by C L R Draeco
“Anterior knee pain,” Grant said, as though apologizing for letting an admirer down with his crippled stance. “Comes and goes. I can’t believe it’s still a medical mystery in this day and age.”
Though I stood a few inches taller, I felt no less intimidated.
“Please, have a seat.” Grant sank into an armchair and triple-tapped the corner of what seemed like a regular coffee table made of solid hardwood and activated the monitor on its surface. For a moment, what looked like my personnel file flashed onscreen. I glimpsed my ID picture where I looked more cleanshaven than I normally was, my short brown hair neater than it usually was, and my eyes probably a little bluer than they really were.
Grant swiped the screen and flicked through old files of robot designs, which I’d come here to explain. “You’ve got interesting schematics for this initiative here. Tell me about this . . . ‘Petey’ and how you came to think of it.”
I recited my well-rehearsed pitch. “Petey’s the nickname I gave a physical therapist robot for astronauts hibernating in zero gravity. I know that scientists are fiddling with the genes that could allow humans to hibernate for long-distance space travel. And I learned that physical therapy on comatose patients prevents contractures and bone deformity. So I put two and two together and thought of Petey.”
Grant nodded. “Hypo-metabolic torpor induced through a chemical trigger. So far, our most viable option.”
I proceeded with my presentation—flawless, in my opinion—and silently thanked Dave as it came to its end.
Grant squinted at the monitor as though still making up his mind. “I’d like to take your designs forward.”
“Wow. That’s great.” It was hard to sound enthusiastic, especially since my heart was quickly sinking. Everyone had been right all along. This meeting had nothing to do with my application. “Is it for the Mars mission?”
“Before we go any further . . .” The doctor picked up a cliPad—a digital, A4-sized clipboard—and handed it to me. “I’ll need to get your signature for an NDA.”
As an employee of NASA, I’d already signed a confidentiality agreement, but the director of JSC was no doubt about to lead me deeper into the rabbit hole. I scanned through the document, my anxiety rising, and signed, barely breathing.
“Very well. Now, allow me to tell you about a little-known project called Pangaea.” Grant leaned back, and it seemed as though all the strain caused by his knee pain disappeared. “Decades before you were born, in anticipation of Apollo’s last manned missions in the seventies, NASA had braced for the future by teaming up with the world’s greatest powers, richest nations, and quite a number of, shall we say, prosperous individuals and private corporations. It’s for a bold, magnificent, and utterly mad endeavor involving a fleet of self-sustaining starships that will set sail for the nearest inhabitable planet.”
Sweet Jesus. “I’d heard rumors about something like this being kept under wraps, but—”
“At this point, rumors are as far as we want this to get. Technology is one thing best kept secret until it’s ready for the world. And vice versa.”
I blew out my cheeks and nodded. “So you’d want me to finalize Petey for the mission? It would be an incredible honor, sir.”
“Yes, yes. But I had you come here to talk about something else.” He paused as his eyes narrowed in the slightest, as though what he was about to say was bound to scare me away.
Oh crap. He’s going to tell me to forget about applying. I warned myself not to kneel and beg.
“You are one among thousands of individuals we are inviting to be part of Starfleet Pangaea. Many are called but few will accept—and even fewer will pass the final screening.”
My breathing stopped for a moment, and I coughed to force my lungs back into their normal rhythm. “Excuse me, but . . . are you sure you have the right person?”
Grant’s eyes twinkled in mild amusement as he flicked back to my file. “Bram Morrison. Born in Australia to an Aussie father and an English mother. Moved to America in 2007. Homeschooled in your early years.” He cocked a brow. “Explains that trace of an accent. Single. No siblings. Do I have the right individual in my office?”
“Yes, but there must have been a mistake—”
“You’ve applied to be an astronaut four times?”
