Starbreak (5 page)

I gazed up at the sky. The stars were different here from now they’d been on the
Asherah
. There they burned steadily, as if someone had punched perfect circles in black paper. Here on Zehava, with the thick atmosphere between us, they twinkled. As soon as I fixed my gaze on one, it winked out, before again blazing to life.

At least the moons stayed in place when you looked at them. There were three—one crescent, one that was hardly any more than a narrow slip of light, and a third, so full that it resembled swollen, blushing fruit.

Akku. Zella. Aire,
I thought, and felt my stomach clench. He’d tried to tell me something, something important. But I hadn’t quite understood the importance of moons, scattered across the sky, and the stars between them.
Akku, Zella . . .

This sky wasn’t like ours. On the ship the stars above were always shifting, from night to night as we coasted through empty space. There was a new sky every evening; new stars, too. Once, we’d learned in school, sailors had navigated according to the stars above. But ours were inconstant. And we had no moons.

My hands dropped to my side, suddenly as cold as ice. My gaze searched the sky. There were so many stars—hundreds of them, glinting and gleaming, some in straight lines, some in shimmering clumps. But then I saw it. A white star at the apex of the sky, one that burned just a little brighter than the rest. The head of the hunter’s harp. Abstract, sure, but I could see it. The hunter, the hunter in his carriage, holding a harp in his hands. I spun around, realization dawning on me.

“Terra!” Deklan called, his voice teasing. I’d forgotten that he was like that—the sort of boy born to be an older brother. “You’ll catch flies standing around like that!”

I heard Jachin let out a mumble: “Haven’t seen any flies. Haven’t seen any insects at all. . . .”

But I ignored them. Overhead was Aire, so full it might burst,
and Akku, the sharp-edged crescent. The mountain dipped between them, forming a moonlit path toward the ice fields in the distance. When I let out a white, joyful breath into the cold air, I heard Rebbe Davison’s song putter to a stop.

“Terra?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

I laughed. Choking, giddy laughter, laughter so hard that my chest ached. I lowered my gaze and turned back toward my companions, all gathered around the dying coals.

“I know where we have to go,” I said.

•  •  •

“What do you mean you had a dream?”

They’d gathered around me, Rebbe Davison and Ettie, Jachin and Laurel. But Deklan hung back, hugging his rifle to his chest like it was his intended, not the skinny girl who stood just a few meters away. His dark eyes were hard with disbelief, and they pressed me for answers I knew I didn’t have.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” I said. “I
know
it sounds ridiculous. But
that
star”—I pointed up, to the head of the hunter’s harp—“is a pole star. We can navigate by it.”

“Navigate to where?”

I squinted through the darkness at Deklan, the words dying on my tongue. I knew that if I said “Raza Ait,” then he’d never believe me, never believe that there was a city waiting for us at the bottom
of the mountain where a strange, blue-skinned boy waited for
me.

“Civilization!” I said, throwing my hands into the air. “You saw those lights. Thousands of them, all along the coasts. It can mean only one thing: people.” My eyes darted toward Rebbe Davison. He’d been the one to teach us about cities, years and years ago. It had always sounded like some sort of perverse dream—villages that grew and stretched until they could swallow up our enormous ship entirely. It was hard for me to believe too, so I wasn’t surprised when Deklan shook his head.

“Aw,” he said, “you’re delusional.”

“Deck!” called Laurel, but Deklan hefted the gun up onto his shoulder and headed back toward the fire. After a moment she followed him, but not without hesitation. I saw her bite down on her full lower lip, like she was considering something—turning the idea of it over in her mind. But what good were ideas? Soon we’d either freeze or starve. If I were going to make it to the boy, I needed to do something. I needed to take action. I buried my face in my hands, letting out an unhappy groan.

I felt a tug at my sleeve. It was Ettie. She pulled my fingers down.

“I believe you, Terra,” she said. Her expression was earnest, heartfelt—her dark eyebrows knitted up and hopeful. But it helped, more than I thought it would. I smiled weakly.

“What do you propose?” Jachin asked at last. The man had spoken
little since the crash. Though he’d helped us with our inventory, his words then had been perfunctory. Officious. Yet now his expression was hopeful. “I asked HaShem to save us, but I didn’t think an answer would come so soon.”

