SERENGETI: 1:01 Innocence

Anderson walked onto the bridge of the Serengeti and into darkness. A clear dome stretched out over the command deck, making him feel as though there was nothing between him and the pitch-black void of space. Standing at the railing, he looked out at the universe.

At the speed the Serengeti was traveling, the aberration of light played tricks on his eyes, tricks on his mind. The Serengeti was north of one of the spiral arms of the galaxy. The craft had risen up out of the galactic plane and into the dark intergalactic void, and yet the Milky Way appeared in front of the craft, not below and behind it. Rather than departing from the Milky Way, the Serengeti seemed to be approaching a skewed, squished, distorted image of the galaxy.

The artificial warp field surrounding the Serengeti was transparent to visible light, allowing Anderson a spectacular view. The field distorted space around the Serengeti, allowing the craft to reach a relative velocity of just over ninety-nine percent of the speed of light. But, as Einstein first observed, the speed of light was not so gracious as to concede even the most minuscule variation, and so the photons emanating from hundreds of billions of stars in and around the Milky Way still raced ahead of the Serengeti at over a hundred and eighty-six thousand miles a second, each and every second. The Serengeti’s speed, relative to the galaxy, meant the light from these stars was warped and distorted in a surreal confirmation of General Relativity.

Like rain falling on the windscreen of an airplane, light appeared to rush at the Serengeti. The light twisted around so the stars behind the Serengeti appeared in front of the quarter-mile long spacecraft. It was as though the Milky Way had been imaged with a fisheye lens. Billions of stars making up the core and the spiral arms of the galaxy appeared compacted together, locked into the perfect shape of a ring. It was a blinding light of concentrated, lethal cosmic radiation, dimmed to natural levels by the Serengeti's electromagnetic shielding.

Anderson never tired of the sight. Even though the universe appeared compressed and scrunched in front of the craft, the reality of seeing such a dazzling array of stars was breathtaking, something not to be taken for granted.

Most of the visible universe, including the Milky Way, had shrunk. Instead of surrounding the spacecraft, the stars appeared to be reduced into a cone spanning some 30 degrees directly in front of the ship rather than 360 degrees all around the craft. The universe looked as though it had been squished and flattened like a pancake. Outside of the fiery ring, what few stars there were lay almost directly behind the Serengeti, including the Sun, smeared and stretched in the side view, their light having been distorted by the Serengeti's blistering speed. Somewhere, in one of those faint smudges, was Earth, long since rendered invisible by the surreal distances involved in relativistic travel.

“Lewis Carroll’s got nothing on the Serengeti,” Anderson mumbled to himself, thinking about Alice in Wonderland and its topsy turvy world with talking rabbits and vanishing cats. Fiction was a pale imitation of reality.

The command deck on the Serengeti was vast, capable of seating over fifty of the crew, even though daily operations required fewer than ten. The vast dome gave Anderson the impression the compressed ring of the galaxy spanned at least a hundred feet above him.

In the quiet of night, he leaned back on a desk, looking up at the universe, taking in all its glory. The protoplastic desk responded smoothly, with an artificial intelligence that had surrounded Anderson his entire life. It transformed from a hard surface into a couch and reclined according to the suggestive impulses of the muscles in his arms, back and buttocks, adjusting automatically to the angle he desired. The holographic projection points, fiber-optic interfaces and controls on the desk sank out of sight. They would return when he stood and walked away.

The view Anderson had was bizarre. It was counter-intuitive. But then, Anderson thought, everything about the theory of relativity ran against common experience. The Milky Way, the galaxy they had left behind so long ago, still appeared before them as though it were some demon they could never escape. The stars stretched out, skewed and compacted into a circle, a brilliant halo of stars winding around the black void of intergalactic space in the middle. It never ceased to amaze Anderson that there was a mass of two hundred billion stars splattered and compressed into that hollow, glowing ring. And in the midst of the black void, slightly off-center, lay their target, a faint smudge that marked the Andromeda galaxy. Off-center because their course accounted for where Andromeda would be when they arrived in several thousand years’ time. Anderson would be dead long before then, and yet his genetic line would still remain.

On one side of the galactic halo, a dense smattering of golden-yellow stars blended together, merging into a continuous arc that marked the visually flattened galactic core of the Milky Way. The heart of the galaxy was a hub of over fifty million stars compacted together in a vast cloud of superheated interstellar gas. On the other side of the ring, cooler, newer stars on the fringes of the spiral arms glowed in a soft blue. They appeared dense, forced into the glowing halo by the Serengeti’s relative velocity. These stars were among the most distant and wide spread in the Milky Way.

Anderson was middle-aged. His first fifty-five years had been kind. With good health and exercise, he could expect to reach a hundred and forty, but there was a limit to what bio-tech could do beyond that. Even with advanced nano-bots, biological rejuvenation could stretch only so far. Like all machines, the human body eventually wore out.

Anderson ran his hand through the silver strands of hair on his head. He'd long since resigned himself to growing old gracefully. His Eurasian complexion reflected the racial dominance of the 23rd century in which the Serengeti had been launched, but race meant nothing in interstellar space. Ethnic differences were meaningless after a thousand years plowing through the void.

Ever since he’d hatched at the age of twenty, Anderson had marveled at the sheer majesty of the artificial view above the bridge. And yet, even at such radical relativistic speeds, he knew the frozen image he saw would take decades for the slightest change to appear. The universe was so vast as to defy reason. The distances were so immense that a lifetime of travel at almost the speed of light would barely make any perceptible difference at all.

In the darkness, his mind could rest.

In the darkness, there were no demands on his time.

He thought about his conversations during the day. The halo of the galaxy he’d long since left behind glowed above him, bathing him in its soft light. His eyes wandered as his thoughts drifted aimlessly, thinking about a conflict that afternoon. An argument with Dr. Phillips replayed in his head, and he found himself struggling to clear his thoughts.

“Stop thinking like a damned robot,” Phillips had snapped. With her grey hair pulled tight into a ponytail and soft wrinkles in her skin, Phillips carried herself with an air of authority. “We're out here to observe, so let's drop our speed and take a look around.”

Anderson didn't like being pushed into a decision. His natural reaction was to be defensive. “We're between scheduled drops. There's no need to slow our ascent.”

“You're as stubborn as a mule!” Phillips yelled at him.

That the argument had erupted in front of Chief Engineer Berry and several other senior offices had put Anderson on the defensive. Phillips had done that on purpose, Anderson thought. She’d backed him into a corner, knowing the commander would have to be judicious about what he said in front of his crew.

Anderson felt the muscles in his arms and chest tightening at the thought of the argument. He'd come up to the bridge in the quiet of night to clear his thinking, to put aside any feeling of animosity and retain his professionalism and pride. Human nature, it seemed, was not so accommodating, and he found his mind replaying words spoken in anger.

Was Phillips right? Was that why Anderson resented her argument?

Phillips hadn’t been content to let her point lie.

“If they didn’t want us to take the initiative, they would have automated the entire goddamn ship. They want us to think for ourselves. But you, you’re a stickler for the rules. If it isn’t spelled out in black and white you won’t entertain an alternative. You’re too anal!”

That had pissed Anderson off. It was one thing to have a healthy debate. It was another to hurl personal insults, and such dissent should have been conducted in private, not in front of the crew.

I should have ordered her from the bridge, Anderson thought. I should have asked for her resignation. I should have told her she had no right to question my commitment to the mission. His mind demanded retorts. His pride was wounded. Although Anderson knew how foolish it was to recycle such anguish with hypothetical replies, his mind was drawn to the argument like iron to a magnet. His knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the lounge-like form of the transmorphic table.

Anderson hated conflict. As he sat there, bathed in the light of billions of suns stretched out across billions of different years, the stars put his petty arguments in perspective. They didn’t care. Regardless of the blood pumping through his veins and the shot of adrenalin wiring him like one too many espressos, the stars remained at peace.

Maybe Dr. Phillips was right.

