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.”