Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I Read Online Free Page B

on my tray. “Which food’s yours?”
    “The lime Jell-O.”
    Of all the food in the world, her favorite is lime Jell-O? I shake my head. “You are such a weirdo.”
    She ignores my comment and pulls me across the room. A bowl of jiggly green squares appears on my already full tray. Still, I succeed in adding a roll, a can of Coke, and a piece of cheesecake onto it. No one would ever know that I wasn’t the least bit hungry.
    “How’d you know mine was the stew?” I ask on the way back to the table.
    Willow adds even more bounce to her step; it’s obvious that she’s enjoying herself. “New Satellites are so predictable.”
    Our table made some friends while we were away. Two guys and a girl stare at me as I sit down.
    “Who’s your pet?” a guy with an English accent asks Willow. He pushes a hand through his dirty-blond hair and looks sour faced at my overflowing tray.
    “Grant.” I match his glare and quickly add, “I thought this was the American base.”
    “Liam,” he finally says, smirking. “British transplant to the States when I was thirteen. How are you fancying Progression?”
    The others relax and he flashes a wider grin, compliments of a good orthodontist.
    “The food looks great, but I got paired with this nutcase.” I point my thumb at Willow. “Is there any way to trade up in this Legacy program?”
    “You’re gonna wish. She’s raving mad, that one. Looks like you pulled the short straw.”
    Willow chimes in. “Liam, you could only wish you had a rock star like me as your Legacy.”
    The blonde girl at the table clears her throat; her wide, clear-blue eyes are fixed on me. She’s supermodel hot, but much too thin. “I’m Clara,” she says in a quiet voice.
    “Hi.” I lean over the table and shake her hand, which is child-sized inside mine. “Nice to meet you.”
    Her eyes dart down, and her green turtleneck compliments the blush on her light skin. Her polished, stick-straight hair is a stark contrast to Tate’s reddish-brown, unruly hair, but her lips are glossy like Tate’s always were.
    Willow continues with the introductions. “Grant, this is Owen. Owen, Grant.”
    “What’s up, man?” Owen says to my nod. He looks and acts so much like an excited dog I’m afraid he might pee down his own leg. His plastic-looking hair, black as oil, is flattened against his head. His eyes are not deep-set like mine, but they are the same generic brown shared by half the world. “Don’t worry about remembering names. It took me months to learn them all,” he says, still pumping my hand up and down.
    “Good to know. How long have you been here?” I ask, jerking my hand out of his.
    “Sixty-three years,” Owen says.
    I cough back my shock. “How old are you?”
    “You mean how old was I when I died?”
    “Uh…?” I shake my head and look at the others, who offer no help.
    “Thirty-one, but I’m physically twenty.”
    I cock my head in confusion.
    “I was thirty-one when I died. I reverted to twenty when I got to Progression,” he states simply, as though I’ve just asked him about the weather.
    Willow jumps in. “Our bodies reflect our best physical form, which typically falls somewhere in the late teens or early twenties.”
    “Unless you’re a bloody decrepit like Wilhelmina here,” Liam says, carelessly juggling a Matchbox car.
    I choke on my drink. “What did he call you?” I ask Willow.
    She tsks. “Ignore Liam. He died way too early.”
    “Seriously, Willow. Case in point—you still use the word ‘groovy,’” Liam says.
    She shrugs. “What can I say? I’m forever a product of my generation.”
    “Yeah, except for your dreads and tats.” Liam gives me a sympathetic look. “Willow was influenced by the grunge scene of the nineties. But I guess the clothes are better than the eighties garbage she used to wear.”
    “Aren’t we supposed to be just souls when we die?” I shift uncomfortably when the others laugh at my question.
    “It’d be tough to