Chapter Text
As it turns out, mass amounts of stupid little astrophages constantly – and I do mean constantly – at 96.414 degrees celsius, compiled in a space with minimal air exchange, well, it can get hot. And I do mean mass amounts: we’re stuck with our four breeder systems on-board everyone’s favourite aircraft hanger, Stratt’s Vat, and due to good ol’ exponential population growth, the amount is growing fast. And with me having to be next to them so often, I, even with my californian climate acclimation, get hot. In fact, I am far from the only one. There are four open-air elevators leading up to the main deck of the carrier, and after hundreds of requests (formatted in a formal petition made by us, the proud scientists) Stratt had big, loud fans installed by the elevators to invite the cool ocean air in.
But, today it’s raining, so the elevators are closed, and it’s hot as hell in here. Most of the workers usually here in the hangar bay (a hundred or so on average) have retreated to elsewhere in the carrier, leaving only six other people here in this furnace with me.
I run my hands through my hair one more time and push off from the carpening-slash-welding-slash-storage bench I was leaning on in the middle of the U of desks dedicated to my gremlins (yes, my ‘employees’ are called “Grace’s Gremlins”; yes it was that or “goblins”); of whom, none are here!
Trying to get something done without my so-called Gremlins, I walk over to and glance at the little monitoring screens attached to the four breeder Ls in front of me: two to my left, including the first draft, ugly and welded beyond belief, also not very efficient, and the second draft, with better insulation and brighter light, but still lacking in efficiency; and the two to my right, both copies of the third draft, which is, so far, the best one. On the opposite wall, surrounded by an almost metre-thick wall of insulation, stand 2 small insulated astrophage-holding-containers, with a series of shelves next to it holding a couple hundred carefully measured containers of astrophage. As I watch, a scientist who I recognize as a member of Dimitri’s Denizens, wanders over, runs a hand along one shelf and picks a vial from the ten-cells-or-so section, marked in orange with labels on them in English, Russian, Mandarin, and even cartoon.
I refocus: I have things to do! It’s science time! Shaking my head free of the heat-induced brain-fog, I walk over to my desk and check the custom-programmed monitoring app installed on my laptop. Skimming over the statuses, I conclude that everything’s working just fine. Even more so, since the Vat isn’t moving, so more of the generator’s energy can be used for the breeders. Then I check my to-do list and, to my surprise, find everything scratched off, besides the “fix the pretrova problem” scribbled off to one side, for something like comedic effect.
Because I’m definitely known to be funny.
Satisfied with the progress (if you could call it that) I’ve done today, and eager to escape this hellhole, I close my laptop, set the breeders to ambient (so they can work without constant supervision, one of our newer breakthroughs in astrophage breeding and enrichment) and gather my things. Then I try not to run to the exit doors and push them open, letting the relatively cool air brush over me as I walk through the comparatively wide hallway, and–
“Watch where you’re going, Dr. Grace,” Stratt says as she dodges my almost walking into her.
I jolt to a stop and even take a step back in surprise. “Where the heck did you come from?”
“The Netherlands, presumably,” says Dimitri as he follows Stratt from a hallway I only have a vague recollection of being there. I look back and forth between them. They’re both dressed at least somewhat formally (well, Dimitri is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Stratt not in formal-wear).
“Jeez, is this an ambush?”
“Yes,” says Dimitri.
“No,” says Stratt. She rolls her eyes at Dimitri before going on. “I am being sued and we all need to see the work being done at the California Institute of Technology for the Hail Mary project. You’re coming with us.”
“Why?” I’m always dragged onto all these world-tour roadtrips; why can’t I just stay here and do what I’m here for in the first place?
“Because, well, you said it yourself: you’re a useful resource with a skill set almost no one else has.”
“Using my own logic against me.” I shake my head. “Well then, can I at least get cleaned up first?”
Stratt checks her watch. “You have forty-five minutes to be on the main deck, on the runway with the red stripes.” I almost tell her that I do indeed know what the separate runways are labelled as, and she doesn’t have to talk to me like I’m a child, but I give up. She’ll just do it anyway, knowing her. “The flight’s going to be about nine-and-a-half hours. And we’ll be staying in America for a few days. Bring a change of clothes or two.”
