Across the Universe Page 10

Page 10

  Something is happening.

  No. The nightmares are getting more real, and they’ll be so much worse because of it. I think I hear something. I can’t hear anything. It’s all in my mind. It’s not real. Think about something better. Think about Jason. Think about Mom, about Daddy, think about—

  Click.

  No. I did not hear a click. A click did not vibrate through the ice. That did not happen. It’s just the nightmares. . . it’s another nightmare. It’s as simple as that.

  If I could, I would squeeze my eyes shut. Instead, I try to focus my mind, like I used to be able to focus my eyes in and out when I looked at something really close. Memories. Memories always kill nightmares.

  My mind’s eye flashes images, a slide show of memories. Hiking the Grand Canyon. The middle school trip to the beach. Gymnastics when I was a kid. The first time I drove. The first time I scratched the car (same day) and Daddy yelled at me, but got me ice cream afterward anyway, and we pinky-promised not to tell Mom. Baking Christmas cookies with Mom and Grandma the year before she went to the nursing home. Cross-country meets. Marathon training.

  I feel something. I feel something. Warmth in my stomach. And I hear. . . the hum of electricity. I realize I hear it because it is coming from the tubes down my throat.

  My body slips. Just a fraction of a millimeter, but it slips.

  The ice is melting.

  Oh, God.

  Thump.

  My heart.

  Thump-thump.

  Water leaks onto my left eye’s lash-line. I twitch involuntarily. The yellow crust that has sealed my eyes for who knows how long cracks as—for the first time since I was frozen—I move.

  OhGodohGodohGod.

  12

  ELDER

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

  I jump, then grimace. Nothing could have given away my guilt more.

  “It’s almost dark,” Doc continues. “Does Eldest know you’re here?”

  “Don’t!” I say as Doc reaches for his wi-com button. “Look. . . I snuck out. I was tired of reading! C’mon,” I add when Doc doesn’t lower his hand. “I just. . . needed to get out for a bit. Don’t scamp me out. Give me a break. ”

  Doc’s smirk tells me he’s not happy with me, but at least he doesn’t call for Eldest. I breathe a little easier.

  For a moment, we both just stand there, me on the path that leads deeper into the garden behind the Hospital, Doc on the steps. I love this garden. When Eldest sent me to the Ward for that year, I spent a lot of free time here in the garden. Steela, an old woman who lived in the Ward long before I moved there, had made the garden blossom from a grass lawn with hedges around it into a veritable jungle of flowers and vegetables and vines and trees.

  “So, looking for inspiration?” Doc nods to the statue in the center of the garden.

  The Plague Eldest, his concrete face upturned and his arms spread wide, stands benevolent guard over the garden. Time and scheduled rain has smoothed the face and hands, blurring the details of our greatest ruler.

  “Oh! Uh. . . yeah. ” I seize onto his excuse. “You know, Eldest wants me to learn leadership, and I figured, Plague Eldest did it the best. . . . ” The Plague Eldest was the first and greatest Eldest. He’s the only person I’ve ever seen my Eldest admire, and he’s more of a leader than either of us ever will be.

  “You just came here to look at the statue?”

  I heave a sigh. “I wanted to see her. ”

  “Don’t go getting obsessed, boy. Not good, not good for anyone. She’s frozen, and that’s that. ”

  “I know, but . . . ”

  “But nothing. Get her out of your mind. ”

  A resounding low-pitched alarm fills the air. Urk. Urk. Urk. The warning tone that sunset is about to fall. A flash of green catches my eyes. On the other side of the ship, the Shippers are taking the grav tube from the offices and labs on the Shipper Level to the City here on the Feeder Level where they live. From here, they’re tiny blurs of color zipping through the tube: brown, white, black, green. Doc raises his face to the center of the sky. That’s not the sun there, it’s an inertial confinement fusion container, a solar lamp providing both light and warmth to the Feeder Level, as well as the fuel for the ship’s internal function. It flashes once—warning us that night is approaching—and then the tinted shield slides over the container. The world is dark now. We call it sunset, a word leftover from Sol-Earth, but this sunset is nothing more than turning off the light. There is no red-yellow-orange-gold in this sunset.

  “Come on, boy,” Doc says as he hangs his arm on my shoulder, pulling me down the garden path. “You need to get back to the grav tube before Eldest notices you’re missing. ”

  “But. . . ”

  “The doors are all locked, even the one on the fourth floor. Come on. There’s no point obsessing. ”

  I turn away, letting Doc’s words drag me from thoughts of the girl with sunset hair. Eldest taught me about ancient religions that worshipped the sun. I never understood why—it’s just a ball of light and heat. But if the sun of Sol-Earth swirls in colors and lights like that girl’s hair, well, I can see why the ancients would worship that.

  The path leading from the Hospital seems ominous in the shadows of dark-time. Doc’s arm tightens around my shoulder, his fingers digging into my arm. “Who is that?” he hisses.

  I squint into the darkness. A man walks down the path a few paces ahead of us. When he reaches the steps of the Recorder Hall, he bounds up them with jaunty cheerfulness. A snatch of a whistled tune—an old Sol-Earth nursery rhyme—flitters through the air.

