Starglass (15 page)

“All right,” he said at last, letting out a gruff, short laugh. “Best get to work. Wouldn’t want you to invoke Stone’s wrath.”

•  •  •

But things had gone better with Mara since the day Alyana was born. She let me stay in the lab now, so long as I didn’t ask too many questions. For the past few weeks I’d watched as she’d worked her way through the blight problem, first identifying the affected plants, then isolating the mold that was causing the spots, then combing through the greenhouse to uproot them before they could spread the disease any farther.

As she did all this, she kept up a sort of running monologue. Sometimes it seemed like she was talking as much to herself as to me, but then she’d stop, stare at me, and quiz me on what she’d just said. Her expression in those moments was meticulous, her thin lips pursed as she waited for my reply—she was testing me, and we both knew it.

Luckily, I always got the answers right.

But our relationship wasn’t exactly friendly. I knew that, too. So I wasn’t surprised when I clomped into the lab in my brand-new boots and Mara didn’t look up from her computer terminal.

I stood, waiting, my hands on my hips.

Mara lifted one of the slides toward the light. I watched as she squinted through the glass, searching for something. “I suppose you expect me to pay you now?”

I didn’t answer her. After a moment she let out a heavy sigh. “I guess it can’t be helped,” she said, cracking a faint smile. “Now, come on. We have work to do.”

•  •  •

After work that night I made supper: a hearty stew with carrots and turnips and the oxidized ends of what was left of our meat. My father was upstairs, hiding out in his bedroom, leaving me and Pepper to tend the stove. I bent over to place a slice of fatty meat in the cat’s chipped porcelain bowl. And that’s when I heard a knock at the door.

I turned in surprise. On nights without Koen we never had visitors, not this late. As I reached out to open the door, I heard Abba’s footsteps sound eagerly on the stairwell.

“Is he here?” he shouted over the banister.

“Is who here?” I replied. But before my father could answer, I opened the door—and found Rachel.

Beneath her coat she wore a rose-red dress, just the color to bring out the golden undertones in her skin. But, despite her fine clothes, she was a mess. Tears streamed down her face, trailing over her jaw like a river. Snot sheened over her lips. Her ruby lipstick was smeared to her chin.

“T-T-Terra!” She hiccuped my name. I reached out for her hand, fixing my pinkie finger around hers. And then I pulled her inside and closed the door behind us.

“Abba?” I said, doing my best not to gawk at Rachel. We were
sixteen now. We weren’t supposed to go around sobbing like
babies
. “It’s Rachel. Can you get her a handkerchief?”

Disappointment twisted my father’s face. He nodded wordlessly and made his way up the stairs.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, pulling out one of our dining chairs. She sat, teetering on the edge.

My father returned then, and he handed her one of Momma’s cloth hankies. Despite the way they’d conspired together on my Birthing Day gift, Abba had never really gotten along with Rachel. Thanks to everything I told her, she was afraid of him. She eyed my father. For once, he seemed to understand. He went and hovered over the bubbling stew, chattering at Pepper, doing his best to give us some illusion of privacy. Satisfied, Rachel finally dabbed at her eyes and began her story.

“I went to the Raffertys’ quarters today after work.”

Silvan. My stomach sank into my gut.

“I . . . I brought
flowers
. His favorite kind. White lilies. They cost me a fortune. The Raffertys were all sitting there at the supper table—his mother, his father. And
Captain Wolff
, of all people. I can’t believe I humiliated myself in front of her. I should have . . . I shouldn’t have done it!” I saw Rachel’s lower lip curl, revealing her teeth. Before she could start bawling again, I reached out and grabbed her hand in mine. Her fingers were hot.

“I got down on one knee and I told Silvan that I would be honored to be his wife. That if he’d consent, then I was declaring my intent to marry. You know. All of that. They all just . . . just
stared
at me!”

I squeezed her fingers, which felt as clammy as dead flesh. She didn’t squeeze back.

“Did Silvan say anything?” I asked. Rachel didn’t answer, not right away.

“What did he say?” I prodded.