In the artificial cool of the evening, Anderson was willing to concede that. Mission protocols allowed for the Serengeti to slow down and perform an observation drop once every five years, but the antimatter core powering the Serengeti would sustain tens of thousands of drops, not just the few thousand planned by mission control. The only factor open to consideration was distance. By reducing their speed to perform additional observations, they'd cover less space-time.

The Serengeti could shed speed far quicker than she could gain it against the bow-pressure of the interstellar medium. Depending on how far back they dropped, it could take months to get up to speed again. But the times and distances involved were such that even this was largely academic, being immaterial to the overall duration of a project measured in thousands of years.

Phillips was dying.

She hadn't said anything to anyone, but as commander, Anderson had peered into her medical files. Phillips hadn't brought a replacement online yet, but, at a hundred and twenty seven, she probably wouldn't see out another year. She wanted to see the galaxy one last time as it was, to enjoy the majestic view of the galactic core, to appreciate the beauty of the universe without the distortion of relativity.

Anderson sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, he’d brought the argument on himself. Damn the rules, he thought. He should have been more considerate.

Dr. Phillips was a brilliant physician. The age difference between them had meant she was more like a mentor to him than a subordinate, more of a mother than his second-in-command. Perhaps that's what he resented. And she wasn't afraid to challenge his authority if his ego got in the way of his decision-making. Love her or hate her, Phillips had earned his respect, so why not drop out of near-luminal speed? Because it wasn't in the mission profile? Or was his decision out of spite? Or was it more practical? He'd told himself he couldn't do this for everyone. He didn’t want to set a precedent. And yet deep down he knew his motives were personal. Anderson hated himself for that. Beneath the faint light of the stars, he could see the darkness for what it was, a mirror of his own soul.

For Phillips, this would be her last opportunity to bathe in the light of the Milky Way. With all she'd done for the crew, she deserved it. He could do that for her, he decided.

Almost instantly, his muscles relaxed. The angst that had eaten away at his mind faded into obscurity. Some men might struggle to swallow their pride, but for Anderson such an act brought relief rather than anguish.

Anderson’s eyes drifted as his mind ran to a multitude of thoughts. He began thinking about the processes he'd have to put in place to conduct a drop in the morning. Technically, the maneuver was automated. In practice, it was good to have engineering on standby.

His eyes were drawn to the light of the stars, and he couldn't help think about how this one simple act had driven civilization. The wonder and awe of the heavens had propelled humanity out of the Stone Age. The pyramids of Egypt, the sphinx, the zodiac, Stonehenge, the cave drawings throughout Asia, the ziggurats of Mesopotamia, they were all the result of humanity's desire to reach of the stars, and now here he was soaring among them.

In the distance, the Local Group of galaxies appeared as little more than a blur against the infinite darkness. Even this far above the galactic plane, Andromeda still sat some two and a half million light years away. With over a trillion stars, it made the Milky Way seem small by comparison, and that made Andromeda the ideal candidate for the Serengeti project. It was the most likely galaxy within the Local Group to contain intelligent life.

“Coffee. Brazilian. White with one sugar and just a hint of crushed vanilla bean.”

The molecular constructor on the console some five feet away whirred softly to life, responding to his verbal command. A series of backlit controls glowed. The smell of freshly ground, oven-roasted coffee beans wafted through the air. With a quiet chirp, the faceplate opened, revealing a newly formed ceramic mug. Steam rose up from the rim.

Anderson got up to fetch his coffee.

The nav-desk held its shape, waiting to see if it was still needed in its present function. He knew the intelligence circuits would be analyzing his motion. Given the absence of the crew on the bridge, and the lack of mission activity at the other consoles, the desk would probably remain as it was. Anderson loved the way machines thought, always trying to second-guess humans. For the most part, they got it right. It was supposed to be seamless, autonomous, something that happened in the background without anyone noticing, without being a distraction. Machines should be seen, not heard, was the slogan. But the slight ripple as the machine made its decision revealed its intelligence circuits at work, and that brought a smile to Anderson's face.

Anderson breathed deeply, savoring the rich aroma as he lifted the coffee mug to his lips. The soft lights on the molecular constructor faded as the machine shut down, leaving him alone in the darkness again.

Anderson sipped his coffee as he stared out at the universe, lost in thought. He was glad he’d worked that whole scenario out and arrived at a decision. It felt good to have the emotional weight of the argument lift from him. He’d tell Phillips quietly, he decided, and back down to 75% of the speed of light in the morning. The crew would know she’d won, but he also knew they’d respect him all the more for being mature enough to admit his own mistakes. Leadership was never easy.

He leaned back on the nav-desk and to ensure his comfort and safety with a hot liquid the desk's intelligence circuits caused the surface to adjust into a firm chair.

Beyond the halo of compressed stars bunched up in front of the Serengeti lay a black void. Faint streaks of light stretched back behind the craft in razor-thin lines, cutting through the void in a stark testament to the accuracy of Einstein’s predictions.

To Anderson, the darkness seemed to stretch on into eternity. He felt like a shadow, just the outline of a person, a fraction of an individual. Even with the ship’s inertia drive mimicking the pull of gravity, it was as though he were floating in the void. Tonight, he was part of a larger, more grand living entity, the universe as a whole. And within the universe, the petty differences in the command of a generation ship paled into insignificance.

By day, the bridge was a hive of activity. The light from the wall panels and command consoles overwhelmed the subtle wonder shining in front of them. The activity on the bridge and the daily concern over the ship’s vital functions all seemed so important, but they were trivial compared to the majesty of the heavens. Even though the distorted ring of the galaxy was still visible in the artificial daylight, the muted tones caused it to fade into the background. In the quiet, dark night, though, the stars displayed a brilliance all of their own.

Anderson wrapped his hands around his mug, warming them.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. Someone was creeping below one of the desks, trying not to be seen. Anderson stood and walked to the far side of the bridge. The nav-desk retained its shape.

“Hello,” he said, more curious than afraid. There was nothing to fear in his artificial world.

No answer.

Anderson walked over softly, the rubberized soles on his shoes barely making any noise on the cold, hard floor. He came around the side of the maintenance console and saw a young woman sitting with her back against the wall. She cuddled a cat, a black-haired Burmese with a rainbow-colored collar. It was Berry's cat, and normally it didn't stray too far from the exceptionally bright engineer's side.

“Hey,” Anderson said, reaching out his hand and offering her some help to get up. “I recognize your friend. She's a beauty, isn’t she? And you're Diana, right?”

Deep in the recesses of his mind, Anderson remembered Diana as more than one of the crew, but that was another Anderson, another lifetime.

“Diana-9,” the young lady replied, putting the cat down as she took his hand and stood.

“Ah,” Anderson said, thinking for a moment. He’d heard about her. Diana-8 had a congenital defect that resulted in a brain tumor that had gone unnoticed until it was too late. Dr. Phillips had issued a general notice about bringing a new Diana online a couple of months ago, but Anderson hadn’t thought that much about it until now.

Diana was one of the medical staff, a nurse, if he remembered correctly, and not someone Anderson normally saw on the bridge. There had been some history between them, but he was an eight. Any history must have been with the fours or fives, or perhaps even the ones, he wasn't too sure, his recollection was vague. With a crew of just over four hundred, the Serengeti was small by interstellar standards, but large enough to cover the basics of a mobile colony.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you Diana-9. I’m Commander Anderson. Anderson-8.”

Diana lowered her head as she stood. She blushed a little and looked around awkwardly without saying anything before turning to leave.

“No, please. Don’t go... I’m curious. How long have you been up here?”

“A couple of hours, I guess,” she replied sheepishly, shrugging her shoulders.

Diana was beautiful. Fresh clones always were, especially when they first came out of the growth pods. Her skin was smooth, unspoiled by the inevitable signs of aging. Her dark hair looked almost black in the soft light. Like Dr. Phillips, she had it pulled back into a ponytail. Her bangs brushed just above her glistening dark eyes.