“HaShem?” I asked. Jachin’s cheeks went pink. Rebbe Davison answered for him.

“Mar Levi here is a believer. That’s why he joined the Children of Abel.”

“My family passed our religion down like an inheritance. No matter what the Council said, I’ve never stopped believing.”

I examined the man’s features. Small, close set. But intelligent. It was hard for me to believe that a specialist—a biologist—believed in God. The only other person I’d ever known who believed in God was Rachel, my best friend. And look where it had gotten her. She’d been trapped in the clock tower when the riots broke out. And now, who knew?

“Someone
died
.” I said at last. My skepticism was obvious—it trickled out like water down the surface of a frozen rock. But Jachin didn’t waver. He didn’t even flinch.

“But
we
lived. And now your dreams have told you where to go. That’s miraculous, isn’t it?”

I let out a long sigh. I didn’t believe in miracles. There was an answer here—I just had to find it. But I suspected it wouldn’t come until I found my boy, so I changed the subject.

“We’ll walk south.” I turned back to where the mountain pass sloped down beneath the light of two moons. “That way. Toward the largest cluster of lights. That’s our best chance to find people to help us. We should spend a few hours preparing our supplies, then take off by the first light of dawn.”

“It’s a crazy plan,” Deklan called from the fire pit’s edge. “Following some dream!”

“Do you have something better in mind?” Jachin snarled back. Deklan clutched his gun against his chest, apparently shamed. No matter our differences in philosophy, I was glad to have the specialist with me. He didn’t merely believe in some unfathomable spirit. He believed in me, too. If we were going to make it to Raza Ait, I’d need that faith.

“Good,” Jachin said, and just like that it was decided. “South, then. By dawn’s first light.”

•  •  •

In the gray light we gathered our supplies, stuffing each knapsack to the brim with as much food as we could carry, making sure the rifles were in good working order and fully charged. We watched as Deklan propped one up onto his shoulder, flicked the safety back, and shot into the mountains. The noise seemed to ripple on the air. We all flinched; Ettie let out a squeal that was lost under the sound of the shot.

“They work,” Deklan said, holding the hot barrel in both hands. Rebbe Davison gave a nod and began to dole the weapons out, his mouth a grim line. I took one, feeling the awkward weight. It had a switch on it, from two hundred fifty to a thousand sones.

“Can this kill someone?” Jachin asked. Deklan glanced uncertainly at Rebbe Davison.

“If you calibrate it correctly,” our teacher said, “yes.”

I thought of the boy’s warning, a single word that suggested danger lurking in the forests beyond.
Beasts
. But we hadn’t seen any animals yet, not even a single, buzzing insect, as Jachin had pointed out. And I felt perhaps foolishly certain that my boy’s people wouldn’t hurt me. I kept the gauge on the lowest setting. Enough to stun but not enough to kill.

We ate a breakfast of hard jerky and dehydrated noodles sprinkled with something salty from a silver packet. Overhead the stars were fading; we knew that it was finally time to go. We each hefted our bag up onto our back, surveying the remnants of our first Zehavan home. But then our eyes each struck the same place: the shuttle, silver in the sunlight despite the way that crash had warped her hull. The blood that had spilled over the snow was dry now, as brown as mud. But we all knew better.

“That’s my
zayde
,” Ettie said, her eyes growing wide and watery. It was as if the realization surprised her. I remembered what that was like—the moments of normalcy right after Momma’s death, cut
through by loneliness and guilt. She added, “We can’t just leave him here! We can’t!”

She was right; of course she was. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rebbe Davison wince.

“We can’t bury him either,” he said. “The ground’s too hard.”

We stared at the shuttle for a long time. Mar Schneider had been my neighbor. When I was young, he’d visited Momma, sharing stories of his childhood with her. It was boring, but I never minded. He always brought over ribbon candy for me and Ronen to share.

“We’ll burn the body,” I said at last. “Set it on fire. Make sure he’s safe from . . . whatever’s out here.”

“Burn him?” Jachin said. “But we’re supposed to return him to the earth.”

When we all regarded Jachin, questions on our brows, Rebbe Davison piped up in agreement.

“He’s right. It’s in the ship’s contracts. It specified that bodies will be buried, not burned. Within twenty-four hours. It was all very specific. . . .”

I wasn’t sure what to say. But Deklan butted in, waving his hand. “Old laws. I never signed that contract anyway, did you?”

