A Million Suns

Chapter 1: Elder

“This isn’t going to be easy,” I mutter, staring at the solid metal door that leads to the Engine Room on the Shipper Level of Godspeed. In the dull reflection, I see Eldest’s dark eyes, just before he died. I see the smirk on the corner of Orion’s mouth as he relished in Eldest’s death. Some- where, beneath my cloned features and the echoes of every Eldest before me, there has to be something in me that’s mine alone, unique and not found in the cloning material two levels beneath my feet.

I like to think that, anyway.

I roll my thumb over the biometric scanner and the door zips open, taking with it the image of a face that has never felt like mine.

A very mechanical smell—a mixture of metal and grease and burning—wraps around me as I enter the Engine Room. The walls vibrate with the muffled heartbeat of the ship’s engine, a whirr-churn- whirr sound that I used to think was beautiful.

The first-level Shippers stand at attention, waiting for me. The Engine Room is usually crowded, bustling with activity as the Shippers try to figure out what has crippled the lead-cooled fast reac- tor engine, but today I asked for a private meeting with the top ten Shippers, the highest-ranking officers beneath me.

I feel scruffy compared to them. My hair’s too long and messy, and while my clothes should have been recycled long ago, their dark tunics and neatly pressed trousers fit perfectly. There is no uniform for the Shippers—there’s no uniform for anyone on board the ship—but First Shipper Marae demands neatness of everyone she has authority over, especially the first-level Shippers, who all favor the same dark clothing worn by Marae.

Marae’s in the twenty-year-old generation, only a few years older than me. But already lines crease at her eyes, and the downward turn of her mouth seems permanent. A carpenter could check the accuracy of his level by the line of Marae’s shorn hair. Amy says that everyone on board Godspeed looks the same. I suppose, given that we’re mono- ethnic, she’s right in a way. But no one could ever mistake Marae for anyone else, nor think she’s anything less than First Shipper.

“Eldest,” she says by way of greeting. “I’ve told you: just call me Elder.” Marae’s scowl deepens. People started calling me Eldest as soon as I assumed the role. And I’d always known I’d be Eldest at some point, although I’d never dreamed that I’d be Eldest so soon. Still, I was born for this position. I am this position. And if I can’t see it in myself, I can see it in the way the Shippers still stand at attention, the way Marae waits for me to speak.

I just . . . I can’t take the title. Someone called me Eldest in front of Amy, and I couldn’t stand the way her eyes narrowed and her body froze, for just a minute, just long enough for me to realize that there was no way I could bear to see her look at me as Eldest again.

“I can be the Eldest without changing my name,” I say. Marae doesn’t seem to agree, but she won’t argue. The other first-level Shippers stare at me, waiting. They are all still, with their backs erect and their blank faces turned to me. I know part of their perfection is due to Marae’s strong hand as First Shipper, but I also know a part of it comes from the past, from Eldest before he was killed and the exacting way he expected everyone to perform.

There is nothing of me in their stoic obedience. I clear my throat. “I, uh, I needed to talk to you, the first-level Shippers, about the engine.” I swallow, my mouth both dry and bitter-tasting. I don’t look at them, not really. If I look into their faces—their older, more experi- enced faces—I will lose my nerve.

I think of Amy. When I first saw Amy, all I could see was her bright red hair swirled like ink frozen in water, her pale skin almost as translucent as the ice she was frozen in. But when I imagine her face now, I see the determined set of her jaw, the way she seems taller when angry.