Brightly Burning

by Alexa Donne

  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.

  Chapter 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.