“You know, some ounce of warning on this type of thing would be nice.”
She turns on her heel and moves back the way she came. “Keeping you on your toes, Dr. Grace!”
Dimitri follows me as I make my way to the officer’s bunkroom I and some of the other ‘high-ranking’ scientists are staying in. “How are the breeder systems?” he asks me.
I shrug, pulling my valise strap closer to my chest. “Just fine, I guess. The new insulation stuff you recommended is set to arrive on Tuesday.”
Dimitri nods his head. “We will be back by then. We will dock in south Japan to get supply, so you can get rest of the supplies then.”
I nod, and we walk in comfortable silence, before Dimitri grabs some of his stuff from his bunk (which is under mine, coincidentally), and I gather mine. I then take a quick shower and barely make it up to the flight deck in time after having to run down to the hangar bay to get my laptop.
“You’re late,” Stratt says with a shake of her head as I climb into the jet. It’s really nice, this one, it reminds me of something Tony Stark would fly in.
“Sorry. I swear I’m usually more organised.” Stratt glares daggers at me at the statement. I then take the seat across from Dimitri and kitty-corner Stratt on the other side of the jet with no one in her opposing seat. She goes back to typing on her tablet as I point at the book in Dimitri’s hands. “What’s that?”
The rumble of the plane’s engines picks up as I feel us accelerating down the runway. I check for a seatbelt in my seat and find none. Dimitri places a finger on the page he’s reading from and flips it closed, showing me the cover. It’s in Russian, so I try to sound it out before Dimitri takes it back.
“Ah,” he says as he flips it back open. “A book by a favourite author of mine. You wouldn’t know of her.”
“That reminds me.” I pull out my phone from my bag and open Duolingo . Best to get some studying time in when I can, I guess.
The next day goes by in a blur:
Three hours plus a night’s sleep later, we arrived in Washington state, where Dimitri and I watched as Stratt barely didn’t break the law. We both tried to convince Stratt to let us stop at a Bar N’ Grill we passed to celebrate her victory over the United States Justice System, but Stratt insisted that we needed to go. So, after just three hours of time in the state, we were in another plane. Then, after a comparatively short ride and a car escort (that Dimitri and I were pretty sure was hosted by the FBI, while Stratt simply didn’t reply to our proddings), we arrived at the California Institute of Technology.
Now, we (Stratt, Dimitri, and I led by a CIT tour guide) walk through the campus. Even if it is mid-fall, the trees are still mostly green if not perfectly so. Dimitri fakes pushing me into the huge fountain/pool thing leading up to the building where … whatever they’re working on for the Hail Mary is.
“What even is this?” I ask. “The work they’re doing?”
“You’ll see,” says Stratt as we enter the building. We walk through a few hallways and down a flight of stairs. Soon enough, we end up in a huge lab. Well, relative to the labs I worked at in my time in academia. Still, it’s no larger than a gymnasium, despite the full wall of computer blocks and general array of 3D printers and other bits and bobs I can’t identify. A not-so-small scale model of the Hail Mary resting squarely in the middle, in centrifuge mode and spinning slowly. Four or five workers who I notice aren’t in lab coats toil away at their tasks, and one of them notices us come in. She walks over to another worker to tell Lokken that–
“Oh god in heaven,” I say.
“Doctor Grace,” I hear a familiar voice say back. Lokken looks me square in the eye, then looks to Stratt with a look that conveys all her disdain for me in a single eyebrow raise. Good Spock impression , I think, but I cross my arms nonetheless. No Star Trek reference will stop this grudge; it will only reinforce.
“Oh, get over it, you two,” Stratt says. “Lokken, you’ll have to show Grace your plans for radiation prevention, too. Just because you aren’t using astrophage here, doesn’t mean your work with it is over completely.”
Lokken rolls her eyes and grabs a clipboard off a desk before walking over. “You didn’t tell me you were coming at all, Ms. Stratt.”
“Well I’m here now, so give us a tour, if you would.”
