Across the Universe

“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 elevator 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.

“What’s she trying to do, drink it all up?” Doc asks, reaching into the watery mess for the girl.

I stand back, horrified. “No,” I whisper. “She’s screaming.”

13 AMY

PAIN.

Cold so cold it burns, but not with a burning that cauterizes, no, a burning that razes, decimates.

Pain.

My stomach muscles seize. Can’t vomit empty.

Eyes see only blobs. Some bright. Some not. No focus.

Mucus slips down my nostrils, down the back of my throat. Choke. Gag. Cough.

Water sloshes in my ears, muffling the intonations of deep, male-voiced speech around me.

Hands lift me from the slush of my glass coffin, and it feels as if they are rescuing me from quicksand. The cryo liquid clings to me, pulling me back into my watery grave, dragging cold fingers across my skin.

They lay me on something cold, hard, and flat. A funnel-like mask is fitted over my nose, and air so warm it hurts blows into my nostrils, reminding my lungs to work. Hands press something sticky onto my skin, and shortly thereafter, my muscles cramp painfully.

Two gentle hands hold the sides of my head still, while two rough fingers rip open my eyelids. No, I think, I don’t want more eyedrops. But plop! plop! The cold liquid falls onto my eyes. I blink painfully, my tears mixing with the goo they’ve put there.

The rough hands go for my mouth next. At first, I don’t know what’s happening, and I let my lips part easily. Then I realize that the person is doing something, and cold liquid drips down my throat, but I don’t know what it is, so I clench my teeth and shake my head, but my neck isn’t used to moving, so my head just sort of rolls around for a bit.

The gentle hands steady my head again. A face peers into mine. A boy — about Jason’s age, but taller and broader and more muscly than Jason had been. Dark olive skin; milk-chocolate eyes with flecks of cinnamon that are narrow at the ends, almond-shaped. It’s a handsome face, one I want to trust. As I stare at him, a sharp pain pierces my head; I am not used to focusing my eyes on anything.

The boy speaks, and while my ears are still too blocked to hear anything clearly, his tone is kind and reassuring as he taps my jaw. I let my chin drop — a nod, yes — and then part my lips for him. A warm, viscous syrup that tastes almost like peaches, but with an alcoholic bite, drips down my tongue, coating my throat. Some of the soreness fades.

The boy peers down into my face.

“Mmgnna gedyup,” he says. I find that I can’t understand him. He nods at me, like he’s trying to tell me it’ll all be okay, but that’s not true — it won’t be okay, how could anything ever be okay again?

The boy grabs my right hand; the rough hands grab my left. And before I can make my neck move — no! — they jerk me up into a sitting position.

I feel as if I am breaking in half.