Across the Universe atu-1, page 10
part #1 of Across the Universe Series
“Last Season,” the doctor says, “we had some trouble. But it has nothing to do with this.”
“It might. How do you know?”
“Because the person who caused trouble last Season is dead,” the doctor says. “Anything else?”
He’s getting angry, maybe already regretting that he promised not to throw me off the ship. He likes things organized, and I’ve already proven more than once just in this little office that he can’t organize me like he can his pencils.
“Yeah,” I say, unable to keep the aggression from my voice. “Why was I woken up early? What happened?”
The doctor frowns. “I’m not sure,” he says finally. “But it appears as if someone… disconnected you.”
“Disconnected me?”
“The cryostasis chambers are attached to a very simple electrical device that monitors temperatures and life support systems. You were simply… disconnected from the power unit. Turned off. Unplugged.”
“Who unplugged me?!” I demand, rising. The doctor’s hand twitches, inching closer to the med patch on his desk. I sit back down, but my heart is racing, my breathing shallow. Between that conversation in the hall and this revelation, it’s clear that something’s going on. And I’m stuck in the middle of it.
“We are not sure. But we will find out.” Then, so low I almost don’t hear it, he adds, “But it had to have been someone with access.” His eyes shoot to the door behind me, and I know he’s thinking of Eldest. Which is stupid: Eldest didn’t want me dead until I was unfrozen. But… why would anyone unplug me? To kill me? But why me? I am, as the doctor so kindly pointed out, nonessential.
And then another question, one much more important, rises above everything else. “What about my parents? Is whoever unplugged me going to unplug my parents?” I remember choking on cryo liquid; I remember believing that I would drown in that box. I don’t want my parents to feel the same thing. I don’t want to run the risk of losing them forever if their boxes are opened too late after the ice melts.
“Go back to your chamber to rest. Try not to think these disturbing thoughts. You can rest assured that your parents — and all the rest of the frozens — are protected. Eldest will see to that.”
I narrow my eyes. I doubt very much that old man will do anything to help anyone else. He’d probably think setting guards around the cryo chambers would be too much of a “disturbance.” And with his callousness, I wouldn’t be too surprised to find out that he unplugged me just to see if it would kill me.
But I cannot think here. I cannot figure out what to do. Even though I don’t want to rest, I do need to be somewhere alone with my thoughts. So, I leave.
A pile of crushed flowers rests beside my door. I bend and pick them up. The blooms remind me of tiger lilies, but they are bigger and brighter than any tiger lilies I remember from Earth. Even though they’re ruined, a part of me wants to set them in a bowl of water — they’re beautiful and their fragrance is sweet. In the end, though, I stand up and leave the broken flowers in the hall. They remind me too much of me.
18 ELDER
“OH, HERE YOU ARE,” ELDEST SAYS CASUALLY AS HE CLIMBS UP the hatch that connects the Keeper Level to the Shipper Level.
I lie on the cool metal floor below the metal screen hiding the fake stars. My head is pounding from Eldest’s little noise trick. I have never in all my life had a headache this bad before. Every time I let my head roll on the floor, it feels as if a ton of weight is crashing around, slamming against my skull, flattening my brain into useless mush. I try to stay still.
“That was a frexing dirty thing to do,” I mutter, pressing the palms of my hands into my forehead.
“What? Oh, the tonal thing. Well, next time don’t ignore my com.”
“I can if I want to!” I know it sounds childish, but I can barely frexing see with this headache. I stare up at the dull metal ceiling, grateful the star screen is blocked from view. Just thinking about the tiny pinpricks of the lightbulb stars makes my head ache more.
Eldest walks across the Great Room to his chamber, goes inside, and returns a few moments later with something in his hand. He tosses it at me. A lavender-colored med patch. I rip it open and apply it directly to my forehead, the tiny needles catching on my skin like hook-and-loop tape. I breathe deeply, willing the medicine to take effect and ease my pulsing, throbbing head.
