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