  “That’s probably Orion,” I say. Only a Recorder would know songs from Sol-Earth. Doc’s grip on my arm doesn’t relax. “A Recorder. ”

  “The same Recorder who showed you the blueprints of the ship?”

  I jerk my head around. Doc’s still staring at Orion, who’s completely oblivious to us, just standing on the porch of the Recorder Hall. I tear myself from Doc’s tense hold.

  “How did you know a Recorder showed me the blueprints?”

  Doc snorts, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “You couldn’t have found that on your own. ”

  “Hello!” the man on the porch calls out as the path takes us closer to the Recorder Hall. His deep voice confirms that it’s Orion.

  “Hi!” I call back.

  “It’s a bit cold out tonight, isn’t it?” Orion says, but I’m not sure why he’d point that out. Usually, the temperature is lowered by ten degrees after dark-time starts, but it’s still too soon to feel it.

  Doc, however, has stopped in his tracks, his face whitewashed. “Are you sure that’s just a Recorder?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Orion. ”

  Doc sags in relief. “His voice reminds me of someone I used to know. I can’t even remember the last time I was in the Recorder Hall. Hey, Orion!” Doc calls. “Think you could let us into the Hall?”

  But Orion doesn’t step out of the shadows.

  Aroo! Aroo!

  “The cryo level alarm,” Doc mutters, spinning around toward the Hospital, from which a deep siren is screaming its warning into the dark. “Something’s wrong!”

  I tear down the path as if the void of space is at my heels, skidding on the plastic mulch that paves the trail. A pounding sound punctuated by cursing tells me that Doc is following close behind. The nurses in the lobby are looking around, panicked, unsure of where the siren is coming from, but Doc and I both ignore their shouted questions and dive for the elevator.

  Doc wheezes as the elevator rises slowly. As it dings past the third floor, Doc raises his hand to his left ear.

  “Wait,” I say, pulling his hand away from his wi-com button. “Let’s see what’s going on before we com Eldest. Maybe it’s nothing serious. ”

  In the silence that greets my statement, I can still hear the muffled sounds of the alarm growing louder as we rise.

  Doc shakes my hand away. The elevat
or dings, and the doors slide apart.

  The door at the end of the hall is hanging open.

  Doc breaks into a run down the hall, barreling into the room and going straight to the desk. He rolls his thumb over the biometric scanner on the metal box in the center of the desk. Nothing happens.

  “Frex,” he growls. “Scan in,” he tells me, pushing the metal box toward me.

  “But—”

  “That box will only open with an Elder or Eldest security clearance. If the alarm’s not turned off, the Hospital will go into lockdown. Scan. In. ”

  I roll my thumb over the biometric scanner. The top of the box lifts and folds in on itself, revealing a control panel with a series of numbered buttons and a blinking red light. Doc punches in a code, and the aroo! aroo! fades into silence.

  Doc turns to the elevator, scans in his access, rushes inside, and pushes the button for the cryo level before I even get all the way into the elevator. He’s out of breath and tapping the floor of the elevator with his foot as we sink down, down. Doc doesn’t talk the entire time we’re descending. He clenches and unclenches his fists, as if he’s keeping time with his heart. His face is tense.

  The elevator stops, bouncing a bit as it rests on the cryo level floor. The doors slide open. We both stay in the elevator a moment, waiting to see who or what is on the other side.

  The lights are all on. Doc steps out of the elevator, wary. His hands ball into fists.

  “Nonono,” Doc says all in a rush. He takes one step, pauses, then bursts into a run. I chase after him. Doc skids to a halt at the row of numbered doors in the forties.

  Number 42 has been pulled out of her freezer in the wall; her glass box lies on the table in the center of the aisle.

  The girl with sunset hair is inside. Her eyes are open—pale, bright green like blades of new grass—and panicked. She is thrashing in the water flecked with blue crystals. The box is too small for her now that she is awake and moving; her knees and elbows are beating against the glass. Her body bucks up—her stomach flattens against the top of the box; her head and feet slam to the bottom. She brings her hands to her face, and, for a moment, I think she is clawing at herself, but then I see she is yanking the tubes from her mouth, gagging and choking on them as she goes.

  “Hurry up!” Doc shouts. “We’ve got to get the lid off before she pulls the tubes out!”

  I don’t bother asking why; I just rush to the other side of the box and help lift the heavy glass lid up. Inside, the tubes from the girl’s throat encircle her head and neck, but she’s still pulling at them; there’s still more down her throat. She gags, and yellow bile mixed with pale red blood clouds the water around her face.

  With a final heave, Doc and I lift the lid off the top of the box. Doc jerks back, yanking the lid from my grasp, and he half-throws, half-drops the glass lid to the cement floor. It breaks into two uneven pieces on the ground, too thick and heavy to shatter.

  Under the blue-crystal-flecked water, the girl finally jerks out the last of the tubes, and I see little electronic devices attached to the ends. The girl’s eyes are wide open, and she’s staring straight up at us. Her mouth is open in a perfect circle, sucking in the water.