Free A Million Suns by Beth Revis Page B

don’t move over the letters, though, and I get the feeling he’s waiting for me to say or do something. I’m not so sure I’m just being paranoid anymore.
    â€œSomething’s going to have to change, and soon,” Bartie says, his eyes on the book. “It’s been building for months, ever since you turned them.”
    â€œI didn’t—” I say automatically, defensive even though there was no real accusation in his voice. “I just . . . I mean, I guess I changed them, but I changed them
back
. To what they’re supposed to be. What they are.”
    Bartie looks doubtful. “Either way, they’re different now. And it’s getting worse.”
    The first cause of discord,
I think,
is difference.
    Bartie turns the page of the slender green book. “Someone’s got to do something.”
    The second cause of discord: lack of a strong central leader.
    What does he think I’ve been doing? Shite, all I do these days is run from one problem to the next! If it’s not a strike in one district, it’s complaints from another—and every problem is just a little worse than the one before it.
    Bartie glares at me. There’s no question about it now: there’s contempt and anger in his eyes, although his voice remains soft-spoken. “Why aren’t you stepping up? Why aren’t you keeping the order? Eldest might’ve been a chutz, but at least you didn’t have to worry about getting through the day when he was in charge.”
    â€œI’m doing what I can,” I protest.
    â€œIt’s not enough!” The words bounce around the room, slamming into my ears.
    Without thinking about it, I pound my fist onto the table. The noise startles Bartie; the shock of it makes me forget my anger. I shake my hand, pain tingling up my arm.
    â€œWhat are you reading?” I growl.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhat are you frexing reading?”
    When I glance up, Bartie’s eyes meet mine. Our anger melts. We’re friends—even without Harley, we’re still friends. And even if the ship hasn’t exactly been a friendly place lately, we can still hold onto our past.
    Bartie lifts the smaller book for me to see the title:
The Republic,
by Plato.
    â€œI read that last year,” I say. “It was confusing as frex. That bit about the cave made no sense at all.”
    Bartie shrugs. “I’m at the part about aristocracy.” He pronounces it “a-risto-crazy.” Eldest told me it was “ah-rista-crah-see” but he probably got it wrong too, and besides, what’s the difference?
    I know the part he’s talking about well—it was the center of the lesson Eldest had prepared for me. It was also, essentially, the base of the entire Eldest system. “An aristocrat is someone born to rule,” I say. “Someone born with the innate talent to guide everyone else.”
    Bartie can’t be thinking what I’m thinking: that the only reason I was born to rule was because I was plucked as an embryo from a tube full of other genetically enhanced clones whose DNA had been modified to make the ideal ruler.
    â€œBut even Plato says that the ideal state of an aristocracy can decay,” Bartie says.
    The word
decay
reminds me of the entropy Marae mentioned, how everything is constantly spinning out of control, including the ship. Including me.
    â€œAn Eldest is like an aristocrat,” Bartie adds. He’s searching my eyes now, the book forgotten, as if he wants me to pick up some deeper meaning to what he’s saying. I pull my mind away from the broken engine and Marae’s lies and back to the conversation at hand.
    â€œBut the Eldest system isn’t decaying,” I say. “It works. It is working.”
    â€œYou’re not Eldest,” Bartie points out. “You’re still Elder.”
    I shake my head. “In name only. I can rule without taking on the