Dare Mighty Things

by Heather Kaczynski

  He gave me a hesitant half smile. “Are you sure? Or are you lying to spare my feelings? Because—”

  “How often have you seen me lie to spare people’s feelings?”

  His smile broke into a grin as he took my face in his cold-chapped hands and brought his mouth down to mine.

  A star burst inside my chest at the contact. I was surprised at the intensity of it; how he kissed me without hesitation or fear, with purpose. As if it’d been something he’d wanted to do all along. As if he knew how this was supposed to go.

  I tried to match him, to return his enthusiasm, but I had no idea if I was failing or succeeding.

  It was an entirely different species from the drunk half kiss from the kid I’d never wanted to kiss to begin with. It was even pleasant. His nearness. His warmth. His hands holding me with a touching gentleness. But I found that when his lips broke from mine, I had no desire to keep going.

  We stayed, hovering, close, catching our breaths.

  I had no idea what came next.

  But then he did the most amazing thing: he smiled.

  His mouth still inches from mine, eyes still closed, hands holding my face in his hands, he grinned. He didn’t know I was watching him. He smiled for himself only.

  And then he opened his eyes to mine and laughed an incredulous laugh. I felt it vibrate through me, joy leaping into my chest and escaping me in giggles.

  “I hope that was a better experience than last time,” he said, his voice low and tender.

  “So much better.”

  Luka wrapped his arms around my shoulders, pulling me into his solid form so tight I couldn’t move. I closed my eyes and let my head rest against his chest. Let our inhales and exhales synchronize, find a rhythm.

  “One of us may go,” I said finally, hating myself for darkening the bright light that was still warming me from within. “And leave the other one behind.”

  I felt, rather than heard, the heaviness of his next breath.

  “It seems that way.” His voice rumbled through me, more feeling than sound.

  What else was there to say? It was simply the truth. There was no changing it.

  “Promise me this changes nothing,” he said, his voice muffled and surprising. “Promise me you will not give up your spot for me.” He pulled back from me to search my eyes, his gaze tense and reflecting moonlight. “That neither of us will do anything to jeopardize the mission.”

  “The mission still comes first,” I agreed. “And you had better not entertain any stupid ideas of dropping out so I can go instead. Nothing like that, you hear me? I don’t need you to give me a leg up—I can earn it on my own. No martyrdom. Promise me.”

  He nodded, then took my face in his hands again. “Nothing stupid. Understood.” We shared a smile. “But, Cass . . . even if it means leaving all of this behind—your family, Earth . . .” He trailed off, as if unwilling to rank himself among the things that mattered most to me. “Think of all those things that motivate you. Don’t forget them.”

  “Hey,” I said, reaching a hand up to the side of his face. I didn’t know what he meant by those words, exactly—there was too much going on in my head for my brain to process it all accurately. I don’t know why this felt like good-bye. Why it felt so important to take advantage of this moment. “You never told me why you’re here. What motivates you? You’ve come such a long way—you’re so far from home.”

  For a second, I thought he might be about to cry. And then he was pressing his hand against the one that cradled his cheek, and drew it down. He smiled, but it was only an echo of his earlier one. “One day I hope to tell you. But it is a long story.” He lifted my hand, kissed the back of it, and let go. “Come, let’s go inside, before we catch a cold and they disqualify us both.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE NEXT MORNING the sky was a cheery blue but for an ominous, towering white thunderhead on the horizon, trailing a dark curtain of rain falling somewhere far away.

  “Take a good long look,” Bolshakov said, surprising me. He pulled along a small rolling suitcase made of battered leather. “We will not see the sky again until launch.”

  The crew was gathering in the courtyard, readying our move to quarantine quarters. I’d been watching Luka’s door in my peripheral vision, but it still hadn’t opened. Anxiety roiled in my stomach; I’d been waiting to see him again, waiting to know what would happen between us when I did.

  There was still a glow inside me, but it had died down to a flickering flame—something easily hidden and fragile.