I try to hold back my growing interest as Lokken shows us around and explains all the math and engineering going into the ship’s design. Dimitri doesn’t, though, and he asks a wonderful array of questions, many that I wanted to ask. But I put my stone-faced persona first, because that’s what all good Spocks would do.
Lokken sighs and turns away from the last 3D printer she showed us, which was printing specialised weights for their scale model. “Anything else, Ms. Stratt, or can the idiot leave?” she says, pointing at me.
“You’re one to talk,” I reply. Lokken stares at me and I stare back, unblinking. Yes, I’m going over and above to prove my point; if that means winning a staring contest, so be it. But Lokken turns away before I can win. She says something to a worker in Norwegian, and the worker replies with a laugh.
“Doctor Lokken, is there any pressing need to continue your work here instead of the aircraft carrier?”
“Your vat is nice,” Lokken says with a smile, as Stratt frowns at the name, “but I would prefer to work here. At least here, I can continue to work as–”
“As Doctor Grace reminds me of frequently, I am uncaring towards your previous lives.”
“You say that like you’ve resurrected them,” says Dimitri with a laugh.
“I can’t believe you’re disputing Stratt’s magic ability to bring back people from the dead!” I say, elbowing Dimitri.
“Ha-ha! You are right, my friend. I am sorry, Stratt.”
“Why did I ever hire you, Doctor Grace?” Stratt says to herself as she shakes her head. She regains her composure, and addresses Lokken, who still has her back turned and is adjusting the speed of the printer. “So there is no pressing need?”
Lokken opens her mouth to speak, then closes it and shakes her head in surrender. I guess that is the only real way to deal with Stratt: surrender your free will to the power (power, singular ) that be. There is a running joke on Stratt’s Vat that she could order the Pope around; after all, she is practically a god by governmental standards. That or a dictator.
“May I have a day to wrap things up here before returning to the Vat?” Lokken asks. Stratt looks disappointed for a moment before nodding. Good to know that even assholes like Lokken can enjoy the occasional disrespectful jab at Stratt.
I’m half expecting Stratt to huff and say, “fine”, but instead she just gave Lokken an expectant look, then turned on her heel and strode out. I look at Dimitri, who shrugs before turning to ask Lokken a question. Deciding to follow Stratt, I half-jog to catch up to her, and I meet her as she’s leaving the gymnasium of a lab.
“Where to next?” I ask her.
“For you, back to the Vat— er, the aircraft…” Stratt trails off and halts her abnormally fast walk as I keel over laughing.
“You—“ I struggle to take in a breath through my laughter “—called it the Vat! Haha!”
Stratt continues her speedwalk, and I follow suit, swallowing the last of my laughs in order for Stratt not to make fun of me. “Yes, yes,” she says. “Very funny. Anyways, you, Dimitri, and Doctor Lokken will be going back to the aircraft carrier, while I make a pit-stop in sunny San Francisco. Is it sunny there?”
“What!?” I ask. “Can I come?”
Stratt seems to consider this for a moment before answering simply, “No.”
“Why!?”
“You have stuff to do.”
“You said we might be in America for a few days. It’s been, what–” I check my watch “--twenty-six hours. I can survive another twenty-six.”
Stratt shakes her head and points at me, then lists off items on her fingers as she speaks. “You have to approve Doctor Lokken’s radiation-deterrent method—“
“ I have to do that?”
“—you have to finalise the crew paperwork—“
“I hate paperwork…”
“—you have to give up your office again—“
“Already done! See? I’m ahead!”
“—and you have to prepare for having to leave all your breeder tech without you for a long time.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re going to New Zealand for a while, then we’ll need you at Kennedy Space Centre.”
I stare at her, deadpan. “I can leave my precious breeder tech behind, orphaning it, but I can’t go to San Francisco for, like, twelve hours tops and say ‘hi’ to my students? I can’t say ‘hi’ to my cat?”
“Your cat was put up for adoption.”
I put a hand on Stratt’s shoulder to stop her walking. “You put my cat up for adoption!?” I ask feverishly.
“We’ll, you weren’t going to be there to take care of it!”
“I have friends who would!”
Stratt smirks at me. “Friend s ?”
