A Million Suns (Across the Universe 2)

I shake my head. “It was always the plan. He would wake up with the other frozens, and they would judge him for his crimes. ”

“You don’t have to make them judge,” she shoots back. “You could just leave him here. ”

I could. I know I could. It would be far simpler. But I also know—because, no matter how much I want to deny it, we’re bound—so I know, I know . . . he wants off. He left those clues for Amy to find, he left the decision for Amy to make . . . but the mere fact that he left clues, that he didn’t destroy our hope of leaving shows that, ultimately, he—like me—wants off Godspeed.

I can’t condemn him to a life behind the walls of Godspeed, even if he deserves it.

“I’ll let the frozens judge him, and I’ll stick by what they say,” I tell Amy.

Her lips tighten; there’s a narrow white line on the edge of them. “It won’t be as simple as that, and you know it. ”

“He’s going to the new planet,” I say.

Amy stops in her tracks. “If you do this, things can’t be the same between us. I can’t believe you’re even considering taking Orion with us. ”

“I can’t believe you’d take away the planet from anyone, even Orion. ”

She looks at me as if my words have punched her, then runs to the grav tube without another word.

I go to Eldest’s room in the dark, alone. The Keeper Robe lies on the floor, wrinkled.

I leave it there.

72

AMY

ON MY LAST DAY ABOARD GODSPEED, I PACK EVERYTHING I own in a small bag. The clothes that once belonged to Kayleigh, who died for the secret Orion couldn’t keep. The notebook I wrote letters to my parents in, when I didn’t think I’d see them again. My teddy bear.

I leave behind the maroon scarf. I won’t have to hide myself on the new planet. As I fold the length of material and place it on the desk, I glance around this room that was mine for three months. I thought I would spend the rest of my life here. Or—maybe I’d move to the Keeper Level with Elder one day.

I swallow down the lump in my throat. Maybe Elder’s right and Orion doesn’t deserve to drown in his cryo box. But he doesn’t deserve the new planet, either. I try to remember the things I thought I loved about Elder, but all I can see now is the stubborn set of his eyes, the tone of his voice when he refused to leave Orion on Godspeed.

I carry my bag in one hand and Harley’s last painting in the other. There’s not much room for art, but I will make room for this.

The solar lamp clicks on just as I reach the edge of the pond. The bottom is dry earth now, cracked under the heat of the solar lamp, and the lotus flowers are wilted strands of green and pink, already dead.

I’m the first one down. I tuck my bag and Harley’s painting into an out-of-the-way corner on the bridge and then sit down in the chair opposite the honeycombed glass window. Past the bridge, the shuttle is packed nearly to the brim. The rooms are all unlocked, every square inch used for storage. Except for the armory—Elder has decided to keep that door locked, even if we could have used the space. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s afraid someone will try to steal a gun or if he wants to keep the extent of the armory hidden for now, but either way I think he made the right choice.

Every other room, though, is full of crates of food—enough to last us a month. Jugs of fresh water. Medicine. Clothing. Manufacturing tools. Shelves of tiny seedlings from the Greenhouses. Elder and Bartie divided the livestock. Several of the larger animals were slaughtered, the meat smoked and salted. Some of the smaller ones—rabbits and chickens—are crated. There’s a mini-barnyard next to the cryo chambers.

All that’s left now are the people.

They come in twos and threes. They bring with them only what they can carry. They come with pieces of handmade furniture, an old cradle, a rocking chair, a spindle. They come with bags of cloth, or butcher knives, or scientific equipment. They come with nothing in their hands, and they stare at the planet through the honeycombed window and they cry. They go straight to the cryo chamber, where the others were waiting, not bothering to turn their heads a fraction of an inch to see what they will be facing.

They see me and they smile, they hug me, they touch my pale skin and red hair with wonder. They see me and they scowl, they curse, they say they’re only coming because their friend, their lover, their mother is going, and they’ll risk a new world to stay with them.

They scurry down the ladder, they jump on the floor, they spin in the bridge, they go to the edge of the window and

touch the glass. They sigh when they reach the floor, their shoulders slumping under the weight of their thoughts, their skin flushed and creased with worry, with sorrow, with fear.

But the important thing is simply: they come.

Elder arrives last.

“That’s it,” he says. “That’s all of them. ”

All of them willing to go.