  Luka had never been late, but Bolshakov, Jeong, Shaw, and Copeland had all filtered out of their rooms with their luggage and Luka was still absent.

  My eyes were drawn again to the storm clouds.

  When Pierce and Crane came personally to ferry us to our next destination, I should have known. Luka’s door remained closed.

  “Wait,” I said. “Where’s Luka?”

  Pierce stopped short. Regarded me. He appeared tired. His head tilted slightly to the side, either mocking or confused. He pointedly did not answer.

  Crane took his time before he spoke, surveying each of us in turn. He prolonged the silence just long enough to turn the atmosphere solemn and expectant, like an orchestra director boosting the anticipation before the music. “We are about to move into the final phase. I need each of you, at this moment, to search inside yourselves and ensure that you are committed to this project. I am offering you a chance that precious few humans in history have been given. You must put earthly concerns behind you. Look only to the future. Four of you have lived full lives, have families, reached the pinnacles of your careers.” His cool, intelligent eyes focused on me and my spine straightened. “But you, Cassandra, you are young. Your life is yet unlived. I cannot have a last-minute change of heart from you. Odysseus must launch, and it must launch with you aboard.”

  I saw, as though through a distorted lens, how the other astronauts looked at me now with renewed interest. Copeland didn’t hide her surprise. Shaw and Jeong gave me congratulatory smiles.

  I didn’t meet any of their eyes, didn’t feel the shock I should have. Nothing registered.

  Pierce clarified. “Luka Kereselidze is no longer a part of this program. He flew home this morning.”

  “What?” It was still morning. How early had they sprung this on him? Had he just walked past my door an hour ago, saying nothing? Did they not let him say good-bye, or did he not want to tell me himself?

  Colonel Pierce kept his voice steady, but there was a hint of an apology in his eyes. “He could not fulfill the mission requirements. There was no longer a place for him in Project Adastra.”

  Crane continued as if Pierce had never spoken, the full intensity of his eyes locked on mine. “Cassandra Gupta, you are needed. You are the fifth member of this crew. There’s no alternate who can take your place.” Now he turned from me to the others. “You, each of you, must decide at this moment. Will you commit to give all, for the good of all mankind?”

  Each of them, in turn, murmured their affirmations.

  Now all eyes were on me.

  “Yes,” I said, and was proud that I had not hesitated.

  Bolshakov was still beside me. He offered me his hand. Numb, I slipped my hand in his, and had the impression of shaking hands with a grizzly bear. “Congratulations, Ms. Gupta. It is an honor.” He seemed grim. They all did. I didn’t understand it. Even though Shaw patted me awkwardly on the shoulder and Jeong squeezed my forearm encouragingly, the smiles were all tight and lifeless.

  This was a job to them. A dangerous, experimental, completely unprecedented job, but otherwise one they’d done time and again. Maybe they thought I shouldn’t be here. Maybe they didn’t like that it turned out to be me.

  “Congratulations, kid,” Copeland said as we started trudging after Pierce, weighed down by various pieces of luggage. Her voice was quiet and tense, her gray eyes scanning me up and down as if to evaluate my worthiness. “You’ve earned it.”
And then, a moment later, when she’d dropped back behind me, she spoke in a hushed voice to Jeong that she probably thought I couldn’t hear. “This is so shitty. She’s just a kid. It shouldn’t be someone with so much to lose.”

  And then I understood.

  I followed the others out the door, trying and failing to reconcile the two warring thoughts in my brain: Luka’s gone. I’m going into space.

  I looked around me, at the astronauts I was now a part of. This was my job now, too.

  And it was time to get to work.

  The downpour started just as I was getting settled into my new quarters inside quarantine. It was a windowless shoe box compared to my last two rooms—more wall alcove than living space—but I didn’t care. It wasn’t like I was going to be here long.

  I took a few long, steadying breaths. Get ahold of yourself.

  Why was I suddenly so afraid?

  The grim mood that had fallen like a cloud of smog on the rest of the crew had afflicted me, too. A tug-of-war was happening inside me.

