Chapter Text
i.
Somehow, Stratt does not see the sentence on his file.
She chalks it up to fending off the flurry of concerned politicians and scientists and the growing folder of theoretical astrobiology papers on her tablet. The early days of Project Hail Mary were always going to be a mess because there are so few definitives and no one knows anything about anything just yet. It's hard to give direction without having any variables on the table. It's harder still to keep track of the three-hundred and forty-seven other scientists who were brought on to the project overnight.
She forgives herself this once for being caught off-guard.
Ryland Grace's classroom is an assault of colour. For what feels like a very long moment, Stratt blinks at the papier mache planets, the bright greens of enormous paper plant cells, and the models of different chemical compounds plastered on every available surface of the room. The students have all left for the day—one or two of them even spared her curious glances on their way out, but it still takes Stratt a moment to recover from the visual onslaught.
Grace is younger than she thought he would be. He's slouched behind his desk at the other end of the room with a pile of pop quizzes balanced on one knee. Everything about him screams that he's not regular teacher but a cool teacher, the kind who sasses students back and gives them too many chances. "Knock, knock."
He looks up from his stack of pop quizzes, and Stratt tries not judge him for the way his glasses: hanging off one ear and tucked under his chin. "Who's there?"
Stratt twitches her lips. "Not good at jokes."
"Not good at jokes who?"
The twitch grows almost genuine. Almost. "Dr. Grace?"
"Maybe."
Stratt breathes in, channeling patience over exasperation. His naivety is refreshing after what feels like an eternity of phone calls with politicians and military officials. "I'm Eva Stratt," she tells him. "I'm with the Petrova Task Force. I need your help."
He blinks at her, obviously bewildered. "Me?"
Stratt brandishes his a dissertation at him, his own, in fact, and Grace winces and looks away.
"That was a long time ago."
"Do you stand by what you wrote?"
He actually laughs then, shoulders shifting uncomfortably beneath his tweed coat. "I was fired for standing by what I wrote."
Not true. "You were fired for calling the leading scholar in your field a 'staggering waste of carbon' at the UNESCO conference in Denmark."
"You heard about that, huh?" He winces some more and starts hastily packing his things away. Stratt knows the look of a man trying to run when she sees one. She stands her ground and examines the little crochet Earth on his desk. Every now and then, the stitch is a little uneven, and she can see the tails of wool where the colours meet tucked haphazardly between the gaps. Handmade. "Look, I don't know what this is about but—uh… you can—uh—that's lava."
"It's not."
She thinks he flushes when he mumbles, "Okay."
He tries to escape. Of course he does. He's awkward and clumsy and insistent on being mediocre; on keeping his head down so that no one bigger than him will notice. It's the very signature of someone too afraid to reach for something in case they miss.
Stratt follows him out of his classroom and then out of the school, her footsteps sounding flat against the pavement. "No one in your field wants anything to do with you because you refuse to back down from a very unpopular view," she says, like she's prodding at the something beneath just to see what will happen. "I can give you a chance to prove them all wrong."
He shifts awkwardly and and scolds a child for running who isn't running. "Jokes on them," he says lamely, "because I don’t even care, so—"
Stratt almost snorts. "I think you do care. You’re just running away because you’re scared."
"No I'm not," he sneers childishly.
"Do you still believe water is unnecessary for life to evolve?"
He stops at last, although he gives off the air of someone who's only conceding because she won't leave him alone. "Uh. Look, there is, uh, nothing magical about hydrogen and oxygen. Water is required for life on Earth, sure, but a completely different planet might have completely different conditions. I don’t know why that makes me such a nut."
Stratt nods. "I need you to come with us."
He glances up and blinks like he's only just noticed the motorcade around the school. Carl appears next to her, imposing as always, and Grace stammers an introduction as the situation becomes apparent. Stratt presses on.
"Dr. Grace, Petrova line samples splashed down last night, I want you to tell me what they are and how they work."
He flails. Surely he must know by now that there is no getting out of this, but he tries anyway. "I'm a teacher at Grover Cleveland Middle. I'm sure there are thousands of other people more qualified than me that can help."
Stratt holds his stare. "You have a doctorate in molecular biology, your thesis for which posits the notion of water being unnecessary for life. These life forms survive on the surface of the sun. Does that sound like a water-based lifeform to you?"
He pauses. There. There is ambition there. There is something else behind the pretend-mediocrity. Stratt watches his face, the concern, the fear, and the ripple of grim determination underneath it all that convinces her there is more to this man than he wants everyone to believe.
"The sun's really dying, isn't it?"
Carl answers for her. "Yes."
He sighs. He is still reluctant, but Stratt can see his interest piqued, and the unmistakable curiosity of a scientist beneath the grim and jaded exterior. "Fine," he grumbles, as Carl takes his bag. "But we need to pick up my daughter first."
Stratt pauses. Then blinks. Then racks her brain, trying to figure out where it said that in his file. "Your daughter?"