Anderson looked at his watch. It was after one in the morning.

“You’ve been up here for a couple of hours,” he repeated back to her, somewhat surprised Diana hadn't become bored with the static view. “Don’t you find it lonely up here? Boring?”

“I find it peaceful.”

Her response seemed almost robotic. He wanted her to say more, but he found it difficult to draw the words out of her, probably because she was still assimilating life. Anderson couldn’t remember exactly what it felt like so many decades ago, but he did remember a general sense of bewilderment, being overwhelmed by even little things, like flowers in the garden, or a spider in the atrium.

It was unnerving to awaken suddenly one day, a fully grown, conscious human being. To open your eyes and suddenly have life thrust upon you as an adult was scary. Ordinarily, Homo sapiens had the luxury of growing in awareness from their childhood, through their teens and into adulthood, but for the crew of the Serengeti, conscious awareness was an explosion out of darkness, life radiating forth like the birth of a star. Homo sapiens replicus was the scientific term, but that never satisfied Anderson. Right or wrong, he thought of himself as human.

“I come up here most nights,” he said, turning and walking back, away from the elevator doors at the rear of the bridge. He continued speaking as he walked out under the clear dome. “Normally, not this late, but I find it peaceful, too.”

Diana stood still.

“Life’s funny, isn’t it?” Anderson continued. “Here we are, surrounded by the majestic glory of billions of years of galactic evolution. We’re surrounded by an intricate cosmic ballet, and yet we appreciate its beauty for what, in comparison, is just a fraction of a second. Like a mayfly, we're set free in the universe but for a day, we're overwhelmed with the color and diversity of an ecosystem we can never fully comprehend. Like a mayfly, we see but one sunrise, one sunset.”

He turned to her, beckoning her to come closer. “How much have they told you?”

Diana walked forward slowly, hesitantly. “I have the standard implants,” she replied. “A full set of personal and historical indices and the advanced medical pack.”

“How does that feel?”

It was a loaded question. Anderson knew how it felt, but for him, it was so long ago. He wanted to feel young again and, somehow, the thought of fresh memories, memories that had never been earned, signaled his own youth restored.

“It feels strange,” Diana said, walking softly toward him.

“Yeah, you know all this stuff. You just know it instinctively. You don’t know how you know it or why. It’s just there, ready to be called upon whenever you need it, like a long-lost dream.”

Diana was silent.

“Does it bother you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied, looking him in the eye. “Does it bother you?”

Anderson smiled. “It used to.”

It felt good to be honest. Diana was frank, and Anderson found that refreshing. She hadn’t learned to be socially polite and guarded yet, protective of her true thoughts and feelings. She was a little nervous around him, he could see that, and yet she had no hesitation about speaking openly, without regard to his rank. He found her presence invigorating, refreshing.

It surprised Anderson to realize how much he enjoyed having someone to talk to in the quiet of the night. In some ways, it was therapeutic. It was a welcome alternative to the normal conversations of a day, discussions around refit duties and mission priorities, or arguments over construction assignments and containment issues.

The latest problem was to do with metal fatigue in the sewage treatment plant. It seemed hardly worthy of the attention of a starship captain. And yet, although the ship was largely autonomous, Anderson knew nothing lasts forever. Most of his time was spent regenerating components in what seemed like a perpetual maintenance cycle.

“What bothers you?” he asked, leaning back and raising himself up on the edge of the nav-desk. The desk sensed the conversation and adjusted its angle accordingly, finding a midway point that allowed Anderson to talk with Diana while still providing him with a view of the stars above.

Diana walked forward gracefully. Her gym t-shirt and shorts revealed her smooth skin. The soft curves of her body were accentuated in the dim light. Anderson found himself struck by her natural grace and beauty.

“I don't feel real. I feel like a thing, not a person. Am I just another mechanical tool on this ship? Something to be used and discarded?”

Anderson was silent.

“Am I a spare part? Something that’s been pulled off the shelf for a biological repair rather than a metal cog or a rubber seal? Is that life? Is that all our lives really are?”

Anderson listened carefully. She’d obviously been thinking about this for some time and needed to get it out of her system. In some ways, he thought, that’s what he needed too. Not more advice, not more opinions or suggestions, just to be heard, just to verbalize a problem and work through it for himself. She needed a sounding board, someone to listen, not to judge. Tonight, Anderson would be that for her.

Diana walked around in front of him, brushing her hand playfully against his leg. Her soft fingers ran over his knee and along his thigh without any inhibition. She stared out at the dark universe beyond the dome, her fingers lingering on his leg.

Anderson was aroused. It wasn't intentional on either his part or hers, it was the innocence in her touch.

“I mean, we’re out here looking for life,” she continued, oblivious to the sensual nature of her touch. “And yet we’re not really alive ourselves. We’re just copies, clones, replicas of life that existed hundreds of years ago. Any life we originally had is now long dead.”

Anderson sipped his coffee, pretending to listen objectively when he was struck by her presence. It felt good to be touched. For her, it was exploratory. He understood that. She was still in the process of learning to assimilate information with all of her senses. For a newborn, words alone were never enough.

“I just want to feel alive,” she said, her hand brushing against his as she sat up on the desk next to him. The nav-desk responded seamlessly, forming a second seat next to the commander. She moved closer, and the desk adjusted accordingly, melding into a broad bench seat for them to lean against.

With childlike curiosity, Diana played with the soft hair on the back of his hand. “I just want to know there’s some purpose to my life. I know it sounds silly, but I want to be me. I don’t want to be Diana-9, soon to be replaced by Diana-10, just another replicant, just another intermediary step on the stairway, just another name or a number. I want to feel alive. I want to live free.”

She breathed deeply, her breasts rising and falling with a sigh. Anderson swallowed, hiding his conflicted feelings.

“We’re looking for life,” she continued, turning and looking into his eyes. “But we’re looking in the wrong place. We’re looking for life out there somewhere when the life we should find is all around us. We’re looking for something to tell us life is important when we should know that already.”

Anderson sipped his coffee again. Only this time it was a defense mechanism. It allowed him to avoid speaking, to gather his thoughts, to align his feelings with his sense of duty. He felt uncomfortable with how open and forceful Diana was. The coffee had cooled, allowing him to take a long sip.

Diana was silent. She had said her piece. Her eyes dropped. Anderson could see she wanted to know what he thought. After all, he’d invited her to join him, he’d asked her what was on her mind. He couldn’t simply ignore what she’d said and how she’d questioned the mission. After a few awkward seconds, Anderson thought of something that might help both of them. He asked her a question.

“Would you like to know where the exact center of the universe is?”

From her reaction, the question took her off guard. She turned sideways, looking him in the eye again. His response to her feelings had surprised her. She had clearly expected a more sympathetic answer. She hadn't expected such a sterile, technical reply about the spatial coordinates of the Big Bang. It must have seemed completely off topic, but he thought she'd appreciate where he was leading her.

“Sure,” she said, but there was reluctance in her voice.

Anderson reached out and touched her gently in the center of her chest, just above the sternum, tapping his finger softly as he said, “It’s right here.”

His finger lingered for a second before his hand fell back to the soft bench they were sitting upon.

She smiled.

“You see,” he continued, “it is not the universe or our quest to find intelligent life that gives purpose and meaning to our lives. Rather the opposite is true. We give meaning to the universe. To be conscious, to be alive and self-aware, to appreciate the brilliance of this majestic universe, is to appreciate life itself.

“There’s no central point from which the Big Bang emanated, rather it's true to say, it happened everywhere.

“And yet, in your own way, you are the center of the universe. From your perspective, all of this, the trillions upon trillions of astonishingly massive stars that surround us, they all revolve around you, and that’s not just an illusion of perspective.

“Without us, there is no meaning to any of this. And that’s why we’re out here looking for intelligent life, because life gives meaning to ordinary molecules.

“Without intelligence, all of this is meaningless, it’s just a bunch of compact hydrogen and helium atoms undergoing gravity-induced nuclear fusion. With intelligence, this is a universe of infinite possibility.”

