Why?
I reach up to touch the half of the universe that’s closest to me. The tiny bulbs aren’t quite hot to the touch, but warm enough to make me snatch my fingers away. The straggling remains of a spiderweb stretch from the base of a star-bulb to a tiny metal plaque on the bottom of the pane.
Navigational Tracking Chart
Patent No. 7329035
FRX—2036 CE
A navigational chart? Here? My eyes scan the section of screen in front of me, and, sure enough, I see a light blinking near the bottom of it, under the plaque, next to two close-together star-bulbs. A red light, triangular and pointing to the stars. I notice that the blinking red light isn’t fixed like the star-bulbs; it’s on a little track, and it’s nearly at the end of its path.
My ship. Nearly at its new planet, its new home.
Elder? Elder! What’s happening?” Eldest shouts from the hatch connecting the Keeper Level to the Shipper Level. I can visualize him beyond the hatch door: angry face, blazing eyes, and long white hair brushing against his shoulders as he beats on the heavy metal door.
I turn back to the pieces of fake window. The stars are lies. I had them for a moment, but they weren’t real.
Beep, beep-beep fills my left ear. My wireless communication device beeps, letting me know that someone is trying to link with me. Each of us has a wi-com implanted behind our left ear at birth—it’s how we communicate with each other as well as the ship.
“Com link: Eldest,” the computer says directly into my left ear through my wi-com.
“Ignore,” I say, pushing the button under my skin.
The stars are lies. What else is?
Beep, beep-beep. “Eldest override,” my wi-com says cheerfully. “Com link: Eldest. ”
“Elder!” Eldest’s voice fills my ear, a low growl. “What happened? Why did you throw the Keeper Level into lockdown?”
“The stars are lies,” I say hollowly.
“What? What happened? Is something wrong?”
Everything’s wrong. “Nothing’s wrong,” I say.
“I’m going to release the lockdown. ” Eldest disconnects the link. A moment later, the floor rumbles and the hatch door opens. Eldest climbs up into the Keeper Level, slamming the hatch door behind him.
“What happened?” he demands.
I glance up at the biometric scanner by his door. “I scanned my access, and this—” I stop, indicating the two halves of the “window” still lowered.
“Why were you messing around with that?” Eldest roars. He strides across the room, and in his anger, he’s forgotten to be gentle with his leg. It was wounded before I was born and never truly healed, but his limp has grown worse with age. His feet make an uneven beat against the metal floor: stomp, step, stomp, step, stomp. He’ll be sore later, and he’ll blame me for that, too.
When Eldest reaches the biometric scanner, he rolls his thumb over the bar. The glass rises first, pulling the stars up along the ceiling, the hydraulic arms sighing in relief. Then the grinding metal screen tucks them away, hiding their false light.
“You’re loons! You put the Keeper Level into lockdown over this?” Eldest’s rage almost makes me cower. Almost.
“I thought they were real! I thought the ship was being exposed to space!”
“They’re just lightbulbs!”
“I didn’t frexing know that! I thought those stars were real! What are they even there for?”
“They’re not there for you!” Eldest bellows.
“Then who are they there for?” I shout back. “It’s just you and me on this level!”
Eldest sets his jaw. A lump rises in my throat, but I swallow it down. I won’t let Eldest think I’m nothing more than a little boy who throws a tantrum when he discovers the stars aren’t real.