Jachin glanced at all of us, pleading. But no one answered.

“Okay, okay,” Jachin said at last, but he didn’t sound happy about it. He sighed, long and low, and hung his head. “Let’s do it.”

•  •  •

Deklan was the one who cut Mar Schneider down, hacking at the straps with his razor-sharp survival knife. But I was there with Rebbe Davison to catch the body. We wrapped his old, stiff limbs in one of the extra sleeping sacks. I made myself look at his gray skin and the meaty flesh that spilled out of it. I told myself that it was only a body, not a person. And this was no time to be afraid. The day was coming in fast; before we knew it, it would be night. So the three of us carried the body out, and set it down over the already spent coals.

We lined the fire pit with black-barked twigs and all the firestarter we’d been unable to fit inside our packs. In the gray light of morning, I could see how haggard we all were: dirty, tangle-haired. Bags shadowed all of our eyes. Maybe we’d always looked like that—maybe the light on the ship had been too dim to show our true faces. Or maybe this grave, simple work had transformed us into new creatures, half dead ourselves.

Deklan volunteered to be the one to light it. I was glad to have him there—he was brave and bold in ways I wasn’t. The rest of us stood back, tucked into the shadow of the mountain. On muscular legs he scrambled forward, a lighter in his hand. For a moment we couldn’t see him; he was lost behind an outcropping of rock. I held Ettie against me, my arms draped over her shoulders. Soon I felt Laurel’s hand bumble out and reach for mine. She squeezed tight as
we all waited. In this distance there was a
click
then a gentle
whoosh
.

“Did it light?” Rebbe Davison asked as Deklan appeared again. But he didn’t have to answer. We all saw the flames roar up into the frigid air. We all waited, watching as they leaped, orange and feral, past the mountain’s rocky edge. Finally I heard Jachin let out a mumble of words.

“We should say something,” he was saying. “Someone should say something.”

“Captain Wolff always led us in saying that kaddish.” We all turned to look at Laurel. Her cheeks flamed as brightly as the fire in the distance. “What?” she asked.

Deklan gave his head a hard shake. “We’re rebels,” he said. “We can’t say the kaddish.”

I felt my temper flash, white and wild, at that. “Just because we’re rebels doesn’t mean we have to throw
all
our traditions away. What’s the harm?”

None of them said anything. They were all staring down at the ground, or out, bleak and empty, toward the fire.

“On our hallowed ship, or on Zehava,” I said, enunciating each word with great care. At the name of the planet, I saw their faces soften, all of them. “May there come abundant peace, grace, loving kindness, compassion . . .”

Ettie was the first one who joined me.

“Long life,” she said, her voice cracking as she spoke, “refuge . . .”

And then Laurel and Jachin lent their voices as well.

“Healing, redemption, forgiveness . . .”

By the time we’d reached the end of it, they’d all joined in. Even Deklan.

“And salvation for those in the heavens and on Earth.”

I still held Ettie against me. I felt her rib cage quake.

“Shh,” I said, squeezing her. “Shh, it’s okay.”

Everyone was quiet for a long time. Then, at last, we turned away from the pyre and its black column of smoke and toward the narrow pass that cut through the mountain below.

W
e trampled down the mountainside in silence. The cliff faces were black and dripped with ice so thick, it looked like icing on a cake. Soon we found a chasm in the mountainside, a deep split in the rock almost as wide as a body. One at a time we launched ourselves across. Deklan caught Ettie as she leaped. For a moment she wavered within the cage of his arms. But then she righted herself, blushing.

“Thanks,” she said shyly, then darted her hand out to take up mine.

It was strange how quickly she took to me. I’d never been good with children, though it often felt like they were everywhere in the claustrophobic space of the ship. Maybe she liked me because I’d known her grandfather—or maybe it was because of what we shared. Ettie was different from the rowdy boys and girls who roamed the school yard. Her dark eyes were huge, pensively taking in the world around us. She’d lost so much—one moment, standing in her grandfather’s shadow, the next, marooned on a planet, alone with a pack of strange adults. I saw in her a well of secret strength. She pushed her long hair behind her ear, tucking it out of the way of the wind so she could better see the world around her. Then, as we reached an apex, she stopped, shielding her eyes with her gloved hand.