Across the Universe atu-1, page 4
part #1 of Across the Universe Series
I don’t always agree with Eldest, and his temper, shown only to me on the Keeper Level, can be terrifying, but I will always love him for taking me from the mind-numbing farms.
I bound up the steps toward the big brown doors that have been painted to look like wood. The Recorder Hall has always seemed too big to me, but Eldest assures me that most of the residents on Godspeed feel that it is too small. I suppose it’s because when I go there, I go by myself, or with Eldest. Everyone else went with their gen, when they were younger and still in school. Since no one else on the ship is as young as me, there’s no reason to have school. I just have Eldest.
Eldest watches me mount the steps to the Recorder Hall. Not the real Eldest, of course — a painting of him, done before I was born, when Eldest was about Doc’s age. The painting is large, about half the size of the door, and hung in a little inset built into the bricks next to the entry.
Eventually, they will take Eldest’s portrait down from here, and hang it in a dusty spot in the back of the Recorder Hall somewhere, with the portraits of all the other Eldests.
And my portrait will hang here, surveying my tiny kingdom.
The painted Eldest stares past me, past the porch on the Recorder Hall, looking out over the fields and, in the far distance, the City, a towering jumble of painted metal boxes where most of the Feeders and Shippers live. The painter has given Eldest kinder eyes than I’ve ever seen in his wrinkled face, and a soft curve of his lips that seems to indicate inquisitiveness, maybe even mischief. Or not. I’m reading too much into this painting. This Eldest isn’t the Eldest I know. This Eldest looks like the kind of guy I could look up to as a leader. Not the kind of leader who rules through fear — the kind who listens to others, and cares about what they have to say, and gives them a chance. We have the same narrow nose, the same high cheekbones, the same olive skin — but this Eldest already has the authority in his eyes, the self-assurance in the tilt of his chin, the sense of power in his posture that I never have. That the real Eldest has sharpened and honed like a hunter does a knife.
I look behind me, to match the painted Eldest’s line of sight, but I can’t see Godspeed the way he clearly does. The painted Eldest is happy in ruling — that much exudes through the oil pigments. I can picture how the painting session went. I bet Eldest stood right here, where I am, looking past the railing. The painter stood on the lawn, below Eldest — of course below him — and gave shape to the paint with strong, broad sweeps. When Eldest looked at Godspeed, as I’m looking at it now, he saw the same things I see: an interior of a ship modeled like a county in Sol-Earth’s America, but in miniature, trapped in a round bubble of ship walls. A city piled on one side, with neat, orderly streets laid out in a careful grid, the center of each block stacked with box trailers that served as homes and workplaces for trade. One block for weavers, like my friend Harley’s parents. One block for dyers, one for spinners, one for tailors. Three blocks for food preservation: canners and dryers and freezers. Two blocks for butchers. Four blocks to house the scientists and Shippers who work on the level above this one. Each family, gen after gen, born and raised to work until death in the same block of the same city on the same ship.
When Eldest posed for his painting here, did he think of this? Did he look at the City and marvel at its smooth efficiency, its careful construction, its consistent productivity?
Or did he see it as I do: people boxed in trailers that are boxed in city blocks that are boxed in districts that are boxed in a ship, surrounded by metal walls?
No. Eldest never thought of Godspeed as a box. He never saw the City as a cage. You can tell that from his painted eyes, from the way he strides down the streets of the City now, like he owns them, because he does.
Even here, where fields and pastures and farms stretch out beyond the Recorder Hall porch all the way to the far wall, you can’t escape the boxes. Each field and pasture and farm is blocked off in careful fences, each fence measured out centuries ago, on Sol-Earth, before the ship launched. The blocks of land are not all equal in size, but they are all square, all meticulously measured. The hills in the pastures are designed to be evenly spaced, exactly placed bumps of grass for sheep and goats who don’t realize that their hills are just carefully organized, manufactured mounds of dirt and compost.
