We considered Signy’s metaphors and felt that the penguin was not quite right. Penguins were too close to comedy, and this was a sad, unfortunate matter. We agreed that Signy should not mention the penguin. The bird, we said, was a better analogy.
Per talked pragmatically about the events of his life. His partner had left him. She said he did not know how to love her, or even what love was. It was she who pointed towards his peculiar childhood. Brought up amongst adults, she said he had never been innocent. It was his mother’s fault, she said. His mother had plucked out his heart and hurled it among the stars, and the stars were cold things, whatever people said. Love to his mother meant a word travelled through a vacuum, uttered by a hologram. How could that be love?
Now there was another woman in Per’s life, a slender girl from Mars, but Per feared it would go the same way.
Ulla explained that she was obsessed with pregnancy, but would never be able to have children. It was not that she was infertile◦– this was a thing in her head. Ulla had seen a therapist, once a week, for the past three years. She told the therapist about our mother, the astronaut, who was without doubt the origin of this affliction. She told the therapist that the idea of bearing her own child was at once abhorrent and the only thing she wanted in life. She did not need a partner; she would happily purchase the requisite DNA. But something was holding her back. She taught yoga for pregnant women, gazing at their swollen bellies. She dandled the babies of friends, and without exception the babies fell in love with her, laughing and squealing with delight, but after handing them back to their parents Ulla would run out of the house or the playgroup or the coffee shop, and breathe in and out of a panic bag, paralysed for hours in the grip of terrible attacks.
Despite our disparate lives, we had found something in common: a series of disastrous relationships. We agreed that Saga had cost us love in our adult lives. We were dysfunctional. We would tell her this.
We were welcomed to the orbiting station above Ceres by a CSSA official. He did not mention Saga, which we thought strange, but invited us to a viewing platform from where we could see the dwarf planet drifting softly below. He brought refreshments, and there he left us. We surveyed Ceres with dubious eyes, knowing this sphere of rock and water was the latest thing to have a hold over our mother. Down there was her version of love. We saw a white planet, a cream planet, a planet with pale lemon sorbet swirls. We saw veined marble; we saw old polished bone. We pointed out to one another the dark spots where smaller asteroids had crashed into the planet’s surface. We pontificated aloud that Saga’s mission would be dangerous, whatever it was. We theorised on likely locations for the mining base. We knew nothing, but believed that we must say something. We had to reassure ourselves of our right to be aboard. We were passengers. We were nervous.
She entered the viewing platform alone. Our mother, the astronaut, in our sights for the first time since our births. There was the tall, lean figure, there were the eyes the colour of an ocean on a stormy day, flecked with recklessness, just like the documentaries said.
As soon as she appeared we knew we had been right to be nervous.
It was clear that Saga was not expecting us. She recognized us in the way that we might recognize a celebrity from a photograph –disorientation, followed by slow comprehension. She looked shocked. Yes, we agreed afterwards that she looked shocked. She said:
What are you doing here?
It was a horrible moment. Taken aback, we rushed to explain. The invitation◦– the transmission! We had replied. Had she not received our replies? We did not like to say, had she not paid for our flights, arranged for our stay, organized all of this?
Gradually the shock faded from her face. Of course, of course. She smiled. But we were thrown, obviously, by this peculiar greeting.
Struck by a terrible shyness, we felt our tongues grow huge and clumsy. How should we introduce ourselves, how should we greet her? We had agreed before that we would address her as Saga, but now alternate possibilities ran through our heads: mamma, mǔqīn, mom. We were stunned by the lean, stark beauty of her face. Her youthfulness shocked us, although we knew, we had read, that she had had no restorative work or even enhancements, as many of the astronauts did, to make them faster, sharper, better. We wondered if she were real; we wondered if she might live forever.
We wondered why she had born us and what we were doing there, but all the things we had planned to say evaporated.
Saga spoke in Mandarin, although Signy swears there was a moment when we all digressed into Scandi.
She said our names.
Ulla, Per, Signy. Look at you! I’m so happy you could come.
(But that moment of shock?)
She asked us questions. She wanted to know about our little, insignificant lives, and all we wanted to know was her, her inner life, her private thoughts. Alone in her ship in the outback of space, did Saga ask the questions we all asked? Did Saga wonder where she came from, if there was a god? We wanted to know, but did not dare to ask.
We did our best to make ourselves interesting; gave her the answers we thought she wanted to hear. The evening passed too quickly. Over dinner, Saga told us about the mission. She told us Ceres would become the most important mining station in the solar system, a source of water and fuel for travellers back to Earth and out to Jupiter and Saturn. We watched the way she held her chopsticks, scooping up noodles with easy elegance. We mirrored her gestures. We were offered wine, but Saga took only water. Her storm-at-sea eyes surveyed us, smiling. We thought she was pleased, and this gave us a feeling of warm satisfaction.
The next day we watched her descend to Ceres. She had her own ship, and it was built, she had told us, to her exact specifications. She gave us some technical details that we did not understand.
We watched Saga’s ship land, and the others of the mission followed. Saga appeared first on the surface link. We watched her suited figure lope across the surface of the planet. In the low gravity she appeared like a mythical being gliding over her territory. The expedition team were to meet with another team stationed on the surface. They had been drilling for samples for some months, and would perform the extractions today. Big results were expected.
Before the astronauts could reach the drilling station, the transmission cut out. There was confusion in the room: what had happened to the link? An engineer came and tried to fix it. She could not get a picture. We watched, silently, hoping everyone would forget we were there, but of course they did not. After a few minutes we were told that there had been a technical mishap (nothing to worry about, only the connection) and were escorted firmly from the room.
We went to the viewing platform and stood about aimlessly. Ceres hung, mute and ghostly against her velvet backdrop. This was how we came to witness Saga’s exit.
We saw a pinpoint of fire, small but distinct on the surface of the pale planet. A brief flare, there then vanished.
We saw a ship emerging from near the point of flare. It grew steadily larger, catching flecks of sunlight, like the carapace of a golden insect. Although there were no identifying markers, we knew, we sensed that it was Saga. We turned to one another, pointing.
Isn’t that–?
Was that an explosion?
It must be–
We watched the lone ship orbit the planet several times, gaining velocity. It was then that we realized what was happening. Saga was preparing to leave. Her ship made one final circuit, before it shot away in the direction of the outer solar system.