“Let this be a lesson,” Eldest says. His voice rings out across the Great Room. There’s no need for him to shout — it’s only us in here. I wonder if he’s speaking so loudly just to aggravate my headache more. “The job of the Eldest is to prevent discord. Through the centuries, we have perfected the prevention of the first main cause of discord by eliminating differences.”
“I know,” I moan, rubbing the med-patch on my forehead deeper into my skin. Did I really need a lesson now?
Eldest starts to squat down next to me, but his knees creak, so he stands up and hobbles around instead, pacing. “Don’t you see?” he finally says, exasperated. “That girl could not be more different!”
“So?”
Eldest throws up his hands. “Chaos! Discord! Fighting! She is nothing but trouble!”
I cock my eyebrow, grateful that the med patch is already making me feel normal again. “Being a bit dramatic, aren’t you?”
Eldest drops his hands and glares at me. “She could ruin this ship.”
“She’s just a girl.”
Eldest growls.
“Wait…” I say, leaning up and staring at him. “That’s it, isn’t it? She’s a girl, and she’s my age. You’re afraid we’ll…” My face burns at the thought. If Eldest is afraid of what Amy and I could do together, well, to be honest, that’s a possibility I’m rather hoping for.
“Don’t be such a chutz.” Eldest laughs, and my face grows even hotter. “I’m not worried about that at all.”
I splutter as I jump up. Does he think that I couldn’t? I know I’m not old enough for my Season yet, but I also know that I’m more than capable. When I look at Amy… I know what I’d like to do with her, and I know that I could. How dare he think I couldn’t! I am not the child he thinks I am!
“You’re losing focus,” Eldest says, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “This is all beside the point. The point is, that girl is going to cause trouble.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” I ask, sinking back to the floor.
Eldest appraises me. “You’ll be the next Eldest. What would you do about it?”
“Nothing.” I tilt my chin up at him. “She’s not hurting anything. She’ll be fine.”
“An Eldest can never do ‘nothing.’ ” Eldest is wearing this smug little smile on his face that makes me want to just punch him. Before I can think of anything snappy to say back to him, Eldest holds a finger up to me and turns away, pressing his wi-com button.
“Mm-hm,” he says to whoever has linked to him. “I see. Yes, of course.”
He turns back to me. “I’m going to the Shipper Level. Stay here and read more about the leaders of Sol-Earth. I’ve left a floppy for you in the Learning Center.”
“But—” Eldest is on the Shipper Level these days far more than he used to be. “Is everything okay?”
Eldest gives me an appraising look. Weighing whether or not I’m worthy of hearing his thoughts, sharing his problems. And I see it there, in the hunch of his shoulders, the uneasy way he carries his leg, the one he limps on. He can feel the weight of the ship on him, just like I can. No — he feels it more. He’s carried the weight longer than me, and he’s carried it not just for himself, but the Elder before me who died and couldn’t take over.
For just a moment, I see Amy through his eyes: as a problem.
“We need to have a talk when we get back.” Eldest’s tone now is serious, uncomfortable. He shifts on his feet, but does not head toward the hatch.
“What about?”
“The Season is coming soon….”
“Oh.” I knew about the Season already. While I was living on the Feeder Level, it was easy to learn about what happened between a male and a female. I saw it with the cows when I lived on the ranch; with the goats on the farm; with the sheep near the fields. I’d have been stupid not to notice what the animals did. Several of the women who kept me during my time on the Feeder Level explained reproduction to me. At the time, it seemed a bit uncomfortable and gross, but they all assured me that when my Season came, I’d be ready, and a woman from Harley’s gen would have a second Season with me. Since meeting Amy, I think I know what they mean about being ready.
“During the Season, you will see, er…” Eldest voice trails off.
“I know what the Season is,” I say. I am as uncomfortable as he. It was bad enough to learn about mating from a matronly farmer, worse yet to hear about it from Eldest.
“Still, we should talk—” This time, Eldest is interrupted by his wi-com. He presses the button and says something softly, so I don’t hear it.
“Hey,” I say. “HEY.”
He raises one finger, telling me to give him a second, and mumbles more into his wi-com.
