Brightly Burning E-Book

Alexa Donne

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 481

Beschreibung

Jane Eyre meets The 100 in this romantic mystery set in space. Seventeen-year-old Stella Ainsley, desperate to leave the floundering Stalwart, finds employment on the haunted space-ship Rochester. Exiled from Earth, the remnants of the human race circle the planet in slowly disintegrating space-ships, but the Rochester seems in perfect condition. When a series of accidents threatens the charismatic captain, Hugo Fairfax, Stella is determined to find the saboteur and win his love. But there is a terrible secret behind the Rochester's haunting, and soon Stella must make an impossible choice.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

twenty-one

twenty-two

twenty-three

twenty-four

twenty-five

twenty-six

twenty-seven

twenty-eight

twenty-nine

thirty

thirty-one

epilogue

acknowledgments

about the author

BrightlyBurning

BrightlyBurning

Alexa Donne

TITAN BOOKS

BRIGHTLY BURNING

Print edition ISBN: 9781785659423

E-book edition ISBN: 9781785659430

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: June 2018

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2018 Alexa Donne. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For my mom, my first and most fierce advocate, and the reason I am a writer

And for all the birds who will not be ensnared

one

The gravity stabilizers were failing again. I glanced up from my sketchpad to see globules of liquid dancing up from my drinking glass. They shimmered red, like droplets of blood, though I knew it was just cherry-flavored nutri-drink. Dammit, that’s my protein ration for the day wasted.

A sigh escaped me, and resignedly I stowed my drawing tablet and stylus in the drawer under my mattress. They would be calling me any minute.

A moment later, right on time: “Stella Ainsley, please report to Area Twelve.” The speaker crackled and popped, as it had done for years. I’d tried to fix it, but on a ship as old as the Stalwart, there was only so much you could do.

I tucked my long hair as best I could into a bun atop my head—harder than one might think with your hair floating in all directions—then I grabbed my toolkit and headed into the corridor, half bouncing, half floating with each step. Orange lights flickered on and off, rendering the hallway dimmer than usual, quite the feat, considering Ward Z was generally known as Dark Ward. A few small windows were cut in between brushed-chrome walls that hummed with the shudder of the engines, but starlight was insufficient to light the inside of a ship. Ward Z was the domicile of the Stalwart’s lowliest; why squander precious electricity on waste specialists and mechanics? Most of the ship’s light energy was diverted to the fields. The Stalwart was the single largest provider of food in the fleet. I made a note to fix the light later, nonetheless.

It was a short journey to the supply bay, my quarters being conveniently close; I moved quickly from orange flickering over dull chrome down two levels to the antiseptic white glow of the ship’s belly. The Stalwart was at least clever enough to allocate decent energy reserves to the working parts of the ship; it would do no good to repair essential systems if I couldn’t see.

“There you are,” Jatinder greeted me, wiping a sweat-slicked hand against an equally sweaty forehead. Small droplets floated up from the tips of his fingers. I could barely hear him above the grind of the engines.

“You couldn’t call Karlson?” I asked, bouncing over to the secondary systems panel. “I have to lead class in less than an hour.”

“That’s more than enough time.” Jatinder tsked. “And if it takes longer, Ancient Earth Sciences will wait. I need you and your lovely, tiny hands.”

“My hands are perfectly normal sized,” I mumbled as I set to work on the machine, which alternately whooshed and wheezed. “Did you already try hitting it?” I asked Jatinder, who grunted in the affirmative. Nevertheless, I gave the thing a good smack before resorting to more invasive techniques. But still I floated.

Jatinder attempted small talk as we worked. “You heard about any of your applications?”

“One said no. Two still pending,” I said. “It’s hard to find engineering positions, as you know.” My hand slipped noisily against a pipe.

“Oh, my God,” he said in Hindi, one of the few phrases I’d learned by this point, as he said it so much. “You must think me completely naive.”

“What?” I played dumb, though heat rose to my cheeks at being caught in my lie. Jatinder knew me too well after more than three years of working together.

“We both know you aren’t applying anywhere as an engineer. You hate the job, despite being very good at it— and not at all humble, I might add—and unless someone on another ship dies with no apprentice in place, you’re not getting an engineering transfer.” I opened my mouth to reply, but he kept going. “I had hoped you’d get over your foolish dreams of being taken on by some miracle ship to teach, but what is this? Your third round of applications?”

My cheeks burned furiously hot, from embarrassment, anger, and just a bit of despair. Jatinder was pessimistic—and pedantic—to a fault, but he wasn’t wrong. Yet I clung to hope that I might escape the fate of being stuck in the bowels of an ailing food-supply ship for the rest of my life. Or worse, being jettisoned down to Earth whenever the Stalwart inevitably failed, doomed to certain death on the frozen planet below. The last ship that had deorbited over a year ago hadn’t been heard from since. Crew probably all froze to death.

“Plenty of ships need teachers,” I offered, my voice small.

He threw me a look that dripped with pity. “Stella, you know the good private ships don’t take on governesses from the likes of the Stalwart. You’re even less likely to get off this place as a governess than you are as an engineer. Unless that family of yours wants you back, you’re stuck here.”

My family? I could hear my aunt Reed’s shrill tone in my ear as if she were standing next to me: You have caused me nothing but grief. I am happy to see the back of you. Those were her parting words to me. No, I was sure my “family” did not want me back.

I swallowed his harsh truth down like cold tea, pushing it past my throat, into my stomach, where I wouldn’t have to think of it. Squaring my shoulders, I set to fixing the gravity stabilizer with extra verve. “I hope your brother gets back soon,” I said sharply. Jatinder, barely older than I, was only temporarily in charge until Navid returned from a resource mission. I knew comparisons to his older sibling always chafed. “He said he’d try to get me a new tablet while he was away. Mine has been on the fritz.”

