Across the Universe

34 ELDER

STARLIGHT TRICKLES UNDER MY DOOR THE NEXT MORNING. When I emerge from my chamber, yawning and stretching, I see that Eldest has lowered the metal screen over the navigation chart, exposing the lightbulb stars.

“Hey,” Eldest says. He’s leaning against the wall by his room, staring up at the false stars. He scoots over when I sit down, and I hear glass clattering on the metal floor. A bottle of the drink the Shippers make. Eldest moves to hide it, but he’s too late.

We stare at the lightbulbs.

“I forget sometimes,” Eldest says. “How hard it is. I’ve been doing it… for so long.” He sighs. Although the sharp, stinging scent of the drink lingers in the air, Eldest isn’t drunk. I glance at the bottle — it’s been opened, but no more than a swallow or two are missing. Trust Eldest not to let go of control even in this.

“I know it’s hard,” I say.

Eldest shakes his head. “No, you don’t. Not really. You’re just starting. You… haven’t had to make the decisions I’ve had to. You haven’t had to live with yourself afterward.”

What does he mean by that?

Just what has he done?

And another part of me, the part that’s felt what it’s like to be Elder for sixteen years, not Eldest’s fifty-six, that part of me asks: What has he had to do?

Because I know Eldest, and what’s more, I know the job. And I know why we do the job. Why we live the job. Why we have to.

“It’d be easier, if the Elder before you was still alive. He could take care of you and the Season, and I could take care of—”

“Of what?” I ask, leaning forward.

“Of everything else.”

Eldest stands now, the light of the false stars speckling his body. He looks very old. Much older than I’ve ever seen him before. It’s not years that age him, though.

“I hate the Season.” Eldest’s disgust is apparent in his voice.

I start to ask why, but he’s not looking at me, and something stays my tongue. I wonder — does he hate it because he has no one to mate with? I’ve never seen him look at a woman the way Harley used to look at his girlfriend… the way I look at Amy. Maybe he had a woman before me, for his Season, but she died. Maybe… I swallow. I can’t say I haven’t wondered before, wondered if Eldest was really my—

“Don’t get proud,” Eldest says, interrupting my thoughts.

“Sir?”

“Don’t get proud. You do what you have to do, whether you like it or not. There’s nothing to be proud of, not as Eldest. There’s never a right answer. Just keep them alive. Doesn’t matter how. Just keep the frexing ship alive.”

He picks up his practically full bottle and locks himself in his dark room. The metal screen covers the false stars, and I’m left in darkness too.

An hour later, it’s time for the day to begin. Eldest emerges from his chamber. His clothes are pristine, his eyes are clear, and his breath is fresh. I guess the bottle’s still full. The conversation beneath the lying stars feels like a dream.

Eldest walks to the hatch that leads to the Shipper Level. The clatter of his steps across the metal floor — uneven from his limp — is the only sound filling the silence.

“You spent all yesterday with that Sol-Earth girl,” he says finally, lifting the hatch door.

I shrug.

“I don’t have time for lessons right now. The ship comes first. But you’ve completely ignored my assignment, haven’t you? To discover the third cause of discord?”

My head sinks. I had forgotten. It seems so long ago. When I glance up, Eldest is looking over his shoulder, not meeting my eyes. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but I doubt it could be good.

“Fine,” he says finally.

“Fine?”

“Spend your time with her,” Eldest says. “You will see firsthand what sort of trouble she can cause.”

Then he descends down the hatch, leaving me with questions I know he won’t answer.

I head straight for the grav tube and the Feeder Level. If Elder’s giving me permission to abandon his assignment and spend time with Amy, who am I to question it? Orion’s on the Recorder Hall porch (leaning with his back obscuring the portrait of Eldest, which makes me grin), and I wave as I pass.

The garden is more crowded than I’ve ever seen it before. The only sounds drifting through it are the pants and grunts of the people mating, rutting behind the bushes, at the base of the trees, at the foot of the statue, right in the middle of the path. I have to step over squirming, sweaty bodies to enter the Hospital.

The elevator, thankfully, is empty. But it doesn’t smell as if it’s been empty for long.

In the Ward, there is some semblance of sanity. Yes, Victria and Bartie are kissing in the corner, and several of the acting troupe are pressed against the glass wall, but most of them are mostly clothed.

I half expect Amy to be like the rest of them when I knock on her door — I half hope it — but she’s not. She’s dressed, looking out the window.

“Why are they doing that? In public, everywhere…” she whispers as I walk into her room.

“It’s the Season.”

“This… isn’t normal. People don’t act like this. This is… mating, it’s not love.”

I shrug. “Of course it’s mating. That’s the point. To make a new gen.”

“Everyone? All at once? Everyone decides to have sex now?”

I nod. Maybe her parents never told her about the Season, but surely she was old enough to know. All animals go into heat. People have a Season just like the cows, the sheep, the goats.

Amy snorts. “Must be something in the water,” she says with a weak laugh, as if it were a joke. Her face grows dark again, though, and she says in a low whisper, mostly to herself, “But it’s not natural.”

I don’t answer. I’m too busy thinking about how when we’re twenty, we’ll be in Season. Together. Just us.

She’s said something. I shake my head to clear it from the thoughts invading my brain.

“Will you?” she asks.

“Will I what?”

“Will you go with me to see my parents?”

I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Amy… they’re still frozen.”

“I know,” she says in a calm, even tone. “But I still want to see them. I don’t think I can stand watch on that floor without first seeing them properly.”

So I go with her.

The lights are already on in the cryo level. Amy steps out first and looks around at the rows and rows of square doors.

I follow her as she silently goes down one aisle. Her fingers bounce on the metal doors. At the end of the row, Amy turns to me.

“I don’t even know which one is them.” She sounds lost.

“I can look that up,” I say. I go around her to the table at the end of the row and pick up the floppy on it.

“What were their names?” I say.

“Maria Martin and Bob — Robert Martin.”

I tap their names onto the on-screen keyboard. “Numbers 40 and 41,” I say. Before I can put the floppy down, Amy’s running up the rows, counting under her breath. She stops in front of the two side-by-side doors labeled with her parents’ numbers.

“Do you want me to open it?” I ask.

Amy nods her head, yes, but when I step forward with my arm outstretched, she grabs my hand. “I’ll do it,” she says, but she doesn’t, she just stands there, looking at the closed doors.