Anderson shifted his weight. His fingers gently touched hers as he glanced up at the stars. The nav-desk shifted smoothly in response, affording them a better view. Diana squeezed his hand. He enjoyed the contrast of her warmth over the cool desk top. Her soft fingers ran gently over his hand, feeling his wrist, gliding over the muscles and bones and toying with the hair on his forearm. He smiled.

It was difficult for her, he knew that. It was difficult to be a child in an adult’s body, to want to feel alive, to want to feel loved. There was nothing sexual about her touch, regardless of what he felt, and that knowledge helped him keep his own feelings in check. It would be a while before she would understand her own feelings. This was simply the kindness of a father and a child being played out between two clones from different generations. Anderson knew that, and he fought not to read any more into her touch than that. This was the kindness of a family neither of them had ever known.

“I remember things,” Diana began. “I remember places on Earth. It’s as though I was there just yesterday. I feel as though I’ve walked barefoot on the soft sands of a beach, hiked up a mountain in the fresh snow, and strolled through a redwood forest after the summer rains have cleared. The smell in the air, the warmth of the sun, the soft breeze on my cheeks, they all seem so real and yet I’ve never been off this ship. They’re not my memories, they’re hers.”

“She gave them to you. They’re a gift.”

“A gift or a curse?” Diana asked. “She’s shown me all that I will never enjoy, all I can never have. I realize Diana One had her reasons for signing up for the mission. But I’m not her. I’m not the same woman. I may look the same, sound the same, but I’m me, I’m not her.”

Diana fought back tears as she spoke.

“Why did she do that? Why did she give up her life? Why did she abandon Earth on a quest she knew she would never personally fulfill? A mission she knew would take thousands of years. Why would she undertake something like this, something that would cut off her contact with the real world? And all the while knowing she’d never live to see the results? She knew she’d never see either success or failure, so why do it? All I can think is, it’s because she...”

Diana paused, struggling to find the words.

Anderson filled in the blanks for her, saying, “Because she believed. She believed in the mission and its importance.”

“Or she was crazy,” added Diana, laughing. “She had to be!”

“Or extraordinarily brave.”

Diana interlocked her fingers over his. As she spoke, her passion flowed through her words. Her fingers flexed with excitement.

“I wouldn’t have chosen this. I know it sounds crazy, contradictory, but I wouldn't have. Perhaps that’s what bugs me most. Because, if she hadn’t chosen this, I wouldn’t be here. I would have never existed, but here I am. And yet, this is not my choice. I have no control over my own life, and that scares me.”

“No one does,” Anderson replied. It was a frank admission from the commander of a starship, from someone who wielded control over hundreds of lives. “And anyone who thinks they do is fooling themselves.”

Anderson sipped his cold coffee before continuing.

“Life is not something to be feared, it is to be embraced.”

Starlight glistened in her eyes.

“To even be in existence scares me,” she said. “My mind is alive with possibilities, excited by life and yet afraid of death, excited to feel the warmth of the light, but afraid of the cold darkness.”

She paused. Anderson knew she wasn't finished, that she was working through a train of thought, so he listened intently.

“I guess that’s what draws me here to the bridge at night. The darkness teases and torments me, and I can’t fight back. All I can do is try to understand. I can't rage against it, I can't. And so I am resigned to try to comprehend.”

“You’re here by choice,” Anderson said softly, trying to console her. “You’re here by design. Natural humans are, for the most part, conceived haphazardly by accident, but you, you are special. You’re a part of the greatest quest in the history of mankind, the search for intelligent extraterrestrial life.”

She squeezed his hand as he spoke.

“To be afraid is to be human. It means you think, you feel, you value life. I know it sounds strange, but don't be afraid of fear.”

He put down his coffee cup before continuing.

“Fear is simply the recognition of how precious life really is. It means you value what you have and you want to preserve it. That’s natural. And you’re doing the right thing. You’re not ignoring it or pretending those feelings aren't real, you’re facing that fear with courage.”

In the soft light, she looked beautiful. Her face radiated with a smile. Somewhere, deep in his mind, Anderson remembered that smile. He remembered touching her face gently with his hands, kissing her lips, but that was in a past generation. He held his nerve. To honor that memory, he chose to protect her innocence, to maintain his integrity. Perhaps, he thought, in another generation their paths would cross without a gap of twenty-five years.

“I have no doubt we’ll detect intelligent life,” he said. “The only question I have is whether there will be anyone back there on Earth to receive our signal.”

“Why?” Diana asked. “Where would they go?”

“It’s not so much where they would go, but whether mankind still exists.”

“Really?” Diana replied, surprised by the concept.

“Sure. It took well over three billion years for intelligent life to develop on Earth, and yet it has been only ten thousand years since civilization emerged. It's been just a few millennia since our self-aware, conscious intelligence emerged as an intellect in its own right. A flame that flares up so quickly can be snuffed out in an instant.”

Anderson scratched the stubble on his chin as he spoke.

“The numbers are deceiving. Six thousand as a proportion of three billion is something ridiculously low, something like two ten-thousandths of one percent. It’s so ridiculously low that, under normal conditions, you’d round it down to zero, and yet that’s civilization, that’s everything that is modern life wrapped up in a fraction of time that barely registers at all on a galactic scale.”

“So you think they’re dead?” Diana asked, still somewhat taken aback by the possibility.

“It’s possible. We’ve been hurtling through the interstellar vacuum for well over eleven hundred years. We’re eight hundred light years from Earth, almost a hundred light years beyond the galactic plane, right on the cusp of the galactic magnetosphere. We’re riding the bow shock thrown up as the Milky Way plows through the heavens, but, even when we account for our time spent in acceleration, the time dilation effect means at least two and a half thousand years have passed back on Earth.”

Diana’s eyes widened visibly. For her, a month must have seemed like an eternity, let alone a year. Two and a half thousand years would have been inconceivable.

“Yeah,” Anderson said, seeing the expression on her face. “A lot can change in two thousand years. In that time, mankind went from the Greek astronomer Seleucus staring at the moon, wondering about the tides, to Neil Armstrong walking upon the lunar surface.

“Two millennia is long enough for entire civilizations to rise from obscurity and then fall without a trace. Societies ebb and surge. Entire cultures would have transformed beyond recognition during this time. I’d be surprised if they even speak English anymore. It's probably considered one of the classical languages by now.

“We’re talking about such a vast duration of time that there are probably significant physical, and even biological differences between us and them. In the time of Christ, Roman soldiers were a shade over five feet in height. By the twenty first century, the average European male was over six feet tall, so these kind of physical attributes have probably continued to drift further again.

“As it was when we left, the Martian colonies were already displaying elongated limbs and resilience to radiation. When the Serengeti departed, colonies were planned for Vega, Groombridge 1618 and Teegarden's star. After two thousand years, the human race could very well have split into different galactic locations, and may be on track to split into separate species given enough time.”

Diana's eyes were open wide, dilated in the soft light. Anderson tried not to be distracted by her beauty.

“If they haven’t wiped each other out in an interplanetary battle or an interstellar war, the technological differences between us and them would be tectonic. The era in which the Serengeti was launched would seem like ancient antiquity to anyone alive on Earth today.”

Diana said, “That's kinda scary, kinda exciting.”

Anderson smiled. He could see the astonishment in her eyes.

“Hearing from us is going to be like hearing a voice from the ancient Greeks. It would be like talking to Aristarchus of Samos about his heliocentric theories, or discovering a manuscript written by the Roman astronomer Ptolemy. And yet, like us, they have not been able to breach the speed of light.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well,” Anderson continued. “They haven’t overtaken us. If they had developed a faster-than-light drive, they would have beaten us to the halo point and would have already stepped out beyond the bounds of the Milky Way into the thin intergalactic plasma. That is, of course, if they’re still concerned about finding other forms of intelligent life.