I glare at her for a moment in shock and something like offence. Then again, when a god tells you something, taking offence is usually the thing you aren’t supposed to do. “Listen, just because I’m a—“ I put on my best Stratt impression “— loner who tries to give kids the childhood he never had – eff you, by the way– , that doesn’t mean I can’t have friends!”
“Name me three friends of yours before the Hail Mary Project.”
I put up one finger. “Marissa Taylor.” I put up a second. “Mike Thompson.” I put up a third. “Andrea Gibson. Bam.” I smile triumphantly, despite my slightly distorted list. In all fairness, Andrea was a great friend of mine (died two years ago, schmied two years ago. Marissa often teased me about how I was more hung up on the death of her wife than she was, and she probably was right…), but still, I! Have! Friends!
Stratt hums disapprovingly before continuing walking. “One cannot be the author of—“ she puts on her best me impression, asshole that she is “—‘An Analysis of Water-Based Assumptions and Recalibration of Expectations for Evolutionary Models’, and retain a viable social life.”
“I hate you.”
“And that’s not even touching on your romantic life. Or lack thereof.”
I raise the hand again, but only put up one finger this time. Stratt ignores my rude gesture even as Dimitri and Lokken stroll down the hallway after us. Scratch strolling, they’re practically running. Dutch women and their absurd gaits, I swear.
“Got everything sorted out?” Stratt asks Lokken.
Lokken rolls her eyes. “Of course not. I’m being dragged away from my lab by force.”
Laughing, Dimitri says, “Anything that Stratt does is ‘by force’.” Lokken and I nod, even as Stratt scoffs.
“So can I go to San Francisco with you?” I ask Stratt.
“Still, no.”
I whisper, “If you let me go, I won’t tell anyone you called the ship the Vat.” Dimitri and Lokken snicker as Stratt stares at me incredulously.
“I believe, Doctor Grace, that you just ruined your own blackmail.”
“Oh, come on!”
“I’m really starting to get sick of aircraft carriers,” I say to no one, as I look out of the plane window at the block of grey amidst the also grey ocean.
“Would you rather aircraft droppers?” Dimitri replies, not looking up from his book.
I roll my eyes and flop back into my seat. “You think she’d let us escape for a day? Just to, you know…” I wave my hand in the air, trying to get the right word.
“Live freely?” Dimitri suggests.
“Yeah!”
He looks up from his book, but only with his eyes. He raises an eyebrow at me, then returns to reading. As the plane lands on the runway, I grab my bag and move to leave the plane. I almost fall over as the plane jolts to a stop and I accidentally grab onto Lokken’s shoulder to steady myself. She gives me a triumphant “ha-ha, weakling”-esque look as I stand up straight, removing my hand.
“Can’t handle a plane landing?”
“Sorry, whenever I’m in your presence, I lose braincells. Must be contagious.” Lokken looks me up and down, and the corners of her mouth twitch, as Dimitri side-steps us to open the door.
“Enough, children,” he says. “Back to work.”
Lokken and I exchange a final glare for a moment before I follow Dimitri out, Lokken in tail. Having a strong conviction against the windy cold, I make a beeline for the doors down to the hangar bays. Even though experiments will have to stop soon due to our proximity to inhabited land, it’s been a day and a half since I’ve last been on Stratt’s Vat, so I want to check up on what’s been happening on the science side of things.
I could be back home right now, I think as I push open the door and descend the stairwell toward the hangar bays. But I dismiss the thought out of hand. If I’ll have to go to Kennedy Space Centre for some significant period of time, then I’ll, for sure, get a day off to go and say my hellos to good ol’ San Fran.
Due to the, again, crappy weather, the huge elevators are again closed, but it’s not too warm, so they must have been closed recently. As I approach the breeding systems, Altan – the younger of the Mongolian brothers – waves me down.
“Grace!” he says. “Good news: we are still going to work these while in port!”
“Isn’t that a little dangerous?” I ask him.
Altan waves at the two newest breeder systems. “If we run these on low, the chance for accidents is less than one in two hundred thousand per week. While you were gone, we installed tertiary explosion devices.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “You installed bombs ?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “No, no, you misunderstand. They stop explosions; they do not cause them.”
