Phoebe North: Starbreak

Reaching out, he interlaced his fingers in mine. His hand was cool against my hand. His body’s scent was fresh and fragrant on the winter air. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone.

“Besides, the senate asked me to join them with my zeze by my side. We are to be the first representatives for our new city. Over these weeks, I tried to convince myself this duty was one I could shirk. But I could not. In the end I realized this truth: there is no better way to keep you safe, Terra, than to serve at your side.”

I felt my heart beat in my mouth. I wanted him to taste it, to feel what I felt—my blood, coursing through my body; every corner of my mind illuminated. Our fingers were still intertwined. I drew him close, pressing his body to my body.

“Not safe,” I whispered, angling my face up to his. He brushed my hair back off my forehead, caressing the side of my face. “I never needed you to keep me safe. But strong. You make me feel strong. And strong might be enough.”

We kissed. Of course we did. Not a long kiss—just lips meeting lips for a few precious seconds. But we had a lifetime ahead of us for kissing. A world. A city of our very own. A future.

You know what happened after that. You were there, of course, through the grueling weeks of training, when I woke each day with muscles so stiff, I thought they might have been caked with rust. But we needed to work hard to prepare for the southern winter, when we would be alone for the first time in the face of the beasts and the cold. So we hunted, all of us, even the children, as the Xollu who would join us gathered supplies to break new ground. By the time we set sail for the south, we were both new creatures: me, as well-muscled as a field-worker; and you, your flesh as dark as blood. Fertile. No longer even a shadow of the lousk you once were.

By then it was truly winter in Raza Ait. Each night I felt desire rack your body. Not for me but for your long winter’s sleep. I felt how the cold seared your flesh, made it ache. But you were brave. You fought it off. It wasn’t until we reached the south, cool summer in full swing, that I saw you restored to life, energy. Which made me glad; we had so much work to do.

That first season we sowed the fields full of Mara’s wheat, and built a wall around them. A cupola, too, and the first enclave of houses. Nautilus houses, their white walls stuck full of shards of glass. A sentimental choice, maybe. But we’re a sentimental people.

Like the name of our city. Zarakk Ait. The golden city. We’ve taken the dreams of our ancestors for a just-right home and found them here, on this stormy peninsula, thick with forests and full of beasts.

Of course, no one calls the planet “Zehava” anymore. We’ve adopted the local word for it. Aur Evez. Hannah once told me that it meant “the crowded land.” It wasn’t until weeks after landing that you told me that there are other translations for the phrase. Pronounce it a little differently, the words mean “promised home.” How could we resist that?

But you know all of that. So I suppose I should tell you what you’ve missed since winter set in and you went into the caves to sleep. Those Ahadizhi that you contacted this fall? They’ve joined us, Vadix! Not all of them. Only twenty-five young sprouts, intent on rejecting the lives of their parents. Rising up. Rebelling. As new generations do. They want to see how city dwelling suits them. So we’ve made room, gladly. They serve by our side during the hunt, help us make art and dance and music. The dream you once shared with Velsa has made our lives so much brighter. I can’t wait until you wake up to see it, until I can thank you for what you’ve done.

Otherwise life is good. Busy. On some days I help Mara in her lab. On others I hunt or paint. On still others I take command. It’s a different sort of life from the one my mother lived, working one job day after day after day until her hands were stiff, arthritic. I fear it’s not what she dreamed for me when she spoke to Ben Jacobi about “liberty.” I imagine she wanted a life of leisure. But my life is a good life. My days pass quickly and are full of new joys.

Why, just two weeks ago, in the dead of winter, a boat arrived from Aisak Ait. In it was a young Xollu, half dead from the cold. A child, blue-skinned and alone. A lousk. I knew on sight who he must be, and I sent a messenger to fetch Esther from her grandmother’s house. She came at once, her hair a dark net around her face, and immediately threw her arms over his shoulders.

“Help me!” she cried out. “Help me bring him to the winter caves!”

And so we did, all of us carrying his cold-heavy body, loosing the roots that tried to plant themselves in the frozen dirt as we dragged him along. I see her sometimes when I come to visit you. She sits by his side and speaks to him, just like I speak to you. Telling him her story, her dreams. She’s only a child—just turned eleven last week. She doesn’t even know his name. But she tells him that she loves him, that he’s her best friend. I don’t doubt it. Not for a second.

He’s not the only new arrival. Koen has made a child for himself in the hatchery, a brother for Corban. He told me he plans on naming him Arran after my father. I told him he could do better—a misstep. My old friend so wanted me to be pleased by this news. But maybe this new Arran will have a better chance at this life. He’ll start it with a loving family, after all. Two fathers and a mother to teach him the meaning of hard work, affection, kindness. That’s twice the family that my father ever had. Ronen and Hannah are also expecting. A son, Solomon. And Alyana will be walking before we know it. This spring will be a fruitful one, I hope, full of new joys.

As for me, I don’t know if I’ll ever have children of my own. I’m only seventeen, and lately I feel younger than I ever have. I laugh more easily than I ever did before. I joke and swagger. I even sing sometimes. I’m not the same girl I once was, strange and serious, old before my time. I have time, I think, to be young yet.

But I know that you’ll grow old before me. I remember the night you told me, just before the winter’s frost set in. A Xollu lives until only sixty or so, you said, and you’re older than me already. Sure, it made me sad to think of it. Someday I’ll be an old woman, my hair streaked silver, and you’ll be gone. What then?

Well, I think I know. We’ll never be able to have biological children, you and I. Our bodies are too different for that. But I know that Velsa still waits for you in the funerary fields of Raza Ait. Someday, when my eyes are feeble, when my hands are knotted from years of work, I’ll take your lifeless body to the city where you were sprouted. Your skin will be as red as a pomegranate, as red as wine, as red as human blood. I’ll scatter your body, and then I’ll wait.

A season later, when your children are born, I’ll tell them about you. I’ll tell them of all the things we sacrificed for each other: you, your first love; me, an entire ship, my best friend, the life among the stars that I once knew. Then I’ll tell them about all the things that we accomplished. The city we built. The peace we brokered. I’ll tell them of my pride for you, Thosora Vadix Esh, the father they’ll never know.

Then I’ll kiss them, take their three-fingered hands in my hand, and carry them home, across the sea.

It takes a village to launch a spaceship. Infinite gratitude and thanks to the following individuals: