“You’ll steer the ship?” I ask, awed. I imagine Eldest as the brave commander, almost like the captain of one of those ancient Sol-Earth ships that sailed across water, not the uni. Then I imagine me taking the wheel.
Eldest laughs. “Me? No. That’s ridiculous. Elders are not trained to run ships; the Eldest’s job is not to command the ship. An Eldest’s job is to command the people. These Shippers”—he gestures at the blinking dots—“all receive training in specific roles of operating the ship in the event of an emergency.” He glances up. His eyes are milky with age, but he can still see right through me. “You understand, don’t you? The Shippers run the ship — not us.”
The image of everyone cheering me as I sail the ship to Centauri-Earth fades and dies.
“The Shippers are here to take care of the ship, but the ship is just cold metal. You’re the one who has to take care of the people.”
He taps the zoom-out box, and for a moment, the three levels of the ship all light up at once, a dizzying maze of crisscrossing lines. The interior of the ship itself is mostly round. A tiny sliver on top is the Keeper Level. Below that, slightly larger, is the Shipper Level, all chopped up into offices and labs. By and far the largest part of the ship is the Feeder Level. There are two blinking dots for me and Eldest on the Keeper Level, fifty or more on the Shipper Level. Eldest taps on the Feeder Level. On the right side of the circle there are several dozen dots for the people at the Hospital, but none at all in the Recorder Hall. In the middle, dozens of dots are scattered around, each one representing the people living at the various farms. Eldest taps the left side of the screen, where the City is. There are so many dots there that it would be impossible for me to count. Not that I need to. I know everyone on board the ship, all 2,312 of them.
Each one of those 2,312 blinking red dots feels like a pounding weight on my shoulders, each one crushing me down just a little bit more. They’re all, each one of them, my responsibility.