Across the Universe - Beth Revis [8]
A splatter of rain on my skin, but it’s bright and sunny under the blue sky. And Jason’s there, and we almost kiss, but then everything changes and we’re at that party where we met because dreams are like that: they go in and out of memories and scenes, but they’re never real. They’re never real, and I hate them because they aren’t.
4
ELDER
A CRANKING NOISE MAKES ME LIFT MY FACE UP TO THE broken window, where the glass has split evenly in two. Why am I not dead yet?
Glass doesn’t break like that, not in a perfectly straight line.
And ... that’s not the black emptiness of space beyond the glass.
That’s metal. A metal ceiling behind the window?
The two halves of the window slide down, down, and the stars go with them. But that’s ... impossible. The stars are supposed to stay in place, not move with the window.
Wait ... it’s ... it’s not a window. It’s, well, I’m not sure what it is. The Great Room’s ceiling is domed, and the metal covering has folded up along the edge of the room at about chest height. The window—the thing I thought was a window—is really two halves of a giant glass and metal screen sprinkled with sparkling lights, held up by hydraulic arms that hiss and moan at me. The two folded halves rest on either side of the domed room at about shoulder height, and behind them is the real ceiling of the Keeper Level, more metal. More blank, empty, starless metal.
The stars, the beautiful shining stars, aren’t stars at all. It’s just glass and lightbulbs made to twinkle like stars. Fake stars on a screen sandwiched between two metal ceilings.
Why?
I reach up to touch the half of the universe that’s closest to me. The tiny bulbs aren’t quite hot to the touch, but warm enough to make me snatch my fingers away. The straggling remains of a spiderweb stretch from the base of a star-bulb to a tiny metal plaque on the bottom of the pane.
Navigational Tracking Chart
Patent No. 7329035
FRX—2036 CE
A navigational chart? Here? My eyes scan the section of screen in front of me, and, sure enough, I see a light blinking near the bottom of it, under the plaque, next to two close-together star-bulbs. A red light, triangular and pointing to the stars. I notice that the blinking red light isn’t fixed like the star-bulbs; it’s on a little track, and it’s nearly at the end of its path.
My ship. Nearly at its new planet, its new home.
���Elder? Elder! What’s happening?” Eldest shouts from the hatch connecting the Keeper Level to the Shipper Level. I can visualize him beyond the hatch door: angry face, blazing eyes, and long white hair brushing against his shoulders as he beats on the heavy metal door.
I turn back to the pieces of fake window. The stars are lies. I had them for a moment, but they weren’t real.
Beep, beep-beep fills my left ear. My wireless communication device beeps, letting me know that someone is trying to link with me. Each of us has a wi-com implanted behind our left ear at birth—it’s how we communicate with each other as well as the ship.
“Com link: Eldest,” the computer says directly into my left ear through my wi-com.
“Ignore,” I say, pushing the button under my skin.
The stars are lies. What else is?
Beep, beep-beep. “Eldest override,” my wi-com says cheerfully. “Com link: Eldest.”
“Elder!” Eldest’s voice fills my ear, a low growl. “What happened? Why did you throw the Keeper Level into lockdown?”
“The stars are lies,” I say hollowly.
“What? What happened? Is something wrong?”
Everything’s wrong. “Nothing’s wrong,” I say.
“I’m going to release the lockdown.” Eldest disconnects the link. A moment later, the floor rumbles and the hatch door opens. Eldest climbs up into the Keeper Level, slamming the hatch door behind him.
“What happened?” he demands.
I glance up at the biometric scanner by his door. “I scanned my access, and this—” I stop, indicating the two halves of the “window” still lowered.
“Why were you messing around with that?” Eldest roars. He strides across the room, and in his anger, he’s forgotten to be gentle with