If my mission fails, they will decommission me.

It won’t even be my fault, they will simply have no more need of me, my purpose will be fulfilled, and they will be no closer to finding a new home for humanity than they were before I was made, twenty-five fraught years and billions of government dollars ago. I want to help them, I do, because I can relate to their desperation—I don’t want to die either. And if I do everything right, I get to have my own life, my own body, just like the ones they were born with.

The planet brightening before my borrowed eyes has had many names. Gliese 273b. Then, Luyten b. Later, affectionately, Tess, from T.S., short for Tandem Spiritus: finally, breath. Such sweet, hopeful humans. I try to hope with them, as I watch unfamiliar blood-red starlight breach Tess’s curved horizon and push with hungry hands into all the pockets of darkness it can find. One last time, I will descend to a new rocky world for them, in another body of silicon and synapses they made for me and quantum-catapulted my ones and zeroes into across light-years of nothingness, to tell them if they gave their final hope the right name.

<Report?> The grainy voice of the head scientist, Mischa, buzzes through my head as I prep for landing. 

“Easy breezy so far, boss,” I intone back with freshly printed vocal chords. I like to emulate a more personable, casual tone. It comforts them. And me, I suppose. Makes me feel like part of the team.

<Cute. Good. Keep going.> I do, pulling the lever to detach my surfacing pod from the main bulk of the spacecraft and wheeling back around to pilot it down through the first patchy clouds of the planet’s atmosphere. I send the preliminary readings streaking back to Earth.

<Tess, you beautiful broad, look at you,> comes Oran’s gruff comment. I smile. That must mean things look promising. I see green and blue begin to peek through thinning vapor as my altitude drops. Liquid water. Plant life. 

“You’re… all seeing this, right?” I struggle to keep my voice even, steady, even as my artificial neurons feel like they might spark and bubble and fizz right up to the top of me and out. I feel alive. I receive a few variations on hushed, awed assent from the scientists as I soar over snow-capped mountain ranges in uncharted configurations and crystal-colored lakes framed by tall, proud, untouched trees. 

I locate a suitable clearing in a shallow valley to bring my pod to a gentle halt, landing gear shuddering down into tender contact with waving yellow stalks of alien grain. “Atmo readout?” I ask the empty space of the cockpit. 

This time, Bea’s soft tone rises to answer inside my head. <Pressure’s manageable, should be a bit chilly, but the gaseous makeup… we were right. O₂ levels are perfect.> 

Tandem spiritus, I think, and I am ready. I stand up. Synthetic adrenaline pours through my limbs, and I stride towards the hatch. <Wait,> Mischa’s voice returns, but I don’t want to wait, <You should still use your suit and helmet until we have more data—> God, I am so tired of data. Soon I will be made of more than that. 

The airlock hisses as it depressurizes, I shove open the outer hatch, and… I am outside. The air is crisp and lovely and I am breathing it. I fill my lungs with its sweetness. 

I get ten blissful seconds alone with Tess, and then everything inside me is on fire.

No, no, no, no, no— The scientists are scrambling, all trying to speak inside my head at once. I am gasping. Something is wrong, this can’t be happening, something is wrong, the air is poison, they lied to me—

I fall to my knees amid the grain stalks that scratch my legs with barbs I did not see before, lodging in my skin and ripping as I go down. It hurts, why does it have to hurt?

<We’re losing you— your vitals— viral organic toxins, maybe— report!> Tears stream from my eyes. Why did they make my body just like theirs? So they could know if each new home they chose killed me, it would kill them? Why did I ever want to be like them, to inhabit such a killable form?

They keep trying to get my attention. They use my name. My vision darkens, and I tip forward, my torso heaving against the ground. And why, God, why did they give me a name? <Laika? Please, Laika, report… LAIKA!>

Such sweet, stupid humans, I think, and then I am gone.