Across the Universe

“Well you don’t have to,” I say, unable to keep the growl from my voice, “but you could at least be polite.”

The girl tilts her head, considering. She reaches behind her and grabs a small basket full of hypodermic needles. About half are empty; the other half contain golden-yellow liquid that looks like honey swirled with butter.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Inoculations,” the girl says, turning to the rabbit she still holds pinned to the ground. The rabbit doesn’t seem to have any fight in it. It twitches its heavy back legs occasionally but doesn’t really struggle against her grip.

“Are these your pets?” I ask.

She looks at me, and I can tell she’s thinking about what Eldest said, how I am supposedly slow and stupid. “No,” she says. “They are food.”

Stupid question. The field is fairly large, and I can see about twenty rabbits nearby, and dozens more in the distance. On the far side of the field is a house — the girl’s home, I suppose — and lined around the house are wired hutches for more rabbits. There must be hundreds of people on Godspeed; it makes sense that they’d need a source of protein that reproduces as quickly as rabbits.

“I saw you running,” she says, her attention on the rabbit. “What were you running from?”

“Just running,” I say. She’s watching me silently and intently, like a cat.

“Why?” she asks.

I shrug. “Why not?”

“It’s not Productive.” She says it like productivity is holy, the only thing worth having.

“So?” I say.

Instead of answering, the girl just cocks her head to the left, then turns away from me. She picks up one of the full needles in the basket, jabs it into the rabbit’s back leg, and lets the rabbit go. “Number 623, inoculated,” she says. The computer thing flashes a wavy line and a green light, and the words she’s spoken show up on a chart on the screen.

“What are you inoculating them against?” I ask. How many rabbit diseases could there be on a contained ship?

“It makes them stronger. Healthier. Better meat.” She squats on her heels and stares at me. “You live in the Hospital, right?”

I nod.

“My grandfather was taken to the Hospital,” she says.

“Is he better now?”

“He’s gone.”

She says this matter-of-factly, without a hint of emotion, but her eyes are glistening. “I’m sorry,” I say.

“Why?” she asks simply. “It was his time.”

“You’re crying.”

She wipes one dirty finger under her eye, leaving a smudge of dirt and green grass stains on her cheek. She looks at the tear on her finger, confused that such emotion should leak from her eyes. “I have no reason to be sad,” she tells the evidence dripping down her fingertip. Her voice is even, monotone, and I know she believes she’s not sad, even though her body tells her differently.

The girl picks up her basket and then reaches for the computer thing. It’s further away than she’d thought, and it slips out of her hands, floating toward me. I catch two words on the top of the screen: GENETIC MODIFICATION.

“What’s that say?” I ask, pointing.

She obeys me without question, which surprises me a bit. “Genetic modification to manipulate reproductive genes and muscle mass,” she recites in her same even monotone. “Projected increased productivity: 20 percent, with increased meat production at 25 percent.”

“Those shots aren’t inoculations,” I say, searching her blank eyes. “They’re something to do with gene manipulation. I know. My mom was a genetic splicer back—” I pause. She still thinks I’m a freak, a by-product of a science experiment on board the ship. “Look, I’m not who Eldest said I was. I’m from Earth. Sol-Earth, I mean. I was born there. I was cryogenically frozen and I woke up early. And my mother, back on Ear — on Sol-Earth, she was a genetic splicer. That stuff you’re injecting the rabbits with — that’s not a vaccine. That’s genetic modification material. You’re changing the rabbits’ DNA.”

She nods like she’s agreeing with me, following every word, but she says, “Eldest said you were simple and didn’t understand things.”

“I am from Earth — but that’s not the point! Look, the point is, that stuff is dangerous. Genetic modification material isn’t something to play around with, not even with rabbits, especially if you’re going to eat them. Don’t you know what you’re doing?”

“Eldest said it was an inoculation,” the girl says. She starts to walk away from me.

“Hey, wait — hold up!” The fence keeps me back.

The girl stops — but only because she is positioning herself to lunge at another rabbit.

“Look, you read that stuff on the computer thing. It says right there that you’re injecting them with genetic mod material. Right. There.” I point at the screen. She looks down at it, curiously, like she’s looking for what I’m talking about, even though the chart she’s been working on is clearly labeled. “Look at that. There. Do you even see the word inoculation?”

She shakes her head slowly, her eyes scanning the words on the screen.

“So…” I say, waiting for her to realize my point. When she doesn’t, I add, “So you’re not inoculating the rabbits. You’re modifying their DNA.”

She looks back up at me, eyes wide, and for a moment I think she’s understood. “Oh, no,” she says. “You’re wrong. Eldest told me. Inoculations.” She holds out the basket of needles for me to inspect. “They make the rabbits healthier. Stronger. Better meat.”

I start to protest, but her wide, innocent, and empty eyes tell me it would be pointless. I shiver, but it has nothing to do with how cold I feel as my sweat dries on my skin. Eldest’s control is absolute. I don’t know why this girl is so vacant that she won’t believe what’s right in front of her face when it contradicts what Eldest has told her. I don’t know for sure if it even is Eldest behind the unpluggings. But I do know one thing: if it is him, and he’s got the entire ship blindly following him like this, there’s no chance I can stand against him.

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?