“For all we know, civilization could have collapsed and receded into a more primitive state following some kind of apocalyptic war or global famine, a second Dark Age. Honestly, we have no idea. All we know is that they’re not in the same state we left them. For better or worse, they’ve moved on over the horizon.”

Diana shone. It was invigorating to talk to her so openly, so freely. Anderson felt strangely close to her, as though he'd found a long-lost friend.

“Do you really think there’s life in outer space?” she asked, moving closer, her leg brushing gently up against his. He could see she felt comfortable, natural around him.

Anderson leaned back and the nav-desk adjusted accordingly. Diana lay up against him gently, staring up at the stars. The warmth of her body felt good.

“It’s a question that’s already been answered,” he replied softly, his voice almost as faint as the ambient light. “We already know with certainty that there is life in outer space.”

“Really?” she replied. That got her attention. She sat up abruptly, turning toward him in surprise.

“Sure,” he continued. “Where do you think Earth is?”

Diana laughed. Her teeth glistened in the soft light. She pushed him playfully, punching him tenderly on the shoulder. “Oh, of course, but, you know what I mean. Is there any other life in outer space?”

“Well, if it happened once, why can’t it happen again? If it happened there, why can’t it happen anywhere, everywhere?”

“But it doesn’t,” she replied. “It would be nice if it were that simple, but it’s not, is it?”

“Maybe it is. Maybe life is everywhere, it’s just that we can’t see it.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

Anderson’s coffee was cold, but he sipped it anyway.

“We tend to oversimplify things. We think in terms of black and white. And we tend to see things from only one vantage point—our own. So we’ve looked at Earth as though it were something special, something unique, a single point for the origin of life. We don’t see Earth for what it actually is. We don’t see it as the third minor planet in orbit around an average star roughly three-quarters of the way from the center of a modest-sized galaxy, and yet that’s all it is.

“If we compare Earth with Venus, Mars or Titan, it seems rather obvious that Earth is unique, but it isn’t, or at least, it wasn’t. Life arose on Earth when it was hellish.

“You see, we've got it all backwards. It's not that Earth was special and so life thrived. On the contrary, life transformed a barren, noxious, poisonous wasteland into paradise. There have been times when Earth was as blisteringly hot as Venus and as cold and desolate as Mars, and yet over billions of years microbes transformed the planet into the moderate environment we see today.

“We see Earth as this vast, all-encompassing, all-consuming remarkable reality. We see birds with their plumage, animals in such variety; tigers, orangutans, pandas, monkeys, kangaroos, snakes and spiders. We see ants and beetles, whales, dolphins and fish in the oceans, and we call all this Nature. Yet everything about Earth as a planet is rather normal and ordinary instead of exceptional and extraordinary.”

“So why haven’t we been able to find life elsewhere?” Diana asked, clearly enjoying the discussion.

“The theory goes that it’s not Earth or even the Sun that's unique. They’re both quite average in a rather dull and boring way. It’s the very space in which the Sun is set that forms a unique environment capable of sustaining life.”

Diana was silent, but Anderson could see the excitement in her eyes.

“Supernova unleash the most destructive explosions in the universe, bathing surrounding star systems with harsh radiation that would kill any microbes, sterilizing untold worlds, and yet they may also be the answer to why life has thrived on Earth. We suspect our solar system collapsed from a gas cloud formed by a supernova.

“Beyond the initial blast, supernova push out massive bubbles spanning hundreds of light years, thinning out the vacuum of space. They provide a cushion, a buffer against cosmic rays. Our solar system is surrounded by several of these overlapping bubbles, forming what looks like a chimney. And that's the great irony of life—that the death of one star protects life around other more distant stars.

Diana asked, “So why don’t we see life elsewhere?”

“Space is chaotic. The theory goes, it was the chaotic, random alignment of these bubbles that protected us from the chaotic radiation that kills life in its infancy. For us, it was dumb luck.”

Diana turned her head slightly to one side, and Anderson could see she was recalling a distant memory, one that couldn’t have been hers but that must have played on the edge of her mind, teasing her with some interconnected insight.

“They say the house always wins,” she said. “But I guess sometimes people get lucky.”

“The house?” Anderson replied, not understanding her reference.

Anderson lived in a small cabin, they all did. No one had lived in houses for centuries. He could barely remember what a house looked like. That memory had been passed down through the clonal generations, but it had faded, seeming almost mystical.

“Oh,” Diana said, looking distant as she spoke, her eyes glazing over as she too struggled to recall memories from another lifetime. “It’s a phrase from Venus.”

She stopped mid sentence, correcting herself, “No, no. Vegas! Las Vegas not Las Venus!”

“Ah,” Anderson replied, understanding the connection. “Well, yes. I think you’re right. Sit at the blackjack table long enough, play the slots for a few days on end, and sure, the house is going to clean you out, but at some point you’ll get lucky, at some point you might get a big payout. Get that early enough, and you may win more than you bet, but in the long run, the house always wins. The same’s true with life in our galaxy. Physics always wins. But every now and then, physics pays out and life emerges.”

“So this bubble, it’s like a big balloon?” Diana asked.

“Yeah, imagine cotton wool or bubble wrap,” Anderson replied, hoping she could recall such a memory. “The bubble is hundreds and hundreds of times larger than our solar system. The rest of our galaxy is cool and dense and flooded with crippling radiation that bounces around like a ball on a billiard table, hitting everything in its path. But the hot, thin gas in our Local Bubble protects us from harm and has protected us for millions, perhaps even billions of years. And that’s it. That’s the idea we are out here to explore.”

“So that’s what we’re looking for?”

“Yes. We’re looking for bubbles of a similar size. We want to find superheated, rarefied gas bubbles in other galaxies, as that’s where we think we’ll find life. We've seen them from afar with telescopes, but we've never been able to examine the star systems and planets within them. Serengeti will allow us to peer into those systems in other galaxies.”

Diana laughed at the thought.

“I'm guessing these interstellar bubbles look entirely different from soap bubbles in the bath.”

She paused. Anderson understood what was happening in her thoughts. It was the excitement of recalling moments of joy from some long lost time. She continued, saying, “I can vaguely remember Diana-One chasing bubbles as they drifted on a breeze. That must have been fun.”

Her eyes drifted up as she fought to recall childhood memories she had never experienced.

“Why Serengeti?” she asked. “Why the name? Isn’t that somewhere in Africa?”

“The theory is,” Anderson began, “that we don’t see any other forms of life around us in our galaxy because our galaxy is like the Arctic Circle on Earth. Life can exist there, but not in great abundance. It’s just too harsh, too inhospitable. Oh, there might be the odd polar bear and seal, but it's nothing like the teeming plains of Africa.

“The idea is that, rather than being the norm, our galaxy is below average. We’re the poor cousin. We’re the Eskimos of the universe.”

Diana-9 laughed.

Anderson smiled.

“Imagine if you took an Eskimo, someone who’s only ever known the bleak Arctic wastelands, with their scattered walruses and the occasional Arctic fox—someone who’s lived their whole life thinking the Canadian or the Siberian wilderness is the norm, and you took them to Africa. Instead of glaciers and permafrost, they’d see life teeming across the open plains.

“What would they think when they stood on the Serengeti and looked out at the tens of thousands of creatures swarming around them? Ants, spiders, beetles, flamingos, eagles, butterflies, vultures, hyenas.”

Diana laughed at the thought.

“That would be an eye opener,” she said.

“Imagine what they’d think of ostriches and crocodiles, or hippos and rhinos. And what if they explored further?

“When Europeans first visited Australia, they thought the black swans were fake. They thought kangaroos were giant rats. And they were sure the poor platypus was a hoax. Honestly, who would believe there were beavers with a duck’s bill?”

Diana had a beautiful smile. Anderson could have lost himself in her gaze.

“In Africa, there were herds containing thousands of black and white striped horses that defied the European imagination. Zebra.

“And there were elephants—impossible creatures with a nose longer than their legs, a nose with the dexterity of a hand.