“Quit ignoring me,” I say loudly.
Eldest sighs and disconnects the wi-com. “I’ve got to go.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me what that was all about?”
Eldest heaves a sigh, as if I’m a child pestering him.
“Look,” I say, “I’m getting sick of secrets.”
“Fine,” Eldest says, already walking to the hatch with his uneven gait. “You study; we’ll talk when I get back.” Before I can protest, he’s gone.
The med patch has worked its wonders: My headache is mostly gone. I don’t like the idea of how easy it would be for Eldest to do that again, though. Maybe I should keep some med patches with me.
My first thought is to go to the Hospital, where all the meds for the ship are stored. Doc keeps them locked up, but if Orion can get extra mental meds, it shouldn’t be that hard for me to get some med patches. But, then again, that’s what got me in trouble in the first place. Then I think about Eldest’s chamber. I know he stores extra med supplies there.
But to do that would mean sneaking into Eldest’s room, breaking the unspoken law of privacy.
I may have tested the door handles on the fourth floor of the Hospital (okay, fine, I broke in), but I’ve never gone into someone’s private space without permission first.
But then I remember Orion’s advice. With Eldest, to get what I want, I’ll have to be sneaky.
I tell myself as I stand and walk toward Eldest’s chamber that I am only going to turn the knob, not even push the door open, but even as I mentally relay these words, I recognize that I am lying to myself so I don’t lose my courage.
My hand trembles as I reach for the knob.
“Com link: Harley,” chirps the pleasant female voice of my wi-com.
“Hey, Harley,” I say, hoping the quaver on my voice doesn’t carry through the wi-coms.
“What was wrong with you earlier?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Who’s the new girl? Where’d she come from? I thought Doc already ID’d all the loons.”
“I’m busy, Harley.”
Harley crows with laughter. “Busy! Ha! You just want to keep her to yourself!”
That’s too close to the truth, so I disconnect the link.
Eldest’s door stands in front of me, mockingly.
This time, my hand doesn’t shake. The door swings open. Although there’s an old-fashioned Sol-Earth lock built into the door, Eldest has — luckily — forgotten to lock it.
I look around. This is not what I expected. Eldest is something of a slob. Like me. I smile. Stepping over a pile of dirty clothes, I make my way to the neatest area of the room — the desk. There are only three things on the top: a small, dark plastic bottle like the kind Doc uses for meds, a large glass bottle filled with clear liquid, and a box. A box that I recognize: the one that Eldest came to fetch the other day, just before I opened the ceiling and revealed a canopy of false stars. This is the box I was trying to look at then — this is the box that I had thought held all the answers to my leadership.
I rip the top of the box off expecting… something brilly at least. But all that’s inside is a scale model made of resin that resembles an engine, but it’s more cylindrical than the ones the tractors use on the Feeder Level. The replica is fascinating in its level of detail. When I push a button on the side, the engine breaks in half, exposing its insides. I poke at the pieces. From my studies, I’d guess this is a lead-cooled fast reactor, the same kind of engine Godspeed uses. But if so, this is the closest I’ve ever been to the heart of the ship I will one day lead.
I snap the engine closed, perhaps more forcefully than I should have.
This is just one more secret Eldest is keeping from me.
I examine the bottles on the desk. The big one is filled with liquid that smells like fumes — the drink some of the Shippers make. Eldest has never let me taste it. When I sip it, though, I nearly spew the stuff all over Eldest’s unmade bed. The back of my throat burns, and all the little hairs in my nose shrivel. When it hits my stomach, I gag.
The small bottle contains twenty or so mental meds.
Well, now I know why Doc and Eldest didn’t let me step down from being Elder after I started taking the Inhibitor pills. Eldest is as crazy as I am! I crush the bottle against my hand. Eldest knew how upset I was when Doc made me stay in the Ward for the year. I used to fight so hard against taking the pills.
Why wouldn’t he just admit that he was on mental meds, too?
I hate his secrets and lies.
