I dream I’m crossing into the Beyond. Ten sits on my lap, my hand cupped around his tiny fists as the last shreds of the universe slide past the ship. I know it’s a dream because Eight stands behind me, his hand resting on my shoulder.

 

I wake with a start. I’m sitting at the console.

 

“You dreamed you were crossing, didn’t you, Nine?”

 

Eight sits beside me, blue lights from the console deepen his wrinkles. Starlight streaks above his graying hair: a picture of me in 250,000 hours. There is something different about him today. Sadness in his eyes. No, it's resentment, and I remember, today is the day he dies.

 

I nod. I’ve learned not to ask, How did you know? We have the same memories. We know each other’s thoughts as well as our own.

 

“Except you dreamed I was with you,” Eight says quietly. “I had the same dream, except you were on my lap and Seven was standing behind me. We all have that dream. For you it will be a reality.”

 

There’s a soft scratch of pen on paper. We both look behind us where Ten sits on the floor. He’s not wearing a shirt, and his baby fat rolls pile up around his underwear. He bends over chubby, crossed legs, staring at us then back at his paper. His pen moves deftly, and I see he’s sketching an exact replication of us. He might have the body of a toddler, but he can already draw like a master.

 

He’s not really Ten. He’s 16,810. I’m 16,809, and Eight is 16,808.

 

I glance at the hours meter on the console. Ten has 508,090 more hours to live. I clock in at 254,050. Eight has a pathetic 10. Above it all is the countdown to the crossing. 11 hours.

 

A cruel, random twist of the numbers. Eight has lived his entire life knowing he would never see the Beyond. Never see the reason we’ve been on this ship for millennia. Ridiculous, but the numbers are sacred. A rule we’ve lived by throughout all our lives.

 

Perched on the dash above the console is a picture of a man who looks exactly like me. Number One. Commander John Knoff. We are iterations of John. We share his memories of Earth and the beginnings of this mission. There was a discovery. A series of navigational beacons leading to what the astronomers called a “smudge.” The unknown. A theoretical wormhole... or a trap. It could very likely kill us, which makes Eight’s passing an hour too soon all the more absurd.

 

Beside the picture is a letter from the original John addressed to 16,809 with the subscription, “To be opened at the crossing.” They knew exactly how many iterations it would take. They also knew Eight would miss it by an hour. I’ve stared at that letter my whole life, hated it, because it was meant for me and no one else. It’s what kept everyone else going. I know every John has looked at that letter and wondered. I’ve often wanted to rip it up. But today, I’ll open it.

 

* * *

 

Before dinner, we take our injections. The computer crafts each one for our specific ages. Nutrients and growth hormones for Ten. Hormone suppression for me. And death for Eight. For the past 900 hours, he’s been slowly poisoned. Today’s injection will deliver the final, painless blow.

 

* * *

 

I cook turnips for Eight. When we make the next iteration, we gift them something unique. Seven gave Eight a predilection for turnips. Probably because John hated turnips, which meant we all hated turnips. Yet through some oversight, the ship was stocked with an overabundance of turnip molecules.

 

Eight spoons turnips into his mouth and melts into a grin. I’m glad he gave me a penchant for the color blue. I gave Ten a love for drawing.

 

Even now, Ten sits in his high chair, sketching away.

 

Seven and Eight’s favorite dinner conversation was guessing what was in the letter. It’s a subject I’ve always avoided. Eight and I have our own rituals. Memories.

 

“Do you remember the garden father planted?” Eight asks.

 

“I think I remember.” We both know the memory is as real to me as it was to John, but we go through a script anyway. “What was it like?” I ask.

 

“The dirt was black and cold on your bare feet.”

 

“Were there turnips?”

 

We don’t remember if there were turnips. It’s a hazy spot in our memory, but Eight answers anyway.

 

“Oh yes, rows and rows of turnips.”

 

My favorite memories are an endless, blue autumn sky or standing before a turquoise ocean. I can already guess Ten’s favorites: grade school art class or watching an artist paint a rainy Paris street.

 

“Enough memories,” Eight finishes his turnips with an air of finality. “It’s time.”

 

* * *

 

Eight lies on his deathbed, eyes closed, final words spoken. The countdown clock has reverted to minutes instead of hours.

 

After some time, Eight cocks one eye open. “I’m not dead,” he accuses.

 

I break my solemn countenance with a laugh. “You think I’d let you die before the crossing? To hell with the numbers. I hacked the computers after Ten began.”

 

“I know.”

 

“How?”

 

“It’s what John would have done. It’s what we all would have done. But it will cost us iterations.” He pretends anger, but I know his eyes. My eyes. He is pleased.

 

“Come on, old man,” I help him up. “Let’s open that letter.”

 

* * *

 

I sit at the console, the letter in my hands, Ten sits in my lap, Eight stands beside me, his hand resting on my shoulder. I break the letter’s seal. My hands shake as I unfold the paper. I stare, first in disbelief, then in rage, then in baffled acceptance. It’s what we all would have done.

 

Eight laughs. Even Ten giggles. Perhaps we knew all along.

 

The page is blank, except for one handwritten word in the center:

 

Hope