Europa and Further

Credit: NASA / New Horizons

When we are young, we dream we can be anything. Without love and care, however, without attention, without inspiration, and with life’s hard knocks, our dreams die. But they can be brought back. I knew this when my own dead dreams awoke in a new world, when a people once so broken found the strength to rise together, and things I was so certain I would have no choice but to leave my motherland to find... found me.

I was 24 when I applied for a job at the AU Space Agency. Gifts I had feared would wither away from disuse were now in more demand than they could ever meet. In those precious moments of introspection throughout the day, a singular image filled my mind: the image of my booted feet on the soil of Europa, Jupiter’s fascinating moon. I dreamed that we would be among the first to colonize it, to plant our great flag of newfound unity in its icy sands. How long would I have to wait for that? Would I even see this promised land? Did I dare to dream again? I dreamed regardless, working, studying, building, rising up the ranks, and seeing mission after mission lift the African Union in glory.

I witnessed the first launch to the ISS 2.0, the new International Space Station, where AU-engineered innovations were brought to bear on a structure built by a world we once stood so far apart from. I witnessed the first AU-led mission to Mars, where critical infrastructure for the coming colonies was just beginning to take shape. I witnessed the birth of another space station, ours, which in a decade would grow into a fully fledged orbital habitat, the first of many. I spearheaded our branch of the first missions to the Main Asteroid Belt, a celestial sea of untapped resources between the Red Planet and Jupiter, where the mining of deuterium-rich comets would change the energy game. It would allow the Agency to build and power its first gravity engine, a development that was both appreciated and understandably envied by our counterparts across the big pond. We were generous with our science in any case, and would go on to apply it to our newest orbital habitats, and our starships.

As I grew older, a realization came. Perhaps this dream was not mine to live. Perhaps all this time, I had been dreaming for someone else. I had fallen so deeply in love with my work, with leading the science and educating the younger generation, that that youthful, selfish verve had transformed into something else, a surrender, an acceptance of the reality of time, of mortality, of the great story of our species’ survival for the past 300,000 years. The dream did not die. No, it changed, became about more than just me, for it was. And the transformation was not tragic, it was beautiful.

By the time the 10th wave of Martian colonists had left Earth behind, I had found a great love, a partner to share all that I was with, through the turbulent complications of human connection. He was a new entrant into the agency’s engineering department. I was smitten the moment our eyes met, and getting to know the person behind the enchantment was as magical as the spell itself. There was love and tenderness, mistakes and forgiveness, grace and gratitude, and no small amount of feral pleasure. We worked it out well. He was the best.

When the first and final unmanned mission to Europa – a lifetime in the making – was sending a treasure trove of knowledge back to Earth, I was at home, caring for my own treasure, my little Bari. Amadi and I had adopted him on our 4th anniversary, a bright spark in a world that needed so many now. Being a father had not been foremost on my mind through my early career, but now it mattered more than anything, raising this little light who was no less my own for having no genetic relations to me beyond our shared species.

Bari’s gifts were clear when he clocked five, and from the first set of books, tools and toys, it was all uphill – give or take the occasional parenting nightmare. Yet even in those trying moments, we were grateful. We nurtured the restless boy, refined the opinionated teen, and watched with pride as the man was born. Inspired by his parents, Bari joined the Agency’s Exploration Corps. With his compassionate heart, iron will and unquestionable intellectual gifts, I could not have been less surprised when he passed the training program with flying colours. I could not have been more proud.

When all the pieces had fallen into place for the Global Space Effort’s first manned mission to Europa, age had taken its toll. There was no shortage of medical advancements that could have kept my degenerating body kicking a while longer, but I refused them all, choosing instead to channel what was left of my energy and resources where I always had: to those who would come after. The pain wasn’t so bad. Amadi was my balm through it all. He understood. Even in his own sorrow, he understood that I had accepted my numbered days, accepted what would go, and what would live on.

My 80th birthday was the happiest birthday of my life. Bari and his family put it together, leaving Amadi out of the “planning committee” so he wouldn’t ruin the surprise. It wasn’t up for debate. Amadi and I could always tell what the other was thinking. I remember wheeling my way into a house full of song and cheer, joy replacing confusion in an instant. It seemed the whole Agency had shown up to celebrate some bag of bones. I remember us sitting outside in the garden, just the three of us, gazing up at the full moon as the music died down and the guests began to leave. Bari’s wife and kids gave us the moment, for we had so few of them left. I remember their hands in mine – the two halves of my beating heart, the ones in whose memories I would live on – their laughter, my laughter, as we waved a passing meteor along its way.

I remember Bari’s embrace, as the starship I had helped design so long ago gleamed in the distance. I remember Amadi’s hands on my shoulders, as our son hopped into the car with his crew and was driven off to the launch complex. I remember my sigh of gratitude, that humbling sense of fulfillment, as a younger generation carried on from where we had left off, as my people, and with them, all of humanity, reached out further into the unknown.

I remember that single, bittersweet tear that trailed down my cheek as our son lifted off, and I knew that the dream that had brought me so far had come true. Those were not my booted feet I saw in my mind’s eye all those years ago. They were his.

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© 2020 Barra Hart. All rights reserved.

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