“And then there was the absurdly long-necked giraffe.

“You see, like European explorers, our intrepid Eskimo would be overwhelmed with the sheer diversity of life outside the Arctic. And yet that life has always been there. For our Eskimo, though, that life was inaccessible simply because of geography. The theory is, maybe we're like those Eskimos and our galaxy is an Arctic wasteland. We need to look at the Serengeti.”

“And that’s why we’re here?” Diana said. “We’re here to explore the Serengeti.”

“Exactly. But to detect thin gas bubbles in other galaxies we need to get out beyond the interference of our own galaxy.”

“So what’s out there?”

Her child-like excitement fascinated him. Life was so simple for her. She sat there, swinging her legs back and forth. It was as though she were listening to some fast-paced music in the background, as though she were keeping time to some unheard tune. Anderson reached over and rolled a chair closer, putting his feet up on the seat as he leaned forward, thinking about how to reply without disappointing her.

“What can you see?” Diana asked again.

“Nothing yet. We’re on the verge of intergalactic space. We've been on the verge for over a century. So far, we haven’t seen anything, but it’s probably because of all the background noise and radio interference. Our probe is so sensitive that, were it stationed in an Earth orbit, it could detect the heat signature of a cup of coffee on Pluto. The problem isn’t the probe, it’s where it’s located. It needs the quiet of the intergalactic medium to focus at the sort of distances involved when it comes to observing other galaxies. And so, here we go, plowing through space to find a quiet spot.”

“Show me,” she said.

“What?”

“Show me what it looks like.”

“Now?” he replied.

“Yes.”

“But it’s the middle of the night.”

“Please?” Diana asked. Her expression was one of simple innocence, impetuous and vibrant. Her face radiated life.

“Do you even realize what’s involved?” he asked.

“No,” Diana replied, looking curious. She really didn’t know, Anderson thought.

“We’ve got to deploy the inertial dampeners, drop into a sub-relativistic speed by temporarily reversing the warp field orientation, and then deploy the array arm before we can even start scanning with the main probe.”

“But isn’t it an automated process?” Diana asked. Her tone of voice was inquisitive. “I thought it was all computer driven, a set-and-forget procedure.”

“It is, but—” Anderson replied, frustrated.

“But what?”

“It is a complex process,” Anderson insisted. Without realizing it, he was being stubborn in response to her refusal to drop the issue. “We fire up the sensor array only in accordance with mission protocols.”

And now he sounded just like he had this afternoon when confronted by Phillips. Anderson hated how easily he’d fallen into the same mental rut yet again.

“Why?”

It was a good question.

Anderson knew the scientists who wrote up those protocols were long dead, by at least two thousand years. And why had they set five-year intervals? It was the same question Dr Phillips had asked. And his answer had been the same. Just because. It was an answer, but it wasn't a reason. He was the captain, the commander. It was his prerogative. Phillips had yelled at him, telling him to use his initiative. She had argued that they were already well above the spiral arm so they should focus on the search, they should take more samples, over a wider range of possibilities, but he held to his precious protocols. They were his comfort blanket, and he was ashamed to recognize that.

But he had a duty, he thought. He had to preserve the Serengeti. He had to hand her on to future generations so the search could continue. He had a duty to the past and the future, to those who invested in the project and launched the Serengeti away from the space-lanes, out above the spiral arm, and to those still to come, who would one day find evidence of intelligent life in other galaxies.

But for what? Even if they found life, who would care? Not those who commissioned the voyage, they were dead. Not even the crew of the Serengeti, not really. For them, the Serengeti encompassed their whole lives. The journey was more than some theoretical experiment that would wind up some day.

Maybe that's where his resentment really lay. His anger had been directed at Dr. Phillips, but perhaps the real object was the mission itself and the question none dared ask. What next? Once the experiment was complete, what should they do? Where should they go? No, it wasn't the crew of the Serengeti who would care about what they found, not in a scientific sense. Nor would anyone alive anywhere at that time, as any discovery would be destined for future generations. News of any discovery would take hundreds and hundreds of years to reach Earth. And then, what would it be? A curiosity? A novelty? An exhibit in a museum? A footnote in a textbook?

“And everyone’s asleep,” he continued. “The crew should be on stand-by when we initiate deceleration. This would be completely against protocol.”

He was afraid.

Anderson had never realized it before, but he'd always thought of someone else making the first positive identification and not him. Phillips was right. For all his bluster otherwise, he was narrow-minded. Anderson-8 was warming the seat for the next commander.

“Oh, come on,” Diana said, pulling playfully on his short sleeve, physically willing him into action. The gentle scrape of her nails and the warmth of her fingers on his hand caused his resolve to waver.

“This is not the time for joyriding,” Anderson said sternly, but he was losing the battle.

“Maybe it is,” Diana offered, thinking about it for a second. Her hand rested intimately on his chest as she leaned in toward him. “Maybe you’ve formalized the process too much. Maybe you need some spontaneity. Maybe you’re too busy looking for what you’re expecting to find, and you’re missing what’s really out there.”

“It’s too much of a drain on the power cells,” Anderson began, but it was a lie. Diana cut him off with her soft, gentle voice. Her hand slid down and rested on the side of his hip.

“They’ll recharge. Stop thinking like The Commander for once. Stop thinking like some hereditary ruler, a king set in place by the divine right of some ancient wizard scientist centuries ago. Remember who you really are.”

She looked deep into his eyes. He felt as though she could feel his fear. Her voice was confident, self-assured.

“You’re a clone, just like me. Take off that uniform and we’re both the same. We’re both just people. We think the same. We walk the same. We eat the same. You have the same thoughts, the same feelings, the same doubts and questions. You’re looking for meaning too. And not just for some theoretical recognition of an ancient mission goal, you’re looking for it in the depth of your soul just like I am. That’s why you’re up here, milling around in the middle of the night, looking out at the stars. That’s why we’re both here.”

She paused, lifting her hand away from him. Anderson was silent. He felt cold where just seconds before he’d enjoyed the soft warmth of her touch.

“You’re afraid, aren’t you?” she said.

“What?” Anderson replied, stunned by her boldness, immediately responding with denial. “No!”

The whole conversation had made him feel distinctly uneasy. He’d gone from being confident and in control to a feeling of plunging headfirst into a spiral dive, plummeting toward the ground.

“You’re afraid, just like me. You’re afraid your whole life will somehow be negated if there’s nothing out there. You’ve looked in the past and not seen anything, and you’re scared because you think that means there is no other intelligent life. That all this is a waste of time, a waste of our lives. But just because you can’t see something, doesn’t mean it’s not there, right?

“Maybe the Serengeti principle is correct, but our equipment just isn’t sensitive enough to pick up these faint gaseous bubbles, even from out here in intergalactic space. But that doesn’t mean we should stop trying, and it doesn’t mean that our attempts are failures, does it? Isn’t it valiant and worthy just to be a part of the endeavor?”

For a child, Diana-9 was a fast learner.

Anderson was stumped. She was using his own logic against him. She was questioning whether he really meant what he’d said earlier about intelligence giving purpose and meaning to the universe. If he didn't, then she was right, he was just giving lip service to the mission, and that made him a fraud. The idea of being dishonest was repugnant.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Anderson said, standing up. He was talking more to himself than to her. “Computer, prep the ship for deceleration. Start the inertial dampening harmonics.”

Diana sat there knocking her knees together with excitement as the computer responded, saying, “Yes, commander.” Its soft, feminine voice was deep and quietly reassuring.

“Harmonics,” Diana said. She had an absent look on her face. That term must have awakened her memory, or at least the memories she’d been given. Anderson knew she’d never personally experienced an observation drop, so she must have remembered the effect of the inertial dampening from a previous iteration. For him, the stiffening of the air was always unsettling, the thick sludge that congealed around his body made ordinary movements feel like wading through mud.

He should wake the crew.

No, he thought. He shouldn't be doing this at all.

