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“Maybe it’s the machine itself. Maybe it’s broken.”
“We’ve done scans. OS reports that the machine is functioning perfectly.”
“Well, maybe OS is wrong,” I snap back.
The deep, rich rumble of OS rings out from above. “Over the last two Earth years, I have performed 1,764 checks on the various systems of the gestation pod and found no signs of any hardware or software failures. It would be impossible for a flaw to escape my attention.”
I sigh, and Kodiak moves to sit next to me on the bed, taking my hand in both of his and rubbing it gently. “I know, OS. Thank you.” I drop my head into my other hand, rubbing at my aching temples. “Maybe it’s the zygotes, then? Maybe they were somehow corrupted during the voyage. Maybe the pod wasn’t radiation-proofed as well as we thought.”
“Maybe,” Kodiak murmurs. “There’s only one way to find out.”
I can feel hot tears prickling at the back of my eyelids. “I can’t keep doing this, Kodiak. I can’t stand it. It isn’t fair to us, it isn’t fair to the children-“
“They don’t suffer, Ambrose. The- embryos,” he chokes out, “they are not even aware when it happens. One minute they are asleep, and the next-“
“I don’t want to talk about this any more,” I snap, wrenching my hand from his and stalking to the door of our sleeping chambers. He catches up to me before I can throw the door open, though, and grabs me by the shoulders.
“But we must. Ambrose. This isn’t easy for me either,” he admits, and a wave of guilt washes over me. I know that. I have seen him weep as we bury them in the unforgiving soil. Sometimes, when he thinks I’m busy with chores around the settlement, I catch him out there on the unmarked patch of dirt, whispering quietly to himself. To them? I’m not even sure. I’ve never asked. The pain of losing them has made me impatient and selfish.
“But it isn’t as if we can just stop trying,” he continues. “We came all the way here. Our clones passed tens of thousands of years in space knowing they were going to die, but finding relief in the fact that it would be worth it for the survival of humanity. The hopes of an entire civilization are upon us. We cannot give up now.”
I sigh again, the tension in my body turning to bone-deep weariness. “I’m just so tired,” I say, dropping my head to rest on his shoulder. He pulls me close, his large, warm hands running soothingly up and down my back.
“I know, pragmatiyet. I know.”
…
We stand in front of the gestation device, hands clasped, watching the final seconds tick away. We do not say a word; I just clutch Kodiak’s sweaty hand in mine. I can see his lips moving silently, repeating the same word over and over. I don’t recognize it- Demokratia, maybe? Some long-lost prayer or benediction from his youth? Although neither of us are religious people- hard to be, when you’ve seen the kinds of things we have- I don’t begrudge him the comfort of calling on a higher power when something this massive is completely out of your control. I myself am on the verge of spiraling out, Kodiak’s warm hand in mine the only thing keeping me grounded.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The gestation device emits a loud, shrill beep, then begins to whir with activity, draining the amniotic fluid that has supported our child for the last nine Earth months from the chamber inside. Kodiak looks at me, and we each step forward and place one hand on the lid of the device. I nod, almost imperceptibly, and we lift it together.
Nothing can prepare you for how strange and otherworldly newborns look when you have never seen one before. This one, at first, looks like the others- shriveled up, sticky, and so purple. My heart drops, and I can feel bile rising in my stomach. Not again.
Kodiak reaches inside and snatches him up- Yarrow, I dimly recall, remembering the long hours we spent debating over names after we chose his zygote. Kodiak’s pick, this time. He brings the child to his shoulder, thumping him hard between the shoulderblades with the heel of his hand. “Come on, come on,” he mutters, checking the baby’s airway to ensure it is clear. I turn away as he drops into a squat and places the child face down over his knee, unable to watch. It isn’t going to work, after all. Humanity will end here on the scorched, uncaring surface of Minerva. When Kodiak and I die, we will rot into the same soil where we buried our children, and the entire existence of our species will become just one insignificant blip on the universe’s radar.
And then, I hear it. A wet gurgle, thick and disgusting, and then the unmistakable wail of a newborn human baby. It is earsplitting, grating, and shrill.
It is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.
I whirl around, collapsing on my knees in the dirt next to Kodiak as he brings our son up to rest against his collarbone and continues to rub his back. He screams and cries, and as he does his skin begins to fade from purple to a handsome golden brown.
“He’s alive,” I hear Kodiak say over the din, almost laughing in disbelief. “He’s alive!”
“He’s alive,” I repeat, and we are both laughing now, and crying, and clutching our son, my hand resting on top of Kodiak’s. As the child’s wails begin to decrescendo into soft whimpers, Kodiak readjusts him so that he is nestled in the crook of his strong arms. He looks up at us with huge hazel eyes, brow adorably furrowed, looking quite offended by what he has experienced so far.
“Hello, Yarrow,” Kodiak says, running a massive finger down the baby’s soft cheek. He blinks at the touch and waves a tiny, chubby hand around blindly. Kodiak slots his finger into it, and he curls his fist around it. Kodiak laughs. “That’s quite the grip you’ve got there. We’ll put you to work right away.” He looks up at me and I see something in his face that I haven’t seen there for a long, long time.
Hope.
I can’t help but kiss him. He kisses me back, and it feels like victory. The two of us, finally the three of us.
He breaks the kiss and holds Yarrow out to me, one hand supporting his delicate head and neck. “I’ve been being selfish. Would you like to hold him?”
I nod eagerly and take him from Kodiak’s arms. He fusses a little, but settles once he is pressed against the warm fabric of my tunic. “Hi, little one,” I murmur, “I’m your dad. Oh my lords, sweetheart, you have no idea what it took to get you here.” I kiss his soft forehead once, twice, three times. “Yarrow Celius-Cusk,” I whisper, “first generation Minervan. What an honor it is to make your acquaintance.”