“I don’t know why you bother. There’s nothing to paint but gray walls and billions of stars.”

“I use my imagination. You should try it sometime.”

It took a solid forty-five minutes, but I managed to remove the extra bounce from everyone’s steps by returning the ship’s gravity settings to normal.

“See? Just in time to go teach the bright young minds of tomorrow,” Jatinder said, tossing me a soiled rag. I found a relatively clean corner and wiped my greasy hands off as best I could.

“I’ll see you next shift, Jatinder.” I rushed to get up to the school deck in less than fifteen minutes. Considering the Stalwart was several miles long and eight levels deep, that was no easy feat.

Having fixed the gravity problem at least, I moved up the decks more efficiently than I had on my way down, zipping through narrow corridors I’d practically memorized during my six years on board. Past residency wards U through Y, where officials long ago stopped caring about the colorful graffiti adorning the walls—some of which was my own. The warm orange and purples of a sunset over Paris, a city I’d studied but was likely now a frozen ruin, blurred by on my left just before I hit the stairwell that would take me up, up, up.

I arrived out of breath but with a minute to spare, my adrenaline rush of joy dissolving with a fizzle as soon as I saw the look on George’s face. I knew that look. Someone had died.

“What happened?” I asked, ignoring the little flip my stomach did as George hovered close.

“Arden’s mom,” he said with a sigh. “It happened fast. Med bay couldn’t do anything for her.”

Of course they couldn’t. On the list of things that were always in short supply: water, air, spare parts, food, medical supplies. I taught Earth History, so I knew people used to live eighty, ninety, even a hundred years. Not anymore. Jatinder’s brother, Navid, was considered on the older side at the ripe age of thirty-four. George and I weren’t the only orphans on board, though we were two of the only single almost-eighteen-year-olds left. Half our class was already married.

George settled a large, warm hand over my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “See you at dinner later?”

I nodded, and George smiled just a bit, making me melt. I turned, crossing with a slight hesitation over the threshold into the room. It was a morbid location on the best of days— windowless, gray, illuminated by buzzing neon light—and when death came to call, the gloom clung to the walls, seeping through the rivets like motor grease. The kids were quiet, a wholly unnatural state of being for their age, and the pupil who ordinarily would be the happiest to see me met me with red-rimmed eyes and a quivering lower lip.

“Oh, Arden,” I said, engulfing her in a hug. She sniffled into the slick fabric of my coat, and I glanced over at my thirty-odd pupils, sitting behind their communal-style desks with eyes politely averted. Enough of them had suffered the loss of a parent or family member that no one would judge a fellow student for crying in class.

What should I say? Surely not the platitudes they’d said to me, a seven-year-old shocked numb by the passing first of a father—accidental death, on the job—followed swiftly by a grief-stricken mother, by her own hand. Something about God’s will, and how at least now there’d be two fewer mouths to feed. While a pragmatic person, I wasn’t heartless.

“You can skip today’s lesson if you want. You won’t get in trouble,” I said gently, easing my way out of her grip and toward my desk. She nodded solemnly, retreating to a shadowy corner where the recessed lighting in the ceiling didn’t quite reach.

“Good afternoon, class,” I began with a deep breath, retrieving my lesson planner from the communal drawer all the student teachers used and flipping to where our last lesson had left off. “Who can tell me how a volcanic explosion can lead to an ice age?”

A hand shot up. Carter, one of my eagerest pupils, always reading ahead for the pleasure of it. Despite the melancholy, I caught more than a few kids rolling their eyes in Carter’s direction. I called on him, knowing failure to do so would send him into a tizzy.

“When a supervolcano explodes, all the dust it releases into the air blocks the sunlight,” he said. Competent enough for an eleven-year-old.

“That’s just one part of it,” I said, “but good job. And how long can an ice age last?” Carter’s hand flew up again, but this time I waited a beat longer. A boy named Jefferson took the bait.

“Ten thousand years?”

“Not the big one,” I said. “I was thinking more of how long this current one is predicted to last.” Because there was no point in making a roomful of children panic.

“Two hundred years,” a girl in the second row called out.

“That’s what we’re hoping,” I said. “And when it comes time to go back down to the surface, all your farming skills will come in handy.” I toed the Stalwart’s line perfectly, following the lesson plan they’d given me to a T, even if it made my teeth ache to push out the words. I knew an ice age caused by a supervolcano explosion could last a thousand years, and two hundred was a lowball estimate. “Your assignment for today is to write a short story about your ancestors who left Earth. What do you think they thought about the supervolcano? How did they find out about the evacuation, and what was it like to leave Earth behind and live in spaceships for the first time?”

I pointedly didn’t mention all those who had been left behind. It was possible for human beings to survive an ice age; history indicated as much. But the percentage would be paltry; the casualties high. I tried not to think about all who had perished, though it was hundreds of years ago.

The students set to writing—it would be a class with a lot of downtime. I decided to seek out Arden, lest she be left too long to her own thoughts. I found her huddled in the back, crying over a potted plant.

“I don’t understand,” she sniffled, her voice hoarse.

“I know.” I crouched down to her level, laying a comforting hand on her back. “It’s not fair.”

“But I watered it and everything!” Arden gestured at the plant, which, now that I considered it, was looking a bit droopy.

“If I can’t figure out how to make it grow, I’ll never get to be a farmer, and what if they stick me with something awful, like engineering?” she let out in a string of breathless words, then snapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Stella, I didn’t think—”

“It’s okay. Engineering isn’t all that bad, but I know it’s not for everyone.” It was barely for me, but I’d take it over farming, personally. Arden, however, came from a long line of farmers—everyone on the Stalwart did—and I understood her angst. Everyone had to pull their weight on board, and working the fields was one of the more stable, fulfilling jobs.

