Page 83 of The Brightness Between Us

For a moment we’re still, and then we continue. I’m on the floor beside him, beside this human who has invited me to lie beside him. Who is slaking this need. It’s so utterly kind that I cry. I am crying.

Ambrose kisses my tears while his hands disappear into the dark below my hips, working expert hands under my Dimokratía garments.

Another strobe and a much deeper rumble, one thathits us like a physical blow, knocking us over. The window shudders so hard that I know it has to shatter. But it holds. Sheep bleats.

“Ambrose, what will our future be?” I ask him as I run my hands over his body, trying to learn something I desperately need to know, that I have to study as fast as I can.

He doesn’t answer. The question is too big to answer. I meant the future some other version of our selves will have. I don’t need to wonder about the future of us, here, now. That future is short. I will live in these current moments as fully as possible. Then I will be gone. Ambrose will be gone. Sheep will be gone.

It arrives. The brightness between us.

Part Seven

MINERVA (SAGITTARION BB)

YEAR 18

Chapter 1

Owl

He’s here on Minerva, projected from the beacon: my dad. Who was shot. A version of him who isn’t my dad. With a version of Father who isn’t really him, either.

They’re a lot younger, somewhere around my age. Dad isn’t wearing fancy garb, but simple traveling clothes. These versions of the dads look exhausted, hollowed out. Judging by the deep shadows on their faces, they recorded these at night. The light reflected in their eyes looks orange. Maybe they’re near a fire.

Dad still has glittering skinprints and body mods. It flips me out a little, and I remember all over again that Father never wanted to see his other recording—and he’s watching this right behind me. But he doesn’t turn away. He doesn’t stop me from watching. He stares along with me, stepping forward and taking my hand in his as he does.

“Do you know what this is?” I ask Father.

He shakes his head.

“We only have a few minutes of time for each fly,” Young Dad says, “so we’ll have to go quickly.” His wide eyes, his slack jaw: it’s clear he’s in barely contained panic.Of course he is. This Ambrose is doomed. TheCoordinated Endeavorpicked up radio signals indicating nuclear war, and much later a burst of explosive radio activity from Earth’s location, which means everyone on Earth is long dead. For that or a million other reasons, I could be watching the final moments of his life. “When we discovered the true mission of theCoordinated Endeavor, we were furious.” He glances at Young Father. “I should speak for myself.Iwas furious.”

Young Dad takes a deep breath. “I helped someone, Devon Mujaba actually, do something that impacts you. He sabotaged the zygotes. The animals. Our children. Their developmental pathways... are altered.”

“They have a genetic virus that worked on their DNA during the voyage, instructing their own bodies to generate lesions on their amygdalae,” Young Father says from off camera.

Young Dad continues. “This means that they might eventually turn aggressive and antisocial, especially once their hormones are in full swing. Some might be nonviable even earlier.”

Young Father is taller and heavier-limbed than the one I know. Must be a result of the better diet. Maybe he worked out more, too, what do I know. “I’m sorry for what this must have done to you,” he says.

“I hope you’ll get this message while they’re still inertzygotes, or at least while they’re little children. We can send these flies to precise coordinates, but if there are unexpected stellar events in the galaxy during the next thirty thousand years, or even if they encounter too much water vapor on the way out of Earth’s atmosphere, they might arrive sooner or later, or not at all—which also means they’ll land on imprecise locations on your planet as it rotates. We’re sending multiple flies at slightly different speeds to increase the chances, and aiming across the planet’s surface, but the degree of precision...”

Young Father gives him a “speed up” hand motion. I’ve seen the same one from our Kodiak.

“Here’s what it means,” Young Dad says. “You have schematics for all sorts of devices saved to the OS of theCoordinated Endeavor.One of those is for nanotech. Build that device, if you haven’t already. Also build the ‘binary interface’ module and attach it to the nanotech machine. You’ll see a file in the root directory of this fly that is called ‘corrections.’ Run that through the module. Then let the nanobot work on the brains of the affected embryos, or children. It will use a version of the tech that created you clones, actually. The operation should only take a few days, plus a few more for recovery. ‘CorrectionsTwo’ will work with the gene editing interface to remove the virus from the remaining zygotes. You need to run ‘CorrectionsThree’ on the yaks.”

There’s a shuddering sound on the recording that grows in volume until the audio glitches out. Then the reel is back, at a slightly different angle. It’s Young Father talking now. “You must be... angry. I was angry. For a brief period of time, right after he found out about what his mother had done without his permission, Ambrose wanted the mission to fail. I did, too. I think you can understand why. But once he realized what it would mean for you, he came across the world to find me, and we are trying to fix it. You deserve some control over your life, after that—”

The recording cuts off. Young Dad used up way more time than Young Father. It’s frustrating, but also makes me smile grimly. It’s just so Dad.

Father and I are in the Minervan dawn again. It’s quiet compared to the background ruckus of the reel. I listen to the hush of a soft breeze. The sound of a baby malevor’s breathing. A malevor who might have a manipulated mind, like me.

“Wow,” I say. I’m still holding the beacon. The thing they called a fly. This speck of material that traveled across the galaxy with news of hope. I hold it out to Father. I don’t know why, I guess because he’s my parent and parents are the ones who hold important things.

“Put it in your pocket,” he says. “And don’t lose it.” He strides toward the settlement. I have to jog to catch up to him, resisting the urge to remind him that I was theone who convinced OS to start sewing pockets into our clothing.

“Here’s the plan,” Father says once I’m alongside him. The baby malevor is a ways behind us, kicking into a trot to catch up. “Thirty thousand years ago, an earlier me was trained in military maneuvers, and we’re going to use some of that knowledge that’s in my brain now. We have very little cover until we’re inside the settlement, which means we need to be cautious in our initial approach. Look for the line of mussed soil from the perimeter shots. We’ll have to assume Yarrow’s printed gun has a similar range, but we’ll also have to be ready to adjust that assumption. We’ll test the perimeter line first, and reassess based on whether the guns fire.”

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