Interstellar

Whole civilizations had risen on the red planet—in the imaginations of Lowell, Wells, Weinbaum, Burroughs, and so many other famous authors. Those civilizations had all fallen when the first robotic landers reported the dull truth. If Mars had ever been a place habitable by human beings—or anything like them—it had been a very long time ago. And if there was life there now, it was hiding itself very, very well.

Which is why they had left it behind. Mars wasn’t going to be humanity’s new home, any more than the Moon was.

Saturn had held the attention and wonder of the world for centuries, as well, but while Mars had done so because it was so Earthlike, Saturn caught the eye because it was so incredibly weird. In movies, in fiction, if you wanted to make clear a planet was really alien, you put rings around it. It was huge, as well, with an atmosphere of mostly hydrogen and helium and clouds of ammonia crystals. No home for humanity there, either, but beauty in plenty, with those bands of ice glittering in the cold light of a distant sun.

Cooper checked his instruments. Dropping into orbit, the Endurance became newest of more than one hundred and fifty moons that circled the gas giant—and that wasn’t counting the trillions of ice gems that made up the rings.

Or the object of their mission.

He checked the controls again and then went to the comm booth.

Two years.

He wanted to see his kids.

* * *

“…but they said I can start advanced agriculture a year early,” Tom said, as Cooper sat in the comm booth. He was listening, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

It was weird watching him change. Several recordings had been sent, the first just after Cooper went into cryosleep, and the most recent just a few days ago. They were so far away from Earth now that it took around eighty-four minutes for light—or a radio wave—to make the trip, making real-time conversations impossible, since that would mean a lag of nearly three hours between, “Hi, how are you?” and, “I’m good, how about you?”

In space, distance was time, and time was distance.

Tom mostly talked about the farm. He’d had a little trouble with Boots taking him seriously, but Donald had helped him iron that out. He’d met a girl, but that only lasted a few months. Cooper wasn’t surprised—he remembered the girl, an only child and a bit of a spoiled princess. Not that people couldn’t change, but sometimes there was a whole lot of inertia to overcome if that was to happen.

Tom had managed to repurpose the drone, which was good, because soon after Cooper left, the farm had lost a third of its solar panels in a black blizzard that had lasted almost thirty hours straight. The good news—according to his son—was that the government considered the storm to be a turning point. From here on out, they claimed, the environment would get better.

He wasn’t sure he believed it, but hope was hope.

By the last message, there was a lot less boy in Tom and a lot more man. Donald had been right about him. He was doing fine. Better than fine—he was thriving on the responsibility. Making the farm his farm.

“Got to go, Dad,” his son finished up. “Hope you’re safe up there.” He shuffled aside and Donald appeared, a little more grey, looking a little more weary. Cooper felt a twinge of guilt at having left him to shoulder so much.

“I’m sorry, Coop,” he said, as he had in all of the messages. “I asked Murph to say hi, but she’s as stubborn as her old man. I’ll try again next time. Stay safe.”

That was the end of it. He wondered what Murph looked like now, how twelve would lay differently from ten on her face. Would he see more of her mother there, or more of himself? Or would she look more like that part that was just Murph?

He wasn’t going to find out, not this time. Maybe not ever. If she hadn’t forgiven him in two years…

Sighing, he put in some ear buds and left the booth.

* * *

Romilly was in the habitat module, looking particularly pensive and unhappy. Cooper hoped his nausea hadn’t returned. When it hit him, it was bad.

“You good, Rom?” he asked.

“It gets to me, Coop,” Romilly admitted. “This tin can. Radiation, vacuum outside—everything wants us dead. We’re just not supposed to be here.” He shook his head and looked miserable.