“Did you put it under the sunlamp?” I asked. She nodded in the affirmative. “Okay, then how much did you water it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you can water a plant too much, effectively drowning it,” I said gently.

Arden’s face fell. “I used my water rations to give it more. I thought it would help.”

“Oh, Arden.” I sighed. “Drinking your daily water ration is very important. You’ll get dehydrated.” Especially with all the tears she’d be expending over the coming weeks and months. “Come with me.” I directed her to the front of the room and out into the corridor, where I unzipped a stealth pocket in my skirt and handed her my half-drunk day’s rations. She greedily sucked it down, offering me her first smile of the day.

“Listen,” I began, and her reaction was immediate—she obviously did not want to talk about her mother. So I veered into safer territory. “You’re really bright, Arden, one of my best students. I’m sure you’d make a fine farmer, but it’s not so bad if you end up doing something else. What don’t you like about engineering?”

“It’s dirty,” she said, eyeing my less-than-pristine hands, then lingering on my face. Great, I must have a smudge on my face. And George didn’t say anything. Jerk. “And,” Arden continued, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I really, really don’t like the dark.”

“It’s actually not that dark down there,” I reassured her. “But you shouldn’t be afraid of the dark, either. Think of it this way—the dark helps us to better see the stars, so it can’t be all bad. Don’t you like the stars?”

Arden nodded, glancing over at a large recessed window, through which distant stars could only just be seen. I wandered over, knowing Arden would follow, leaning so close to the thick glass that my breath fogged it up. I cupped my hands on either side of my face to block the haze of light from behind, squinting out at the myriad heavenly bodies.

“After I lost my mum and dad, I started talking to the stars,” I said. “Someone told me that when we die, we are released out there, turned into something burning and brilliant. I don’t know if it’s true, but it brings me comfort. Maybe you can talk to the stars too. They’re excellent listeners.”

“Thanks, Stella,” Arden whispered, leaning heavily against my side. And then she turned and was gone.

The ship shuddered, and I found myself careening backwards, landing hard on my tailbone as all the lights blinked out, leaving the ship in darkness.

two

I blinked against the pitch-black, spots of color dancing across my vision, smarting from the pain radiating through my backside.

“Arden?” I called out, feeling blindly with my fingers across the cool surface of the floor and wall, hoping to find her warm body.

“Stella, I’m scared.”

She sounded close. I rose to a crawl, moving toward the sound of her voice until I bumped into what felt like her side. Feeling for her arm, then her hand, I intertwined our fingers.

“Arden, we’re going to stand up now, and I’ll lead you back to the classroom. It’s just a blackout, and there’s an emergency light inside. Then I’m going to go fix this.” All I heard in return was a soft whimper, but she stood up all the same.

As we gingerly crossed through the hatch door to the classroom, I said in my calmest, most commanding voice, “Everyone stay where you are and don’t panic.” I was surprised to find my voice shaky. I needed to maintain my grip so I wouldn’t scare them.

This was not an ordinary blackout—that much was clear to me; that shudder preceding lights-out signaled some sort of engine failure, and the lack of emergency lights or any call over the intercom for my services told me we were looking at auxiliary system failure as well. I made quick steps to my desk from memory, and rustled through the large bottom desk drawer for the emergency lantern. As soon as it sprang to life, illuminating the front of the room in a dull orange light, a sigh cascaded from front row to back.

I called on a girl named Kayla to read her story, and then as quietly as possible, I darted back out into the hallway, peering down both ends. My vision had mostly adjusted to where I could make out the general outline of the walls, barely aided by the soft, useless glow from the windows. But no one appeared to be coming to our aid. I could just picture Jatinder down below, cursing up a storm at Karlson while I remained notably absent.

Then, the best sound in the entire world:

“Stella? Are you guys okay?” George’s voice echoed down the hallway. He stepped into the classroom and, oh, God, I could tell he was wet—just showered. He smelled amazing, like fresh-cut grass, or what they told us it smelled like, anyway. I realized I was reacting wholly inappropriately—this was an emergency, and I was swooning over a freshly showered boy.

“We’re fine,” I reassured him. “But can you watch them? I need to get down to engineering.”

George nodded, then indicated I should come close. Yes, please.

“It’s serious, isn’t it?” he asked in a low voice.

“It might be,” I said. “Just don’t tell them that.”

He gave me a look. “I may be just a farm boy, but I’m not stupid.”

“You are not just a farm boy,” I chided. George was always selling himself short, so thankful for a place to belong that he lost sight of his many gifts. Like his ability to put up with a taciturn best friend like me. “If the lights turn back on, you’ll know everything is fine,” I said, my version of a bad joke. George’s mouth remained in a firm line.

I turned back to face the class. “George is going to hang out with you guys—maybe if you’re lucky, he’ll walk you through some more math drills.” I heard several groans. Then I threw a special wave over at Arden and sprinted out the door.

I’d made my way through the ship in the dark enough times to move quickly and efficiently, tripping only a few times—mostly over my own feet. There was a hum in the air, like a machine taking a nap while powered down, which gave me hope that the ship wasn’t dead. Something was on, just not the lights. As I skirted past the field levels, I heard chatter, even laughter. The residents of the Stalwart didn’t seem particularly concerned. The blackouts happened every few weeks now.

Then, as I made the small jump from the bottom of the ladder taking me to Area 12, the emergency lights zoomed on, a low-intensity blue light lining the ground as far as the eye could see.

“Stella, you layabout, where have you been?” Jatinder greeted me with a frown but very little heat behind his words. A smudge of grease extended from his forehead down to his chin, and he was dripping sweat down his brow. Things were clearly in chaos. Karlson was already there, down on his knees, his upper half disappearing into a mechanical panel. I could hear the muffled clang of his wrench at work. I rushed to grab my kit from my locker.

