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Kaufman leapt to his feet as though yanked upright by a puppet string. “Safety,” he said bluntly. “The entire point of taking SD study off-world is safety. Currently all SD experiments—unless you want to call the drives aboard the convoys experiments—are computer simulations, some in part, some in their entirety. We know trying to break out of the restrictive dimensions we exist in on a day-to-day basis is dangerous. We’ve had experimental engines explode, and worse. All in simulation. We don’t know what the consequences of opening up each new dimension might be. By their very definition, these dimensions do not play by the scientific principles we long thought to be true. Time and space, matter and energy, do not behave the same in these arenas.
“If we move this research off Earth because we fear a new SD breach might swallow all of Cincinnati, we cannot expect our scientists to risk the rest of the experiments, their convoy, and their lives if they don’t have to.”
“Thank you, Doctor Kaufman,” Vanhi said. “He’s exactly right. Each pod would be remotely piloted away from the convoy, ensuring the safe continuation of the research.”
Dr. Ndi nodded, but made no indication he was satisfied or unsatisfied with the answer.
Next, the representative from Zambia asked about the efficiency of the convoy. “Doctor Kapoor,” she began, leaning over the contoured edge of the desk-like balcony to see better. She was a match for Kaufman in size, and wore a green chitenge dress topped with a purple blazer. “You suggest the building of the not-yet-complete food processing ship be halted, because your convoy would not need to be self-sufficient. Why do you think it best that Earth be burdened with constantly resupplying your mission, instead of your crew learning to support themselves?”
“Thank you, Doctor Mwansa. Our mission will be so unlike the other eleven, we don’t want to do things exactly as they do simply for consistency’s sake. It doesn’t make sense to put the burden of food production and resource conservation on an SD-focused mission. We will not be traveling far beyond the Oort cloud. Our convoy will still be ‘local.’ The other convoys need to be totally self-sufficient because they will not engage with Earth for a century or more. They may not, in fact, see the underside of an atmosphere for just as long. Their crews need to be extraordinarily large to ensure mission success. They need resources for all of those people, and, in turn, enough people to process those resources. Their crews are upward of one hundred thousand at peak operation, and the majority of those people are not directly essential to the science that is the mission’s focus. They will be nomadic societies. We will not.
“Our crew does not have to be socially self-sustaining, as there is no reason for the entirety of the crew to remain aboard for the twenty-year study. We do not need clones because we will not be permanently removing scientists from Earth. Stints aboard our convoy can be limited to two or five years at a time. On any given day, I see no reason for there to be more than five hundred crew members—perhaps fifteen hundred to two thousand people total, including crew families—living aboard.”
“Doctor, you’re not answering my question about food production.”
“I’m sorry, yes, I’m getting there. My point is, if we are ferrying people back and forth, rotating the crew so that they can come back and contribute to Earth once they’ve served, so that they can be with their families, I see no reason not to put resupply missions on the same schedule. Requiring our convoy to be self-sufficient resource-wise means we will need that many more crew members, because someone will have to tend to the plants and the proteins, will need to keep the processing ship in order and functioning. How many clones are currently slated for food production jobs in the other convoys? A few thousand? We won’t need anything like that. Our serving crew will be so small, it will be easy to store the necessary rations and rely on resupplies. It will be far more efficient.”
“And we will get you the hard numbers that prove as much in a week,” Kaufman added.
Vanhi didn’t counter him.
The questions kept coming, some hard and fast, some—in Vanhi’s opinion—obtuse and frivolous, but she didn’t balk at any of them. They talked about the use of clones. Many had already been grown for the previous Convoy Twelve mission. Vanhi had no problem with reeducating those people and adding some of them to her crew if they wanted to be a part of it. But the consortium would not need to grow new clones, and she would still need Earth experts, those she handpicked for particular jobs.
They asked about Vanhi’s request that those crew members with spouses and children be allowed to bring them aboard. After all, all of the other convoys were genetically selective. Only essential crew members, who all met a very strict genetic standard, were allowed to be a part of the mission. But Vanhi’s convoy wouldn’t rely on genetic mandates. She needed volunteers, and allowing families was the surest way to guarantee the best people signed on. If they didn’t have to choose between their careers and missing out on lost baby teeth, they were more likely to come aboard.
As the inquiry wound down, Vanhi realized she’d calmed. Not only did she feel like she belonged, she was starting to think this might work. Maybe Kaufman wasn’t out of his gourd for trying to get her a convoy. Maybe he would get the legacy-preserving green light he was looking for.
