Brightly Burning

by Alexa Donne

  “Xiao doesn’t mind her taking the old FO quarters. They’re the nicest down here, and closest to the medical bay.”

  “Jessa, watch out for the—” I was about to say blood, but it was gone. Someone had cleaned up.

  “Watch out for the what?” Hugo asked.

  “Nothing.” It was strange. The blood gone, Jessa skipping in front of us, and Hugo by my side, I no longer felt ill at ease. It didn’t seem as dark or cold. Still, I was happy to return to mid-deck and proper lighting.

  “Sorry to monopolize your morning,” Hugo said as we exited the elevator. “You can take the rest of the day for yourself. Except for this evening. Our reading appointment stands.”

  I felt scolded, though Hugo’s tone held no malice. I had been considering ways to get out of our arrangement, and now I felt guilty.

  “You weren’t going to come, were you?”

  I thought of making excuses, but any decent one would be a lie, which I was loath to do. “I wasn’t sure if you meant it. The invitation.”

  “Of course I meant it. Why wouldn’t I mean it?”

  “I just didn’t think the captain of a ship would have any real interest in spending time with a crew member.” Or someone from the Stalwart, for that matter, with such a basic name like Stella. I felt my cheeks burn at the memory of his slights.

  Hugo stopped in his tracks, rounding on me with arms crossed over his chest. Jessa was oblivious and skipped on ahead. “You think I’m a total jerk,” Hugo stated, as opposed to asked, catching me off-guard.

  Suddenly it was far too warm. “I just thought—”

  “That I care more about status than people.”

  I couldn’t lie, and I was sure my face said it all.

  “I get it,” he said. “Especially after my abominable behavior last night. I’ll admit with the time I spend on other ships that follow more . . . traditional social conventions, I can lose sight of myself a bit. But on this ship, there’s only eight of us. If I refused to socialize with anyone ‘below my station,’ I’d only ever talk to Xiao and Poole, and most of the time they still treat me like I’m twelve.”

  He started walking again, gesturing for me to fall into step beside him. I found myself confused. Unlike last night, today he was easy, playful. Nice.

  “Do you like poker? We have a weekly game on Sundays. Everyone plays, though only Mari and Grace offer any real competition. But I suspect books and conversation are more up your alley.”

  We stopped in front of my room, and he hit me with those blue eyes again.

  “Will I see you tonight? It’s your choice. But know that my invitation is genuine.”

  I nodded, unsure I could manage coherent speech. I was discovering I had a habit of always saying the wrong thing to the captain.

  I arrived that evening at promptly half past eight, inhaling and releasing a deep breath to calm the butterflies that had taken up residence in my rib cage. As I smoothed a hand over my hair and checked that the dark gray dress I’d chosen was as spotless as it had been ten minutes ago, I realized I was acting like this was some kind of date. I scolded myself and knocked on the door to Hugo’s study. And when he barked “Enter” and I stepped through the door, it already felt completely routine.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Hugo said. “I was worried you’d skip out on me. Though if you had, I’d have hailed you on comms and talked your ear off until you relented.”

  I frowned as I took my seat across from him, noting my book was ready for me, sitting on the table that bridged the space between our two chairs. Next to it was a glass of spirits. “Shouldn’t you want me to come willingly, and not because you pestered me until I gave in?”

  His eyes held my gaze, winking curiosity. “Yes, of course. I was joking.”

  Except I didn’t think he was. I got the sense Hugo was used to getting exactly what he wanted, all the time. I picked up my book and carefully opened to the first page. The type was faded in places but still readable. I made it no further than the second paragraph.

  “Do you normally prefer nonfiction?”

  My gaze flicked up to find Hugo sitting cross-legged in his oversized armchair, hands folded in his lap as he peered over at me. He looked like an overgrown boy. He hadn’t even touched his book.

  “I love fiction as much as anything else, but I do have a fondness for history and science. Those were the categories available in abundance on board the Stalwart.”