“What’s the situation?” I asked, retrieving my gloves and swapping out my day coat for my work cover.

“Engine Two failed, knocking out most secondary systems, most notably the lights,” Jatinder said. “It’s salvageable—and luckily the primary engine is fine, but we had to power it down temporarily to access Engine Two’s panel without killing ourselves. I’ve already been in there; got the emergency lights back on, as you can see.”

“And just in time,” I said. “Any longer, and I would imagine there would be panic.”

Jatinder only shrugged. “This ship is used to calamity. And we’re not called the Stalwart for nothing. Now, you and Karlson, I want you to work on getting Engine Two back up—diagnose the problem, fix it, then file the report. Are you done with the air-filtration issue?”

We heard a grunt and then a bang. Karlson extricated himself from the floor, bringing himself up to his full height, which was a good foot taller than both Jatinder and me. While nepotism had gotten Karlson his initial assignment to the engineering team—it helped when your uncle was the captain—his natural gifts for machine systems far outstripped mine.

“You ready?” he asked, slipping his headlamp on as I did the same. “This might take a few hours, but I promise not to wear you out.” He winked, but his dirty sense of humor had zero effect. A few years ago, I would have blushed, stuttered out my reply, but after working in close quarters with Karlson for three years, I just pretended to be amused and moved on.

But he was something nice to look at while I put in hard labor for the next few hours, which was the bright side I comforted myself with as I headed through a heavy metal hatch into the darkness.

* * *

I somewhat regretted giving up the remainder of my water rations to Arden. I had sweated out half my body weight, it seemed, getting the engines back online and all systems back up and running. But now they were, so smoothly that none of the hundred or so bodies packed into the mess hall for dinner seemed at all flummoxed by the two-hour blackout.

George was all smiles when I found him at the back of the room at a table surrounded by six girls from our age group: Becca, Cassidy, Eartha, Faith, Joy, and Destiny. Descended from American Midwestern farmers who’d won the lottery to join the Stalwart, and perpetually sunny, they found me a bit odd and let me know it—politely, but still. They all wanted a piece of George, one of the better specimens for marriage in our group, and the only one with an adorable Empire accent. Never mind that I was also from the Empire and had the requisite Old-World British accent myself, but apparently it was only swoon-worthy from a boy.

Dinner was a mush stew with little nutritional value to recommend it (that’s what the protein rations were for), and while we ate, the digital message scroll that ran along the top of the wall let residents on board know the news of the day, as well as who had e-post waiting. I found my eyes glued to the screen for the daily “weather” update.

Year 210, day 65. Earth condition:

Change in ice cover minimal. Status: Fleet advised to remain in orbit until future notice.

I glanced around; no one seemed to be paying much attention. The report rarely changed. We were used to it, the status quo: the ice age seemed to be lasting longer than anticipated, we should stay in space as long as possible, etc. On the nicer ships, this wasn’t a problem—ships like the Empire or the Lady Liberty were kept up in repairs, extending their shelf life beyond what their builders had originally intended. Optimistic estimates said those ships could stay in orbit another twenty, thirty years at least. But the Stalwart… she wouldn’t last that long. We were already past our expiration date. One of the chief reasons I was desperate to get off. If the fleet was going to cling to space as long as possible, I wanted to as well.

The e-post notification part of the scroll had started; I scanned eagerly for my name. It had been weeks since I’d answered the job advertisements I’d found on the fleet community board; surely the other two would reply soon.

“Stella? Hello?” George snapped his fingers in front of my face to get my attention. “Why are you so spacy today? Was it that bad down there?”

I found all eyes glued on me. Eartha and Faith had the good sense to look scared, so apparently not everyone on board was clueless as to how badly things could go on an old, dying ship. “It was fine,” I said. “I’m just waiting for some post.”

“Who would write to you?” Destiny said. There was no particular rancor behind it, but it hurt, nonetheless. Indeed, who would write to the orphan with the relatives who hated her?

I had to fess up. I fastidiously avoided looking at George as I did. “I applied to some jobs off-ship. Teaching jobs, that sort of thing.”

The silence that followed was awkward. The girls barely concealed their looks of pity—they clearly agreed with Jatinder that a transfer would never happen, that I was wasting my time and burning up hope—and George’s mouth formed a straight line, his jaw so tight, I was sure he was clenching his teeth together with all his might. I had gone behind his back, and he was pissed.

Just when I thought it couldn’t possibly get worse, Faith, like a testament to her name, piped up, “Well, you have a message.” She pointed to the scroll, and indeed, there was my name. A giddiness I couldn’t control spiked from the pit of my stomach up into my heart—what if it was an offer?—only to plummet straight back down, forming a pit of dread at the base of my spine. And what if it wasn’t?

“I should go check that,” I said, getting up from the table.

My feet carried me from the mess hall to the community room, where most of the desktop tabs were thankfully unoccupied. I logged in, pulling up my message portal, and there it was, right at the top in tantalizingly bold writing.

Application for teaching position on board the Scandinavian

I clicked on it, holding my breath as the message loaded. And immediately let it out in a dejected puff. “We regret to inform you…”

It was like a kick in the gut, or being vented out into space without warning. I glanced out the window, and of course, just my luck—there it was. The Scandinavian went merrily about its business orbiting the Earth, not caring one whit that it had just dashed my dreams. I could see the Empire, too, much farther away, but immediately apparent in its elegance. It wasn’t a hunk of barely functioning metal like the Stalwart. The Empire was constructed as a luxury ship for high-class people. I could just picture my aunt and cousins taking tea at this hour, gazing out upon the dirty countenance of the Stalwart and laughing at my expense.

Just as I risked being drowned by the disappointment, George poked his head inside the community room, his red hair like a beacon. Only the look on his face quelled any momentary surge of happiness I felt at seeing him. He’d come to hash it out.