Dr. Phillips would read him the riot act for dropping without a crew chief on hand, but the matriarch would get her wish, she'd get to see the universe as it really was for one last time. It would take them several months to restore their velocity, but time was irrelevant and they'd be able to run observations until they hit roughly ninety percent of the speed of light.

The fine hair on his arms began to tingle as the dampening harmonics took effect. Diana radiated a smile. She stood on the balls of her feet and held out her arms like a ballerina. She spun around, fighting against the viscous air around her. Her excitement was intoxicating, dragging him on.

Diana’s eyes were full of delight as she reveled like a child in the sluggish response of her limbs. She jumped, with her arms stretched out, and hung in the air as the inertia dampening lengthened her movements. She grabbed at the railing, smiling at Anderson.

The nav-desk, in sync with the central computer, returned to its primary functions, anticipating the drop. The desk flattened, controls and holographic displays appeared on its smooth, curved surface.

“Are you ready?” Anderson asked, his voice sounding deep and slurred in the thickening medium of congealed air.

“Yes,” she replied, her cheeks ruddy with excitement. “I remember this. I remember it so well. Dropping from a relativistic speed. Hah, I barely know what a relativistic speed actually is, but it's there, in my dictionary, wedged into my vocabulary. I've never seen this before, but I remember it clearly. I'm looking forward to seeing it again, for the first time.”

Anderson laughed. Diana made him feel young again.

He spoke with distinct clarity. “Computer, initiate the drop-out procedure. Lower our relative speed to seventy-five percent of the EMR and then return to standard acceleration.”

Neither of them heard the computer respond. The air around them thickened like a gel before going rock-hard. Sound no longer carried. For a few seconds, neither of them could move. They couldn’t breathe, they couldn’t so much as flex a muscle. Even their eyelids were held firmly in place. It was as though they had been frozen alive.

As often has he'd done this, Anderson never got use to it. For a moment, panic swept his mind. He was suffocating, drowning. But the moment passed, and the dampening faded. Within seconds, the quantum resonance was gone. As the harmonics dissipated, he moved his arms, not because he had to, because he wanted to, because he felt compelled to ensure it was over, not that he could have done anything if it wasn't.

The heavy air rolled over his skin, ruffling through the hairs on his arm. Normal conditions resumed and he looked at Diana. If she had felt any fear, it didn't show. She looked electrified. She bounced on the balls of her feet with excitement.

Before their eyes, in those few seconds as they stood transfixed by the inertia dampeners, the distorted, compressed image of the galactic ring descended swiftly around them. The halo of light flattened out as it fell below the craft. For Anderson, there was a slight tinge of vertigo as his point of reference unfolded and the Milky Way unraveled ahead of them. If Diana felt something similar, she didn't show it. Her eyes were on the specks of light stretching out into the darkness as the galaxy unraveled and expanded.

It looked as though the Serengeti had somehow passed through the star field from beneath the Milky Way and now rested above the plane of the galaxy. In reality, the craft had barely moved at all in relation to the Milky Way. It had simply reduced its relative velocity, and the illusion generated by traveling so close to the speed of light had dissipated. At least, thought, Anderson, most of the illusion was gone. There was still the slight tinge of blue shift discoloring Andromeda, and they were actually higher than they appeared. Even at 75% of the speed of light, the aberration brought those regions beside and below them slightly forward, slightly higher than they should have been.

The Milky Way was stunning.

While beforehand the Milky Way had appeared compressed tightly into a thin halo above them, the galaxy now appeared vast and flat. Instead of being curled into a glowing ring, the stars stretched out into the distance as a luminous disc. Diana looked surprised to see just how enormous the Milky Way was, and how close they were to the galactic plane.

Before, the glowing halo of stars had appeared distant, so high above them, but now the Serengeti had reduced its forward velocity, it was clear the craft had barely broken the dust plane of the immense star field beneath them in the spiral arm. The galaxy extended out in front of them, appearing to be at waist height. The galactic bulge rose up as a dome, reaching above eye-level in the distance. The center of the galaxy was well over twenty thousand light-years away, an amorphous mass of glowing stars and interstellar gas dominating the horizon. It was a colossus among giants.

“That’ll wake a few people,” Anderson said nonchalantly. “But it’s like a bout of apnea. They’ll probably just cough, roll over and go back to sleep. It'll make for a nice surprise in the morning.”

Diana was speechless. Her expression was one of awe. Anderson could see that, for all of her midnight sessions over the course of the few short months she'd been alive, she'd never dreamt the heavens were so vast, so dominant, so spectacular.

“Computer, switch the main decks to auxiliary power and divert the main power cell to the large sensor array.”

“Yes, commander,” came the reply.

Anderson got up off the bench and walked over to a command console. His fingers rippled over the fine strands of fiber-optics set across the control panel. The fibers responded to his deft touch, lighting up in soft shades of blue, green and orange.

“Computer, run a standard sweep of ten random galaxies in the Local Group, weighted toward those closest. Be sure to include Andromeda.”

“Yes, commander,” came the reply again.

Immediately above them, the clear dome shimmered. The dome changed from a transparent view of the universe to a series of images showing different galaxies in stunning detail, each one stretched out to cover an area up to twenty feet across, evenly spaced around the vast dome. Anderson held out his hand, grabbing at thin air and dragging his hand around to visually signal to the computer that the image should move in harmony with his gestures. He swung his hand around and the Andromeda galaxy swung down before them in a hologram stretching out over thirty feet in the air.

Diana walked forward, examining the view in detail, looking at the glowing dome at the center of the majestic spiral galaxy. Dark lanes of dust swirled outward from the core. Individual stars within the spiral arms were not visible, just the haze they produced as they lit up the interstellar medium. The outer fringes were peppered with the birth of blue stars, barely visible as pin-pricks of iridescent light on the fringes.

“It's beautiful,” Diana said.

“It's called Andromeda,” Anderson replied. “The woman in chains.”

“Really? That is so sad. Who would do that?”

“The Greeks had vivid imaginations,” Anderson said, trying to recall the details as best he could. “In Greek mythology, Andromeda was royalty, a Nubian princess, the daughter of the king and queen of North Africa.”

“What happened to her?”

Diana spoke as though Andromeda was real, a historical figure. Perhaps she once was, Anderson mused, but the events that had filtered down to their day were grossly distorted by mythology.

“Her mother loved her. She boasted of her beauty, as I guess all mothers do. She claimed Andromeda was the most beautiful woman in the world, more beautiful than the offspring of the gods.”

“And?” Diana asked.

Diana seemed a little upset. Anderson wondered if she could distinguish between fictional stories and reality. For her, reality probably was fictional in some respects. She put her hand on his, urging him on. Her emotions seemed fragile, easily swayed, which wasn't surprising given her young age.

“And the gods punished the kingdom. Wild storms descended from the seas, ravaging the land. The king consulted an oracle, looking for respite.”

“An oracle?”

“Someone that spoke for the gods.”

“And?” Diana asked with concern.

“And the oracle told him, the gods would only be satisfied with Andromeda's sacrifice, so she was chained to the rocks and left to the monsters of the deep.”

“Oh, that's horrible.”

“But,” he paused, pointing at one of the other galaxies, high above them. “Perseus saved her. He fought the monster and freed her.”

Diana looked curious. She said, “And they named these galaxies after them?”

“Well, they didn't know they were galaxies back then. They thought they were just stars, but yes, they were named to commemorate them.”

“To remember their love,” she said. It was almost a question, but Diana made it a statement.

“I guess so,” Anderson said, feeling a little awkward.

“Well, I think it's a beautiful story,” Diana said with confidence. “And if Andromeda could see her galaxy, I think she would be proud. There are shades of gold, strands of purple, hints of green, splashes of blue. It looks like jewels scattered on a black velvet backdrop, diamonds, topaz, emeralds, rubies and pearls. Andromeda is fit for a princess.”