“Okay, then. Anything else?”
Pointing to the astrophage storage units, Altan says, “We cleaned out all of the other breeders in the meantime, the twins by hand.”
“‘By hand’?” I ask. I’m almost surprised – cleaning out the farms is done by automatic collection systems, not by hand. If you do it by hand, you’d give yourself a pretty bad burn.
“Yes. We had to open the twin systems to install the sensors on the light. We had it open, anyway, and were already wearing the burn-protected suits. Why not clean them efficiently while we were in there?”
“You have a point.” I smile at him. “Good job.” Altan smiles and walks off toward his brother, says something to him, then laughs. I check the readout on the systems, one at a time, then the dials, to make sure that everything is alright. Still, no issues whatsoever.
I could be in San Fran, and everything here would be okay.
I chuckle to myself; maybe the escape plan isn’t such a bad idea, after all. Then I shriek like a mouse as a firm hand hits me on the shoulder. The sound of Dimitri’s laughter comes from beside me.
“You nearly jumped a metre straight up,” Dimitri says to me through laughter. “Didn’t I tell you we were going final test of spin-drive? Come, come.” Dimitri waves ma along as we head toward “Little Russia”.
“Aren’t we too close to shore?” I ask him. “I mean, didn’t you have a malfunction last time?”
“That was error in vacuum chamber, not in drive. There is no need for you to worry.”
I relent. “Okay then.” I elbow him in the side. “But if there is one, you’re getting me the highest quality of gin they have in heaven.”
Dimitri laughs. “Bold of you to assume we’re going to heaven.” I laugh with him as we climb the stairs to the testing stage. Dimitri says something in Russian to the scientists thereon, and they reply variously. Dimitri then turns to me. “We are ready for test. Ten, ” he says in Russian. I feel a small boost of pride as I recognize the word. Everyone steps down from the stage as the whirr of the system warms up. “ Nine, eight.” Most of the crew joins in, and I do so as well. They give me pitiful looks as I absolutely butcher the pronunciation. “ Seven, six, five, four… ” A couple dozen scientists from other subsections of the ship wander over to look as the countdown continues. “Three! Two! One!”
No flash, no boom, no nothing. Just the whirr of the system fading as silence shrouds the crowd in anticipation. Dimitri and a few of his denizens climb the stage and check the readings. But what snatches most people’s attention is the, again, glowing blob of what was, just a moment ago, solid metal.
“ Success, ” Dimitri announces in Russian. Then, “Success!” in English. I give him a thumbs-up from the floor and he smiles at me proudly as the crowd applauds. The Russians erupt into a victory song that I still have no clue of the lyrics to, or the origin thereof.
“No spin drives at the dinner table!” I scold Dimitri as he sits down opposite me, but instead of having a cafeteria-issue tray, he holds a metal triangle. “What, are you going to eat astrophage?”
“Yum, yum,” replies Dimitri. He points at my dinner. “You can eat, but this! This is the newest model of the spin drive; we tested it today.”
“And a new model made you more sure that there were going to be no flaws?”
“Of course. You wouldn’t underestimate my engineering skills, would you?”
I eat a dumpling to avoid answering.
“Well, you should not.” He picks up the drive and spins it in his hand like some can spin basketballs, balanced on one finger. Then, he lets it drop into one hand, pointing at a side with the other. “Better cleaning system.” He spins it again. “Stronger light that uses less power.” He spins it once more, this time around and around. “Easier spinning system means less power to move it.”
“Impressive,” I say.
Dimitri smiles proudly. “Yes! And, the vacuum chamber was powered by a mini astrophage generator this time.”
“So you fixed the vacuum chamber?”
Rolling his eyes, Dimitri says, “Of course. If it was not, well…”
“Boom,” we say in unison. Dimitri goes the extra step and mimes an explosion with his hands, and the look on his face makes me laugh so hard I nearly choke. Dimitri chuckles and puts a steadying hand on my shoulder.
“Steady, malen'kiy amerikanets. We cannot have you choke to death!”