“And?” he asked as he approached, choosing to take a seat in the row in front of me so he was facing me head-on.

“They said no,” I said, my voice wobbling against my wishes.

“Who was it?”

“The Scandinavian.”

“They’re crazy not to take you. But I can’t say I’m not glad.”

“That’s an awful thing to say,” I bit back.

“No, it’s not. You think I want you to go?” George said, a pleading look in his eyes. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. How long have we known each other?”

“Six years,” I answered quietly. Guiltily.

“Six frexing years! Team Empire Orphans, Stella. I can’t believe you would just throw that away.”

“You don’t understand,” I tried to explain. “I’m suffocating here. I just… I don’t want to die down there like my father did.”

“You won’t,” he said. “I won’t let that happen to you. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that. People die every day. Today it was Arden’s mom; tomorrow… who knows?”

“You can die on another ship as easily as this one, Stel.”

“You and I both know that’s not true,” I scoffed. “The death rate on the Stalwart is triple what it is on the Empire. And we’re six times more likely to have to attempt reentry within the next two years. And you remember what it was like with the Kebbler outbreak. Not all ships, or the people on them, are created equal.”

It was a low blow, reminding him. The Kebbler virus had raged through the fleet six years earlier, disproportionately killing the poorest citizens. There were never enough vaccines to go around, it seemed, and their distribution was notably skewed. From the working-class section of the Empire, both of George’s parents had died, while my well-to-do relatives— and I, too, luckily—had escaped unharmed. All the rich people on the Empire had.

“So your solution is to leave? To leave me behind?”

“It’s not like that—”

“Then what is it like?” George snapped. “I’m not as smart as you are, Stella. I’m good at two things. Farming, and being halfway decent at teaching kids numbers. Neither of those is in particularly high demand outside the Stalwart. I’m stuck here.”

“You’ll be fine. You have Becca, Cassidy, Eartha, Faith, Joy, Destiny…”

“They’re not you. They’re…”

“Pretty? Prospective wives?”

“That’s not fair,” George said, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Listen,” I said, backtracking, “it’s not about leaving you. I promise. I’ll miss you something awful. I just can’t stay, not if I have the chance to leave. Which is looking distinctly unlikely now, anyway.”

The tears threatened to come, with a vengeance. Two jobs down, just one to go. Odds were I was facing another rejection, and it wasn’t often that teaching jobs popped up on the fleet. I’d be turning eighteen soon, which was when I’d be locked into my full-time position as engineer. I was running out of time.

“Hey,” George said, reaching past the tab screen to gently nudge my chin up. “It’s not the end of the world. You’re great. And if they couldn’t see that, they’re stupid.”

“What happened to being glad they rejected me?” I sniffed.

“I can be both. Happy you’re staying, and mad at them for being stupid enough to reject you.” He leaned back in his chair, rolling into a stretch. I tried my best not to stare at the way the muscles of his stomach went taut under his thin shirt. It should be illegal not to wear your day coat on board. “Where else did you apply?” he asked.

“To the Shanghai. They said no weeks ago. And then I applied to this funny little private ship I’ve never heard of. The Rochester?”

George shook his head. “Never heard of it either. Must be on the other side of the orbit order.”

“Yeah. So that’s my last hope. And of course, it’s the one I wanted the least.”

“Come back to the mess with me.” George hopped up, pulling me toward the door. “They’re showing a movie. Apparently there are witches and crazy Earth weather.”

I pictured myself sitting in a dark room for two hours with George, watching as the other girls tried to play footsie and sneak hands where they shouldn’t go. All while nursing a bruised ego over my failed prospects. I just couldn’t muster up the emotional fortitude it would require. “No, that’s okay. I’m going to head back to my room. Draw myself into a better mood.”

George did not appear convinced this was a good idea, but he let me go without any further chastisement. Ward Z was as dark as I’d left it that afternoon, and my quarters were cramped as always but blissfully quiet. I pulled out my tablet from where I’d stowed it earlier, clicking it on to find the warm glow of the screen and the half-finished landscape I’d been toying with for days.

Using the watercolor setting, I’d dashed an orange smudge against the sky to represent what I thought a sunset looked like, purple-and-white mountains rising in the background, a blue-green lake in the foreground—purple because I’d heard them described as “purple mountain majesties” in an old American anthem once. Orange because books told me that was the color of the sun dipping in the sky. And water was blue-green, the colors of life so rarely found in space.

I sighed, abandoning the fool’s errand of trying to capture an imaginary, long-forgotten place, opening a new file, switching to the charcoal setting, and starting a portrait. I always began with the eyes—they were bright, laughing, and kind. Then the line of his nose—strong but fine—then those lips. How many times had I wondered what it would be like to kiss him? To kiss anybody, for that matter?

This wasn’t making me feel better. My life was nearly half over, and I was stuck. So many of my peers retreated into romance, companionship, finding solace in the familiar rhythms of family life. But I couldn’t ignore our position, and I didn’t want to be married off to some boy, like a prize cow. Not that we had any of those on board. Old Earth expressions had a funny way of persisting.

I gave up on representing charcoal George, just like I knew I should give up on flesh-and-blood George. But I’d tackle that challenge tomorrow.

three

A tendril of hair loosed itself from the bun coiled tight atop my head. It teased against my ear and caught Jatinder’s disapproving eye.

“You should cut that silly long hair, girl. Or else someday you’ll catch it in a gear shift and tear the scalp straight off your head. Won’t be pretty.”

I grunted a response, the best I could offer him in a conversation we’d had many times over the last three years. We were two hours into the shift; Karlson and I were checking and double-checking the systems that had failed earlier that week, just in case. Thus far, we’d come to the same conclusion repeatedly: the ship was old, and things like this would continue to happen.