I’ve seen the landscape of Sol-Earth in the vids and maps. The land wasn’t perfectly laid out in neat little squares. Even grid-like cities had alleys and backstreets. Fields were fenced off, but the fences didn’t all go in perfect lines — they dipped around trees; they cut off at funny angles to avoid creeks or include ponds. Hills didn’t make even rows of bumps.
When I look at the fields, all I can see is how fake they are, how poor an imitation they are of the pictures of Sol-Earth fields.
I bet when Eldest posed for his portrait, he was reveling in the one thing I can’t stand about life aboard the ship: the perfect evenness of everything.
And that’s why I’ll never be as good an Eldest as he is.
Because I like a little chaos.
I push open the big doors to the Recorder Hall and smile at the topographical models that hang from the ceiling in the large entryway. Framed by the light pouring through the open doors behind me is a large clay Sol-Earth, thick with dust. A scale model of Godspeed shoots around Sol-Earth, designed to mimic the ship’s departure so long ago. It looks small and insignificant compared to the planets beside it, a ball with wings and a pointed nose. I step into the hallway and crane my neck up. Directly overhead is the model of Godspeed’s goal: the big, round globe of Centauri-Earth. It’s bigger than either of the two other models, and hangs in the center of the entryway. I’m not sure if the designers intended it or not, but the shaft of light pouring from the big entryway doors spills right across the surface of the Centauri-Earth model, illuminating it with a halo of light.
Striding forward, I reach my hands up so my fingertips brush Sol-Earth’s Australia. I have always preferred the model of Sol-Earth to that of Centauri-Earth. While the model of Sol-Earth is detailed, with bumps for mountains and squiggly lines for waves on the oceans, Centauri-Earth is smooth, accurate only in terms of its relative size. We’re not sure what we’ll find there, mountains or oceans or something else entirely. We only know that the probe sent before us labeled Centauri-Earth as “habitable”—oxygen-based atmosphere, a significant amount of freshwater, and soil samples suitable for plant growth. Those are the only things we’re sure of.
I want to touch it as well, but it’s too high up.
Centauri-Earth always seems to be beyond my reach.
Eldest’s words echo in my mind: my job is not to get the ship to Centauri-Earth, but to get the people there.
“Can I help you?”
I nearly jump out of my skin. “Oh, it’s you,” I say, laughing at my own skittishness.
Orion is a Recorder. Whenever someone invents something or writes something or does something brilly, the Recorders log it away and store it here. The last time I was here was to help my best friend, Harley, move some canvases. He’s a painter — he’s got a whole room of his art hanging up on the second story of the Recorder Hall. But I’m not here for that.
“Can you help me find some information on Sol-Earth?” I ask Orion.
Orion grins. I cringe — his teeth are stained and yellow. “Of course.”
“I need to find out about…” I pause, thinking of how to phrase it. I can’t just ask him if he knows what the third cause of discord is — he’d have no idea what I’m talking about. “Sol-Earth wars,” I say finally. “Conflicts. Battles. Things like that.”
“Anything specific?” Orion rushes toward me, excitement palpable on his face. I guess with school long over, there are very few visitors to the Recorder Hall. Come to think of it, I’ve never actually seen Orion outside of the Recorder Hall. His existence must be a lonely one.
“Whatever caused the problems on Sol-Earth.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
Orion doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just contemplates me as if I were a puzzle with a piece missing. “It’s an unusual topic for you to be studying, that’s all. Bit grim.”
I shrug. “Eldest needs me to figure something out.”
“Ah, research for Eldest. Well, the easiest way to do this is with the wall floppies.” He nods to the four long screens that hang from the walls of the entryway like tapestries, two on each side. Walking to the one closest to him, Orion taps the screen, and all four floppies turn on, filling the entire entryway with light.
