by Phoebe North
I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, he said. About life beyond the one you’ve always known. It was unusual, hearing those words in someone else’s mind.
Pepper came snuffling along my bedsheets. I reached out to him, pulling his soft body against mine. And held him close.
What do you mean?
I used to say the same thing. All the time. To Velsa. Vausi xodsak zhieselakh, xedsi zhieserak. “We must hope for a tomorrow better than the one that we know now.”
My cat purred, kneading his claws into the blanket. I buried my face in his fur. She had doubts about your plan? But I thought it was something that you dreamed together.
It was. He paused, leaning his shoulders back against the tiled wall. I could feel the cool bite against his skin. Eventually. I—I think sometimes I may have talked her into it. I said it was all for her, to build her a city big and beautiful and new, a place where our seedlings could spread long after our lives were over.
But?
But sometimes I fear I lied to myself. Lied to her. Perhaps it wasn’t about Velsa at all. Perhaps it was about me. My boredom here in Raza Ait. My line has roots here that stretch down deep, thousands of years walking these same streets, paired and safe. My ancestors stopped dreaming about the lands beyond the walls of the twelve cities generations ago. But from the moment I sprouted, I imagined new cities, sprawling in directions I cannot predict. A cupola new and shining, not cobwebbed by ancient cracks. I picture new Guardians, humming new tunes to themselves—tunes I haven’t yet translated but that my very soul understands.
I thought of the craggy, wild shape of the continents I’d once sketched in the margins of my notebook. I thought of my own desperation to leave this ship, this dome, this life that had been planned for me, where nothing was ever new or fresh or surprising. I thought of my father, all those times he told me to be dutiful, to be good, while inside, my temper burbled and roared. It wasn’t just that I’d been angry. It was that I knew there was more for me—somewhere, somehow. But so long as I was imprisoned by these walls, this glass, then I’d be nothing more than a shadow of an ordinary girl.
I used to think my only hope for a new and different life was one far from the land where I was sprouted, Vadix went on. But now I realize: you are new. You disrupt the balance of our city, yes. But you will transform the path ahead with your very presence. Once, I would have had no future ahead. I would have been a lousk, a walking specter. Dead already, if not in flesh then in spirit. Now . . .
Now?
Now I might have a future, too.
I bit my lip, holding the smile in. I wanted to ask him if this meant he was staying—staying with me, staying alive. But before I could respond, the door angled open. A clear bolt of light was cast down over my face, jagged and bright. I shielded my eyes with my wrist.
“Terra,” came my brother’s voice, low and urgent. “There’s someone here to see you.”
“Rebbe Davison?” I asked, sitting up straight. It must have been nearly nineteen o’clock. “I didn’t hear the bells.”
“Probably because the clock keeper is waiting with him. Van Hofstadter, too. Where are you going, Terra?”
I gazed at him. My eyes had adjusted by then. I could see him press the edge of his cheek against the doorjamb. He looked nervous—hesitant. But I couldn’t shield him from the Children of Abel. Not anymore.
“There’s a meeting. We’re gathering to discuss our plans for facing the Council.”
My brother watched as I stuffed my feet down into my boots and laced them. But he was silent.
“What is it, Ronen?” I asked, pulling the laces into bows.
“I’d like to come with you.”
I only let out a soft laugh at that, groping through the dim light for my old winter coat. My brother—Council husband, the contract-abiding man that my father always wished he himself could have been. But he cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders in the yellow hallway light.
“I mean it.”
I flashed up my gaze. Ronen’s eyes were hazel, just like my eyes. But when I gazed in the mirror, I saw that my own stare had hardened—gone flinty and sharp. My brother’s had a softness, a sadness. He might have been the older one, but I worried about him.
“You shouldn’t. It’s dangerous. If something happens to you, what will happen to Hannah and Alya?”
His lips parted. He glanced down the hall. But then he gave his head a shake, setting his jaw determinedly.
“I talked to Hannah. We’ve both agreed. We’ve changed our minds. There’s no use in hiding like her parents. What good is safety without freedom? A voice? The Council doesn’t care what we have to say. Silvan Rafferty won’t listen.” He paused, taking the time to cross his arms over his chest. “But you will, Terra. I know you will.”
I sighed as I buttoned up my coat. “Fine,” I said at last. As I walked down the stairs toward the galley, I spoke over my shoulder at him. “But you know that Abba’s gotta be turning in his grave right now.”
Ronen clomped down the stairs after me, laughing a little with every step.
“Good,” he said. “Let him.”
