Do You Dream of Terra-Two?

‘Well, I didn’t know whether I’d see you, but my manager says that if there’s free time I could show you around a little. Maybe, after the ceremony. I’m guessing you chose your favourite tree.’ When Juno nodded, he continued. ‘You’re in good company, because Annie Tyning, the first British woman in space in…’ His blue eyes rolled up in thought, ‘’53 or ’54, chose a wild apple tree as well. It’s one of my favourites. I actually really like sitting down there, in the Flight Garden. And thinking about how almost every GB astronaut has touched the ground under me.’

‘I think I’d probably do that too. If I worked here,’ Juno said.

There was an awkward confusion between Juno and Noah, the kind that comes after saying all your goodbyes once, only to meet again. Their energy was spent and the idea of facing the theatrics of a second goodbye struck Juno as silly now.

‘I feel as if I’ve been waiting here all morning…’ Noah said, rubbing a sweaty palm on the side of his jeans. Under his BIS jacket he was wearing an old mission week T-shirt from their school’s Christian Union. Juno knew that it said ‘Dare to Believe’ in bold letters on the back. ‘Is this okay?’ he asked, reaching out for her as if his fingers might burn. ‘You probably won’t catch anything.’

They touched cautiously at first, fingertips brushing. Noah took a quick breath, as if steeling himself to say something. ‘Juno… I wanted to ask you—’ He was interrupted by the public affairs officer, who emerged from the press office and shouted, ‘Juno Juma!’

‘Wait, what about Harry,’ Poppy said, getting up from the ottoman near the front desk. ‘He’s not here.’

‘He wasn’t cleared to leave today.’

‘His white blood cell count was a little low,’ Juno explained.

‘He’s sick?’ Poppy asked, eyes widening in horror.

‘No,’ Juno said, although Harry had gone pale with disappointment when it was announced that morning during their briefing that he would be put in quarantine for twelve hours. ‘I mean, probably not. It could suggest that a viral infection is coming on. So they’ll probably keep him in the sanatorium until T-minus twelve, and monitor him just to make sure he can fly tomorrow.’ Poppy’s brow furrowed. ‘He’ll probably be fine, though,’ Juno added.

‘Well—’ the officer looked down at her iPad. ‘The press have set up in the council room. You can change in the library and then the tree-planting ceremony will take place at one.’ Juno glanced at the clock opposite. They had just over an hour. ‘Plant your tree – I’ve been told by your flight surgeon to make sure that you wear your gloves; just a precaution – plant tree, final interview before the launch, although this one will be a small one, for the Interplanetary Channel and the society’s publications. And then take some pictures. You should be able to leave by three and then your schedules are clear for the rest of the day. Get some sleep. You’ll need it. Obviously.’

As they followed the woman around the main hall, Juno lingered behind to take in some of the displays. An oil painting of the inventor Sir William Congreve that she had encountered before in a History of Space Travel textbook. He was a pioneer of British rocketry and the society’s founder. The date etched under the gilded frame read 1812, 200 years ago. The Congreve rocket was used during the Napoleonic Wars. Juno had always found it amazing that by the end of that century British explorers were rallying expeditions to the summit of Mount Everest, but 100 years later their grandchildren were scaling the mountains of Mars, embarking for Jupiter’s moons and beyond.

Congreve left the bulk of his estate to the society after his death and, in accordance with his wishes, the money was invested and used to fund research into aeronautics and space exploration. Fellows of the BIS had initially conceived of the Off-World Colonization Programme and many of its members were amongst the pantheon of astronauts and scientists employed by the UK or European space agencies.

Juno was humbled by the history of the place. On every wall there was an image that made her shiver with recognition. Sepia-toned portraits of men wearing helmets, mission patches from pioneering flights. There was a Dalton professor – who had delivered a series of lectures on peculiar galaxies – accepting a Nobel Prize. There was the school’s provost, shaking hands with a former prime minster. There were framed letters signed by notable MPs, UN council members, US senators, congratulating the society on its achievements.

‘The girl is dawdling.’ The public affairs officer clicked her fingers from where she stood at the entrance of the library. The acoustics in the main hall were such that the sound was startling as a gunshot. Juno jumped and rushed after the others – her sister Astrid, Ara, Poppy, Eliot and Noah – as they all walked ahead of her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said as she reached the entrance.