Images flow in and out of each other: diagrams of a lead-cooled fast reactor, an irrigation map of the Feeder Level, paintings from Harley and other artists on board, digital representations of possible geographical features of Centauri-Earth.
“We’ll need your access,” Orion says, drawing my attention away from the wall floppies. When he sees my questioning face, he adds, “Feeders aren’t allowed to view images of Sol-Earth.”
Ah. I’d forgotten. These are images approved for everyone, but the information Eldest wants me to find is restricted. I step over to the biometric scanner against the wall and roll my thumb over the scan bar. “Eldest/ Elder access granted,” the computer’s female voice chirps.
The images change. Now there is art from Sol-Earth, not just Godspeed. The people aren’t monoethnic. Unlike the images of Centauri-Earth, those of Sol-Earth are not an artist’s rendering. I stand back, staring into the paper-white face of a woman with a mountain of powdered hair and a dress so wide it borders each side of the screen. I wonder about the time and place she is in, the person she was. I am looking into the face of another world, one as unreachable to me as Centauri-Earth.
“Perhaps Genghis Khan’s campaign is what Eldest wants you to learn about?” Orion mutters. He taps on the screen, and the woman’s white-painted face melts into a screaming brown man with almond-shaped eyes and matted, dirty hair. “Or the Armenian Genocide?” A map of Sol-Earth replaces the terrifying man, and the outline of a small country flashes, inviting me to tap on it and learn more.
Before I can touch it, though, Orion taps something else on the screen. The map fades, replaced with a chart. I squint up at the tiny words and jumbled lines. A genealogical chart, tracing parents to children. My eye roams the chart, jumping from name to name, and it isn’t until Orion murmurs, “Oops,” and changes the screen to another map that I realize the name I was seeking on the screen was my own, even though I know that’s silly — that chart was way too old.
I breathe deeply, ignoring whatever war or genocide Orion is now pointing out to me on the screen.
As Elder, I am not allowed to know my parents. It would make me partial and biased; it would lead to sentimental feelings that would impede my leadership and decisions as Eldest. I know this. I even agree with it.
But still.
I’d like to know who they are.
“Elder?” Orion asks, concern filling his voice. “Is something wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
Orion searches my face, but I’m not sure what he wants to find.
And then I find myself searching his face in return, and I know what I’m seeking. Is that my nose on his face? My eyes? My lips? I’ve never really noticed Orion before. He’s always been in the background, fading into the records he keeps. But now that I really look at him…
Could this man be my father?
My breath catches, and I have to shake my head again before I can get a grip on myself. Sure, Orion reminds me of me. But on a ship where everyone’s monoethnic, that’s not hard to do. I can as easily see myself in Eldest as I can in Orion.
I just wish I could see myself in me.
Orion smiles at me, as if he understands what I’m going through, but he can’t possibly. “So,” he says, in such a fatherly tone that I flinch, “Eldest is having you do research? Sounds like he’s really focusing on training you now.”
“Yeah.”
“Has he taken you below the Feeder Level yet?” Orion leans forward, his eyes eager.
“Below? There’s nothing below the Feeder Level.”
Orion’s face slips into a blank mask. “Oh,” he says, leaning back, disappointment evident in his down-turned mouth. “Well, let’s get on with that research.” He turns back to the screen.
“No, wait! Did you mean there’s another level below this one?”
Orion hesitates. He brushes his long hair behind his ear, and I notice that the left side of his neck is marked by a peculiar spiderweb scar. “I’m not sure,” he says. “I was going through the floppies recently, and I saw something….” He taps his finger against the floppy, and the screen speeds through images. “I found some diagrams of Godspeed. But I shouldn’t have been looking at them. Besides, surely Eldest will go over all that with you in your training, when it’s time for you to learn about those sorts of things. I was just curious.”
Of course he is. As a Recorder, his home and work is on the Feeder Level. Everyone’s constrained to the Feeder Level except the Shippers, who have access to the Shipper Level, and Eldest and I, who also have the Keeper Level. Orion’s probably spent his whole life on this one part of the ship.