“And been rejected three times, so far, always for the same reason.” I swallowed and thought back to that time when reality had come crashing down on me. “At sixteen, I hit six feet five and went past NASA’s height limit. I thought my future was over, but . . .” I sighed. “. . . eventually, I decided on being the best robotics engineer I could be so I could still get a piece of me out there.”
“But you never gave up.” He raised his brow. “Is it because you can’t take no for an answer? Or because you’re used to getting what you want?”
“I’m just not one to give up on dreams, sir. My parents got bowled over by it, actually.” I paused and grinned at the memory of me, sometime in grade school, asking my parents to draw up a step-by-step plan to make sure I’d get to be an astronaut someday. “They got worried the dream would pass, so every year, on my birthday—when they were still alive—they had me renew a promise not to let go of it. As the years went by, my conviction just grew stronger that it’s where I could make a difference.”
He nodded appreciatively. “What kind of difference?”
“I just know there’s something waiting to be discovered. There’s just so much space!” I chuckled, feeling like I was a kid again explaining myself to my mom and dad. “I have this picture in my head, like I’m a miner, drifting into a massive, dark cave looking for precious nuggets. And those stars—those gems that I see sparkling from down here—are nothing compared to what they’d look like out there.” I stared in awe at the man. “And you’ve been there. You’ve seen what I can only dream about.”
“And you’d like to go on a treasure hunt yourself.”
“All my life,” I said, almost in a whisper, and held my breath.
Grant gave a subtle shake of his head and said the very words I dreaded to hear. “NASA hasn’t changed its height limit.”
The knot in my belly constricted so tightly I was on the verge of throwing up.
But the director gave me the kind of hopeful smile a father gives to encourage a son. “This offer isn’t from NASA. It’s from Isaiah.” At least, that’s what I thought he’d said.
“I’m sorry. Isaiah who?”
“ISEA. The International Space Exploration Alliance. NASA is but one member. And for Pangaea, the height limit is two meters. That nudges you in by a hair.”
My heart pounded so hard Grant probably saw my chest thudding. I kept expecting the door to burst open with someone rushing in shouting, “There’s been a mistake!” But the room remained utterly quiet—yet I couldn’t hear my own thoughts.
So this was what shock felt like.
“I, uh, suppose most people would pinch themselves at this point.”
“Surprisingly, no. Most think up a polite way to decline. But you . . .” Grant gave a subtle nod, his brown-black eyes gleaming. “You think you’re living a dream.”
I blinked. It was the only movement I was capable of at the moment, besides breathing.
Grant turned towards the side table holding an antique brass model of the solar system, lustrous metal balls representing the planets and their moons. “You see this time-worn contraption over here? It’s a fully functioning orrery.” He spun the device and pointed at a tiny globe the color of turquoise. “That little fellow is our planet. Earth. Beautiful, hmm?”
“Absolutely.” I huffed out a breath and focused my attention.
“Tell me, how would you feel about leaving Earth for good?”
For good? The words were like two metal doors slamming shut in front of me. I stared at the orrery as it slowly spun to a stop.
“Pangaea is a convoy of starships—sleeper ships wherein you get to spread the seed of humanity on another world.
To illustrate the distance . . .” He pointed at the blue planet on the contraption. “If this is where we are, then we’re aiming to take you about two buildings away from here.” Grant held up a solitary finger. “It’s a one-way voyage. You understand the implications?”
I gritted my teeth, feeling I’d just been tricked with some sleight of mind by the director himself. “I couldn’t believe . . .” I swabbed a hand over my mouth. “. . . you didn’t think to lead with that?”
He bowed his head slightly and flashed that fatherly smile again, which managed to earn the senior gentleman a measure of forgiveness. “It’s a lesson I learned about persuasion. You can sometimes get to the big ‘yes’ by taking baby steps.”
I shook my head. How the bloody hell does one baby-step his way to never coming back to Earth?
“Your records say you’re single. Does that also mean you have no children?”
“None.”
