Across the Universe - Beth Revis [51]
“Looking for a way off this ship,” I mutter.
Orion laughs, a sincere, real laugh that makes me smile, too. His eyes light up, reminding me of Elder. Not so much because of the way he looks—everyone looks like they’re related to everyone else on this ship, with the same skin and same hair. No—it’s the kindness in his eyes that reminds me of Elder.
I pause at the steps of the brick building. RECORDER HALL it says in big, white-painted letters. Next to the big doors is a painting of Eldest. His cold eyes follow me as I mount the steps, and I try to avoid his painted gaze. Orion rushes ahead, saying something about a towel.
I push the door open after him, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior light.
Then I see it.
Earth.
Not the real Earth, obviously, but a big clay model.
I rush forward, my fingers reaching for the huge clay globe of Earth that hangs in the center of the giant entryway. There’s America, there’s Florida, where I was born, there’s Colorado, where I met Jason. My hands tremble as I stretch up to touch the dusty, bumpy clay, even though it’s far beyond my reach.
Orion snatches my hands away and scrubs them with a steaming hot, slightly damp towel. It feels almost as if he’s scrubbing away my skin, and when I pull away and look at my hands, they’re red, but clean. Before I can say anything else, Orion shoves the towel in my face and scrubs it as well. He’s laughing, and so am I—I haven’t been treated as if I was a child in need of a bath for a very long time.
“Clean again!” Orion says cheerily, tossing the towel behind him. He hands me a glass of cold water, and I drink it greedily. My muscles seem to relax, and I finally start to feel calm again. “So,” Orion says, nodding to the replica, “you found our model of Sol-Earth.”
By Sol-Earth, I guess he means my Earth.
“And here,” Orion adds, “is Godspeed.”
I hadn’t noticed the little model of the ship made to look as if it were flying from Earth before. It’s about the size of my head, whereas the model of Earth is so big my arms wouldn’t reach around it.
I flick the model with my hand. It swings on its wire, chaotically off-course. Then settles back, as if nothing has happened. It’s a ship. It can’t be bothered to care.
“Everything better now?” Orion asks, as if a warm towel is enough to solve any problem.
“I’ll be okay,” I say, but we both know I’m lying.
24
ELDER
“COME,” ELDEST DEMANDS, AND I KNOW BY THE WAY HE SAYS it, as if he’s a master speaking to a slave, that he means me and not Doc. I tear my gaze away from the closed hatch door and follow Eldest. Doc comes, too, but his steps are measured, an ominous drum beat on the floor.
When Eldest gets to the table against the wall at the end of the rows of cryo chambers, he stops and looks at me expectantly. My eyes are on that table, remembering how Amy huddled on its cold metal top, and how there was nothing I could do to help her.
“Well?” Eldest demands, his voice a short bark.
“What?”
“As leader, what would you do in this situation?”
“Um...” I say, wrong-footed. Typical Eldest. Just like him to throw a lesson at me when I’m least ready for it.
“Um, um!” Eldest mocks. “Be a leader! What should we do?”
“Uh—we need to see the vid records. And!”—I add when Eldest shows signs of derision—“we could check the wi-com locators, too.”
Eldest harrumphs, but does not insult my plan, just hands me a floppy. I press my thumb against the access login, and the floppy flashes into life. I tap in a few commands, searching for the video recordings of the cryo level. But when I find them, they show nothing but black.
“Something’s wrong with the vid screens,” I say, trying again and getting nothing but black.
Eldest grunts. “The vids were out the first time, too. I thought I’d taken care of that, but clearly he’s found a way around it. Try the wi-com locator.”
I tap more commands, this time accessing the map of Godspeed. Hundreds of blinking dots shine up at me: one dot for each person, each traced through the locator in