Phoebe North - Starbreak

We walked through the old hallways—me and Ronen, Van and Nina and Koen, and Rebbe Davison at the front of the pack.  As a child I’d often fantasized about what our familiar school building would look like after it closed for the evening. But I’d never seen it. Now in the darkness the hallways seemed longer than I remembered—and yet the ceiling seemed to have dropped down low over my head. If I reached up, I could touch the lights, flickering in their fixtures. Had I really grown that much in the last year? Or had this world gotten smaller as the universe outside stretched out and out beyond the dome, encompassing the wilds of Zehava, Raza Ait, Xarki. Now I had Aur Evez, an entire planet—and it seemed so much more real than the graffitied cubbyholes that watched our arrival like rows upon rows of eyes.

We passed through the swinging doors and into the old auditorium, but I hesitated at the sight of all who had gathered there. Our meetings in the library had been small, just twenty or thirty bodies—a tiny cell of a larger movement. Now my gaze swept over the hundreds of people gathered underneath the high rafters. Had the Children of Abel always been such an army? Or had everyone become a rebel—like my brother now was—in the days since the Council fell?

Some of the people stood up at our arrival, touching their fingers to their chests. I looked to my old teacher; he walked with his head held high, commanding the room in a way that I’d never seen before. Even when we were young and naughty, he’d only ever chuckled and given his head a shake. Now he gritted his teeth. Without Aleksandra at his side, I suppose he had to be a stone pillar—resolute.

In the front row sat a boy and a girl whose dark curls neatly matched Rebbe Davison’s. Beside them was an olive-skinned woman who eyes swelled with pride at the sight of him. His family. It must have been. I’d never even thought about them before—my focus had been so narrowed upon our journey across the planet, and then conditions on the ship. But he had an entire life beyond that, one that he’d nearly sacrificed to follow me to Zehava.

He walked to the podium near the front of the room. The crowd quieted as he stepped forward, their murmurs turning to whispers and then nothing more than a few awkward coughs. His children sat forward in their seats, gazing expectantly at their father. He faced them sternly, gripping the podium with either hand. I wondered how he did it. Looking out at all those faces, all those starving, expectant eyes, I found myself almost dizzy. I sought out a shadow of any familiar face—Ettie and her grandmother, Jachin, Mara, old friends from school. But unlike Rebbe Davison, I found no family in the crowd. I’d never had many friends beside Rachel, and the features of every rebel seemed to run into the next. Rebbe Davison lifted his broad fingers up, then touched two to his heart.

“Liberty on Earth,” he said.

A whole auditorium of voices came echoing back: “Liberty on Zehava.”

“I’m not one for speeches,” he began, his eye holding in a wink. “I could deliver a lecture on the history of rebellion on this ship, but it would likely fail to stir your passions. You all know the truth: the situation here is untenable. Every day that passes is one where we lose more citizens to the Council’s rule, where we’re more at the mercy of the ship and her crumbling machinery.”

The lights dimmed, then flashed up to full brightness. There was a dismayed murmur from the crowd.

Rebbe Davison went on: “But I’m not here to tell you what you already know. I’m here to offer assurances: we are working with the Zehavan natives to negotiate an accord. There’s no need to run back to the Council, or flee for Earth. Though we’ve lost many friends in the days that have passed—though we have even lost our own leader, may she rest in peace—we will see our promised future come to fruition. Isn’t that right, Terra?”

He looked at me. They all did, hundreds of pairs of expectant eyes. And then it only got worse; Rebbe Davison stepped to the side, one hand held out, offering me the podium. The people shifted in their seats expectantly, coughing, murmuring.

But I didn’t budge. Couldn’t. The fear was thick in my throat.

I’d never been one for a crowd. Oy, I didn’t even like talking to people under the best of circumstances. Rebbe Davison knew that. He had to—all those years when I’d muttered my school reports, palming the back of my neck and squirming. Or those years that came later, when I drew trees when I should have been jotting down history notes, just to avoid looking him in the eye. I knew that didn’t matter, not anymore, knew I needed to step up to the podium, be a woman, be a leader. But I couldn’t. Didn’t.

What’s wrong? came Vadix’s gentle voice. He must have felt it, from all the way up here—how my pulse sped and my mouth suddenly went as dry as sand.

I’m scared, was all I managed to say. I could feel him assessing the situation, pausing where he stood in his kitchen to join me in our old rickety auditorium. But before he could respond, Rebbe Davison leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Are you all right, Terra? They’re waiting to hear from you.”

I glanced at the gathered Asherati. To my surprise I found Mara Stone near the front, sitting forward in her seat. Her pruney mouth was pursed; she was disapproving.

“Rebbe Davison,” I began, “I—”

His big, calloused hand cut through the air. “No more of that, Terra. You’ll call me Mordecai from now on.”

“Mordecai.”

And just like that, he was no longer my teacher but my equal. A rebel, a father, a husband, and a young man, too. Or maybe it wasn’t that he was young. Maybe I was old now. Not a child, and no longer a strange, sad girl stuck somewhere in between. I was an adult, and it was time I acted like one.

“Mordecai,” I said again. Then I gave a shaky nod and stepped up to the podium.

So many eyes. And restless mouths, barely able to hold in their whispers. I drew in a steadying breath and glanced at Mara again. She’d sat back in her seat, and now she waited expectantly for me to say something, anything. To offer her even a sliver of hope.

I didn’t know how to talk to the rest of them, but I knew how to talk to Mara. What was the worst she could do, tease me? I cleared my throat and began.

“I’ve found an ally among the Zehavan people. His name is Vadix, and he’s well connected within the Grand Senate of Aur Evez.” Some of their mouths turned down at that. I winced—they didn’t know what I was talking about, not at all. But it wouldn’t do any good to hesitate. All the leaders I’d known—Captain Wolff and her daughter, Van Hofstadter and even Mordecai—were smooth, fearless in the face of a crowd. Even if I didn’t feel fearless, I needed to act like I was. “He’s down there right now petitioning their senate to open up negotiations once again.”

“Why should we be at the mercy of these aliens?” an old woman shouted, struggling to her feet. Several biddies around her grumbled their agreement.

“No one will be at anyone’s mercy,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even. “We’ll work together as partners to find an accord that meets all of our needs.”

“How do we know we can trust them?”

This came from my brother, standing calmly on the sidelines. I wondered what Hannah had told him of my new love—if he found it as unbelievable as she did.

But that didn’t matter. There were myriad reasons to trust the Xollu, and Vadix was only one of them. “Their society is built on consensus—a partnership between two disparate races. And yet they’ve lived in peace for thousands of years. No war. No violence. Their biggest problem is that they’ve been so successful at it that their cities have grown overcrowded—”