Starglass (39 page)

“Good thing they won’t find out,” Aleksandra said. I saw her free hand flash down to her hip.

Move. Move
, I told myself. I pushed forward through the corn, cupping my hands around my mouth, letting out a scream.

“No! Stop!”

But the sound of my voice was buried beneath Captain Wolff’s last gargled breath. Like a doll whose strings had been cut, she collapsed in the dirt. The last time this had happened, I’d taken off running. Now I just stood, frozen, staring down at her body. Her silver rope of hair lay twisted in an expanding pool of red.

Aleksandra didn’t see me, not at first. She was too busy wiping off the edge of her knife against her mother’s coat. I watched as she slid the blade down into her sheath. It fit neatly, as if it had never been disturbed at all.

Then she stood again, and her black eyes lifted. Once I’d thought that she was a younger, more beautiful version of her mother. But though her skin was indeed smooth and clear and without blemish, I now knew the truth.

“Oh, look,” she said, her hand moving toward her knife again. “A little bird. Better catch her before she sings.”

She took one step forward.
Now
I ran.

I ran harder and faster than I’d ever run before. My bare feet pounded against the cold soil; my breath came out in white bursts against the air. I could hear Aleksandra behind me, rattling the cornstalks as she passed. But I didn’t stop to think about that. I ran, and I ran, and I ran.

Soon I’d spilled out of the pastures. The cobblestones felt like ice against the soles of my feet. The path had grown crowded. I decided to use that to my advantage. I dodged between the bustling workers, who had lifted up their voices in a thudding chant. Hundreds of fists pumped the empty air—

“Stop the Council! Free Zehava! Stop the Council! Free Zehava!”

—but this time my own fingers remained firmly at my sides. I pushed through the crowd, stumbling out again only when I squeezed through the slats of the pasture fence.

Past the lambs, across the dewy soil, I ran. It wasn’t until I was halfway to the clock tower that I realized I had no place to go. The districts ahead were empty now. The people had taken to the fields, and they now followed Aleksandra, who would surely come for me soon. And I couldn’t very well return to Silvan, not after what I’d done to his father. I stumbled to a stop, searching the dome for an escape. But there was nowhere to go. I realized, for the first time, that the glass above might as well have been bars. And then my eyes reached up past the glass, and beyond.

Zehava. It sparkled under its triple moonlight like a whole new field of stars. Each point of light was a home, safe from the frantic bustle of the crowds around me. I stared up at Zehava, my mouth open. I hardly noticed the gaggle of teenagers who had spilled by me or how they wielded wrist-thick branches like clubs. My mind was on the people I’d seen on the screen up in that dusty command room. Not Hannah and the shuttle crew—the other ones, the strange ones. Tall and slender, their bodies had bent like reeds in the wind.

I knew a body like that one.

This dome held nothing but danger for me now. I’d forever be at the mercy of Aleksandra Wolff, the Children of Abel, their knives and clubs and fists. But I’d be safe on the surface below. I’d be safe on Zehava—safe in
his
arms.

I took off running again. Not toward the captain’s stateroom, where Silvan still waited for me, nor toward the clock tower, where Koen and Rachel had surely joined their hands already and said their vows. No, this time I plunged myself past it, through the trampled pasture and toward the districts beyond. There I’d take the rear lift down. The shuttles shone in the darkness. They offered my only escape.

“Wait for me,” I breathed into the cold air. “I’m coming.”

Summer, 460 YTL

Darling Terra,

The first time I ever saw the Asherah was on the shuttle over.

From far away it looks like an insect. A lightning bug. You’ve never seen one of those, have you? No, I don’t think they’re on the approved list of pollinators. Perhaps one of our descendants will know their light, but you’ll never catch one in the hollow space of your palms and watch it flicker on and off.

Like a lightning bug, the
Asherah
has a long, round body—and it’s lit up from inside, lit by the light of the forests and pastures and fields, by the life that stirs inside. The head is where the labs and the captain’s stateroom and the command center are. The insidious brain of our little ship. But the true light lies in its body, where the people live.