“Can I see the diagram?”
Orion’s hand twitches toward the screen, but he doesn’t tap anything in. “Eldest would probably not want…” His voice trails off, indecision making him waver.
I smile back at him. “Let me,” I say. “Then you can’t be to blame.” Orion looks a little guilty, but also eager and curious as I knock his hand aside and tap in “Godspeed ship diagram.”
A list shows up instead of an image. Two options. Two different diagrams.
BEFORE PLAGUE
AFTER PLAGUE
“What does this mean?” I ask. “How did the ship change after the Plague?” I knew the Plague Eldest had renamed the levels, reallocated some of the rooms, and reserved the Keeper Level for the Eldest and Elder, but that’s all. Or at least I thought that was all. That hidden star screen must have been hidden for a reason…
Orion leans in closer. “See, that’s what interested me, too. Look.” He reaches up and taps the “After Plague” option. A diagram brightens the screen: a cross section of the ship, a big circle divided into levels. There’s nothing unusual there. The top floor is marked “Keeper Level.” It’s simple and vague — there’s just an outline of the rooms that Eldest and I occupy. Underneath that, the Shipper Level is more complicated, with space set aside for the engine room and the command center, as well as all the research labs used by the scientists. What is now the Feeder Level takes up more than two-thirds of the chart. The diagram is old; it shows the buildings that were a part of the ship’s original design, including the Hospital and the Recorder Hall, where we are now. But it doesn’t show the new additions made since launch — the grav tubes, developed two gens before Eldest, aren’t on the diagram. Instead, there’s a set of stairs connecting the Feeder Level to the Shipper Level, which were torn down when the grav tubes were made.
My eyes drift down. “Was this what you were talking about?” I ask, pointing to the unlabeled part of the diagram under the Feeder Level. “It’s probably just electrical stuff, or pipes, or something.”
“I thought that, too,” Orion says. “But look.” He taps the screen and goes back to the main menu, then taps “Before Plague.”
The same chart shows up, but everything’s labeled differently now. The Keeper Level is now labeled “Navigation,” just like on the plaque I saw on the screen hidden under the ceiling. The Shipper Level is sectioned off into three portions: technological research (where the labs are now), the engine room, and something called a “Bridge.” That’s not far off from what we have now, just different words for the same things. It’s the Feeder Level where things really start to change. The left side, where the City is, is marked “Living Quarters (inclusive)” and all the rest of the Feeder Level is labeled “Biological Research.” Biological Research? That’s what they used to call goat herding and sheep shearing?
But it’s what’s under the Feeder Level that really fascinates me. What was blank space on the other diagram is now all filled in. It’s like there really is another level of the ship below our feet, a level I never knew of, one that has, apparently, a genetic research lab, a second water pump, a huge section marked “Storage — Important” and a very small area labeled simply “Contingency.”
“What is this?” I ask, staring at it. “I know they changed the names of the levels and moved some things around after the Plague, but this? This is more than just rearranging. There’s a whole other level.” What I don’t say is: Why didn’t I know about this already? Why didn’t Eldest teach me? I already know the answer: because he doesn’t think I’m ready or — worse — he doesn’t think I’m worthy of knowing the secrets of the ship.
“They changed a lot of things after the Plague,” Orion says. “There was no Eldest system then.”
I know this much, at least. Everyone knows about that. After the Plague killed off around three quarters of the ship, dropping our numbers from over three thousand to little more than seven hundred, the Plague Eldest took control and remade the government into the peaceful, working society we have now. In the gens since then, we’ve rebuilt our population to over two thousand, developed new tech like the grav tubes, and maintained the peaceful society the Plague Eldest originally envisioned.
But I hadn’t known just how much he changed the ship, or what all of those changes meant.
“Don’t you want to know what’s down there?” Orion asks, staring at the fourth level.
