Across the Universe (31 page)

76

ELDER

IT CAME TO ME, THE FIRST NIGHT AFTER ELDEST WAS KILLED and Orion was frozen, that I shared the same DNA as both of those men, but I was nothing like them. The truth of the ship twisted both men differently, turning one into a dictator, one into a sociopath.

The three of us, we’re the same. We were raised with the same knowledge, formed from the same genetic material, given the same truth. But one of us hid the truth through lies and control, one tried to change the truth through chaos and murder, and me ... well, I am still figuring out what truth is. And what I will do with it.

Was I lying to my people when I didn’t tell them about Orion?

Was it wrong to give them access to a truth that might kill them like it killed Harley?

And what right do I have to make any mandates about truth when my greatest joy is that Orion never had a chance to tell the truth to Amy?

In the end, am I really all that different from Eldest or Orion if I let her believe a lie?

THE PAST

ELDER

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED.

This is truth.

I saw her lying there, frozen in her glass box. And she was different.
Really
different. I could never have the sunset of Sol-Earth, but it was all there, in her hair, floating immobilized in ice, pale skin like lamb’s wool. And young. Like me.

She will never understand.

I went down there, later, to stare and dream. To think of what she could tell me of Sol-Earth. To think of how she—unlike every other person on this frexing ship—
she
would be my age during my Season.

And I wouldn’t have to be alone.

And then I heard it. A tiny whisper in my mind, a barely heard voice I almost—but not quite—ignored.

And the voice held a question. And the question was:

What if I unplug her?

And at first I did ignore it. But the question got louder. And louder.

It roared.

And so, just to make it shut up, I reached out, and I flipped the switch in the box above Amy’s cold head, and I watched the light blink from green to red.

And the voice inside my head sighed in relief and whispered words of comfort and told me she would smile at me when the ice melted.

I was going to wait, right there, be there for her when she yawned and stretched and emerged from the box. Be there as her eyes fluttered open, as her lips curved into a smile.

But I heard—

—Orion, scuffling in the dark, listening to his own voice—but I didn’t know that then. I swear I didn’t know it was him, watching.

So I ran to the elevator and went to the garden and tried to pretend I had not brought a girl back to life with the flip of a switch.

Then came the alarm.

And the scream of it—
aroo! aroo!
—blended into Amy’s scream.

Of pain.

And later—of regret. Sorrow. Broken dreams and hopes.

I broke those dreams.

Me.

And nothing comforted her, not even the love she never saw from me.

And Doc said she couldn’t go back; she could never go back.

And I knew—I
knew—

I could never tell her the truth.

77

AMY

I SIT IN FRONT OF THE HATCH DOOR, MY BACK AGAINST THE cool metal wall, my eyes staring through the glass to the stars beyond, thinking about Harley, wondering what it felt like in those brief moments between flying and dying.

I come here often now. With awakening, the people of the ship who had been passively meek are now explorers. They are in the gardens, they are in the Hospital—to read Victria’s books or listen to Bartie’s guitar playing or look at Harley’s surviving paintings. Some are even in the Recorder Hall, and some leave with eyes opened wide with truth. This is one of the few remaining places where I can truly find solitude. Elder doesn’t think it’s safe to let everyone come to this level, even though some are now aware of its existence. I agree. I don’t want anyone else taking Orion’s stand on the issue. The painted X on my Daddy’s door has still not faded away, even though I have scrubbed and scrubbed.

Elder had the keypad fixed—and improved—so that when I punch in the code word, the hatch door stays open for as long as I want it to, and I can stare out the glass window into the stars for as long as I need to. It’s a long way home from here, but this is the closest I can be.

I stare at the stars. There are so many here, so many more that I can see here than I could see when I stood on Earth’s surface. And even though there are so many and they look so close together, I know they are light years apart. The glitter in the sky looks as if I could scoop it all up in my hands and let the stars swirl and touch one another, but they are so distant, so very far apart, that they cannot feel the warmth of each other, even though they are made of burning.

