Across the Universe - Beth Revis [101]
Elder shakes his head. “It’s not like that. It gave them a story to feed their children. It’s the way hope is passed down.”
I stare at Elder. “You sort of agree with Eldest, don’t you?”
“Sort of.”
I want to argue. Eldest is like a spoiled child throwing his toys around. Waiting for an excuse to break us, watching for any sign that we don’t want to play his game. Always watching, with eyes that remind me of Luthe’s. He’s not helping people, like Elder almost seems to think—he’s twisting the situation to make no one really care about the fact that we’ll all be dead or super-old before we land on the new planet. But before I can say anything, Elder announces, “We’re here!”
He’s so proud of himself that I don’t have the heart to tell him I’ve been to the Recorder Hall before. Then again, the last time I was here, I was a mess, covered in mud and tears. I remember the man who helped me then, Orion. His kindness kept me sane.
One of the rockers on the porch moves slowly, as if someone has just left it, but there’s no other sign of life. Elder reaches to open the door for me. I see eyes then, and I smile, expecting Orion, but instead, Elder’s painted face peers up at me from the brick wall.
“Oh!” I say, leaning over to inspect the new portrait by the door. Elder’s face has replaced Eldest’s dour one.
“Yeah.” Elder sounds sheepish. My first thought was that he was going to show off with the painting—that’s what Jason would have done, hammed it up—but I can tell he wishes I hadn’t noticed it.
“Come inside,” Elder says. The Recorder Hall is empty except for us, silent and dark. Elder shows me the big model of Earth and the ship that I saw earlier. I pretend to pay attention, but I’m distracted by the flashing images on the walls. The last time I was here with Orion, these were blank; I’d barely noticed them.
“Wall floppies,” Elder says when he notices my distraction. “This is what Godspeed has been doing while you slept.”
He grins at me, but I barely notice. I’m fascinated by all that’s flashing in front of me: a diagram of how wi-coms work, and more of grav tubes. Art: I can pick out several scans of Harley’s artwork—several of them koi fish, which seems to be his favorite subject—but there’s more: sculptures, pottery, drawings, hand-sewn quilts. One of the floppy computers lists different titles, and when Elder taps on the screen, music fills the entryway.
For the first time since I woke up, I feel as if this is a place I could learn to love. It’s not Earth, not by any stretch of the imagination—but I’m seeing art and inventions and life that Earth will never know.
And all this happened while I dreamt nightmares below generations of people’s feet. They didn’t know about me any more than I knew about them.
“That’s odd,” Elder says, rapping his knuckles on one of the big wall computer things.
“What?”
“The image won’t change,” Elder says.
If it weren’t for the label at the top—LEAD-BASED FAST REACTOR PROTOTYPE—I wouldn’t know what it was at all. Not that the name helps me. I still don’t know what it means.
“It’s locked,” Elder says. “Let me see if I can ...” He steps over to one of the black boxes on the wall and runs his thumb over the scanner. “Eldest/ Elder access granted,” the computer chirps.
All around us, the pictures change. Now, images of Earth intermingle with images of Godspeed. A landscape painting of the Hospital and garden are replaced with a photograph of Monument Valley. Although I didn’t live there, it does remind me of the place out west where the space lab was, an hour from Colorado, where I met Jason, the last place I called home.
“Most people aren’t allowed to see this,” Elder says, still trying to get the one monitor to show something other than the engine schematics. “Whenever the new gen is born, school will start again. The children will see the model of Sol-Earth and the model of Godspeed. But they aren’t allowed to see this.”
“Why not?” I ask, brushing my fingers against the screen showing Monument Valley