What I didn’t bother to tell Jatinder: I had considered a haircut, more than once. The dangers of long hair in a machinery environment were very real. But I kept my hair long for the same reason I put up with ship repair: for the tenuous connection it gave me to my parents. To my mother, who used to pull a wide-toothed comb through my long hair fifty, a hundred times until it lay glossy and sleek. To my father, a skilled engineer who took pride in every job, no matter how thankless. They were long dead, and as such, I barely remembered them, but for the tug of that comb; the softness of my mother’s voice; my father’s strong, weathered hands as they guided mine over a machine part.

“You going to the memorial later?” Karlson asked as he paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I hear they’re bringing in a DJ after the speeches. Good stuff to dance to.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I was thinking of turning in early.”

“That’s so boring,” he chided. “We only get a chance to have fun, to dance, maybe three times a year, and you’d actually skip it? We should enjoy it while we can. There won’t be any DJs down on Earth.”

“Don’t get on that stuff again. I don’t get why you’re so obsessed. We should be trying our hardest to stay up here, not planning on going down there.”

“It’s just practical,” Karlson said for the thousandth time. He was an avid “Earth truther,” telling anyone who would listen that Earth was in all probability habitable again, and we were wasting our time, wasting away up here.

“Anyway, it’s not like I haven’t been to the last five memorials,” I said. “The speeches don’t change.”

“Is this because you’re trying to avoid someone whose name rhymes with Morge?”

“No,” I answered a bit too quickly. Karlson smirked.

“You should come to drink away your sorrows, then. I’m sneaking in some hooch. It’ll help.”

“I didn’t hear that!” Jatinder mock-shouted.

“I’m happy to share, though I’m sure the adults have their own stash, better than mine.”

“Maybe I’ll confiscate your stash.” Jatinder waggled his eyebrows.

Karlson ignored him, turning back to me, lowering his voice to accommodate greater privacy. “Seriously, Stella, come. We’ve had too hard a week not to have a little fun. Go with me as friends.”

It had been one hell of a week. Jon Karlson might not have been my favorite person on board, but spending the evening with him would trump orbiting George and his groupies for the evening. I shrugged and nodded in one movement, drawing from him an all-too-unsettling grin.

* * *

The space usually home to transport and cargo planes had been transformed. A platform at the aft end displayed a familiar red-and-black banner emblazoned with the fleet logo and motto: Survival Through Unity. Beneath that were the symbols of the fleet’s fifteen primary ships representing Earth’s wealthiest and most advanced nations that fled at the time of the disaster, plus the logo for the private ship federation.

My eyes traced over the familiar lines of the pitchfork and wheat stalk of the Stalwart emblem before moving to the top of the banner, where I found far more beautiful symbols. The elegant fleur-de-lis and Eiffel Tower of the Versailles, the lion and vibrant flames of the Shanghai, the emerald lady surrounded by stars for the Lady Liberty. Technologically advanced, thriving ships I’d never see. Or at least never see again. My eyes locked on the jeweled crown entwined with tea leaves of the Empire.

Joy hissed through her teeth, taking me away from unpleasant memories. “They didn’t take the Crusader off. Awkward.”

I wondered if, when we were finally forced to deorbit as they had been, they’d leave our logo on there too. When the Empire held its Remembrance Day ceremonies for years to come, would my aunt think of me? Probably not.

I spotted Karlson saving us seats in the third row, but first Joy pulled me toward George and the other girls to show off her handiwork. Against my better judgment, I’d let her dress me and do my make-up. The underlayer—my trusty moisture-wicking bodysuit—was mine, but everything else was clearly Joy’s. Bright and showy and wildly impractical. The overdress bodice was laced tight, with a skirt that flared at my hips, swooshing as I walked. The color was bright saffron—a hue that complemented both our brown locks but felt foreign on me, like a second skin that didn’t quite fit. My hair was slicked back, gathered into a high ponytail, my eyes lined with dark kohl. I actually felt sort of pretty.

“Stella, you look amazing!” Destiny said, giving me a high-five, which I met a little too enthusiastically. My hand smarted from it, but I didn’t care. Joy had plied me with her secret stash of booze, which she called “magic juice,” and I had to agree with the term. I might as well have been floating. George gaped in my direction, and I simply smiled back.

“Oh, Stella,” Faith piped up, “you left dinner early, so you didn’t see you had a message notification on the scroll.”

That just figured. It was likely my third and final job rejection. I’d check it later. Tonight I would have fun. But first I had to go sit next to Karlson, who, despite my turning him down for “something more,” I was fairly certain still thought this was a date. He stood up from his chair when I approached, nervously complimenting me. Then he offered me more secret alcohol, which I didn’t turn down.

Soon Captain Karlson took the stage, introducing Representative Engle and someone named Mason. We knew the drill. Every year, to mark the anniversary of the Kebbler virus outbreak, our elected representative and some other random government wonk from the Olympus came over, delivered some pretty speeches, let us dance, and then no one spoke about it for the next year.

Engle’s speech was pedestrian, a recounting of the history, peppered with personal anecdotes about how he’d felt watching the Stalwart’s population perish from afar. He affected anguish, but you couldn’t miss his sense of relief that he’d been spared, having been safely ensconced aboard the Olympus. Everyone clapped politely, but no tears were shed. Then Mason spoke. He was middle-aged, balding, with an unremarkable face, not unlike the parade of bureaucrats I’d seen at the last five memorials. But the man knew how to give a speech.

“Life in space is harsh: life in exile,” he began. “Yet we have survived. Persevered. Six years ago, we faced unspeakable tragedy. Many lives—too many lives—were lost to the Kebbler virus. Every ship suffered losses, but none more than the Stalwart.”