• • •
The old oak doors of the ship’s school were unpolished, and yet they shone in the evening light from the thousands of hands that had touched them on the way to class each day. Back then we’d been proud of our place here—buzzing from classroom to classroom like worker bees, happy to pollinate the world with the Council’s lies. Now we flocked to the school under the cover of uneasy night. Though the planet was radiant in the glass overhead, sparkling with the electricity of the twelve cities that sprawled out across the northern continent, our steps were heavy, fearful. Tonight, here, in the place where we’d all been inculcated into life on our ship, we would finally decide how to leave it behind.
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—”
“Well, then they’re not going to have room for us, are they?” a young man demanded. They were all talking now, one voice bubbling over another like water in a stove pot. But Mara Stone only watched me. Finally she gave her head a slow shake. I was losing them, losing it all. If I wanted them to listen, I’d have to be more convincing than this. As I’d seen Mordecai do, I gripped the podium with both hands—as much to stop my hands from shaking as anything else. I drew in a breath, opened my mouth to speak—
And the whole auditorium went pitch black.
How long was it before anyone spoke? It felt like a lifetime during which the only thing I could hear was my pulse in my ears and the shallow, wheezy effort of my lungs. But it couldn’t have been more than ten seconds, maybe twenty. At last someone cried out—a child, maybe Ettie? I couldn’t see my nose in front of me, much less the people who now jostled and cried in the auditorium seats.
“Everybody stay calm!” Mordecai bellowed. Then I felt the pressure of his hand between my shoulder blades. But it didn’t do a thing to calm my fear—or the fears of the crowd. Their voices roared up, louder and louder in the face of the darkness.
What’s wrong? Are you all right?
My words stormed back, furious as a blizzard. This is wrong, it’s all wrong! I can’t just wait for the ship to fall apart while we stand around and make speeches.
Vadix hesitated, unsure of how to respond. But I wasn’t. I shrugged away Mordecai’s hand, turning to him in the darkness.
“I need to go talk to Silvan,” I growled.
It was as if my voice had some magical effect on the wall sconces—on Silvan’s hand, poised over the controls in the command center. The lights woke to life, greeted by a smattering of applause. My feeble eyes fell on Mara Stone. She shook her head again, rose to her feet, and then rushed out of the double doors at the back of the room.
“Citizens!” called Mordecai, but he was hardly able to fan back their grumbling now. “Citizens! That will be all for tonight! Go, be with your families. We’ll call on you—”
But most of them had already risen to their feet, yammering to one another as they flooded toward the auditorium door.
Mordecai turned to me, the frown deep on his forehead. “The people need to be reassured, Terra.”
I still faced out toward the auditorium, watching as the crowd funneled through the double doors. Both of my hands still gripped the podium. But it couldn’t shield me from what came next. Facing Silvan Rafferty, facing my guilt.
“I’m no Captain Wolff,” I said, speaking through gritted teeth. “I need to take action—to speak to Silvan
and see that we’re secure on this ship. I don’t need to waste my time making speeches.”
“You’ll have to face your fears eventually. The people need a strong leader. Someone who can offer comfort. Inspiration.”
I swiveled to face my old teacher. His expression was a strange one, a muddle of regret and fear. Not fear for himself, I think—but for what came next. A future that was strange, new. A future led by someone too weak to manage. But he had chosen me, and I was doing my best. I lifted my chin.
“Is this why you chose me, so you could tell me what to do? I’m not Aleksandra either, Mordecai. I’m no figurehead. If you’re going to follow me,” I said, “then you need to listen to me too.”
Mordecai drew in a breath, then let it out. At last he squared his stubble-scattered jaw.
“Very well, Giveret Fineberg,” he said. I stood straighter at the name. Even Mordecai knew I’d changed. I was an adult now, not the frightened girl I’d once been. “What do you propose we do?”
By then we were alone—or nearly. Ronen had hung back by the stage, looking as if he wished he were anywhere but here, trapped between our tempers.
“I propose that I go speak to Silvan immediately,” I said. Then, when Mordecai turned toward the door, I put a hand on his shoulder. “I propose that you and Ronen escort me to the lift. I still need your help, Teacher. Just not for this.”
I indicated the abandoned auditorium with a flash of my hand. Mordecai looked out too, sighing.
“If you’re going to lead,” he said, “you’ll have to learn to face a crowd someday.”
Overhead the lights flickered. I bit my lip, gave a nod. He was right. I’d have to confront my fears eventually, if I was going to be a leader, if I was going to learn to stand up for my people.
But not today—not yet. I had bigger fish to fry first.
“Silvan’s waiting,” I said as I started toward the auditorium doors.