside with the feed—he’s a huge man, his arms as thick as my legs. He set the bucket of feed on the ground and just . . . just stared at me. Then he walked to the gate and picked up a shovel. He hefted it up, testing the weight of it and running one finger along the sharp and shiny blade. I started running then, looking over my shoulder. He watched me, shovel in hand, until I was out of sight.

I haven’t been running since.

“I’m not stupid,” I tell Doc, standing up. “I know that things aren’t exactly peachy around here. ”

I sling open the door to my wardrobe and pull out a long piece of cloth that’s such a dark shade of maroon it’s almost brown. The material is thin and a little stretchy. Starting behind my left ear, I drape the cloth over my forehead, then under my mass of red hair, then back around, wrapping up my hair so it’s completely hidden behind the dark cloth. When I get to the end, I twist the wrapped hair into a bun and tie the ends of the cloth into a knot. Then I grab the jacket from the desk chair and sling it over my shoulders, pulling the hood up over my head. The last thing I do is tuck my cross necklace under my shirt so no one can see it.

“It’s not perfect,” I say as Doc inspects my apparel. “But if I keep my head down and my hands in the jacket pockets, it’s hard for anyone to notice how different I am unless they get up close. ” And I don’t really plan on getting up close to anyone.

Doc nods. “I’m glad you’ve thought of this sort of thing,” he says. “I’m . . . well, I’m impressed. ”

I roll my eyes.

“But I don’t think it’s enough,” he adds.

I push the hood out of my face and stare at Doc, making a point to meet his eyes. “I. Will. Not. Stay locked up in this room forever. I know you don’t think it’s safe, but I won’t be even more of a prisoner than I already am. You can’t keep me here. ”

Doc shakes his head. “No. You’re right. I can’t. But I think you need—” His hand moves to his neck, where his wireless communicator is embedded beneath his skin.

“No!” This is another argument we’ve had plenty of times before. Doc—and Elder too—neither of them understands why I refuse to get a wi-com. I know Elder wants me to have one because he cares and worries about me. And—it would be nice, to be able to talk to him whenever I like. Touch a button and I could ride the grav tube up to Elder’s level, com him, or just find out where he is on the ship.

A wi-com is the ultimate cell phone, always keeping you plugged in.

Always keeping you tied to this ship, this ship that is not my home. I won’t get a wi-com any more than I’ll lock myself up in this room. Wi-coms are just too . . . too . . . too not-Earth. I can’t just let myself be wired into the ship. I can’t let them cut me open and implant something not-Earth into me, beneath my skin, wiggling into my brain. I can’t do that.

Doc reaches into his pocket and pulls something out in a fluid motion that seems contrary to his usually stiff persona. He holds the thing out to me.

“This is a”—Doc pauses—“it’s a special wi-com. ”

I force myself to look at the thing in his hand. It’s essentially a tiny button, not any bigger than a dime, with three wires coming from each side. In a regular wi-com, the button’s hidden underneath the skin behind your left ear and the wires burrow into your flesh. But Doc has braided the wires into a circle, making a bracelet. Tiny words are printed along the red wire, so small I can barely see them.

“Give me your hand. ”

I raise my arm obediently, then hesitate, drawing it closer to me. Doc snatches my wrist before I have a chance to object and slips the bracelet wi-com over my hand. He tightens it quickly—not enough to cut off my circulation, but enough to stop it from slipping off my wrist. Before I can say anything, Doc secures the wires with a metal cinch.

“You’ll have to hold it to your mouth to speak,” he says. “And then hold it to your ear to hear coms. There’s an amplifier there. ” He points to the tiny black mesh that circles the button. This whole thing is smaller than the earbuds I used when I went running before school, but it’s clearly far more powerful. When Doc tests it by sending me a com link request, it beeps loudly enough for me to hear from my wrist. Intrigued, I raise my hand to my ear and listen to the tiny electronic voice of the wi-com say, “Com link req: Doc. ”

“You made this?” I ask, awed.

Doc hesitates. His unease is so unnatural that I stop staring at the bracelet wi-com and instead turn my gaze to his nervous face. “No,” he says finally. “I didn’t make this. I found it. ”