This is the secret of the stars,
I tell myself.
In the end, we are alone. No matter how close you seem, no one else can touch you.

“Amy?”

Elder stands over me, and for a moment he looks ominous, like a vulture.

I risk a smile at him.

“I’m glad it’s over,” I say.

Elder does not return my smile.

“It’s a relief. I think I might be able to live an okay life here, if I don’t have to worry about my parents every second. Ugh, that sounds ungrateful. You know what I mean.”

“Amy.”

I look up at him. His face is very serious.

“What’s wrong?” There is laughter in my voice, but it’s nervous. “Did something happen?” My fingers curl, scraping against the cold metal floor. “Did something happen to my parents? Was it not really Orion?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Elder bites his lip.

“What is it then? Here, sit down beside me.”

Elder doesn’t sit. “I have to tell you something,” he says in that voice that makes me know whatever it is he has to tell me cannot be good.

“What is it?” I finally screech, because I cannot take his nervous silence.

78

ELDER

“I’M THE ONE WHO UNPLUGGED YOU.”

79

AMY

I FEEL MY HEART THUD—ONCE, HARD—AND THEN IT’S LIKE A rushing of blood and emotion from my body and I am empty inside, frozen like before, and I see nothing, and I feel nothing, but that’s not true. Because as soon as I think that, I feel again, I feel
everything
, and I can’t see, I can’t breathe, but I
do
feel.

And what I feel is rage.

I think for a moment—
I was wrong: it would be better to not feel than to feel this
—and then

I
quit
thinking.

I scream something, but even I can’t distinguish what words spit from my mouth. I’m standing now—I don’t remember standing, but I’m standing. And I lunge for him. I want to hurt him—I don’t care how—as long as I can cause
some
sort of pain, maybe that will be enough. I get in one good, solid hit, and I know that I’ve surprised him more than hurt him, despite the fact that there’s already a red mark on his cheekbone under his eye. My fingers are curled claws, but he grabs my wrists before I can attack again, and he holds me back. I kick, but my short legs can’t outdistance his long arms, and I do the only thing left for me to do. All the rage tears from my throat.

���I’m sorry,” Elder pleads.

Sorry?
Sorry?
Sorry isn’t enough. Every. Single. Thing. I ever loved is beyond my reach now. Everything I ever wanted. Everything I ever was.

“I could have died!” I shout. “I almost
did
die!”

“I didn’t know”—he trips over his words—“that—I mean—frex! I didn’t know you’d be—and—”

I want to ask why. Except—there is no why. I can see it in his face. He didn’t mean to hurt me. To take away my only chance to be with my parents. To trap me in a metal cage.

To kill me as effectively as I am dead on Earth.

He just did it.

There is no why, just like there is no going back.

“But I had to tell you the truth.”

That stops me.

Something inside me snaps into place, painfully. The truth grinds against my bones.

Daddy lied to me when he said coming or not was my choice. He made the choice. The empty trunk in the cryo chamber is proof enough of that.

Jason let me believe what I wanted to believe.

This whole ship has been held together with metal and lies, everyone either deceived or a deceiver.

Except for Elder.

80

ELDER

AMY’S FACE IS STONE, AND I CANNOT SEE ANY CRACKS IN IT. It’s not been this immovable since she was frozen.

My hands clench compulsively in my pockets. The wires from the Phydus machine poke my fingers. Amy expected me to throw them away, I know she did ... but I can’t. Their weight in my pocket is the weight of another lie. But I can’t shake that nagging voice in my head, the one that asks:
Can you rule without Phydus?

I’m afraid the answer is no.

I should tell her. I should produce the wires like another confession.

But it would just drive her further away.

