We’ve been six months on Minerva, which means OS and I need to adjust the algal crop’s fertilizers to prevent burnout. A pail of extruded fats, proteins, and carbs hanging from the crook of an elbow, I return to the table of ourhome base, with its mixture of chairs, both newly printed and scavenged from theEndeavor. I set the elements heating and mixing into our usual meal, then open the black book to the “Month 6” tab while I wait for Kodiak to return for his lunch.
I didn’t sleep much the night before, and can’t keep my vision from blurring as I read through rows and rows of recommended nitrogen percentages. I almost miss the footnote at the bottom of one plasticine page:Welcome to your sixth month, Settlers Cusk and Celius. Now that you’re established, you may access special messages for you in theEndeavor’s stored memory. Partition 07:14, code Bb06.
As soon as Kodiak’s on the horizon, making his slow progress back to base, I’m up and waving my arms. “Hurry, hurry!”
The young man sits on a folding chair in a plain room. It would be totally nondescript except for the window behind him that blazes with blue sky, sunlight flooding the frame. The Earth sky. The Earth sun.
The boy is spangled in the highest fashion Fédération accessories: a gold circlet around his head, a cream-coloredwrap of the softest fabric, hemmed in silver. Expensive skinprint mods glitter on his cheeks and neck.
He’s me.
“Well, this is weird,” the boy with my voice says.
“No kidding,” I whisper back, cutting my eyes to Kodiak. He’s impassive, hands clasped before his lips, barely blinking as he watches the recording.
“I’m Ambrose Cusk. You know that. Because you’re Ambrose Cusk, too.” He whistles awkwardly. “I’m the original. We split after I had that medical screening. They recorded my, our, brain there. A couple of months ago. Now I know the truth. That Minerva’s distress beacon never triggered, that mission control lied to me. You needed to believe that, though, to have the will to survive each time you were woken up, so that’s why they mapped my neurons whileIstill believed, too.
“Mother saw the writing on the wall for Earth, had a plan to continue the human race, wanted her own offspring to be the foundation of its second stage, to be the one who carried the torch of human civilization.” He laughs ruefully. “You know, typical Mom. She’s always been a woman of simple ambitions.”
He looks at someone off camera, then shakes his head slightly. “No one ever asked me about this plan,” he continues. “I was furious about it for a long time, what it was doing to me—to you—without your permission. The violinwas my one small rebellion—I insisted that mission control give you that. It’s the very one we grew up playing. One small thing that you got instead of me. At least, since you’re hearing this, you’ve arrived on the exoplanet. I’m sorry there wasn’t one any closer. You’re the lucky clone, the point of all this. You’re also likely the last humans alive. You and whichever spacefarer Dimokratía wound up selecting. The mission was just too ambitious to accomplish without Cusk, Fédération, and Dimokratía all involved, and Dimokratía wouldn’t have invested without getting to place someone on board, too.”
Ambrose fiddles with a gold bracelet. “I hope he’s kind to you.” He looks off camera again, where there’s clearly someone monitoring what he says—maybe the Academy Admiral, maybe our mother. Ambrose nods.
“Save this recording for the rest of humanity to turn to in the centuries to come. Let them know who sent you, and why. You should call this planet Cusk. That’s Mom’s dream.”
Kodiak is suddenly on his feet, fast enough to fling his chair along the muddy heath. He staggers out of the shattered wreckage of 06. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Delete it!” he yells over his shoulder as he stalks off.
“Kodiak!” I call, running after him while the long-dead version of me drones on in the background.
His back is to me, with the green-purple sunset sky ofMinerva before him, the bioluminescent plains spread out underneath.
Kodiak’s shoulders heave. I approach him, lay a hand on his shoulder. He goes still.
I position myself in front of him. Looking into his eyes, making sure it’s okay for me to embrace him now, I press myself against him.
In the background, the Earth Ambrose is still speaking. “Are you okay, Kodiak?” I ask.
He sobs in response, his tears wet against my cheek. “Shh,” I soothe him. “Shh.”
He shakes and shudders, his body wracked with convulsions. I stand against him, holding him in, shocked into silence by his tears.
“I hate them,” he finally manages. “I hate them all.”
“There’s a recording of you up next,” I say. “Don’t you want to hear what the original Kodiak has to say?”
“No.” He shudders. “He doesn’t deserve for me to hear him. None of them do.”
I nod against his cheek. “Okay. We’ll turn it off. I don’t want to delete it, though. Okay?”
He pulls away, puts his hands tenderly on my shoulders, turns me around. “Look at this sunset.”
The sky is a violent crush of greens and pinks and purples, Minerva’s distant second sun jagging it all with reds and oranges. “It’s so beautiful,” I whisper.
Kodiak presses against me, arms wrapping around my torso as he pulls me in tight. “Don’t get me wrong. I love being here with you. I am in awe of what we’re doing together. It’s terrifying and wonderful, all at the same time. But it’s ours. Not theirs. Ours.”
I nod, grateful for the warmth of Kodiak’s body against my back, his arms holding me so near. Grateful for the simplicity of what he’s just said.
