Tellus | ONC 2020

091:05:09:18:19:15

Davis has called us together this morning, and when I arrive in the conference room the middle-aged man is not alone. At first, I thought he had brought along an aspiring journalist to meet us, or maybe even his own kid. But NASA does not believe in bring-your-kids-to-work day, and I am pretty sure Davis does not have children. The uniform should have given me a heads up, but, maybe, I just didn't want to see it.

"This is Solo, a skilled programmer with specialty in artificial intelligence systems," the radio-suited voice of Davis presents, "He will join you on the mission to be your soft systems engineer. He can access the ship's interface through backdoors if the AI software malfunctions, or in case of an unlikely alien hostile cyberattack."

I let my gaze slide along the stature of the person before me. He is dressed in the dark gray, practical uniform like we all are, the Stars and Stripes attached to his shoulder and a name tag reading H. Solo on the left side of his chest. Part of a tattoo is peeking out from under the high collar of the jacket on his caramel skin. There is no beard, not even a sign that he can actually grow one. He's got lines buzzed along his scalp, creating the illusion that he has three parallel partings in his short, coily hair, like the tough kids like to do these days. Except, he doesn't look tough with his narrow shoulders and his chicken legs. A wide smile resides on his lips, and he actually has freckles scattered across his face.

"Yo, it's Han Solo," new guy corrects, clearly super excited to live out some outdated space opera dream of his. I'm not really able to control my facial expression at this point, and I'm simultaneously skeptical and amused, not sure whether Davis is playing us or if he is being serious about this. Whatever it is, I'm not calling that kid Han Solo.

"There is no way that is actually your name," Nari activates her optiPlaque and starts looking through folders, probably searching for his real name, "No parent is that stupid."

She is merely saying what we are all thinking, and I quickly pick up the spoken thoughts.

"He is a teenager; we can't bring him into space. He probably still lives with his mom. Does he even know how to wash his own clothes?" I burst out before being able to stop myself. I'm exaggerating when I call him a teenager. He might actually be allowed to buy alcohol. To be honest, he probably is not even that much younger than me. Maybe a few years. Of course, I don't see my situation as absurd. I have been systematically trained and groomed for space travel since my early childhood, even if my parents did not do so consciously. But it just seems completely irresponsible of NASA to send someone that young into space.

"Solo completed the Candidate Program just like the rest of you. I can assure you; he is a truly valuable and might I add necessary addition to the team," he says reassuringly before turning to the boy with a father's eloquent gaze, continuing with words aimed at him rather than the rest of us, "And he will do his part on the Calypso."

"Why don't we get your file?" Nari asks, confusedly flipping through the projected optifiles from her plaque. But we did get the file, I realize. We just don't have the security clearance to read it. His profile must be the classified document that I stumbled across almost half a year ago. If they had already recruited him back then, why hasn't he joined our training before now?

"Solo is in witness protection, which is also why you will not be informed of his real name nor his background. He has chosen to be referred to as Solo for this mission."

"Han Solo," New Guy explicitly corrects again, before reaching out to shake the hand of Kye–richfather-Watson, "Nice to finally meet you all."

"Whatever, Chewbacca," the arrogant man leaves the boy's hand empty, maintaining his closed body composition when introducing himself, "The name is Kye Watson. As in Richard Watson, that is."