“Liar,” Karlson hissed under his breath. Then he leaned over and whispered into my ear. “None of the private ships lost anyone, and no one on the Olympus died.” I pretended to clear my throat and told him to stop. His uncle, the captain, was glaring at us. Mason continued, oblivious.

“You lost thirty percent of your population. More than three hundred people. Your pain was, and is, immense. But we banded together as a fleet, stopped the virus in its tracks. Survival through unity.”

“Survival through unity,” the crowd echoed back instinctively. Karlson laughed. I smacked him on the thigh. His response was to pass me the flask. Mason didn’t seem to be close to finishing, so I took a sip or three. It was hard to forget how many the Stalwart had lost. I hadn’t known any of them, as George and I had been imported to the Stalwart as part of the Orphan Transfer Program after the outbreak had been contained. But every year as I sat through the speeches, I remembered the panic and grief. Behind us, I was sure George was thinking of his parents.

Finally, a good twenty minutes later, Mason wrapped up with: “We forge forward, together, but we must never forget.”

The room erupted into applause. Karlson took a long drag of drink.

“You’re the one who wanted to come to this thing,” I said, snatching the flask away so he would take a break.

“My uncle made me.” He leaned into me, body warm against mine. “That Mason guy is here for an inspection. He wants to ground us, which I’m all for, but the captain insists on playing nice and begging for a few more years’ reprieve.”

“Maybe your uncle is right,” I said.

“You’re my date. You should agree with me.” He pouted, a bit drunk.

“We’re here as friends, remember? And if I was your date? I wouldn’t agree with you just to make you feel better.”

I was rewarded with a smile. “That’s why I like you, Stella.”

His earnestness made my cheeks burn, and thankfully someone shooed us from our chairs so they could clear them away. Date or friends, it would feel good to dance.

He handed off the top-secret bottle to me, since I had several well-placed pockets to store it in. Suddenly I was very popular. The girls were perfunctorily nice on a good day, but never much beyond that. Tonight, we were thick as thieves, dancing en masse on the makeshift dance floor by the stage. Boys whose names I barely knew—several years older than me, and a few younger as well—tucked up close, warm hands on my waist and hot breath in my ear, paying me exaggerated compliments to curry favor. I was an easy target, and shared with everyone.

Then there was Karlson, who at some point insisted I call him Jon. He oscillated between staying true to his word that we were just here as friends, leaving me to dance for hours with everyone else, and being stubbornly possessive. Toward the end of the night, both of us more than a little drunk, he was all hands, and thankfully recently showered for once. He kept “whispering” in my ear. Only with the booming bass and driving beats, he had to shout for me to hear.

“I heard you’re trying to get out of this hunk of metal,” he said, close against my eardrum as we held court at the center of the dance floor.

“Probably won’t happen,” I answered. “I’m stuck here!”

“You should go with me, then. Down to Earth. My uncle may want to keep everyone up here, but I’ve almost talked him into letting me lead a scouting party.”

“That’s a death sentence,” I said. “It’s still too cold.”

“It’s better than dying up here. You know this ship is rotting from the inside.” He got very close to my ear. “We could start fresh down there, eke out a good life.”

“You’re drunk!”

“Yeah, but I’m right,” he replied stubbornly.

“Is he bothering you?” It was him. My George. Pretty, pretty George.

“Hi!” I was practically bouncing. “We’re fine! You’re fine. We’re all just great!”

“Stella, come with me,” George said, and suddenly it was like I was floating, following after him, through the crowd, outside into the cool corridor. “What’s with you? You’ve never been like this.”

“Like what?” I could feel the bass reverberating in the metal walls and desperately wished to go back inside, but then I realized George had a firm grip on my arm.

“Throwing yourself at guys.”

“I’m not throwing myself at anyone,” I insisted, trying to dance my way out of his hold. “They’re throwing themselves at me! Are you jealous?”

“No, I’m not jealous,” George said. It sounded ridiculous to my ears, like the highest notes on the piano—tink, tink, tink.

“I don’t believe you.” I quieted him with a finger pressed over his lips. Lips that looked too inviting, lips I could kiss. So I did.

It was clumsy, wet. A blur. But also bliss. Until it wasn’t.

George shoved me away. “Stella! What the frex!” I felt my stomach plummet. “I don’t… I don’t think about you that way. So please… don’t.”

Suddenly things were clear. I had laser focus. And I felt like I was going to be sick.

“I’m sorry,” I spat out, careening away down the hall to the stairs. Up. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but with each level, my head felt a bit more clear. Then I was on the main deck, and I knew where I was headed: the community room. Straight back to the desktop tab in the corner. I logged on, checked my messages. I clicked on the one that called out to me in bold:

Application for teaching position on board the Rochester

I read the first line of the response:

Dear Ms. Ainsley,

We were delighted to receive your application and would like to offer you employment aboard the Rochester.

And then I promptly vomited all over my shoes.

four

I woke regretting all my life choices. My body ached, but that pain was secondary to the wretched pounding in my head, as if something had burrowed into my skull with a hammer and was striking it against my temple over and over. Still, I rose from my bed, shuffling to the food port for my day’s water and protein rations, gulping down half the water in one go.

My underdress was the worse for wear—more soaked in sweat and grime than usual. I’d had a banner week. At least my chance to steam-clean my clothes was close. It was Friday, so I just had to get to Sunday. I pulled on clothes, thankful my day coat, at least, didn’t smell like stale hooch.

For once, the dim of Ward Z was a gift, and I wasn’t the only person sleeping in after last night. The corridors were mostly quiet. I trudged, slower than usual, to the community room to ensure I had not imagined the missive from the Rochester. So much of last night was a blur.