“Any relatives, wards—anyone depending on you for financial support or guardianship?”
“No.” I had to clear my throat, which had gone dry. “None.”
“Are you in a relationship?”
“I . . . wouldn’t say that.”
“Nothing serious, then?”
The image of a woman with long black hair and striking almond eyes appeared inside my mind—then the vision disappeared like a long-ago dream I’d failed to chase. “No, I wouldn’t say it’s serious.” I scratched a nonexistent itch on my chin.
Grant nodded. “It’s best if no one’s pulling at your heartstrings. You’ll be surprised how far into space those strings can pull.” The esteemed man then went on to explain the demands and rigor of the mission that was aimed for a tiny dot in the constellation Ophiuchus. How the convoy would be launched in three batches of three ships at a time with a gap of nine years before the departure of the next triad, and each new batch was to be made up of faster ships with more advanced technology. “As for the crew, we’re working our way through a list from around the globe. But we’ll stop once we arrive at 333 yeses, to be further trimmed down to a final ninety-nine. Three sets of thirty-three.”
“Why the magic numbers?” I asked, though I already suspected the answer.
He leaned back and smiled, seemingly glad I had asked. “The official reason is a combination of ergonomics and economics. But the truth comes down to the fact that the top decision-makers are founding members of Deltoton. That about says it all.”
Just as I thought. For those in-the-know, the number three was akin to Deltoton’s fingerprint. I was a member of the online society—and the top dogs were pioneers? Cool.
“Now, let’s not get bogged down by these inputs at the moment,” Grant said. “This talk is preliminary for you to answer the simple, basic question: Can you detach yourself from all things Earth? Permanently.”
I swallowed. Hard. I had long visualized, yearned, ached for this moment, but despite my countless imaginings, I had never—not once—pictured myself leaving Earth for good.
“Does the mission accept couples?” I blurted out.
Grant’s brows shot up. “We actually prefer couples. Both parties passing our criteria, of course.”
“I see.” I didn’t even know how that question slipped past me.
Grant peered closer at my face. “Seems that ‘nothing serious’ is more serious than you’d care to admit.”
I managed a polite smile. I did say I wasn’t one to give up on dreams.
“So tell me. Is this still a proposition you might be tempted to accept?”
“It might be.” Simply saying the words made me queasy. “An extremely shaky and tentative might.”
“Fair enough. I consider that a sane answer. I’m required to give you sixty days to mull this over. Pangaea is designed to be space-efficient. It has no room for regrets.”
“I understand.”
“Indeed, I hope you do. If your happiness lies amidst a global population hooked on cinematic superheroes, sports, and sugar—who enjoy vacationing in underwater cities or subterranean parks and gardens, then say no. If you love to hear applause or enjoy making money to afford every extravagance, say no. It means saying goodbye to sights you’ve taken for granted, like a neighbor’s lawn or a crowded street. Never again immersing in Earth’s ancient ruins, Eastern cultures, and European wonders. The price is steep. And, I must say, it’s foolhardy for anyone to think Earth—and all its loves and luxuries—can be easily left behind.”
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out two white envelopes, and laid one of them on the table. “This is the form rejection letter from NASA in response to your latest application. You won’t have to receive this should you choose to accept ISEA’s offer.”
He placed the other envelope next to it. “This is an acceptance letter for you to be counted among the candidates for Mission Pangaea—which will be ready for you to sign when the time comes, should you choose it.”
I stared at the two letters, each spelling out a different future for me in black and white. Both holding at bay a distinct version of pain.
Grant slid the envelopes aside, tucked them out of sight underneath the cliPad, then rose from his seat with ease. I, on the other hand, carried a heavier burden as I came to my feet.
“We’ll meet again in two months,” Grant said. “Should you decide to decline before then, just let me know. Meanwhile, live life. Explore the ties that bind you here. Family. Friends. Plans and dreams. And ask yourself if you can bring yourself to leave them all . . . for good.”