Madame Chair asked the final question.
“As you both are aware—better than anyone else we’ve spoken to, I’m sure—” she began, “SD research has made interstellar travel possible for the first time in human history. I do not question the importance of furthering that research. But your proposal indicates you would not have the convoy travel farther than the Oort cloud. So, if the original point of the missions is to exercise our capacity to leave the solar system, why should we assign a mission that lacks the same fundamental ambition as the other eleven convoys? Why shouldn’t we assign another interstellar mission while you look for funding elsewhere?” The chair raised an eyebrow. It was the first time she’d allowed an emotive expression. And in it was a silent challenge: impress me.
Vanhi’s heart turned to dust in her chest. How could she counter that? The chair was right, of course. That was the whole point of the P.U.M.s. How could they in good conscience assign a mission that completely missed the spirit of the world’s scientific union?
What was supposed to be a brief pause while she gathered her thoughts turned into a drawn-out silence and then a full-on hiatus. Kaufman gave her no help.
What could she say? What was the consortium looking for?
This is just like defending your thesis, she reminded herself. The research itself is the body, but the why is the soul.
She realized Madame Chair’s expression wasn’t a challenge, it was an entreaty: You’ve argued Reason. Now argue Heart.
She sniffled nervously and adjusted her glasses, then rounded the desk to stand freely before them. She did not clasp her hands or rock on her heels. Instead, she dug in, with a strong stance and her arms open. “What do you remember most about space exploration from when you were a kid?”
Madame chair smiled ever so slightly. “I remember the first manned dive on Europa.”
“What about that mission, specifically?”
“The pictures of the underwater spires.”
Vanhi nodded, smiling, too. The geology on Europa was stunning. Who knew such intricate structures were hiding under the ice? “I used to have a calendar with those pictures on it. Do you remember when the mission was launched? The day it was launched?”
The chair thought for a moment, then shook her head. Not a strand of her gray hair moved independently of its brethren. “Can’t say I do.”
“But you remember the pictures, when they were first released?”
“Yes.”
“When these missions are ready, and the ships launch from orbit—it’s only four short years before Convoy One launches, correct?—when they go, there will be pictures. Pictures of huge, silver-and-black ships. People will take epic shots of the convoys with the moon as their backdrop.” She took a breath, pausing for effect. “And then those ships will turn on their drives, and disappear into a subdimension, and there will be no more convoy pictures for a century.”
She let it sink in. No new pictures, only the occasional bland communiqué. Nothing with which to rally the non-initiated, to invigorate the public.
“Keeping one convoy close to home is absolutely essential for public morale. We want them to stay excited about space travel. That’s the whole point. We want kids to remember these missions, to look forward to joining missions of their own one day. We want people to gaze at the stars in wonderment and know that they are reachable, that the secrets of the galaxy can be touched. What is the point in hurrying SD research if we can’t keep this international union alive? We need the whole world to feel the gravity of its importance, to know that these kinds of peaceful, worldwide endeavors are beautiful, and human.
“If you place us around the corner, outside the neighborhood but just down the road, people can visit. Both literally and figuratively. People can point their telescopes at us. They can take space jaunts to see us. There can be pictures as often as you want them. We can keep the excitement high. We can make sure people don’t forget about all those other brave souls while they’re doing the hard work of trying to be societies in space. We owe them the public’s continued interest. And we owe the world a sense of wonder.”
Kaufman raucously applauded, his beefy hands clapping out an echoing ovation.
The consortium members did not join in. But Madame Chair smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “I think we have all the information we need.”
After Vanhi and Kaufman gathered their things, the man in the kilt appeared once more and escorted them back into the hall.
JULY 7, 2117
“Vanhi!” called her sister from the living room. “Vanhi, will you catch him?”
A two-foot-tall streak of deep tan came stomping through the kitchen, naked except for a white cloth diaper and a dazzling baby-toothed smile. He dodged around his aunt Amita’s legs, forcing her to twirl and sidestep around the center island so as not to tread on him. Mandeep tried to grab his little cousin—two beers in one hand, the other slick with condensation—but missed. Shrieking with laughter, the toddler dodged between his nani and the stove; she reeled back, dripping wooden spoon held high in the air.
Aunt Vanhi was there on the other side, kneeling behind the folds of her mother’s mekhela to scoop her youngest nephew into her arms.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in the bathtub, Ryan?” she asked, standing and tipping him upside down so his lengthy black hair flopped out of his face.