“He looked at his family. Like he didn’t want them to hear. Then he took me outside. And he told me that . . . that I’m
beneath
him. Because of my job. Because of his! He said that once it might have been okay for him to court a merchant girl like me. But that now that he’s to be captain, we have to be serious. I was serious, Terra!”

With that, my friend broke down again.

“Oh, Rachel,” I said. Stormy emotions flooded my rib cage. Mostly guilt. I’d failed her. I should have seen the whole thing coming. I should have been there to protect her. But I’d been distracted.

I pulled my chair close to hers, drawing her in for a hug. Bowing her head against my neck, she collapsed into my arms. I didn’t speak, didn’t offer advice or even apologies. I just held her, the way I’d want to be held if I were in her position.

When we finally drew away from the embrace, I saw that my
father had set a trio of glasses down on the table. They were filled with cloudy, bloodred liquid.

“Wine,” Rachel said, giving one final sniffle. “Mar Fineberg, you shouldn’t . . .”

My father held up one hand as he took his glass in the other. “You girls are sixteen now. Old enough to drown your sorrows in a bottle or a cask, assuming you have the gelt or the rations. And we do. I’ve been saving this for tonight. I thought we’d have some after supper to celebrate, but it seems you need it now.” He lifted the glass. We hadn’t even taken ours from the table yet, but my father gave a grim smile and toasted the air.

“To adulthood,” my father said. But the words sounded darker than he’d intended, especially after Rachel let out a wheezing breath. Still, he added the traditional toast: “To life, and to Zehava.
L’chaim!
”

“L’chaim,”
Rachel parroted. I heard myself echo the words too, and we both lifted our glasses from the table, touched their edges, and drank.

The wine was old. That was just like my father, to share the stuff that had gone to vinegar. As I forced it down, wincing, another knock sounded at our door. This time it was a quick succession of knuckles against metal.

My father’s head snapped up.

“I think you should get it, Terra,” he said. No one else made a
move. Even Pepper seemed to watch me closely, crouching low against the counter. I put down my glass, rose. My new boots suddenly felt like they were made of lead. Dragging the heavy soles, I went to the door and opened it.

It was Koen. Under the shadow of his unruly hair, his face was scrunched up against the cold. Pink mottled his cheeks and ears, though whether from embarrassment or the harsh wind, I couldn’t be sure. His lips lifted, showing the crooked edge of his teeth.

“Can I come in?” he asked. His breath fogged the air. Behind me, Rachel was staring down at her hands, examining her fingernails like they were the most fascinating thing in the world.

That’s when I realized what was happening. That’s when I felt my blood drain from my head, when I heard the first labored
thud
of my heart in my ears.

“Um,” I murmured, “sure.” He stepped inside, flashing his gaze to my father and to Rachel, appraising the situation. Then he turned to me.

“Terra, if you’ll have me . . .”

I knew those words. Tradition dictated that you couldn’t hear or speak them until you turned sixteen. But I hadn’t let myself think about it, not since I’d been a little girl. I was too gawky, too weird. This was something that happened to other girls. To Rachel. Not to me.

But Koen’s eyes were open wide. In the galley light they picked up
flecks of amber. “If you’ll have me, then I would be honored if you’d consent to marry me.”

I opened my mouth, drawing in a deep breath. Wasn’t this what I’d wanted, what I’d told Silvan I wanted? I heard myself give my consent, but it was like someone else was speaking.

Behind Koen, in the shadows, I saw my father’s head move up and down. He approved. Of course he did. He looked happy. So why did my own smile falter?

But then Koen stepped close, and my fears began to drain away. I could smell the cold night air rise off his body, fresh and sharp. He bent down and pressed his lips to mine. They were cool, chapped, and as dry as winter. I leaned in a little, entirely too aware of how we were being watched.

Maybe that’s why Koen’s lips didn’t open to mine. Maybe he felt awkward too. His hands stayed frozen at his sides. My stomach twisted.
This is wrong
, I heard my body say.
This is all wrong.

