Across the Universe - Beth Revis [43]
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.
Behind the door is another cavity, just like the smaller one. But it’s not empty. Inside is a fat, steaming roll of bread that oozes a bit at the side. It reminds me of a Hot Pocket, but no Hot Pocket ever smelled this good. I reach inside, my mouth already watering. The bottom of the cavity peels away under my touch—a napkin. The pastry is warm, and I can’t resist—I eat three or four bites of it before I really taste it.
But once I do taste it, it becomes hard to swallow. It’s a meat pie, filled with gravy and some vegetables I can recognize. But the round green things that look like peas are larger and chewier than any peas I’ve ever had. And the chunks I took for potatoes aren’t potatoes at all. They’re something like tofu, but thicker, and when I suck the gravy off a chunk, it feels like rubber on my tongue and tastes about as appealing. There is very little spice in this meat pie—definitely salt, and something sort of sweet, like