  “I’m surprised such a basic ship would tend toward those subjects.”

  “Basic?” I bristled. “You think because we grow your food, that makes us bumpkins?”

  “No, no, no,” Hugo said. “I just . . . imagined fiction would offer an attractive escape on a ship like the Stalwart. I meant no offense, I promise.”

  I nodded in acceptance of his apology, though I remained wary. “Fiction is an incredible escape, yes, but reader tabs and an abundant library are luxuries we couldn’t afford.”

  “You keep saying ‘we.’ But you live here now. I’ll give you any book you want.”

  “And which one are you reading? Or not reading, as the case may be?” I pointed to the book that was being ignored on his own side table. Anything to get us away from the topic of where I belonged. Finally, he picked it up, the pages falling open to a spot where I could see a ribbon tucked between the pages.

  “Anna Karenina,” he said. “It’s Russian. And depressing and beautiful.” He frowned down at the page. “But it’s been two months, and I’m fuzzy on what I last read. Might have to start over.”

  He flipped to the front of the book, and I happily returned to mine. This time, I at least got past the introduction.

  “Do you like it on board? So far?”

  “Of course. I like it very much.” I looked to his book, then down at mine. I longed to return to it. “Do you actually intend to read, or was this an excuse to interview me?”

  Hugo made a sound halfway between a grunt and a laugh. “You like to say whatever comes into your head, don’t you?”

  “On the contrary.” I sat up straighter, tilting my chin high. “I usually never say what I’m thinking, but . . .” But.

  “But what?” Hugo prodded.

  You annoy me, I didn’t say. I feel oddly at ease with you, I didn’t say. Finally, I settled on: “You’re persistent.”

  “That I am.” He grinned. “I’ll promise not to speak for the next hour. We’ll read. But then I get to talk to you until bedtime.”

  “Are you negotiating to make me talk to you?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he pointed to the table. “Don’t you want your drink?”

  “I didn’t realize it was for me.”

  “Well, it is. So, do you want it?” I shook my head. He gladly availed himself of it instead.

  Hugo kept his promise, and for the next hour, the only sounds I heard from him were periodic sips of his—​and my—​glass, and the turning of pages. And then, picking up exactly where he’d left off: “Did you leave many friends behind? On the Stalwart?”

  I gave up on my book with a sigh, looking around for something to mark my place. Hugo came to my rescue, opening a hidden drawer in the table to produce a piece of paper I could tuck between the pages.

  “Thank you,” I said. “And, yes, I did leave behind some friends.” I indulged myself with a plural but immediately felt false. “Well, one friend. George. We message a lot now.”

  “You’re blushing. Is he your boyfriend?”

  I laughed so suddenly and loudly that Hugo jumped in his chair. Great. Now he likely thought me a loon. A sad, single loon. “Do you realize how inappropriate it is to ask that?” I deflected.

  “Oh?”

  He was clueless. I sighed. “Yes. You are my employer. And you’ve only just met me. And it’s private.”

  Hugo shrugged. “Well, you can ask me anything you want. Be as invasive as you want. Consider it payback and my apology.”

  What possible way could I navigate this without causing
trouble? Hugo was playing the equal, but I was all too aware of the power he held over me.

  “Where do you go when you’re off-ship? And why do you stay away so long?”

  There. I punted with both a harmless and a sharp-toothed question, leaving it to him to answer truthfully or not. I was sure there was a story behind his frequent absences. But would he wish to tell me?

  “There’s a lot to attend to, both on- and off-ship,” he started, tone measured. “But with our position out here, I find that to be most efficient with managing my family’s affairs, I have to be with the main fleet.”

  My confusion must have been evident on my face, because quickly Hugo moved to clarify.

  “My family also owns the Lady Liberty, so you can imagine . . .”

  I sucked in a breath. The Lady Liberty was the hub of the fleet, a massive, elegant American ship said to have every luxury available to every soul on board. And as the owner of one of the big five ships, that meant Hugo had a role in government. Like, actually got to vote on essential measures. Suddenly I felt small and, indeed, simple.

