When supper was over, Hannah showed me how to knot Alyana’s sling over my body. I cradled the baby against me as we meandered through the district. As they made their way through the winding streets, they silently held hands. The citizens we passed touched their hands to their hearts, nodded. It was a brave thing that Hannah was doing. Everybody knew that. What I didn’t understand, or want to understand, was why some of the citizens caught my gaze as I trailed behind the couple, and saluted me, too.
I refused to look at them. What if someone saw? Besides, I hadn’t done anything yet. So I only set my jaw, holding my head high.
We took the district lift down. It made me feel strange to see my brother reach out and hit the number zero on the panel; stranger still when the lift gave a beep of protest and waited for Hannah to press her finger against it instead. I’d never been down to the shuttle bay before. None of us had. It was one of those places you read about or heard stories of but never, ever saw. The lift lurched downward. I clutched Alyana against me, pressing my lips to her baby-soft hair.
“Is she all right?” my brother asked.
“Yes. She’s fine.”
We stepped out into the dimly lit bay. The walls surrounding the lift exit were black. At first I thought it was dirt that darkened them. But then I realized that the walls and ceilings and even the floor beneath us wore a coat of rust.
The rest of Hannah’s team waited in a loose circle around one of the air-lock doors. It was a shining pane of black glass, and it reflected their brave expressions. Their families waited too, hanging back as if afraid to come too close. I watched as Hannah spotted her parents among the crowd, dropped my brother’s hand, and went to greet them. He waited with me.
“I should give her space,” he said. “They must be worried about her. They’ll want to wish her good luck.”
I saw Hannah’s father reach out and touch the cord on her shoulder—specialist blue, threaded with gold. He looked proud, a little wistful. I felt a strange pang in my chest.
“If he’s so worried,” I said, “then he should stop this. He’s a Council member. He has the power.”
My brother wouldn’t look at me. His tone was flat. “Terra, that’s treason,” he said, and then he went to join his wife, leaving me there with his child by the mouth of the lift.
After a moment the door opened again, and the captain’s guard paraded out of the lift. Someone jostled my shoulder, and the baby stirred. She let out a cry. Across the room I saw Hannah’s clear eyes snap up at the sound. But before she could rush over, Captain Wolff exited the lift, Silvan at her side.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said as the captain marched by me, her ice-cold eyes fixed ahead of her. Silvan ignored how I jiggled and shushed little Alyana. I grimaced at him.
“My brother’s wife is on the exploratory team.”
“Ah, yes,” Silvan said. “The cartographer girl. She comes from a good family.”
It was too much for me. I’d had too little sleep, and the baby was bawling in my arms. “Why would you send a Council member’s daughter out there? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Silvan’s unruly eyebrows knitted up in confusion. “What are you talking about? We need someone to draw us maps. It’s her job.”
At this I only snorted. Silvan’s words revealed that he really was the innocent I’d long suspected—swallowing Council rhetoric without a moment’s hesitation. But I knew better. Hannah would never have a chance to do her job. This was all just for show.
But before I could say that, Ronen came over. He lifted Alyana from her sling and cradled her in his arms. She was almost instantly quieted. I let out a ragged breath.
Then I was surprised to feel a hand settle in between my shoulder blades. It was the unmistakable pressure of Silvan’s fingers, broad and warm. He drew me against him, planting a kiss in my hair.
“I know,” he said, and let out a small laugh. “I’m tired too.”
My heart swelled painfully in my chest.
I could hardly listen as Captain Wolff stood before the shuttle crew and made her formalities. She lifted her hands. The guards beside her looked purposeful and proud. There was yet another speech, this one on the importance of their mission, of how the shuttle crew would be the first noble step toward tikkun olam. Yadda yadda yadda. I leaned against Silvan, feeling sad as he raked his fingers along my back. And guilty, too. I should have been thinking about my brother, my niece. And Hannah. But I thought only about myself. In a few weeks we’d be landing, and I’d poison Silvan. And I’d lose the last small comfort I had.
We watched as Captain Wolff opened up the air lock. The glass door rolled aside, letting out a rush of musty air. One by one the shuttle crew filed in. Then they disappeared up the narrow stairwell that led to the shuttle. Soon the door rolled over again, closing. All we could see was the panel of shining glass.
“I hope the shuttle still works,” Silvan joked. But his tone was grim. I hoped so too.
There was a sound—the massive roar of engines igniting. It seemed to go on for a very long time, growing louder and louder still. Then it was done, and there was only silence.
There was a smattering of applause from the crowd. Even Silvan clapped, and he let out a whistle.
Not me, though. I was watching Ronen. My brother rocked his daughter in his arms almost frantically. Then I realized he was doing something that my father had never done. Crying. Big, sloppy tears ran down his cheeks.
27
After the shuttle departed, something changed, shifted, about the mood of the ship. I’d walk through the districts and hear how nobody spoke except in whispers. In the cool, stirring air of the dome, the fieldworkers went about their business in silence. Even the merchants spoke in low tones. When I walked by the shops in the morning, nobody shouted “Sale!” at me. At the counters citizens paid their gelt, took their packages, and were gone.
I think that everyone was holding their breath. I know I was. For one thing, I was waiting to hear what kind of disaster would befall the shuttle. I was sure that at any moment Captain Wolff would call us to gather in the pastures and announce that there had been an accident—an explosion, maybe, or a crash. Then we’d all hang our heads and sing.
But I don’t think that was all of it. We worried about the shuttle crew, sure. Every night I watched my brother rock his daughter and promise that her mama would come home, and my heart broke a little more. But there was something else, a sort of breathless excitement in the way we all looked up as we walked through the dome, watching Zehava grow bigger and bigger in the sky overhead.
We were almost there. For five hundred years the planet had been nothing more than a story parents would tell their children. I’m sure there were times when nobody believed we’d ever really get there. It was just a myth, a fairy tale. But now things were different. Nine Asherati were bound for the surface, even if their mission was a farce. Soon we would arrive. And then maybe—just maybe—we’d finally be free.
Two weeks. Only two weeks remained. I went about my business like my life would always be this way—I walked to the labs in the morning, talked genetics with Mara, spent my afternoons dreaming up new plants or digging through the dirt. Then I came home to eat supper with my brother and his baby before frittering my nights away with Silvan. But part of me was always looking up at the glowing sphere of blue and white that grew bigger and bigger in the black distance. Soon we would arrive. Soon everything would change.