Page 103 of Across the Universe (Across the Universe 1)

I stare at the picture, but don’t remember him. He’s an older man, somewhere between Doc’s and Harley’s ages, with dark hair and eyes but that distinct oddness in his look shows how different he is from us—he’s not monoethnic, and he just looks . . . different. He’s sitting in front of a trailer, holding a fat baby in his lap. Certainly, he’s no one important, no one Eldest made me memorize facts about.

“It’s Ed. ”

“Who?”

“Ed. I met him just before I was frozen. He was actually one of the men who froze me and my parents. ”

That doesn’t seem like an important enough reason for his picture to be located beside Abraham Lincoln’s. I reach past Amy and touch the screen. The picture of this “Ed” stops; when I touch the screen again, the text about him pops up.

“Edmund Albert Davis, Junior,” I read aloud. “The first child born on Godspeed, shown here with his father, Edmund Albert Davis, Senior, one of the recruits from Sol-Earth on the departing flight. ”

“I knew him,” Amy says. Her head is cocked, and she’s gazing at the picture as if Edmund Albert Davis, Senior, were alive and she was talking to him. “I had no idea he signed up to leave Earth on Godspeed. ”

I am thinking about Edmund Albert Davis, Junior, and how he was the first person born to captivity here. I wonder how he felt about it, growing up with people who’d lived on Earth, knowing he’d never ever see that.

“I wish I had known,” Amy says. “I wish I had talked to him more. I wish I had asked him why he’d joined the crew. He seemed so bitter when we met. But maybe that was just . . . ” She trails off, staring at the screen without seeing it. Suddenly, she laughs. “Just think! I met this man centuries and centuries ago, and now I could meet his ancestors on this ship! Descendants of the man who froze me! How cool would that be?” She turns to me, her eyes widening. “What if you were a descendent of Ed? Talk about a coincidence!”

I laugh because she’s laughing.

“I wonder if you are,” she says, her gaze dancing between me and the image on the wall floppy.

“Are what?”

“A descendant of Ed?”

“I don’t know. ”

“Oh, please!” Amy snorts. “With all this technology, surely someone’s kept a genealogical chart. I bet Eldest or that doctor has one—they were the ones all concerned about incest. ”

“They keep all the records here. This is the Recorder Hall,” I say. She doesn’t notice my hollow tone. I know that even if we find Ed’s descendant, it won’t be me. My birth records are hidden. We can trace Ed’s whole lineage back to Sol-Earth, but I can’t even go one step back on my family tree.

“Oh, come on! Let’s see if you’re related to Ed!” She grabs my arm, and I haven’t seen her this caught up in excitement since . . . ever. The weight of worry she’s been carrying around is forgotten, if just for a moment. And I’ll do anything to keep it from coming back.

“It shouldn’t be too hard to trace,” I say. “With this being the first baby born on the ship, I’m sure they kept a record. ”

My fingers run across the hotspots on the screen, pressing in an info spot, then tapping in key words. Amy watches me, fascinated. I tap faster. My fingers get all tangled up, the screen beeps at me in anger, and I have to start the search engine over.

Finally: “Here it is!”

Amy’s head tilts back as she reads the top of the screen. “Ed Senior leads to Ed Junior . . . ” she mutters. Her eyes slowly sink down the screen before she looks up, puzzled. She looks as if she’s going to ask me a question, but then she looks back at the screen and starts to count under her breath. “One, two, three . . . ” She finally looks up at me, her brows creasing. “Thirteen generations. There are thirteen generations on this chart. From Ed Junior all the way down to Benita, here, there are thirteen generations of people recorded. ”

“So?”

Amy starts to pace from the model of Sol-Earth back to the screen. “How many generations can be born in a century? Maybe four or five? So thirteen generations would be around three centuries, right?”

I nod.

“But look at this. ” Amy points to the bottom of the screen.

And just under Benita’s name are the words, “Killed by Plague. ”

“When was the Plague?” Amy asks.

“A long time ago,” I say, slowly. I think of the statue of the Plague Eldest in the Hospital garden. It’s worn and weathered so much that the details of his face are gone.

“How long?” Her words are quick, urgent, and they are infecting me.

“Longer than Eldest. Longer than the Eldest before him. ”