I slam the door behind me and head to my own room for a drink of water — an old Feeder wives’ remedy for nerves.
Good thing, too — a moment later, Eldest bursts through the hatch, calling for me.
“Come with me,” he says. “We’ve got a situation.”
19 AMY
EVERYTHING ABOUT THE ROOM I HAVE BEEN GIVEN BY THE doctor is an odd mixture of personal and industrial. The colors are bland — gray and white — but someone has stenciled in a peeling green ivy chain around the doorframe and hand painted a vine of flowers along the baseboards. The attached bathroom is cold and decorated with plain white tile and chrome, but the towels smell of lemons and lavender.
The best way to clear my head of all these disturbing thoughts is to take the hottest shower I can stand. I peel off the clothes the doctor gave me earlier. They are shades of brown, a pale taupe tunic and chocolate pants. I think they are homemade. Although the stitches are even and clean, they’re not machine made. The cloth is smooth and not itchy, but there are tiny pricks and flaws in the fabric that imply craftsmanship, not manufacturing. It’s so weird. I kind of expected space suits and shiny material. The weekend before we were frozen, Mom and Daddy and I stayed up all night watching ancient sci-fi movies—Star Trek and Star Wars and Star-something else. I envisioned everyone wearing uniforms or with crazy hair or something, but I’m wearing stuff that could have been made for a Renaissance fair.
It takes me a moment to figure out the shower. There are buttons, not knobs, and more steam than water pours from small mesh squares embedded in the walls of the shower stall. Two bars of soap line a tiny shelf near the top of the shower. There are no shampoo or conditioner bottles, but the round bar of soap lathers in my hair when I test it.
I mash buttons, trying to figure out how to get real water — the steam’s not rinsing the suds from my hair. Suddenly, I hit the right one, and a jet of cold water shoots out of a nozzle near my face. I sputter, and for one horrible moment, the shower reminds me of when Ed and Hassan filled the glass box with cryo liquid before I was frozen. I have to remind myself I’m not drowning, I don’t have to breathe in the liquid, I won’t be frozen again. It happened centuries ago, but the memory is still fresh to me. My knees wobble. I have to lean against the warm tile for several minutes, breathing deeply, before I can stand on my own again.
When I leave the shower, I stand in the room, a towel wrapped around my body, my hair dripping. It feels very quiet and alone. I think back to the boy who was here when I woke up, Elder, and I’m surprised to realize that I actually miss him. Now that he’s gone, this room makes me feel like a trespasser.
I wrap the towel tighter around me. Nothing here is personal, other than the ivy decorating the baseboards in chipping green paint. No books, no TV. There is a desk, and on it is a floppy piece of plastic about the size and thickness of a legal-size sheet of paper. When I was on the yearbook staff in high school, I took the drama club picture. They all posed with these things called color gels — really thin pieces of plastic they could attach to the stage lights to change the color. This piece of plastic on the desk is just like the color gels, but clear, and when I touch it, a screen flashes on, requesting my ID. This is a computer?
On the opposite wall is a shelf and, to the right of it, the door. Beside the door, where a light switch should be, is a small metal square inset with a bar. I push it. Nothing happens, but the bar spins in place.
“Identity unknown.” A tinny female voice emanates throughout the room. “Voice command.”
“Umm,” I say.
“Command unknown,” the computer voice says. “Prompt command: lights, door.”
“Lights off?” I try.
The lights in the room flick off.
I roll my finger over the bar again. “Identity unknown. Voice command.”
“Lights on,” I say, and the lights turn back on.
Beside the rolly-bar that controls the lights are two rectangles of metal built into the wall, one about the size of a Post-it note, the other larger, roughly the same size and shape of an envelope. As I get closer, I notice a small button under each rectangle. I push the button under the small rectangle, and the metal disappears, showing a cavity just large enough for me to fit two fingers into it. It’s empty. When I push the button under the larger rectangle, though, the door doesn’t slide open. I push again, harder. A small beep! echoes through my silent room. I have just enough time to panic — have I done something stupid? Have I set off an alarm? — when the door zips open.