3
Did I Miss A Call?
She stood in a shaft of moonlight at the end of a long, dark hall. But somehow, even at that distance, I could see her almond eyes sparkle in striking blue-violet as she smiled. I wished I could touch her. Hold her. Be with her.
The twist ties around my tongue loosened and fell away as I walked towards her. “I have so much to tell you.”
“Do you really know what you want to tell me?” Her voice reverberated as though the universe itself had spoken. Then half her face began to glow like starlight, turning into a constellation that merged with an endless night sky. I reached out, afraid she’d disappear.
“Be with me,” I said, and like magic, she rose and floated towards my outreached—Bloody hell. Was that my iHub ringing?
Crap.
With a jolt, I opened my eyes. By then, there was nothing but the faint drone of central heating—and a tightness in my chest weighed down by a strong throb of dread. No one had ever woken me up with good news that couldn’t wait till morning.
I rubbed a hand over my eyes and squinted into the shadows trying to sense where my best buddy was, but I couldn’t see a thing. He was somewhere in my bedroom watching over me. Probably sitting on the floor with his head retracted into the rest of his body.
“Hey, Diddit. Wake up,” I rasped, my throat still not quite awake.
A row of lights blinked on around his cubed girth as he roused himself from sleep mode. A smaller cube emerged from his flat top displaying a pleasant robotic face, its neon blue eyes an exaggerated reflection of mine.
“What’s up, mate?” asked my mechanized best friend with an outbacker’s twang. The vintage LED sound visualizer, representing Diddit’s mouth, oscillated color bars with his words.
“Did I miss a call?”
“Yes, thirty-three days ago, and you returned it half an hour later.”
“Weird.” I shook my head, still pretty sure I’d been nudged awake by the Star Base movie theme. “I guess I must’ve been dream—”
My iHub wristband cut me short with exactly that ringtone, the glow of its display blinking a dull green where it lay on my nightstand. I checked the caller ID.
There was no number. No name. Nothing.
The nape of my neck prickled as I placed the tiny receiver into my ear. “Hello?”
“Hey, Bram.” Static hissed and sizzled. “Something weird just happened. I have no idea where I am.”
My breath g
ot sucked out of me. The words had sputtered their way through a bad connection, but there was no mistaking Franco’s voice. Or was I just groggy?
I pressed on my earpiece to hear better. “Who is this?”
“I’ve been . . . Can’t get through . . . I’m on my way.” I barely heard the rest. “If this is it—Carpe diem, bro.”
“Bloody hell.” I leaned closer to my iHub and its pinprick of a mic. “Whoever you are, this isn’t funny.”
Only the crackle of white noise answered, and then the line went silent. I checked the wristband display, and it said: Call Ended. The glow of my iHub dimmed as it went out, and I pulled the receiver out of my ear, tossed the iHub onto my nightstand, and slumped back into bed. What a bloody tasteless prank.
Maybe I could still pick up that dream from where it had left off. I breathed deeply and pictured her long black hair. Her smiling eyes. Porcelain skin. His bushy black eyebrows and bearded chin—What the hell?! I tossed in bed and thrust a fist into my pillow, hoping to smash away the unsettling vision of Franco.
Minutes went by, and the more I tried to relax, the more strain I felt in my shoulders.
Damn it. Who the hell would do a thing like that?
“Diddit, turn my lamp on.”
As the warm white light slowly increased in intensity to just the right level, my gaze landed back on my iHub on the bedside table. “Can you trace where that last call came from?”
“Sorry, mate. No number registered.”
“But . . . I did get a call, right?” I couldn’t have been that groggy.
“Yes, and it lasted fifteen seconds.”
I huffed a befuddled breath. “Call the telecom company. Try customer service or something.” I put on my earpiece just as some stranger’s friendly voice came on the line.
“Hello, mate. I just got a crank call a while ago. Could you please trace the number and block it for me?”