  Luka was gone. I was going into space. I might never see him, or my family or my friends, again. I was going to leave Earth until it was not even a pale blue dot in the rearview mirror. I was going to see amazing things. Alien planets. Faraway stars. An entirely new species. Everything I’d always wanted.

  But there were suddenly other, new things I wanted, too.

  Was my lifelong dream worth losing everyone I’d ever cared about, all the wonders and creations and humans on Earth, my life? Even if everything went solidly according to plan, it would still mean giving up prime years of my life, spending years I’d never get back semiconscious in a cryogenic tube and hurtling through space. Something could happen to my parents. My dadi might not live to see me return safely home.

  I weighed them in my heart. Everything I was, would ever be—a life wrapped up in love and friendship and long happy years on a green-and-blue planet—against many lonely years adrift in a cold, endless, lifeless black void. A fervent, lifelong, heartfelt dream and the promise of unimaginable experiences.

  I wanted to push that boundary even further. I wanted to be a pioneer. To dare mighty things. What was out there would forever call to me, and the things I could do for history were more important than my one little life.

  I collapsed onto the thin mattress.

  This is my dream come true.

  I repeated that over and over again. And slowly, the distorted carnival mirror of my thoughts shifted. The universe reordered itself, and suddenly I felt lighter, my way clear and vision unclouded.

  The girl I’d been before I’d come there—the one who was willing to sacrifice everything to get to this place—would have never believed I’d have doubts once there. But I was still that girl.

  I put everything else—everything that might make me doubt myself—into a box in my mind and sealed it off.

  I took another breath. Saw myself promising Luka that I wouldn’t let anything stop me. And then erased the memory, because Luka belonged in that box of things I was leaving behind.

  I imagined my body turning to steel. My stomach, full of butterflies and bad omens, replaced with a core of strength. I thought of the person I’d been before coming to Houston: friendless by choice, driven only by ambition and determination. Tethered to Earth by only a gossamer thread. Head constantly tilted upward, skyward, eyes on the prize. I’d been the unstoppable girl before.

  I was still that girl.

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE FOURTEEN DAYS we spent in quarantine were like this: claustrophobic, tense, and fraught with anticipation.

  Our quarantine quarters were hardly larger than two double-wide trailers, sealed off from the rest of the compound, with their own air and water-filtration system. In one wing, we slept. In the other, we worked.

  No fresh air. No outdoor time. No running.

  It reminded me of the SLH.

  This was the home stretch. Every moment of every day reminded us of that. Every day was one day closer to launch.

  The knowledge that I would soon be leaving Earth behind, and all the preparation required in order to do so, was enough to keep that box in my head firmly sealed.

  At least, while I was awake. But whatever dreams I might have dreamed were quickly wiped away by the frantic pace of my last days on Earth.

  While Bolshakov, Jeong, and Shaw were busy learning all there was to know about our new ship and how to pilot it, Copeland worked to help me acclimate to Sunny-Lite. Hooked up, brain-to-circuit-board, I practiced each day interfacing with the computers.

  As flight surgeon, she had taken over my neural interface training. She sat beside me in a metal folding chair in the closet-size room allotted for my practice, barely big enough for the two of us and the computer equipment. “To go straight to Sunny herself would be too much, too overwhelming. We want to ease you into it.”

  I learned how to send commands to Sunny-Lite. She was synced wirelessly to a small robot. With a little practice, I eventually was able to make the robot turn on, off, and move in the general directions I specified using only my thoughts, which Sunny-Lite read and responded to.

  It felt powerful, this potential—but it was hardly groundbreaking. Thought-controlled prosthetics had been around for a long time.

  I also learned how to receive input from the computer. As a test, Copeland hooked a heartbeat monitor to her finger and linked it to Sunny. I calmed my mind and let the sensation of my own body fall away. After a few seconds, I heard—or felt—a soft, repeating pulse, like the thumping bass of faraway music in a steady rhythm. With a start, I realized I was actually connected directly to Copeland’s heartbeat monitor.