As I sailed beneath the
Asherah
in our shuttle, I felt a quiet awe come over me. She was shining and new then, but huge and silent and terrible, too. And resting there, in the dark stillness of space, she looked utterly and completely terrifying.

She’s never frightened you. You know her too well. You visited every twisted, hidden path. You sat on the shore of her bays and got sunburned by her UV lights, and you think she is the whole world. And for you, she is.

I’m an old woman now. You’ve asked me so many times why I’m unhappy, why I speak up against the Council, why I let your father argue with those gold-corded beasts at meetings. You tell me that every choice they’ve ever made has been for our survival. And you’re not wrong.

But know this: It’s the dream of the world beyond our ship that has kept
me
alive. Not only Earth—though every bone in my old body aches for her. But some other distant place, one that the Council can’t control. This thought of freedom, of a life without contracts or the net of glass above—this is what has sustained me.

Because someday, hundreds of years from now, one of our daughters will step outside for the first time—step into the air, the fresh, new air. And then she’ll turn around, just as I did in my shuttle. She’ll look back over her shoulder. And she’ll see her world fade into the dark behind her.

I saw the dying, ancient Earth. She’ll see the
Asherah,
her metal body darkened by hundreds of years of travel through the stars. And she’ll abandon it. Because the entire universe is waiting for her, massive and strange and alive.

And full of hope.

The following individuals get gold stars, love, and a thousand hugs:

Phyllis Ray Fineberg, my mother, who lent me her name for Terra’s. Without her passion for science fiction—Sundays watching
Mystery Science Theater 3000
,
John Carter
movie dates—or her help with my bad Yiddish, this book would not be here. Or it might, but it would not be very much fun.

My sister, Emily North, who shares a birthday and a star sign and also shared a childhood with me. You’re my favorite Capricorn. Thank you for being there.

My mother-in-law, Elayne Rudbart, my first and most fervent fan.

All the writers and early readers of this manuscript who offered both critiques and support: Patrick Artazu and Tarah Dunn; the Interrobangs—T. S. Tate, Jaimie Teekell, and Shannon Riffe; the ladies of YA Highway—Leila Austin, Lee Bross, Sumayyah Daud, Sarah Enni, Kristin Halbrook, Amanda Hannah, Kate Hart, Kody Keplinger, Steph Kuehn, Kristin Otts, Amy Lukavics, Emilia Plater, Veronica Roth, and Kaitlin Ward; and my dear, dear Bruisers—Douglas Beagley, Nicole Feldl, Wayne Helge, and Fran Wilde. Thanks for keeping me from going nuts, guys!

Special thanks to Kirsten Hubbard, who mentored me, helping me learn the ropes of this crazy YA book world; Rachel Hartman,
brilliant belly dancer and book lover; and Sean Wills, who is just the best. Go make a thing, Sean. I’ll get coffee.

Kelly Lagor, who fixed my science, made it deeper, better, and more interesting. Every sci-fi writer should have their very own plant biologist.

My amazing agent, Michelle Andelman. From the moment you stumbled across that raw paragraph of this book, you’ve been its greatest advocate and defender. Thank you for loving
Starglass
before it was even done.

Rob Shields, for so perfectly capturing Terra’s sense of longing (and her sartorial choices). She—and
Starglass
—are so well-dressed thanks to your work.

My stellar team at Simon & Schuster: Lucy Ruth Cummins, Jenica Nasworthy, Karen Taschek, and Angela Zurlo. And especially Navah Wolfe, fellow geek, lover of Indian cuisine, and editor extraordinaire. Thank you for your tireless belief in this book and in my ability to make it
better
.

And finally, my husband, Jordan. Thank you for all your love and support, for all those elephants, and owls, and television nights, and movies, and books shared, and pages folded over. Thank you, Pookie. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Phoebe North

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