Phoebe North - Starbreak

As I pulled myself from his bed, the cool morning air met my naked body. I tugged free the sheet, draping it over my shoulders. The fabric was soft, more luxurious than any I’d ever known on the ship. The smooth weave reminded me of his skin. I gazed wistfully at him, curled into a ball at the center of the mattress, his long body surprisingly small in the nest of blankets. Because I was awake, his dreams were long and black. Peaceful. So I let him sleep.

The night before, we’d hurried toward the bed in a fevered rush. I hadn’t had time to explore his home. Now I went from room to room feeling like an interloper in the small, private life he’d made. His accommodations were sparse. There was no art on the walls; the floors were bare, either white stone or white sand that had been packed flat and then smoothed down. But in truth the house needed no decoration. The light of the dawn poured through the decorative glass, dappling everything red and blue and green. Each room was curved—sloping walls, rounded counters, bubbled ceilings that showed daylight and trees and the city’s veil far beyond. I found what appeared to be a bathroom, a narrow slip of space at the center of the home covered in dark mosaic tiles. There was a waist-high bench with a narrow hole in the top that seemed untouched. Some sort of toilet or waste receptacle, I supposed. Meant for the original inhabitants, not a Xollu who subsisted on “sunbeams and vapors.” But I wasn’t like them; I hopped onto it, did my business.

Then I wandered out and toward the kitchen. It was a bright space, even in this early hour, with a glass ceiling overhead and a counter that shone with opalescent tile. But the plants that sat all around—in hanging baskets from the ceiling, in long planters along the floor—raised few complaints. They only turned over their leaves, exposing themselves to the sun. There was no icebox, no stove. But there was a shower stall in the corner, behind a door of frosted glass. I opened it, considering. A long spigot hung down with a green copper chain beside it. It had been days since I’d washed. Too many. I dropped the sheet down at the center of the floor and stepped inside, pulling the frosted glass door closed behind me.

I gave the chain a tentative pull. On the ship, pipes rattled and clanged, so caked with generations of lime that the pressure was never more than a splutter. But here the water was instant, the force strong. It didn’t taste mossy or stale like the ship’s water. In fact, it tasted like nothing at all as it rained down my face in rivers. I watched the dirt roll off me in sludgy streams and tried to count how long it had been since I’d last bathed. Five days, or six? I remembered scrubbing my skin with a honey wash on my wedding night, but it felt like a lifetime ago already, not the better portion of a single week.

As I scrubbed my hair, the scent of fire that had been trapped in my unwashed tresses blossomed, and then faded. When the water at long last washed clear, I stepped from the shower stall. Through the cloud of steam I ambled—until my hand bumped the counter, and found a pile of fresh cloth folded there. It was a bolt of silver fabric—one of Vadix’s robes, and a pair of matching trousers, too. I put them on. They were too big, billowing around my curves. But they were comfortable and clean, a world apart from the dirty cotton I’d left littering his bedroom floor.

You are awake.

Vadix’s voice in my mind startled me. I turned, glimpsing him in the doorway. He’d pulled on those loose green pants again. But as he strolled into the kitchen, I found myself frowning. Perhaps it was just the light—sparkling, gold and strong—but the skin over his flat belly looked different. It was darker now than it had been, nearly the color of the inside of a pomegranate. I watched him closely as he went to one of the two counter spigots and filled up a round glass bowl. No, it wasn’t the light. His arms and face were still the same mellow blue, but his belly and chest were now dark, an almost ruby red.

“What happened?” I asked. When he only stared back, I pointed at his midsection. He glanced down. His lips parted. He clicked laughter too.

“You happened,” he said. “I am no longer fallow.”

“Oh!” I replied. I felt my cheeks burn, suddenly furiously hot. He put down his cup and came to stand beside me.

“What’s this?” he asked, angling my face up to his. “Are you fertile now too?”

It was all so ridiculous. This conversation, this morning. I wrinkled my nose at him.

“No, no,” I said, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m only blushing. Thank you for the clothes.”

I pulled away, doing a quick spin across his kitchen floor. Silver fabric rippled after me. He watched, smiling.

“You look less like an animal than before.”

“Is that meant to be a compliment?”

“It’s meant to be—”

A high-pitched chirrup interrupted Vadix’s words. He tilted his head to the side, glimpsing a panel set into the far wall that had just gone light.

“Excusing me,” he said, holding up one long finger. As he strolled across the floor, I leaned my weight against the countertop. His hands made quick work across the screen. Meanwhile I picked up his bowl. It didn’t look like ordinary water. The bottom was slicked with oil, shining greasy golden.

“Taot?” he demanded. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the face of an Ahadizhi woman. She let out a loose stream of words.

“Zeza dhosoou zozax aum dhesedi deosoaz. Zhieserak dosoe! Dosoe terix zhieserak, zozax thosouu—”

“Arum azax aum dasa dhosoou rausiz zeza?”

As they spoke, their voices hit strange, passionate heights. I leaned against the counter, peering past Vadix’s naked shoulders and toward the screen. A pair of Xollu could be seen in the background, stern-eyed and serious. I wondered what had happened that had so offended them. Maybe it was because of me and my flight through the city after Vadix. In my rashness I could have spread disease or discord through Raza Ait. We were meant to stay safe and secure in our quarantine camp, instead of rushing out to mingle with the city’s inhabitants. I swallowed hard, gazing down into the bowl. My throat was suddenly dry, tight. I pointed one pinkie finger and dipped it into the bowl, then plunged it into my mouth. Whatever it was that Vadix had been drinking, it was terribly sour, with a sweetness that I couldn’t taste until after I swallowed.

“Terra!”

Before I knew it, the screen was off and Vadix stood beside me again. Stern-eyed, he plucked the bowl from out my hands and placed it on the counter.

“How do you know this sweetwater will not poison you?” he asked. He sounded angry—honest to goodness angry. I gave my shoulders a shrug.

“I don’t know. I thought—”

Vadix closed his eyes, pressing long fingers to his forehead. I saw him standing there, his reddened belly stormy, his expression pinched.

“Something’s wrong,” I said, watching as his earslits fluttered. That old fear, familiar from my years of living with Abba, was back again. I’d done something terrible, and now the hammer would fall. He was going to yell at me, call me names—but he didn’t. He only dropped his hand and let his head hang down.

“The Ahadizhi have called for humanity’s expulsion from Zehava.”

“What?” I demanded. I couldn’t return to that dank, dark ship, live out my days with no hope ahead. I needed to be here. With him. My stomach clenched with fear. “Is it my fault? My outburst in the senate antechamber. I didn’t mean to harm negotiations. I thought—”

He took my shaking hands in his long, smooth hands. I felt his mind nudge mine, cool and calm.

No, he said, speaking the words without speaking. It is not your fault. I promise.