“The maths and the physics check out,” Valerie continued. “We’ve done all the testing, but time keeps relentlessly ticking along—we haven’t cracked time travel yet.” A grin, a pause for a few chuckles.

“With your assistance, your shared vision of this future, we can finish the construction on the Atalanta. We can go to Cavendish within three to five years. Imagine—within a decade, all of humanity could have a fresh start. No more refugees. Just a world where we all thrive.”

More murmurings. Valerie held her palms up, placating. “Naturally, I’m not suggesting we abandon Earth or Mars entirely. We can continue our efforts to undo the damage already done here and make our nearest neighbour habitable. But it’ll be a damn sight easier if not as many of us are around, pumping more carbon dioxide into Earth’s atmosphere. Why have one or two or—God forbid—zero worlds, when you can have three?”

She beamed out at the audience. “We won’t waste Cavendish. We will cherish it, and not repeat our past mistakes. I haven’t been shy about my desire to spearhead the mission there. I want to bring you Cavendish. So let me help you. Let’s save ourselves.”

The ballroom erupted in applause. Among the clapping, Naomi spotted the still doubtful looks, the whispers out of the corners of mouths. Yet she also saw people gazing up at Valerie with wet eyes, clapping hard. Valerie didn’t need to convince everyone in this room. She only needed to convince enough to finish building that ship.

Valerie kept her head high. As if there had never been protests verging on the violent when she showed up for speeches. As if countless think pieces hadn’t called her little more than a pop-science feminist talking head. A woman with more money than sense. They said she was wasting a fortune on far-off possibilities rather than making a difference to the people on this rock. Naomi had feared for Valerie’s safety a time or two. It’d only take one conference where security was too lax. It’d only take one angry man with a gun. But Valerie never seemed bothered. She was someone who photosynthesised limelight and controversy.

Cavendish remained on the ceiling, full and bright, a circle around the chandeliers.

Valerie made her way back to her seat, and the food arrived. It was good—as it should be, if people were paying upwards of thirty thousand dollars for a seat at the table. Wild mushroom soup, bacon-wrapped chicken—all vat grown—and scalloped potatoes. Fresh green salad, cold and crisp. Poached pears in wine with vegan Chantilly cream for dessert. Ingredients that were increasingly dear, not that anyone in this ballroom was struggling to afford it. Most of the people in this room probably still ate meat regularly—actual meat, grown on the hoof or claw.