Phoebe North: Starglass

“Dear children,” she said, leaning hungrily forward, “and honored citizens. Remember that today is not simply the day that your sons and daughters earn their vocations, taking the last step toward becoming full citizens in the eyes of our society. No, indeed today is the day we all see our last class of children begin to ascend to adulthood within the confines of our ship.” Captain Wolff pointed a knobby finger straight toward us. I was too close to the front for my liking. I squirmed, letting my hair veil my face.

“ You , children, represent the pinnacle of our journey. You are the reason our ancestors departed from Earth so many years ago. As we begin the next step of our voyage, your loyalty is of the utmost importance. It is the work you’ll do that will cement our meager colony’s future on our new home. You are the foundation of everything that will follow. Through each mitzvah you perform, the dutiful execution of your work assignments, and the fulfillment of your marriage contracts, each of you will bring us closer and closer to repairing humanity’s uncertain future.”

She was staring at us. Everyone was—an audience of steady, piercing gazes, and my father’s eyes among them, most piercing of all. I could practically feel the weight of his expectations bearing down on me from above.

“And now . . .” She paused, folding her hands in front of her. “It’s time to give you what you’ve been waiting for. Aleksandra, the scrolls?”

The woman beside her stepped forward, hefting the basket in her arms. I saw now that each scroll was made of white paper, the smooth kind that cost a fortune. Each was tied with a ribbon and sealed with a bubble of wax. Some of the ribbons were brown and green. Those would go to the laborers—fieldworkers, shepherds, granary assistants, carpenters. I saw scattered silver ribbons, for merchants, and a dozen curling blue ribbons for specialists, too. I leaned forward, searching for a flash of bright color. But I didn’t see any tied with the yellow bow of an artisan.

The woman came to stand by the captain’s side, holding the basket by its handles. Captain Wolff hesitated for a moment; then her lips parted into some semblance of a smile.

“You know,” she said to the audience, her cold eyes sparkling and sharp, “I was so proud on the day when my daughter received her own assignment as a guard member. I knew she would serve our ship well—always dutiful, always obedient. She works so that we may all achieve tikkun olam . As I’m sure your children will.”

There was an appreciative rumble of voices in the crowd. I glanced between Captain Wolff and Aleksandra. If it hadn’t been for the scar, I would have noted the family resemblance more readily. They had the same hawk nose, the same sharp features. The look was almost pretty on the younger woman. I wondered if Captain Wolff had been pretty once too, before the thresher did its work.

She looked only scary now—scarier as she reached in and lifted the first scroll. We all sucked in our breath as she read off the name that was sewn into the brown ribbon—

“Jamen Dowd. Granary worker.”

—and exhaled when we realized that we weren’t the one being summoned to the podium. We watched as Jamen marched forward, his hands balled at his hips. Once he’d been a soft, silly boy, but the years since his bar mitzvah had hardened him. When Captain Wolff stopped him before he could stamp off, a frown creased his wide mouth. Still, she took his hand and gave it a stout shake.

“Congratulations, Jamen,” she said.

Jamen lowered his unkempt eyebrows and stalked off.

Granary worker will fit him , I said to myself. Wouldn’t want him to have to talk to anybody. I scolded myself for the thought. Every assignment was important, no matter what my father always said. That’s what we’d learned in school.

But it was hard to be happy for Deklan Levitt, a rail-thin, weasel-faced boy who was told that he would be a plowman. Or happy for the families who would be assisted with deliveries down in the hatchery by Ada Wyeth, a notorious bully who always wore a vicious scowl.

But then Rachel’s name was called, and it was announced that she’d gotten the shop job she’d been hoping for. Her parents lifted their fists in the air, pumping them victoriously. My heart twisted in my chest. Sometimes it was hard to be friends with someone who always got whatever she wanted.

I tried to steady my smile as Captain Wolff moved on to the next name and Rachel slid into the line beside me.

“Koen Maxwell,” Captain Wolff said, holding a blue-ribboned scroll. Her inky eyes searched out a gangly chestnut-haired boy who was known for being good at math and not much else. She added, “Clock keeper.”

I bit the insides of my cheeks in surprise, keeping my smile tight. That was my father’s title. I’d no idea that he’d requested a talmid . Out in the audience Abba’s expression was flat, unreadable.

But even my father glanced up at what transpired next. Captain Wolff reached into the basket and pulled out a scroll tied with a purple ribbon.

“Silvan Rafferty,” she said, and then added, in a tickled tone, “captain.”

Rebbe Davison, who had spent most of the ceremony nodding his silent approval from a chair in front, dropped his jaw.

“You’re retiring?”

His words cut through the confused murmurs of the crowd. Captain Wolff glowered at our teacher. Her lips drew back a touch, showing teeth.

“This is Silvan’s moment,” she warned. And then she looked at her new talmid , taking in his tall, muscular figure and proud jaw. She reached forward, gripping his hand in one hand, touching his shoulder with the other.

“Congratulations, Silvan,” she said. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw tears dot her eyelashes. The boy just gave a small, bored nod. There was no gratitude in the gesture, as if he’d been expecting this all along. When he strolled over to where the rest of us stood, clutching the only purple-ribboned scroll in the whole basket in one proud fist, we all turned to stare. He was blushing faintly, red along the bridge of his nose and the tops of his ears, but that was the only indication he gave that he knew we were gawking at him.

Beside me, Rachel looked like she’d just swallowed glass.

“Silvan?” she whispered, and her hand groped out for mine. “Captain?”

I knew what she was imagining. It was a possibility grander than she’d ever considered: Rachel, the captain’s wife.

I began to picture it. Beautiful Rachel, her coarse curls pulled up, revealing her long, slender neck and the dark skin of her throat above a harvest-gold wedding dress. Silvan would wear his navy-blue uniform. Maybe they’d be married here, beneath the star-dotted sky, the way that the Council members’ children so often were.

My best friend, married to the captain. That would make her a Council member.

A lump began to rise in my throat. I could see it so clearly—the two of them kissing on their wedding day. Would I even be invited? Rachel might want me there, but I couldn’t be sure. Why would Silvan want the scrubby daughter of the clock keeper at his wedding? I was certain he didn’t remember that day in the dome. It had been so long ago and hadn’t meant anything, anyway. We were just kids. The thoughts swirled in my mind. I wasn’t listening to Captain Wolff’s long, droning list of names.

Rachel tugged at my hand.

“What?” I asked. My voice cut through silence. A few of my classmates tittered. When Rachel spoke, it was through laughter too.

“Terra! That’s you!”

“Oh!” I felt my cheeks grow hot. Everyone had turned to me, watching and waiting. I took clumsy steps toward the podium. I don’t even know what she said! I thought in a panic as I took the rolled paper in one hand and barely touched the captain’s fingers with the other. I noted the color of the bow. A blue thread. Blue. So much for art. A specialist position . . .