“Night, welcome art thou to my minde distrest,
Darke, heauy, sad, yet not more sad then I:
Neuer could’st thou find fitter company
For thine owne humour, then I thus opprest.”
--Lady Mary Wroth, Sonnet 37 from Pamphilia to Amphilanthus

My name is Caterina, and my classification is 1G-HE-67-F. That’s First Generation, Human Embryo Number 67, female. 
It’s been 25,115 Earth years since The Renaissance Project launched. Or at least, that’s what the clock onboard the growth pod reads. We worked out pretty early that time must work differently on Terra than it did on Earth. The sun shines on Terra for eight hours each day, and there are eight hours of nighttime. Terra is considerably smaller than Earth, so the days pass quicker. The living pods keep track of Terra time only, but I track of both Earth time and Terra time. I like to imagine what it would be like if I lived on the planet where I was supposed to be born. I am sixteen Earth years old. 
In 2335 of the Common Era on Earth, the atmosphere had deteriorated enough that the conditions on Earth started to become unlivable. Radiation increased rapidly, food sources died, and superviruses began to wipe out people by the millions each year. It’s hard for me to imagine that there were ever so many people on a planet that millions could die every year, and there could be anybody left. A forty-year project was developed to send pods of human and animal embryos into deep space to save humanity. Four generations of human embryos were engineered to ensure biodiversity, superior intelligence, and physical strength and fortitude. Those embryos were frozen and placed inside the growth pod—only one spaceship in a fleet that transported enough supplies to Terra to start a new human civilization.
I check the clock and the illuminated green numbers confirm what my tired eyes already knew— I’ve been holed up in the lab for hours. I skipped dinner. Again. I’m the only First Gen left with a science aptitude, so I pull long hours to make sure things stay running. Some of the others were re-assigned to my team to help, but there’s only so much they can do with no natural science aptitude.
I toss my notebook, a pen, and a flashlight into my bag and pull it over my shoulder. On my way out of the lab, I swing by the cafeteria and grab a handful of dehydrated vegetable crackers  from a bin, two small bags of drinking water, and shove them into the bag too.
It’s late enough that most everyone will be asleep by now, but I take no chances that I’ll be seen. I push open the heavy metal door in the back of the cafeteria and slip into the darkness behind the camp. The five shuttles that carried the supplies for The Renaissance Project form a pentagon that serves as our base camp. The shuttles now serve as our living quarters, our workspace, and storage facilities. Once I’m outside, I jog into the darkness. 
Sometimes I hear the wind rushing through the brush and imagine for just a moment that it’s an animal chasing me. I try to imagine the fear, knowing I could be attacked at any moment. I’ve read stories that on Earth, there were animals everywhere. Large cats or bears that could kill a man with a swipe of a paw, but some of the most dangerous ones were the smallest, spiders and snakes with lethal bites. The only animals on Terra are the ones we brought here— the chickens, the goats, and the sheep— all relatively small animals that could provide us with food and materials, without taking up too much space or requiring too much maintenance. They got here just like us, as cryogenically frozen embryos that were thawed by robots once the shuttles landed on Terra. 
Terra was chosen because while it had a similar atmosphere to Earth, it was early on in its evolutionary process. We had the power to make it whatever we wanted it to be. There’d be no other life forms for us to fear this way, no unknown species that might wipe us all out. Our ancestors were trying to protect us. But it’s a lonely planet. I hear nothing but the wind as I settle into the clearing where I like to take my notes. Here, I’m far enough away from the lights of base camp to see the stars clearly. 
I lay down on my back and take in the sights above me. One large moon, called Rebecca, on the western horizon, a smaller one, called Geri, on the eastern side. They’re actually nearly the same size, but Rebecca is much closer to us than Geri is. Terra’s third moon, Ryan, is only visible on this side of the planet during the daytime. The scientists who sent us here named us all after figures of the Renaissance, a period of time on earth that symbolized the rebirth of society. I thought it was only fair that I named the moons and the stars after them. I chose to name the three moons Rebecca, Geri, and Ryan, as those were the three Earth scientists who created The Renaissance project. They worked on it for decades, though none of them lived to see the launch. 
Glittering stars are visible between the two moons. I’ve been staring at these stars my entire life, but it is never lost on me that my ancestors never saw them. What do you call the people who created you only one generation ago, but who have also been dead for over 25,000 years? Parents? Ancestors? I’ve never been able to decide. According to the records we have, there were far more stars visible from Earth than we see from Terra. On Earth, they mapped the stars into constellations— 88 of them. Our galaxy is younger, so there aren’t that many stars yet. I’ve spent hours staring into the dark, looking for shapes among the stars the way that they did, to feel connected to them. I’ve mapped 13 constellations so far. 
Hardly anybody knows I do this, and with good reason. I’m unusual. I look for symbols in the stars. I read poetry. I imagine. I dream. None of these things are allowed. They’re a sign that something has gone wrong in my brain. Proof that I didn’t develop properly. But here’s the thing. I know more than anyone on this planet about biology, evolution, and the human brain, and I don’t think I’m the one that’s broken.
My name is Caterina, 1G-HE-67-F, and I am a Variant.