Beth Revis: Across the Universe

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 his leg. It was wounded before I was born and never truly healed, but his limp has grown worse with age. His feet make an uneven beat against the metal floor: stomp , step, stomp , step, stomp . He’ll be sore later, and he’ll blame me for that, too.

When Eldest reaches the biometric scanner, he rolls his thumb over the bar. The glass rises first, pulling the stars up along the ceiling, the hydraulic arms sighing in relief. Then the grinding metal screen tucks them away, hiding their false light.

“You’re loons! You put the Keeper Level into lockdown over this ?” Eldest’s rage almost makes me cower. Almost.

“I thought they were real! I thought the ship was being exposed to space!”

“They’re just lightbulbs!”

“I didn’t frexing know that! I thought those stars were real! What are they even there for?”

“They’re not there for you!” Eldest bellows.

“Then who are they there for?” I shout back. “It’s just you and me on this level!”

Eldest sets his jaw. A lump rises in my throat, but I swallow it down. I won’t let Eldest think I’m nothing more than a little boy who throws a tantrum when he discovers the stars aren’t real.

“You can’t do this, Elder. You could cause the whole ship to panic!” Eldest looks both enraged and weary at the same time. “Don’t you understand? You are Elder. When you take my role as Eldest, you must dedicate your whole life to this one idea: you are the caretaker of every single person on the ship. They are your responsibility. You can never show weakness in front of them: you are their strength. You can never let them see you in despair: you are their hope. You must always be everything to everyone on board.” He takes a deep breath. “And that includes not panicking and throwing an entire level of the ship into lockdown!”

“I thought the ship had been exposed,” I say.

Eldest stares at me. “And you put the ship into lockdown.”

Does he have to remind me of that? I’m a frexing idiot, I get it.

“While you were still here.” His voice is different now. Calmer. I meet his eyes, and I see something in them I’ve never seen before.

Pride.

“You were going to sacrifice yourself to save the ship,” he says.

I shrug. “It was stupid. Sorry.”

“No.” Eldest drawls out the word. “Well, yes, it was stupid. But it was also noble. That took courage, boy. That took leadership. To be willing to sacrifice yourself for the rest of the ship? Shows you think. You thought about how the Keeper Level’s on top, didn’t you? That if the Keeper Level was exposed to space, the explosive decompression would affect the level below it, and the one below that. You thought before you acted. You thought of all the people below.”

I look away. Maybe it had been noble, but all I can see is how the stars aren’t real.

“I’m sorry,” Eldest says. When he sees my confused look, he adds, “I’ve ignored you. It’s my fault. You reminded me of the other Elder, and we… did not get along. When I trained him, I told him too much, too soon. And he acted foolishly, selfishly. But you’re different. I forget that you’re different, but you are.”

Eldest has my full attention now. I know perfectly well there had been another Elder, one between me and Eldest. He died before I was born, but Eldest never talked much about him before.

“I’d already trained that Elder. He was supposed to train you, leaving me to care for the ship. When he died and I had to train you, too… I was never supposed to be saddled with another Elder, and I’ve lapsed in my responsibilities with you.”

I search his eyes. When we’re on the Feeder Level, Eldest is a kind grandpa. When we’re on the Shipper Level, he’s like an old king, commanding but attentive. But when it’s just him and me, he lets his real self show-or at least what I take to be his real self-and his real self may be old, but it isn’t kind and it isn’t weak.

Something in the silence makes me realize Eldest has allowed me, and only me, to see this. And that, more than anything, makes me forgive his neglect.