“No,” he lied with a giggle.
In the living room, uncles and brothers and cousins all sat anxiously in front of the TV, flipping through the channels, barking orders at the screen, waiting for the World Cup match to start. Vanhi’s eldest brother and his three grown boys all wore blue India National Football Team jerseys.
Fifteen adults and five little ones under one roof for the big game meant constant chaos.
“Wait. Flip back, flip back!” Divit yelled at whoever had control of the TV’s voice commands. “That was Vanhi.”
She tossed little Ryan upright, holding him snugly to her chest. “That was my what?” she called.
“Your face.”
Unsure she’d heard correctly, she repositioned the boy on her hip and rounded the corner.
Her parents’ house was large—thankfully, since Vanhi had grown up with five siblings. But the living room had never been spacious. The normally curtainless windows now sported bright purple-and-orange scarves from her mother’s collection to keep the midday Arizona sun from glaring off the television screen. The three well-worn brocade couches were filled to bursting with relatives—relatives who’d all turned away from the screen to gape over their shoulders at Vanhi.
“What—?” She pulled up short of coming fully into the room, a question caught in her throat. Her brother Parth had his pointer finger outstretched, wavering over the holographic pause button floating above the end table.
Just as Divit had said, Vanhi’s face took up the screen. They’d landed on some news channel, and below her mouth—which hung wide, mid-sentence—was the headline:—entific Shakeup of Our Time; Twelfth Planet United Mission Canceled. New Mission to be Assig—
“What is this?” her father asked. “Why didn’t you tell us you were going to be on the news?”
Where on Earth did they get—? The cogs in her brain slowly rolled into place. It took her a moment, but eventually she recognized the clip. This wasn’t one of the recent interviews she’d given in Dubai. Her clothes, her hairstyle—they were from years ago.
I’m going to murder him. They won’t send me into space if I murder him.
It was a portion of a vid she’d help make in grad school. Some informational such-and-such they used in U of O recruiting.
She’d signed a waiver; the university could do whatever they wanted with the footage.
Apparently they wanted to hand it over to Dr. Kaufman to use as academic propaganda.
“What new mission?” asked Swara, inching up to take her son. She was Vanhi’s closest sibling, and not just in age. “They’re canceling the mission to TRAPPIST-One? But I thought that was our best bet for finding multicellular life. That was my favorite mission.”
It was the world’s favorite mission.
Dozens of expectant eyes tracked Vanhi’s every twitch. She hadn’t meant for this to come up now. Didn’t really need it to come up for years. Because she knew as soon as she tried to explain—
There would be so many different reactions. So many questions to field. She didn’t want to deal with them now. She got to come home so rarely; this was her first visit back in two years. She wanted to talk about Leah’s college applications, and Divit’s promotion, and Swara’s new engineering company. She wanted to play with little Hannah and give Ryan his bath.
She wanted to go fishing with her father and simply watch the river. She wanted to endure her mother’s never-ending attempt to clean out her closet by forcing Vanhi to take every pair of churidaar she owned—no matter how threadbare.
She wanted to casually mention her involvement in the new Convoy Twelve, to ease everyone into it, to reassure them.
She knew if her brother pressed Play that her face would swiftly disappear, followed close by Kaufman’s. Damn Kaufman and his need to make everything about him.
Behind her, Vanhi’s ma gasped. “You’re not—you’re not leaving are you?”
Vanhi’s heart constricted. Her mother sounded so pained. “No. I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not like the others—”
“So, you’re not going to space?” asked Parth.
“No, I am, but—”
Her mother clutched at her chest, spoon still in hand. “Arey!”
“It’s not like the others,” she insisted.
“Vanhi,” her father said sternly. “May we see you in my office?”
“Papa,” she groaned.
“Now,” he insisted, hoisting himself off the sagging couch.
The double doors closed heavily behind her papa, but they sat high off the wood floor, and the juncture between the two had no seal. There was nothing airtight—or, more importantly, soundproof—about the room. Her parents had long used this room when they wanted to “privately” chastise one of their children. It was part of how they kept the Kapoor pack in line.
But none of their children were children anymore. And yet old habits had a way of clinging, unnoticed, like mites.
The office was warm, the lights dim. Papa’s heavy oak desk took up the majority of the space, leaving only a cramped pocket for guest chairs. No one sat.
