Page 25 of The Brightness Between Us

Nothing is exploding. There is no horrific heat. This is not the end.

The object projects red glimmering light behind it. It takes me a few moments to realize that I’m seeing words. Words in the clouds. They repeat in a line, sparkling against the dusky sky as the foreign object continues its path to somewhere distant.

The words are:

Find this beacon. Ambrose and Kodiak, come. Find this beacon. Ambrose and Kodiak, come.

I look up at my father. Dad?

Part Two

EARTH

NOVEMBER 6, 2472

AMBROSE CUSK

Chapter 1

I’ve been dreaming, my mind filled with visions of my sister in her white racing bathing suit, dashing along pink Cusk-branded sand, laughing and goading me on.Get up, Ambrose. You’re racing me to the point.

Then she’s gone, replaced by a lab tech prodding me awake. It’s not even the cute one. They smile down at me over their surgical mask. “All done, Ambrose Cusk. Easy does it.”

Easy doesn’t ever do it, not as far as I’m concerned. I swing my legs around the hospital bed, test them against the ground.

I pause only to stop from vomiting, swallowing stomach acid while I pretend to study the floor. It’s printed composite material, made to look and feel like tile, down to the specks of mold in the grout. I hold still long enough for the tech to extract the IV and stick a bandage over the hole in my flesh—and for my stomach acid to finish its burning retreat down to where it belongs. I knock my fingers against my skull. “How did it look in there? Any cobwebs?”

The tech blinks at me. Not one for irony—a shame.This world is too heavy not to treat it as lightly as we can. “Yes,” they say. “Not the cobwebs. I mean, the test was all in order.”

Lucky for me, the cute tech wheels into view from behind the giant bioscanner, and this one doesn’t miss their cue. “It’s a positively spotless brain.” They glance at the image on the screen, give a low whistle, then busy themselves replacing the linens of the hospital bed. “In fact, I’ve never seen a brain with so little to say about it.”

I cuff them on the shoulder. It’s a lighter punch than I intended, and I look at my hand. This prelaunch medical scan was profound enough that they had to put me into twilight for it. I should probably lie still for a while longer. I’m meeting up with Sri, though, and I’m running out of time to get as many final kisses in as possible. “Admit it,” I say, “it was the most beautiful brain you’ve ever wandered through.”

“The neural map did take longer than most,” the cute tech admits. “I’m sure that meanssomething. I figured it was a technical glitch, but maybe the computer just took its time admiring your synapses.”

“It needs to take its time with a brain like mine. Was the Sistine Chapel printed in a day?”

“I don’t think the Sistine Chapel was printed,” interrupts the boring tech. “I can’t remember, though.”

The cute tech smoothly lifts my legs and arranges themon the hospital bed, giving my calf an affectionate pinch as they do. “You’ve got half an hour at least until I’m letting you go anywhere. Don’t want you damaging that all-important organ.”

This is how you get me to obey. A heaping dose of flirty flattery from someone with glittering nose jewelry and an imp’s worth of secrets behind their eyes. I’d betray my country for this tech right now.

“You do realize you’re speaking to the hope of all humanity, yes?” I say. But I make no move to get up, knit my fingers and cradle my head as I stare up at the ceiling. The full-body medical screening isn’t a Fédération requirement, but a Cusk one—it’s recently been made mandatory for any spacefarers launching from a Cusk orbiter. That’s even for small operations, like sightseeing on the moon. Medical billing offices are happy.

Since my mission to rescue my sister Minerva is so essential, the exam has been even more intensive than usual. I inspected the order, and found my mom had requested a complete map of my mind, down to every last neuron, probably so they can run brain simulations here to troubleshoot any mental breakdowns I might have in space. I hate the thought of a neural simulation. I mean, what if they copy all my thoughts and feelings into some chip and then lose it, so a version of me has to spend an infinity trying to get out of a transistor with no exit, only to find that they’rea technical fabrication? Shudders. Good news is that they won’t need to run my brain in a simulation, because I’mnotgoing to have any mental breakdowns in space. Not Ambrose Cusk.

So I’m stuck here for half an hour. I should nap, I guess, but if I have to lie in bed on the day before I go off saving the world, at least I can spend it indulging my favorite pastime: charming and being charmed. I wave my hand at the not-cute tech, and they take the hint and leave the room. I sit up, perfectly aware of the appeal of my toned brown arms, still salty from my morning swim, emerging from my paper-thin gown. The glittering array of me. I am stark and alive and warm in this sterile room. “Anything I missed while I was knocked out? Mission still on?”

Oddly enough, the cute tech is at a loss for words. I wouldn’t have expected it.

After I change out of my gown and into my blue Cusk Academy uniform, I stop by the salon and get naked all over again so the robot attendants can give me a quick jiffy: moisturized, fluffed, and fragranced. I’m not actually that vain; it’s more like I play a vain person in my own life. On this day of all days, it seems important (for the morale of the country) to look good, since I’ll be in hours of press interviews, visits with Fédération and Dimokratía dignitaries, a short interview with the ghostwriter of mymemoir, an early graduation ceremony with the academy head—who will give me my final grade for Professor Calderon’s queerness and nation-building seminar—all before I go into orbit tomorrow to be installed on theEndeavorand sent to Titan to rescue Minerva and unite the world before it falls into conflict.It will be the most visible day of my life. I don’t want ragged cuticles. While I’m getting deep moisturized, the laundry bot presses my uniform flat as paper. After I put it back on, it snaps as I walk.

My assistant is waiting for me in the hallway. She hustles to keep up, my agenda projecting from her bracelet, words boiling up through the air. The text is a similar color to the academy hallway—interface design flaw—so I don’t bother trying to read it, knowing she’ll tell me the highlights. “As you’ll see, if you look for a moment, yes right here, thank you, Ambrose, you’ll see that we’ve shifted the ceremony with the Reunited Nations to early tomorrow morning, in order to accommodate this meeting with your mother, which has been moved up to, well, immediately.”

I keep walking, even as she stops, gesturing me toward the corporate elevators. “Tell her I can’t meet with her right now,” I call over my shoulder. “I’ll reel in with her on my bracelet as soon as I can. I have somewhere I have to be for an hour.”

“This meeting is not marked as optional,” the assistant says.

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