As if in response Koen pulled away. A small, tight smile played over his mouth. Then he stumbled out the open door and was gone.

I lifted the back of my hand to my lips. They throbbed like a bruise. Slowly I turned to face the galley table and the people sitting there. Rachel forced down a second mouthful of wine, tears welling up again. And my father grinned at me as if today, my Birthing Day, were the greatest day he’d ever known.

Autumn, 466 YTL

Daughter,

On my application forms they asked me to describe myself. Age, ethnicity, country of national origin . . . religion. At the intake interview a smartly dressed woman tapped her finger against the words I’d scrawled.

“So you call yourself Jewish,” she said.

I shrugged. “My mother was. But I’m not observant. Will that be a problem?”

“The
Asherah
is owned by the Post-terrestrial Jewish Preservation Society.”

“A religious group?” I asked, surprised. I’d heard that the orthodox of most religions had hunkered down to wait for their messiahs to come. The woman gave her head a shake.

“No. Secular Jews. Mostly American. A few Israelis. A few European Jews. Committed to the continuation of Jewish culture even after Earth—” She hesitated, unable to say it. But she didn’t have to. I knew what she meant. She added, “There are other groups. Humanist ships. Nationalist groups. But they have waiting lists. We can’t guarantee that you’ll be given a spot. The
Asherah
is looking for passengers like you. They have a quota to reach
before liftoff. Seventy percent of their passenger list must be of Jewish descent.”

“The
Asherah
sounds fine,” I said quickly, recalling the dimming light of Annie’s eyes, the way she’d grabbed my hands, suddenly alive again, when she’d told me I had to live on. “Would have made my grandmother proud, I suppose. She could hardly ever get me to go to synagogue with her.”

The woman was not amused.

“The contract specifies that the governing council is committed to two missions: the first, to ensure the survival and unity of the passengers of the
Asherah
at all costs. The second, the survival of Jewish traditions and culture even in the diaspora of space.”

At all costs.
I hadn’t thought it through, what those words meant. I clutched my hands between my knees, sat straight, looked resolute.

“Where do I sign up?” I said.

But I soon learned.

Tradition dictated that only men and women be married. Survival meant that all of us would. They matched me with your father. They checked our bloodlines, had us sign the marriage contract. The Council told us that our compatibility made us soul mates. He was my
bashert,
my destiny.

Hogwash.

Please don’t be mistaken—I’ve come to have some affection for your father, an old man with soft laughter and kind, gray eyes. But at first our home was a silent one. Perhaps we were both grieving for what we left behind the day we boarded. Our families, our homes . . . our planet. We were strangers, and we had nothing to say to each other. I had never even loved a man before. But soon friendship blossomed between us like a timid flower, poking its head up through the soil. I called him the Professor, which had been his title back on Earth. He called me Mary Ann, a reference to an ancient TV show I’d never seen. It wasn’t love, but it was fondness and friendship, and in those first long, dark nights in space, that was enough.

When the ship was five years out, we were told to procreate. On Earth I had known about the artificial wombs that were popular with younger, wealthier women, women who feared they would otherwise lose their figures. But then I felt certain that I would never use one, would never be a mother.

The Council made sure I knew how life on board was tenuously balanced, precarious. Every woman who chose not to be a mother and every man who turned his back on fatherhood would represent a job that would one day go undone and a precious bloodline that would one day die. You were our duty and more, our purpose. We would be parents because it would be so very wrong to be everything but. I did what they said. I became a good Asherati. After all, I’d agreed
to it—signed on the dotted line not once but twice, at boarding and on the day that I was wed.

We made your brother first. I picked his name, one that fit with the growing tradition of the ship—the strong, masculine ending—but one that honored what I had lost, too. Anson. Because I wouldn’t have known him if it hadn’t been for Annie. Because he was, in a way, her son as well. Because no matter what the Council said, I knew that I’d met my
bashert
years ago—and lost her.

Four years later, before you were even born, your father named you. He pressed his gloved hand to your egg, saw the mass of cells, the flutter of a heartbeat moving within, and said one word: “Terra.”