Anderson felt uncomfortable with Diana’s lavish, emotive description. As pleasant as her analogy was, it was the comment of someone from a bygone age. Aesthetics aside, Andromeda was just a galaxy, the natural result of immense volumes of hydrogen forming a vast gravity well, swirling in chaotic eddies, compressing into pressure-induced fusion and igniting as hundreds of billions of individual stars. The shape, the motion, the blaze of light, the compressed core, the spiral arms, the birth of new stars, they were all the result of known laws of physics. There was nothing mystical or magical about Andromeda.

Any beauty Andromeda had was beauty man bestowed upon her. Out of that raw chaos, mankind's only interest was in whether life had arisen there as well, to see if intelligence could have been distilled from that seething cauldron.

Diana turned around to see the consoles on the command deck coming to life, lighting up and chirping quietly as the sensor readings came in. But there was no life. Below each galaxy, a series of read-outs displayed row upon row of zeros.

Anderson didn’t even look up. What would there be to see? He’d seen these results too many times. His mind wandered elsewhere. His eyelids had grown heavy as the night wore on. It was a pretty picture, but nothing more.

“Look for us,” Diana said. She was unfazed by the negative results.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what would you do to look for something like us out there, something like our ship?”

“Well,” Anderson said. “We couldn’t see a ship like ours directly at this distance, but we might be able to see the emission trail, maybe the exhaust bloom. An antimatter propulsion drive like ours would resonate in the 1500K range.”

He thought about it for a few seconds before he continued. “Although it’s thin, both the bow wave and the exhaust trail would radiate outward as they dissipated, somewhat like the wake of a boat on a lake. They could stretch for several parsecs, so it might be visible.”

“Computer, amplify and enhance trace emissions in the infrared range, focusing on narrow, triangular but elongated structures up to five parsecs in width, and correlate the results. Remove background noise and known natural sources. Targets will bear sub-planetary size radiation signatures.”

“Yes, commander,” the computer dutifully responded.

Nothing changed on the dome.

What were you thinking? Anderson thought, chastising himself. Discouraged, his mind gravitated to the inevitable grilling he'd get from Dr. Phillips and the other council members in the morning.

Anderson’s interest waned. He was tired. As contagious as Diana’s enthusiasm was, Anderson was starting to regret inviting her to join him. He regretted breaking protocol. He began thinking about how he could wrap this up and go to bed. All he could think about was that Dr. Phillips would have a field day when she realized what had gone on after midnight and how foolish he'd been. The scuttlebutt and rumors about Diana would resound for weeks, even though nothing had happened between them. What a headache that would be, he thought as he turned to look at Diana.

Her eyes had lit up. Her cheeks were flushed and her face was bright. She simply stood there speechless, looking at Andromeda with one hand stretched out pointing at the stars.

Anderson turned and looked. There, overlaid on top of the galaxy, was a mesh of thin red lines. He blinked, trying to focus his eyes on the fine computer-generated image. The lines were broken strands, dotted segments stretching in three dimensions throughout the spiral arms. They clumped together in a few dense spots. In other areas, there were vast tracts with only a few thin strands. It was as though a spider had woven a fine silk web over the galaxy.

As the realization swept over him, he started counting the major nodes, those areas where the thin points of light accumulated into thick red dots. There were hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. For these to be the emission signatures of an interstellar drive, there must have been vast corridors, traffic lanes stretching between star systems, there had to be commerce, colonization.

Multiple thoughts struck Anderson at once.

How would commerce work over relativistic time-frames?

Their means of interstellar travel was similar, but that wasn't so surprising as they had to be bound by the same laws of physics and chemistry.

The lines must represent trade routes, he thought. They probably marked exploration, migration. The nodes were clustered on either side of Andromeda, as though they originated in two different sections of the galaxy and were reaching out to touch each other.

His mind raced, reveling in the implications.

There would be remarkable medical opportunities for learning in areas such as biological convergence, the advent of diverse xenoforms with similar functions. Perhaps there would be cultural exchanges, technological exchanges, maybe even biological replication, where one race cultivated desirable traits from another, dicing and splicing whatever their equivalent of DNA happened to be.

Anderson looked at Diana.

“It's beautiful,” she said.

She was pointing at another galaxy, this one displayed over on the far side of the bridge. It too was a network of thin red strands and clusters of thick dots, a series of overlapping matrices. The clusters dominated one side of the galaxy but not the other, as though some alien race was still just emerging from its stellar infancy and was now in the throes of galactic conquest. It was a conquest that, by now, given the vast amounts of time that had transpired since the light from that galaxy first departed, would have reached one conclusion or another. He wondered how stable these galactic empires would be. They had to have endured for tens of thousands of years, but would they eventually burn out, just like the stars among which they dwelt?

Anderson wondered just how far that galaxy was from the Milky Way. How far back in time was he looking? And, he wondered, where were these cultures today? How much of their galaxy had they actually explored by now?

Anderson grinned. He wondered what sort of emerging life those explorers had found within their own distant galaxy, and whether they would allow that life to mature to intelligence. He wondered whether they too had launched an intergalactic probe, something similar to the Serengeti, something that for them answered the question of intelligent life elsewhere in the universe, or if there was enough diversity in their own galactic island to satisfy the question for themselves.

If they were looking at the Milky Way, what would they see?

Depending on when they looked, they’d see nothing for billions of years, just a sterile waste, and then, slowly, over a few thousand years, a central, emerging intelligence exploring its local area. And then, in the future, perhaps they’d see mankind spreading out through the galaxy in the same way they had.

Would they ever contact each other?

Would there ever be a technology that would allow life to span the infinite void of galactic space and overcome the expansion of space-time?

Or was life forever bound to these galactic islands? Doomed never to cross these seas?

Anderson was speechless. He turned again and looked at another galaxy, and then another and another. They all lit up with unique patterns revealing advanced interstellar civilizations. It truly was the Serengeti, teeming with life.

He spotted a pinwheel galaxy high on the dome above. It too lit up with red lanes and nodes peppering the outer rim. The clusters in the pinwheel, all in similar stages of complexity and development, made it clear there had been multiple points of intelligent origin. Life, it seemed, had appeared spontaneously in multiple parts of that fertile galaxy, maybe a dozen times or more. How remarkable, Anderson thought, that there were multiple different forms of intelligent, interstellar life in a single galaxy.

How similar would they be? He wondered. Would they share the same values? Would they wage war against each other? Or would they freely share their vast expanse? Would limited resources become an issue? Would they eventually bottle each other in, following some kind of Malthusian selection process?

Diana came up behind Anderson and slipped her hands around his waist. She tiptoed and kissed him gently on the cheek, whispering softly in his ear. “You were right. Intelligence gives meaning to the universe.”

He turned to face her with tears running down his cheeks.

“So,” she asked, draping her arms around his neck. “Where to from here, Commander? Do we head home? Do we take our newfound knowledge of life in the universe back to Earth?”

“No. We’d never make it,” he replied, holding her by the shoulders and looking deep into her eyes. “Not you and I, anyway. Our lives would expire long before we made landfall. No, we transmit the results back to them and wait a millennium or more to hear their reply. And we hope, we pray, they're still listening.”

“And us? What about us?”

It was a loaded question. Anderson knew she was talking about the crew of the Serengeti, but it was also apparent she was talking about the two of them.

They were an age apart. It hadn't always been that way, but in this time it was, and that was something he felt he had to accept. It would be easy to ignore the age difference between them, but he felt like he would be taking advantage of her if he kissed her. And yet, age would humble them both given time. The gap between Anderson and Dr. Phillips had been greater, yet over the years, Dr. Phillips had gone from being a mentor to a peer. Perhaps the same could be true of them one day, he hoped. But the age gap bothered him. He simply would not take the first step, although deep down, he hoped they would grow old together.

“What about us?” repeated Anderson, looking at the brilliance of intelligent life throughout the Local Group of galaxies. “We go on. And one day, millions of years from now, our descendants will set foot in the Serengeti.”

Diana had her own answer to the question. She tiptoed, with her arms draped around his neck, and their lips touched again, for the first time.