Across the Universe - Beth Revis [44]
And the meat... it’s not any meat I know. Red meat, but no fat on it at all. Each piece is a perfect cube, and I can’t help but wonder—is it that way because of some skillful cook who cut it, or is it that way because it’s not really meat? I imagine ice trays filled not with water, but red gooey meat-like substitute, and I gag and drop the remains of the pie into the small canister by the door that looks like a trash can. As soon as it lands in the trashcan, the bottom of it zips away, revealing a long, black tunnel that sucks the meat pie and napkin away.
Nothing remains but a waft of steam from the rectangle metal by the door and a scent of unseasoned gravy in the air that is both strangely familiar and deeply alien.
I shake my head. This technology is better than anything on Earth. Another sign that I don’t belong here.
I wish I had someone to share all these discoveries with. My eyes drift to the chair, and I can almost see Elder sitting there. Elder, with his kind eyes. The only person on this ship who doesn’t seem to wish I was off it.
I think about my parents. They are on this ship too, but they are still fifty years away.
I screw up my eyes and will myself not to think anymore.
And then I think about how I was unplugged, and how they might be too.
I shiver, and I tell myself that it’s just because it’s chilly in here. A wardrobe stands against the far wall, beside the large piece of metal hanging from the wall that I think covers a window—light creeps in around its edges. The clothes inside smell musty, but when I shake some of them out, they seem to be clean and in good shape. I cannot find a bra in any of the drawers, but one drawer is filled with cotton panties. I am a little grossed out, putting on panties when I don’t know where they came from, or if they once belonged to someone else, but they don’t look old or used. I let the towel drop to the floor and wiggle into a tan tunic and dark pair of pants, both of which have been decorated at the hems with tiny painted yellow flowers. When I drop the towel inside the hamper by the wardrobe, the lid snaps shut. A puff of steam emerges from under the lid, and then the hamper pops open. The towel inside is dry and clean.
There is too much about this ship I don’t know. That will be what I do first: find others, learn about the ship, and figure out what to do to protect my parents from whoever unplugged me. Because even though I want them more than anything right now, I don’t want them to wake up cold, alone, and drowning under glass.
A crack of light lines the carpet under the square piece of metal hanging on the wall beside the wardrobe. When I touch the thin raised metal, it whirrs away, revealing a smudged, dirty window looking out onto bright green fields.
So this is where I will spend the next 49 years and 266 days.
It’s not ugly. It’s not what I expected. There is green here. Rolling hills spread out from the lawn of the Hospital down a dusty dirt road. The pastures and fields are divided by dark green hedges or brown fence posts. The cows are the closest, and I assume the white fluffy dots further down are sheep or goats. Neat rows of vibrant verdant plants spread out like a crazy quilt. And there, on the edge, is something that looks like oversize stacked LEGOs—train cargo cars or the trailers on big rig trucks stacked upon each other in rows, each painted a different bright color. The jumbled stack of colors reminds me vaguely of Walt Disney World. When I was little and lived in Florida, my parents took me there every summer. It seemed massive then, giant, like a whole country in a theme park, but I realize with a shock that Cinderella’s castle would fit in this metal bubble, and that this level is easily fifty times bigger than the whole Magic Kingdom.
I try to count the trailers, but can’t. Just how many people live on this ship? There’s room there for at least a couple thousand.
I wonder if Elder lives in one of the colored boxes.
My eyes drift toward the horizon.
There is no skyline. Because there