  “So, what is your book about?” I changed the subject.

  Hugo launched into a passionate, if convoluted, explanation of Anna Karenina, which easily took us to twenty-two hundred hours, and curfew.

  “See you tomorrow night?” Hugo asked as I left him at his door.

  I called out over my shoulder playfully, “Sure. I want to finish my book.”

  “I know you’re using me for my library,” he shot back.

  “Good night.” I retreated to my room before he could see how wide my smile was.

  Chapter Ten

  I kept my word, returning the next night to finish my book, which turned out to be a riveting account of a mountaineering disaster that happened on the world’s tallest peak at the tail end of the twentieth century. As I became immersed in a pursuit as unfathomable to me as breathing in space, my nightly reading sessions with Hugo turned routine. When I finished that book, I found another on the shelf, this one a tense drama about Old-World British and Russian spies.

  We read together every night, allotting the last half-hour before bed for Hugo’s chatter, by which point he was always more than a little drunk. It became second nature to parry his too-personal questions with lighter fare, usually updates on Jessa or recounting the book I was reading. Still, too often Hugo got past my defenses, disarming me with a well-timed question. Like: “Stella, are you lonely?”

  All the sound was sucked out of the room, leaving nothing but the loud timpani of my panicking heart in my ears.

  “Of course not,” I replied, well-practiced in answering dishonestly to put others at ease. “I see you every day. Jessa, Xiao. Everyone else.” Of course, I didn’t feel close to any of them. Not truly. Jessa was a child, and everyone else was either my employer or too wrapped up in their own life. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

  “Hmm,” Hugo hummed. “But you don’t seem really connected to anyone. Close.”

  His keen gaze, his on-the-nose assessment, rendered me naked; hot from collar to boots, fighting a squirm that tempted me to flee the room.

  “I might throw the same accusation back at you,” I said, my cool rapidly slipping. And then he smiled! As if I’d pleased him.

  “That’s fair,” he replied. “Everyone on board this ship is a bit like a solitary planet. We orbit the same sun, but on lonely tracks. At least we all have that in common.”

  “Wouldn’t you say we orbit the moon?”

  “Was that a joke?” He laughed. “I’m impressed.”

  A new warmth overcame me, like when my parents used to envelop me in their arms, whispering comforts into my hair. I felt acceptance and the freedom to be myself. And a hint of something else, not familial at all. A flame of desire, which I tamped down but feared I could not extinguish, now that it had been lit.

  I found myself counting down the hours of each day until I could join Hugo in the evening. I even started allowing myself a drink occasionally, liking the way it made me all floaty and warm and comfortable during our conversations.

  “You know you’ve been here two months,” Hugo said one night.

  “Are you in on the betting pool?” Hugo looked at me with confusion, so I elaborated. “For how long I’ll make it on board. Hanada told me about it.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Mari was messing with you. She has a strange sense of humor.”

  “So it’s not true that there were a bunch of governesses before me, most of whom didn’t stay long?”

  “Perhaps it was a mistake to let you drink.” Hugo played as if to take away my glass. I couldn’t miss the edge to his voice. “Come on, you know this place isn’t for everyone. Isolated from the rest of the fleet and all.”

  “True,” I said, thinking perhaps that Sergei had spun a yarn to keep me entertained.

  “Anyway, if there was a betting pool, which there isn’t, I’d advise you to stay at least fourteen months.” He winked, and I threw my book at him.

  “Ha! Now you can’t read!” he taunted. “So you have no choice but to talk to me for the next two hours.”

  “If I can’t read, I’ll draw. So, alas, you’ll have to push through on that Dickens.”

  Hugo perked up. “How come I’ve not seen you with a drawing tab?”

  I shrugged. “My old tab isn’t in the best of shape. The colors are shot; the stylus has totally lost sensitivity. And mostly I’ve been devouring all your books instead of drawing.”

  “Go get your tab, then. I want to see your work.”