“When I did it ... when I unplugged you ...” My voice cracks, something that hasn’t happened since I was fourteen. “I didn’t know Doc couldn’t put you back. I thought I could wake you up, and that maybe we could meet, could talk, and then after you told me about Sol-Earth, I’d be ready to let you go and be frozen again. I didn’t know you couldn’t go back. I didn’t know that I would almost kill you.”

I’ve spoken all of this in a rush, but now my words peter out until they are almost nothing.

Amy doesn’t say anything.

I touch my cheekbone tenderly, pushing at the place where she hit me. It will bruise. If she’d aimed higher, I would have a black eye.

“I’m really sorry, you know,” I say.

Amy stares ahead of her. I can’t tell if she’s staring at the metal that traps her inside the ship or the glass that shows her the universe outside it.

“I know,” she says.

It’s not much of an invitation, but it’s the only one I’ve got. I lean against the wall beside her. A rivet digs into my back, but I don’t care. This may be the closest I’ll ever be to her again.

Amy doesn’t move away. That’s something, I guess.

“I just wanted to meet you. I didn’t know I’d ruin your whole life.”

Silence.

Amy doesn’t look up.

AMY

THERE’S A SMUDGE OF PAINT—RED—AT THE EDGE OF THE hatch door. Harley’s last mark.

Past the paint, past the bubble window, I stare at the stars. It looks like a lonely, cold place out there. I put my hands on either side of the window. It’s a lonely, cold place in here, too.

“I don’t want to be alone,” I whisper, and it’s not until the words are out there that I realize how true they are.

I sense more than see the tiniest movement of Elder behind me. He steps forward, hesitates, then reaches for my hand. I pull away.

Like Harley.

I stare resolutely ahead at the stars. I wonder if he would still be here if only he’d reached toward us, instead of toward them.

I shut my eyes and take a deep breath, but all I smell is metal. The life I’d once known is forever gone. My air will never smell of summer or spring, real rain or snow.

I open my eyes and see the last thing Harley saw before he left us.
Maybe the secret of the stars has nothing to do with being alone.

I reach behind me, and Elder is there. Like he always has been. He grabs my hand, but I shake loose.

I’m not ready for that.

But ... if my life on Earth must end, let it end with a promise.

Let it end with hope.

I wrap my pinkie around his. He squeezes my finger, and this world doesn’t feel so cold anymore.

“Will you stay with me?” I whisper.

“Always.”

Acknowledgments:

I’d like to thank everyone on the Penguin/Razorbill team—you all made this book look brilly. Special thanks to Ben Schrank and Gillian Levinson, who helped make
Across the Universe
into the book I’d always intended it to be, but somehow didn’t get on the page without their insightful edits, questions, and suggestions. Thanks also to Emily Romero, Erin Dempsey, Courtney Wood, and the rest of Penguin marketing, and to my amazingly talented designer, Natalie Sousa.

I couldn’t have joined the team at Penguin without Merrilee Heifetz, who matched me with the perfect publisher, and I couldn’t have done that without Jennifer Escott, who matched me with the perfect agent. Thank you both for guiding me through the world of publication with such enthusiasm!

The best part about being a writer is having writing friends. Robyn Campbell and Rebecca Carlson helped me hammer out the first draft of
Across the Universe
, Heather Zundel and Christina Farley helped me break it to pieces and write it back better, and Erin Anderson, PJ Hoover, and Christine Marciniak told me
Across the Universe
was finally done and I should just submit it already.

I’ve spent most of my years in some school or another, but by far the best ones were the six I spent teaching literature at Burns High School. To all of my students: you were all my favorite. Special thanks to Charly White, who painted a picture of a fish on my podium and inspired the character Harley. Thanks also to my friend and fellow teacher Laura Parker and my friend (who’s not a teacher and quite happy about it) Jennifer Randolph for supporting my writing career.

There are three people who always believed in me more than I did and who never once thought I wouldn’t see my name on a book cover: my parents, Ted and JoAnne Graham, and my husband, Corwin Revis.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.