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The way he sleeps is so strange.
Let me rephrase. It’s not just sleep—everything about the way he lives is peculiar. Food is a big point of contention, for example, and that goes beyond our disagreement on the ethics of public mastication. The first time he described his favourite meal in-detail, I almost shuddered. He says he’s disgusted by the things I eat, though I argue my diet is normal. At this point, I think it’s just one cultural gulf we’ll never close.
I should clarify: I didn’t actually shudder. Because I am a gracious and kind host, here in my little xenonite chamber.
I can confirm that what they say about “trauma-forging,” the way the connections we form in fire hold stronger than you can imagine, is one-hundred percent true. Iℓ∀ long years since we arrived on this planet, and I can hardly recall a single day we haven’t met. And I’m proud of that fact. I suppose it’s the power of friendship, or something sappy like that. Whatever it is, I like to know he’s doing okay. And he’s said he’s much the same.
Truly, it’s a privilege to watch him sleep like this. Because it means we’re okay. We did well.
We made it.
Doesn’t make his stillness any less uncanny. I try to think about something else.
There was a strange beauty to the mission, looking back on it. Stressful as hell at the time, of course, but time has a way of smoothing out the uglier details, and beneath all of that is something delightful. I still think about the betrayal of the taumoeba, sometimes. The little rascals saved two planets… but not without stabbing us in the back, first. There was a day where I thought I’d never look back on the Hail Mary fondly, and now I’m laughing at things that almost sentenced two planets to extinction.
It’s a lot easier to laugh at them knowing everything worked out. The astrophage crisis and Petrova lines are, thankfully, a distant memory, leaving behind two healthy stars. If anything, it was a boon—a perfect source of energy to power the entire planet. The possibilities were endless. Projects to transform the planet, to colonize the solar system, to shoot for the stars. The crisis, in its wake, had left behind a new era of innovation and prosperity.
The launch to Earth was the most exciting event yet. To myself, of course, for obvious reasons, but to the rest of the planet, it was an attempt at second contact with extraterrestrial life.
They actually asked the two of us if we would like to go on the mission. It was tempting, but we refused.
That’s a lie. It wasn’t tempting. I’m all spaced out for this lifetime.
If my friend was awake, he would have laughed at that. “Spaced out.” I file it under “things to repeat later,” along with the other dozen jokes I’ve come up with in the last IIV hours.
IIV hours. He’s been sleeping longer and longer, lately. IIV is a new record. I poke his side, and he doesn’t stir, keeping still as a rock. The last time I did that, he grunted. He must be sleeping very deeply.
It’s okay. Grace has earned the rest.
My intercom beeps. It’s Adrian. Exactly the +V’th ping I’ve received since entering. I’ve been a lousy mate, not listening to them. I’ll pick this one up.
“How’s Grace?”
“Good. Sleeping. Peaceful,” I reply.
“Do you need more time?”
That’s a silly question. Watching someone sleep is a commitment; if you’re there when someone falls asleep, you’re there when they wake up. That’s how we’ve always done it, I don’t make the rules. And besides, I’ve watched Adrian sleep for much longer—Adrian has watched me sleep for much longer.
“Yes.”
“I understand,” Adrian says. “Let me know if you need anything."
[Communication Terminated]
I decide to go for a walk along the beach.
On a foggy beach, three friends walked together. They did this every week—a human unit of time, equivalent to about ++ℓ of the “hours” Grace measured his days in. In Rocky’s opinion, it was a very silly, utterly arbitrary unit of time, but it was what Grace operated on. And more than anything, Adrian seemed excited to talk to an alien in-person, regardless of how incoherent the schedule was.
“What is fog like, question?” Adrian asked, through the same text-to-speech software Rocky had once used. Grace understood his comrade’s voice just fine, but Adrian’s exotic accent proved challenging, and they agreed this was the most elegant solution while Grace worked on wrapping his head around it.
“Ha,” Grace mused. “Takes me back.”
“What is funny, question?”
“No, it’s just… Rocky asked me the same thing. It makes sense, given your whole situation.” Grace paused, gesturing to his eyes, and then down to theirs—or, lackthereof. “It’s like trying to listen to someone through glass. Everything’s kind of clouded and muffled. It’s peaceful.”
“I don’t think it very peaceful. Can’t hear predator.”
“Yeah, well… no predators to worry about in here.”
Rocky lightly nudged Grace with a claw. “I still don’t understand why you like it so much. Do all Earthlings like the fog?”
A small wave crashed against the shore, and Grace paused to look out at the ocean. There was silence for a moment, apart from the call of seagulls piped in through the dome’s speakers, and the subtle lapping of water.
“Humans are far from the most rational beings in this galaxy,” Grace clarified. “We like unclear things. We wear plugs to block out noise sometimes, and we use blinds to make the world darker than it needs to be. Our brains are weird, though. We find peace in the quiet, even if it’s just an experience we’ve fabricated.” He leaned down and crossed his legs on the ground, carefully kneading a fist into his hip. “The fog, though? That’s just me. Normal people don’t like fog.”
“Adrian like fog, because Grace like fog. Grace only human Adrian know.”
“You know, if Eridians ever visit Earth, the entire crew will think you all love fog.”
Grace laughed, a deep, hearty thing. “Let them! I hope the crew brings the biggest fog machine they can make. That’s what those assholes get for putting me on a one-way rocket.”
Rocky picked up a stone and aimed it a low angle, throwing it against the lake.
The stone lands against the surface with a plop and sinks directly into the water. I’ve never been very good at this.
I lied, earlier. When I said Iℓ∀ long years. Iℓ∀ years isn’t a very long time at all. Grace said it was, and I nodded when he did. For humans, it probably is. Another gulf we’ll never be able to close, I suppose.
Another wave crashes against the shore. It’s peaceful. I can’t see the fog, but I can see why he liked this so much.
I don’t bother to shake the dust and water off my suit.
Back in the cottage, he’s sleeping still as ever. I guess my own sleep habits must have rubbed off on him, huh?
I miss seeing the rise and fall of his chest.
That’s not a fun thought. Where did that come from?
…
Look, I’m not stupid. I’m one of the finest engineers ever produced by Erid. I know how to repair a spaceship with nothing but scrap. I know as much about radiation as the species that discovered it, and I can’t even see. I saved two entire planets with my own claws and none of it would have happened if not for the human who was up there with me.
I know I haven’t heard Grace’s heartbeat in more than a day. I know a human isn’t meant to be sleeping for forty-four hours.
I know I’m not ready to let go.
There’s a word for it in human language—Grief. The feeling of losing someone you care about so deeply that you would do anything to reverse it, and being helpless all the same. I felt it when my crew passed. Back on the ship, I tried my best.
The greatest biologists on the planet tried their best for Grace, and yet this is where we are. Humans and their outrageously short lives. It’s really inconvenient, being best friends with an alien.
I slam my arm against the wall. It leaves a hole. I don’t care.
When I leave, the others will do what they must. He always joked that he’s of great scientific interest. That will all happen later.
Later. Later. In a few hours. Or days. Not right now. Because right now, Grace is sleeping.
And I watch him sleep.