  I glanced at a masterpiece on the wall behind Hugo’s head, a Degas. “Why would you want to see my scribbling when you have the stuff of the masters at hand?”

  “None of the masters live on my ship. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll play the piano for you. I’m completely out of practice, but it’s the closest skill I have that you might consider an artistic talent.”

  “I didn’t even know there was a piano on board.”

  Hugo nodded. “There’s a drawing room next to the dining quarters. Just give me a week or two to practice. I’m rusty. But you have to show me now.”

  I took a swig of drink for courage. “Fine.”

  Within five minutes, I’d fetched my drawing tab from my quarters and Hugo was pulling me over to the love seat at the window. My heart sped up as Hugo arranged himself nearly on top of me. My head knew the alcohol made him extra friendly, but my other senses hadn’t gotten the memo. I wiped a sweaty palm on my dress so I wouldn’t smudge the tab screen, and I pulled up an old landscape. He leaned close under the guise of seeing the screen better, settling a hand on top of my thigh in the process, and took it upon himself to swipe and flick through the next few images.

  “You’re really good,” he said. “Do you draw people?” I nodded, and he didn’t hesitate, navigating his way to my portrait subfolder, albeit slowly. “You weren’t kidding about this being old. . . .”

  “I’ve had it since I was eleven, and it was my cousin’s before me. It’s likely older than Jessa at this point.” I took a moment to realize Hugo wasn’t listening. His gaze was locked on the tab. He was looking at a picture of George.

  “Who is this?” he asked, tracing the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

  “That’s George,” I said, swiping the image away. Then the next three of George, my cheeks burning. The next, one of Karlson, reminded me I owed him a message. I’d finally relented after five messages and started telling him about the Rochester’s vegetable slate. Weirdo.

  “Are these all boys from the Stalwart?” Hugo asked, flicking to the next portrait, thankfully one of Arden, followed by Joy. Then another of George, the one I’d started before I came here.

  “All two of them? Yes.”

  “It’s a wonder you wanted to leave.”

  For a brief second, I wondered if he was jealous, and I allowed myself the flutter of hope that spread warmth throughout my body. But then he wrested himself
away, his expression turned sour.

  “I’m too drunk to read. I’m going to bed early.”

  He left me speechless and alone, feeling as uneven as George’s half-finished portrait.

  “I wish these old books came with reference manuals. Or footnotes. And pictures.” I put down the latest in my spy series, trying and failing to envision twentieth-century Berlin.

  “Hmm?” Hugo hummed, barely looking up from his own book. Four nights later, and he was still powering through his Dickens—​Great Expectations. And he’d been nothing but pleasant since our last encounter. Neither of us mentioned his mini-tantrum and walkout.

  “I’m having trouble picturing some of these places,” I said. I sighed back into my chair. “I asked Rori if she had anything to supplement me, but she came up empty. Said something about not having authorization.”

  Hugo finally set down his book.

  “Come with me,” he said, getting up from his chair and not bothering to check that I followed. Which I did. Of course.

  He led me down the corridor toward the aft end of the ship, into the elevator, and down to the lower level. Instead of going left, Hugo turned right, to parts unknown. I checked the location markers on each bulkhead we passed. Deck Three, Ward O, Ward N, Ward M . . . until he stopped at a bulkhead labeled Ward K and opened a door with his fingerprints. We stepped into a room packed to the gills with circuitry, row after row of eight-foot-tall server bays spanning the room.

  “Welcome to the library,” he said, much to my confusion. There were no books here; how could it be a library?

  “My family was concerned about the mass loss of culture the ice age would bring, so they made an arrangement with the Library of Congress,” Hugo explained, leading me farther into the room, which pulsed hot and cold simultaneously. “What you see here is the most extensive digital archive of documents, maps, books, and the old Earth Internet in the fleet.”

  I gawked at the towering vessels of knowledge around me, which hummed and whirred and wheezed. “Why are you showing me this?” I asked.