“I will let you explain,” her papa said. “But you must answer me this first: Why did you not think to discuss this with your family?”
Her ma’s eyes were wide, expectant.
But not patient.
“I was going to, soon. I’ve been under a gag order, though, and the consortium just lifted it. I wasn’t allowed to until now, and I was waiting for a good moment to tell everyone. But you need to understand, this new convoy isn’t like the others. It’ll be close enough for Earth-to-convoy supply runs. I’ll be up there for two years at a time, with six-month breaks back here. It’ll be no different than my living in Dubai. You won’t see me for a few years, but I only get to visit every few years now.
“We’ll be just outside the Oort cloud. I know that sounds far away, I know. But it’s not, and that’s what’s—what’s amazing about being alive now, working now, studying now. Distance doesn’t matter, it never has. Only time. It’s the time it takes to reach a place that makes it seem close or far away.
“They’re going to allow visitors, too. I get special passes. You won’t have to worry about the price of tickets or anything. So really, it’ll be better than now. We can see each other more often.” Maybe. Hopefully.
Tears cradled her mother’s eyes, but did not fall. She was difficult to read: Were these happy tears, scared tears?
Her papa’s face was blank, his gaze turned inward. “Isn’t space dangerous?” he asked.
Suddenly overwhelmed, Vanhi flung her arms around both her parents, and they squeezed her back. “Life is dangerous,” she said, with a laugh that covered a sniffle. “But you’d never expect me not to live it.”
DECEMBER 14, 2124 CE
The path from outside observer to Head of the “Littlest Convoy” (a nickname used both as an endearment and slight these days), felt longer than it had been, but by most measures was still shorter than it had the right to be.
All of the other mission leaders were gray by now, having devoted nearly the whole of their life’s work to this. Many were retired, and all but a couple had watched their ships disappear into the night.
Vanhi was still fresh, though. Not young by most standards, but nowhere near the end of her professional endeavors. For others, the P.U.M.s had been the entire book, but for her, the convoy was just a chapter, and an opening one at that. She’d taken up the reins as an outsider, not building from the ground up, but reassembling, reusing. It gave her a perspective the other heads didn’t have; she could be more objective, in a sense, as the convoy was not the only legacy she intended to forge for herself. It wasn’t even fully her idea—she wanted it, definitely, but she didn’t quite have the same level of emotional investment in her mission as others did in theirs. It was a job—an amazing job, but still a job, not a piece of herself. She knew there were plenty of colleagues that resented her position, and that made tomorrow’s “unveiling” all the more important.
The trip to the Moon had been a day’s jaunt—graviton-based systems were far quicker and more efficient than rockets—and she’d spent the evening in solitude, pouring over her speech notes while others wined and dined in the base’s mess hall.
Maranas Moon Base served as one of twenty in a network of staging grounds for the ships’ construction workers. Once the bases had served their function for the missions, they would be converted into colony habitats. The ships themselves were built and housed in construction yards set at two Lagrange points between the Earth and the Moon. On her ride out, Vanhi had caught a sharp zing of sunlight bouncing off something in the distance, and was sure she was looking at Twelve’s three ships. It was the same gleam that denoted a space station streaking across the sky on Arizona summer nights.
When she was sure the festivities had died down, and that all reasonable people had gone to bed, Vanhi left the base’s library. The room they’d allotted her was small and cramped—normally her favorite kind of working environment, but not this evening. She’d paced for most of the night, back and forth in front of the pressure-sealed shelves (the base’s collection of first edition books was one of its boasting points for intellectual tourists), repeating the key points of her speech over and over.
The base, though fifteen years old, still retained a strange, fresh-plastic scent. There was a sterile newness about it all, and an alien strangeness. It prickled her nerves.
The heels of her tennis shoes did not clop-clop-clop through the domed halls like pumps would have, which was a saving grace with her head already pounding. She needed some water, and at least four hours in snooze-town, and a big-ass breakfast before the press conference tomorrow.
C heard her mumbling about food. “There is a breakfast on tomorrow’s itinerary, though there is no indication of whether or not it will qualify as ‘big-ass.’”
Vanhi snickered as she slid her key card through the reader at an airlock door before proceeding into the next hall. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“You’ll be happy to know idli is on the menu. I’ve noticed that, when it’s available, you choose to consume it as a first meal seventy-eight percent of the time.”
“Are they serving it with sambar?”
“No. Coconut chutney.”
“Monsters.”
