Phoebe North: Starbreak

“But it will not be a life of unrestrained liberty,” I said. “We must work with the native inhabitants to be certain that all of our safety is assured. We will defend them over the long winter, when the city-builders hibernate in underground caves. We must be loyal, be true, and be committed to peace. I ask all of you willing to make these sacrifices to follow me into the open air and wild lands of Aur Evez!”

There were murmurs. Grumbles. Puzzled sounds from the crowd. I watched as the Asherati turned to their neighbors, full of questions and confusion. That’s when Silvan Rafferty lifted up his hands. The conversation ebbed back, just like that. In some ways Silvan was right. He had been born to lead.

“I know that some of you are unwilling to make these concessions,” he said, then loosed dry, self-assured laughter. “As I certainly am. If you would like to continue living in the manner to which you’ve grown accustomed, then stay with me here on our ship, in the safe belly of our mother Asherah . God willing, in five hundred years our descendants will live to set foot on Earth. Our planet! We will stop this wandering and return to our home. It will be a long journey, but I have faith in the mettle of our people. Come with me and claim the land that is our birthright.”

More conversation. I heard the first spark of disagreement flicker, white hot, over the crowd. Some wanted to join me. Others—their friends, standing right by their sides—wanted to follow Silvan. I glanced at him and then, aping his gesture, lifted both hands up. I hoped that their trembling didn’t show.

“This is a choice that every Asherati must make for him- or herself, one that will determine the shape of our future for generations to come. We know that you have much to talk about and a hard decision to make. The Asherah will leave Zehava’s orbit in two weeks’ time. Until then, go in health.”

A few stray voices called back to me in turn. I pressed my lips appreciatively together.

“You really are becoming a leader,” Silvan said, turning to me, grinning.

I shrugged.

“Someone has to,” was all I said.

It’s done.

That night I sat on the front stoop of my brother’s home, watching as the Council-loyal stragglers made their way back to the districts from the safety of the ship’s bow, carting their belongings behind them. Soon they’d be able to get to work, righting the chaos of the past few weeks. They’d repair windows, patch up crumbled brick, put their lives back together. Their lives wouldn’t be quite as seamless as they once were—we’d all been changed by our sojourn in Zehava’s orbit—but their lives would be safe. Familiar. I watched them exchange hopeful smiles. They were so lucky to be together for this, with their families, their children, their spouses. They were lucky not to have to face the future alone.

It took a long, long time for Vadix to answer me. He was there. I knew he was, floating just beyond the reach of my mind. But he’d drawn away from me in the time since our departure from the planet. Except in sleep, when our bodies moved in concert, oblivious to the dark days ahead, I was alone now. Once again a solitary person.

I know, he said at last. I saw. You did well.

Thank you.

I smoothed the thin robe down over my knees. The day was chilly, but soon it wouldn’t be. Silvan said that the Council had plans to turn the ship back to four seasons. Better for planting. Better to prepare the people for Earth. The Council-loyal citizens would get the summers that we never had.

Will you miss it? he asked.

I sat straight, surprised at the curious tone of his voice in my mind. Lately he didn’t allow himself the luxury of conversation, of my companionship. He was shutting down, preparing for the end.

Miss what?

The ship.

I gazed at the cobblestone and the streetlamps, at the cats who dozed on their front stoops, at the ancient curtains that hung, faded, in the window. I wanted to lie to him, to tell him that it all meant nothing to me and that I’d be glad to never see it again. But I couldn’t.

For sixteen years she’s all I’ve ever known. This is where I lost Momma, and Abba, too. This is where I had my first kiss and where I met my best friend. Of course I’ll miss it, Vadix. I licked my chapped lips. But that doesn’t mean I’m not excited about Zeddak Alaz. This is where it all started, but I have my whole life ahead of me. Years and years and years. Why do you ask?

Silence stretched on between us. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was somewhere dark, shadowed. At last he turned, facing a feeble light.

No reason, he said.

I think the weeks that followed went quickly for the rest of them. Those were busy days. The Asherati divided the spoils of our journey, portioning out our supplies and technology between the new colony and those who would remain on the ship. It was hard work—emotional, too. I watched as Hannah and her parents squabbled over a few pots inherited from some long-dead ancestor. As they argued, the pain was clearly etched in my sister-in-law’s face. I think she’d never anticipated leaving them, and so she tried to hold on to every single object she could. As if a vase or a rug could fill in the space left by a whole, vital person .

“I think,” I heard her tell Ronen one night, her voice drifting toward me down the hall, “I’ll never shake the feeling that I’ve forgotten something.”

My brother’s answer came after a pause. I could have hugged him for it. “They’re just things , Hannah. What really matters is that we’re together.”

We began to send shipments planetside, necessities and books and hatchery equipment, medical supplies and genetic samples of crops and animals. Most of the wildlife would stay on the ship; our first year would be one of famine, but only in preparation for the decades ahead. Soon we’d wake animals that hadn’t been seen in generations—pollinators and herdbeasts and predators. Horses to ride and birds to fill the skies with song. And plants, too. Mara Stone was beside herself. Though our colony would be small, slightly more than seven kilometers squared, she said that it was plenty of acreage to sow Triticum mara , Mara’s wheat.

We were visited by senators and researchers from the surface, Xollu and Ahadizhi both. New translators, a clumsy-tongued young Xollu pair who spoke in garbled Asheran, accompanied them. They came to view our half-dissembled labs to gauge our progress—and to examine Ettie. Her mate still hadn’t been located in any of the twelve cities. As I sat there in her bubbe ’s galley, the senators questioning the girl, I found myself filled with apprehension. What if they told her that it was all a dream, a child’s delusion, impossible? But they didn’t. One of the Xollu scientists said something; the female translator inclined her head.

“Tatoum,” she said. “There have been changes to our aita in the days since departure yours. Unpaired lousk surface from the funerary field. Xollu who once must die. Surely Ettie- zeze is among these spirits.”

I couldn’t contain my excitement. Sitting forward in my seat, I let my mind stretch down to the surface.

Vadix! Did you hear? Unpaired children! What if there are more like us? What if we’re not alone?

But I’d forgotten. We were no longer an “us.”  To him our existence wasn’t a joy. Now, in the living days before his death, it was a source of pain.

Yes, I heard, was all he said.

That was why those days stretched on for me, one after another, interminable. He was there somewhere on the planet above. But I didn’t know for how long. Most days he shielded himself from me entirely. I couldn’t blame him. Some day soon—too soon—he’d depart for the funerary fields beneath Raza Ait. Every night I’d tuck myself into the guest bed in my brother’s room and stare up at the ceiling, terrified that he wouldn’t join me in the dreamforests. I was afraid he’d be gone and I’d be left to ordinary dreams. When I found him there, relief filled my limbs, my gut, my heart. We didn’t speak. Our bodies did the speaking for us. The joy of his flesh was singular, except for the joy in mine that matched it.