  “Fifty-five beats per minute,” I said.

  Copeland’s lips parted slightly. “That’s incredible,” she breathed. “Goddamn.”

  These exercises were designed for my brain to become accustomed to an external link. It was like muscle memory; new nerve endings had to grow where they had never gone before. That way, when I was connected to the real Sunny, I’d be prepared.

  Once the connection was established, Copeland told me, the drugs would take over and allow me to rest in semiconsciousness without having to maintain the mental state on my own. But I couldn’t make the connection while sedated. So we practiced that more than anything: finding the tenuous connection between my brain and Sunny, and latching on.

  Copeland told me to imagine it like I was looking for Sunny in a hall filled with doors. She knocked so quietly that it was almost impossible to hear unless I was able to filter out as much external stimuli as possible. Once I found the door, all I had to do was open it and let her in. And she’d take care of the rest.

  My lessons tapered off to independent study. The takeoff procedures and flight mechanics would be taken care of by the experienced astronauts; my job, my entire focus, was to learn to interface with Sunny.

  I’d hoped to get to know the others like I had with my roommates during selection, but everyone was subdued, focused, and carefully polite under the cramped circumstances. The atmosphere was tense, quiet, contemplative. Everyone spoke little and in hushed voices. We were all hanging by the thread of anticipation, living carefully in a pressure cooker.

  But unlike the SLH, this was the real deal.

  I barely slept. All of the cells in my body felt like they were vibrating. I never felt like I was standing still. Apprehension and sheer adrenaline shook me at a molecular level. I spoke only when necessary. I ate the food they gave us. I did my work and went to bed and tried in vain to sleep. I tried not to remember my dreams.

  T-minus forty-eight hours to launch. Visiting day.

  The last time I would see my family before leaving Earth.

  When the intercom called me into the visitors’ room, I wasn’t sure what to expect. How it would be to see them after so long.

  I certainly wasn’t expecting Mitsuko, in a stylish black trench coat and knee-high boots, with flawless makeup and a multicolored silk scarf tucked ar
ound her neck. She looked like a model. She was grinning and waving through the plexiglass.

  A tall, broad man with a buzzed head and an expensive-looking leather jacket sat in a chair behind her. He had a handsome, blocky face that made me think of a Latino Captain America. He stood when I entered. And then I could see Emilio, sitting on the other side, leaping to his feet and grinning like a puppy.

  Mitsuko was still grinning when I sat down in front of the plexiglass window and grabbed the telephone.

  “You can wait your turn, that’s what you get for being late” were the first words I heard from her mouth, and they weren’t even directed at me. Instead of backing down, Emilio crowded into the booth next to Mitsuko and hopped up onto the narrow table on their side.

  “Cass, I can’t believe I’m looking at you right now.” She put her hand against the glass and tapped her manicured fingernails against it, like she couldn’t keep her excitement to herself. “Michael came with me, so you could finally meet him—kind of. This is so awesome. How freaked out are you?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I just looked at her. How long had it been since selection? She was like a relic from someone else’s life. Like a friend you hadn’t seen since freshman year. So much had changed. For me—maybe not so much for her.

  Mitsuko’s smile fell away. Her voice lowered. “Cass?” She shot a worried glance up to Emilio, who shrugged. “Cassandra Gupta, you tell me what’s wrong right now, or so help me I will reach through this phone—”

  I tried to smile. “Just nerves. I’m really happy to see you.” She looked at me so long I had to avert my eyes. How could I tell her? That I was about to strap into an alien machine, hook my brain directly to a blindingly intelligent computer, and travel farther and longer than any human alive had ever traveled?

  “I might be a little scared.” The words released from me like a confession of guilt.

  “Cassie Gupta,” she said again, and her voice was like a call to action. I sat up straighter. “I’m jealous of you right now. Actually jealous. That doesn’t happen to me much.” Her voice went softer. “You earned this. Own it.”