I avoided my favorite station—back corner by the window— lest they connect me to last night’s vomit splash. I repeated the fuzzier of the evening’s steps: logged in to my account, opened my message portal, clicked on the top missive, no longer bold. And I read it again in the sober light of the morning:

Dear Ms. Ainsley,

We were delighted to receive your application and would like to offer you employment aboard the Rochester. We were impressed with both your teaching credentials and your experience with ship maintenance. The Rochester is a private ship with a small but dedicated crew, and we would request that in addition to tutoring your intended pupil, you also offer auxiliary support to our engineer. We will provide you with a monthly stipend of two hundred digicoin, as well as room and board, of course.

While we did already appeal to your ship captain for permission to take you on aboard the Rochester, please be sure to speak with your placement head as well prior to departure. We will require you to bring your citizenry papers along with you. We’ve arranged for a shuttle to pick you up in two days. I am very much looking forward to making your acquaintance in person. Welcome aboard the Rochester, Stella.

In Salutation,

Iris Xiao

First Officer, the Rochester

Wait. Two days? They’d sent this yesterday, which meant the shuttle would arrive tomorrow. Frex. Suddenly it was all real, and panic rushed me. I’d have to say goodbye to everything I had known for six years: Jatinder, Karlson too, the children—Arden!—even the girls from my age group. I’d miss them all. And George most of all. Oh, God, I had kissed George. Heat rushed into my cheeks, and the hammer in my head started going again. For a brief moment, I worried I’d vomit, anointing yet another corner of the community room. But thankfully it passed.

* * *

I hadn’t anticipated the crying children.

“But who will teach us about Earth history?” Carter wailed to a background chorus of sniffles and moans from the others.

“And art,” Arden chimed in. It was her favorite subject—a useless bonus class I snuck into other lessons when I could. Even Jefferson, the resident smart-ass, seemed upset.

“You always taught us the weird death stuff that no one else did, Miss Stella. I’ll miss you,” he said.

“I’ll miss you, too,” I said honestly, drawing as many of the kids as I could into a big group hug. “Now you’ll have someone offship to talk to—isn’t that exciting?” A murmur of consideration went around. It left the worst of the criers in slightly better spirits, enabling me to extricate myself from the hug and head for the door with a final wave. But Arden wasn’t ready to let me go.

“Stella!” She jogged after me, catching me halfway down the corridor. She grabbed hold of my hand. “I’ve been talking to the stars, like you said. I think my mom got my messages.”

“Good!” I said, crouching down and blowing out a steadying breath, willing myself not to cry. “I’ll miss you a lot, Arden. Just send me a message through the tabs instead of the stars. George can help you until you’re old enough for your own account.”

George. I sighed at the reminder, then put a smile back on for Arden. “And don’t stop drawing. Or give up on that plant.” I drew her into a hug before saying a final, solemn goodbye.

Luckily there was no risk of tears with Jatinder.

“You can officially count me as surprised and impressed, Stella,” he conceded, shaking my hand. “We’ll miss you here— and those tiny hands—but I wish you the best of luck.”

“I’m sad I won’t get to say goodbye to Navid.” Or get my new drawing tablet, I kept to myself. “And I’ll miss you, too.”

“I’ll be sure to pass on your best wishes to him,” he said. We shared an awkward embrace—the kind where neither person really wants to touch, but a handshake would seem too formal—then I turned to Karlson. Him, I offered my hand.

“Transferring off-ship just to get away from me, eh?” Karlson said. “Bold move, Ainsley.”

“It was that or do something drastic, like parachute down to Earth.”

I ignored how attractive he looked when he laughed at my joke.

I couldn’t find George. I wandered the ship for hours, and upon arriving at each successive location with no George to be found, I developed a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. I had less than twelve hours left on board, and my best friend was making himself scarce. Avoiding me. Eventually, lights-out and curfew caught up with me, and I was forced to retreat to my quarters on Ward Z. I packed in the dark, my meager belongings fitting easily into the small carry bag I’d brought with me to the Stalwart all those years ago from the Empire.

My hand touched something fuzzy, tucked away in the back of my wardrobe—worn to the point of no longer being soft. Even if I couldn’t see it properly, I knew what I had found. Earl Grey, my old stuffed elephant. When Aunt Reed handed me over to the orphan export board, I’d clung fast to him, even though I was far too old for stuffed animals. The other kids made fun of me—Baby Stella needs her bestie, Mr. Elephant—but not George. He’d stood up for me, told everyone he wished he still had his childhood stuffed toy, only his had been thrown away during quarantine, and that I was lucky to have a piece of home—they were all just jealous. We’d been friends ever since.

And now we wouldn’t be anymore. The thought made me want to cry, so I forced myself to sleep. When the lights came on the next morning, I did one last sweep of the room, making sure I’d grabbed everything I needed, especially my drawing tablet and stylus, and my water and protein rations for the day. I would save them for the journey. Earl Grey went in last. Then I pulled on my gray overcoat, put on my regulation boots, and sat down on the bed.

This was it. Something flickered inside me, tickling up from the bottom of my spine. Hope. I wouldn’t die on the Stalwart, or plummet down to Earth against my wishes. Who knew what awaited me on the Rochester? But I knew this much: It was new. And it was mine. With the spark heating the soles of my boots, I hefted my bag over my shoulder and stepped out into Ward Z for the last time. “Goodbye, dark, cold, sad place,” I whispered to no one but the stars in the sky.

* * *

The transport bay was cold and I was early, so I dropped my bag on the ground, fashioning it into a makeshift chair, and sat down to wait. I pulled out my drawing tab and clicked it on, finding my last work in progress staring up at me. George. Or half of him, at least. He was missing his jawline, hair, cheeks; his smile. A fresh wave of grief washed over me. I’d never see his smile again. I imagined I could hear him, calling my name.

“Stella! Stella!”

Wait, that wasn’t in my head.