Tyler Hillis

“Well, we’re about to be put under so I should wrap this up.”

The familiar rough shape of an old woman’s face was suspended in the air above the hand terminal. 

“I can’t wait to see what you’ve built there.”

Alcana wiped away a wet spot on her cheek as she watched again. The projection’s blocky resolution made the wrinkled face appear static. It didn’t capture her mother’s warm gaze. 

“And if, you know, the journey doesn’t go well…”

Alcana hated this part. She could hear the delicate warning in the words. They both knew the risk.

“…just remember that I’m so proud of you.”

The hand terminal beeped as the recording ended. Alcana pushed the small device aside and withdrew the letter. It was an antiquated thing her mother insisted was better than anything digital—a personal artifact from the past.

Alcana agreed. The written words were similar to those in the recording, but she could feel her mother more in them.

And so was Alcana’s nightly ritual. After work in the rice fields finished, and she returned to her subterranean pod, she would play the recording and reread the letter, tracing the distinctive looping capital A’s. 

Tonight she completed the ritual for the final time.

The following morning, Alcana, along with the rest of the colony, waited at the landing pad for the bulbous transport ship to come to rest. Its massive engines kicked up the purple dust into a frenetic cloud. 

The engines were cut and the hydraulic ramp lowered. Through the haze, the Second Wave emerged, taking their first unsteady steps on their new home planet. 

Cries of joy rang out as siblings, partners, parents, and friends were reunited. The newcomers were then led into the safety of the domed habitats.

Alcana continued waiting with a handful of others—their collective fear rising.

Finally, the ship’s captain descended the ramp and looked out with heavy eyes. 

“As you all know, cryogenic sleep has a failure rate of fifteen percent,” he said. “I’m sorry to say…”

Alacana’s throat closed. His words faded away. She looked back into the ship, still hoping to see her mother appear from its belly.

“Alcana Stahl?” The voice was close, but she remained far away. “Are you Alcana?”

Something freed in her throat and the world came back into focus. The captain stood before her, and she nodded. He held out a sealed envelope. She took it and looked at the handwritten words.

To Alcana

The looping capital A told her enough.

Her mind glazed over as she let her feet take her back to her pod. She set the envelope down and stared at it for a long time, eschewing her mother’s final words.

Because if she read them, it would make it real—her mother would become an artifact of the past. But if she didn’t, she might remain in the present. 

And somewhere out there, drifting among the stars, her mother would still be on her way to see her daughter again.