"Yeah, um." Grace rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck. "I'm not going with you without her, so…"
For what it's worth, Stratt thinks she recovers rather quickly. "Give Carl her school address," she says. "We'll meet you at our facility. See you soon, Dr. Grace." Then she walks away before her surprise can betray her any further.
A daughter, she marvels. It's surprising to her for some reason. He seems like the kind of man who enjoys teaching children, but not the kind of man to have his own.
She makes a note to double check his file to make sure she hasn't missed anything else.
This is how Eva Stratt finds herself in the viewing room of a makeshift lab with nine of the highest ranking military officials from eight different countries, and a six year old with her nose pressed excitedly to the glass. Phoebe Louise Grace doesn't have the same lack of confidence her father does. Stratt can't decide if it's a good thing or a bad thing, but she certainly did not have the same reservations about Grace's value to the project, or about the strange people who whisked them away to a lab outside of San Francisco proper.
When Stratt warns Grace not to tear his suit, and Grace asks if he is expendable, or if they care if he dies, Phoebe's only response is to forcibly pull the mic towards herself and state, "You promised we'd get pizza after you were done, so don't die or we can't get it."
Grace makes a face at her through the viewing glass, clearly offended, and Stratt has to turn away to hide the amused smile trying to put itself on her face.
Yes, Phoebe Louise Grace is a character, all right, and Stratt is not hesitant to admit that she kind of likes her. She is almost entirely her father: the same blue eyes, the same mess of hair, the same little mannerisms, just with slight differences in the way her expressions cross her face. She's sassy and clever and just a lot precocious, so much so that Stratt imagines she gives Grace a good run for his money.
It's been a couple of hours now, and they are the only ones left in the viewing room. The other gentlemen have wandered off in search of food, or a place to nap, obviously tired of watching a scientist fuss around with something that they can't yet conceptualise, but Stratt stays because someone has to supervise Grace, and more importantly, keep his daughter entertained.
She is reviewing the latest solar output report when Phoebe huffs from across the room, not quite enough to be a complaint but certainly loud enough to be passive aggressive.
"I'm bored," she says.
Stratt glances at her from over her tablet. "My apologies, Miss Grace," she says. "I didn't account for you when I made arrangements for your father. Would you prefer to go home?"
"Can't," says Phoebe, sighing dramatically. "No one there to look after me. Dad says I'm not big enough to be by myself yet."
"What about your mother?"
Phoebe shrugs. "I don't have a mom. She and Dad split up when I was little. We don't hear from her."
That gives Stratt pause. When she looks at her again, Phoebe is lying horizontally on far bench, her feet dangling listlessly off the edge and her backpack pillowed uncomfortably under her head. There are little planet charms on the pulltab of the zipper that look like they're made out of papier mache, similar in style to the large models hanging in Grace's classroom. Stratt wonders if he made them too.
"Grandparents?" she asks after a minute.
"No," says Phoebe. "Dad's mom and dad passed away before I was born. I've never met my mom's."
"There's no one else at all?"
"Not really."
"Oh."
She doesn't look upset about it. Stratt wonders quietly if she should be—it sounds like a very lonely childhood, but then, who is she to judge? Hers was not so different, and she's come out of it fine (in a manner of speaking).
"Would you like Carl to stay with you?"
Phoebe shakes her head. "He's a stranger," she points out.
"I'm a stranger," says Stratt.
"But Dad's here," says Phoebe, waving vaguely towards the glass. "So that's okay, I think."
Stratt presses her lips together, the logic undeniably sound. She wonders if these are the kinds of negotiations Grace has to manage every day. "Miss Grace," she says at last.
"You can just call me Phoebe."
"Phoebe, then," amends Stratt. "I have to apologise again, I didn't know Dr. Grace had a daughter when I came to get him. He will need to work some very long hours to help us figure out what's happening with the sun, and I don't know that our facilities will be appropriate for someone so young. Are you sure there's no one else who can look after you while your father is here?"
Phoebe sits up with a huff and cocks her head at her with a gaze that feels startlingly perceptive. Stratt almost wants look away from the curious blue of her eyes. "How long do you think he's gonna be here?"
Stratt shrugs helplessly. "A while."
Phoebe grimaces and flops back over on the bench. "I can wait, I guess," she sighs.
Stratt shifts guiltily under her jacket and sends a text to Carl for some pizza.
It was easy when the only people Stratt had to manage were adults. There are many that act like children, of course, but they are, ultimately, still adults who can deal with disappointment and difficult circumstances well enough that she doesn't have to feel guilty about it. A six year old child, on the other hand—
She was not prepared for this.
She steps out a little later, when Carl returns with dinner and an iPad procured from the nearest tech store for Phoebe. Grace is still working, and Phoebe is occupied now with a junk food and a screen (which makes Stratt babysitter of the year, she's sure), but she seeks out Carl specifically and gestures lamely at the viewing room.
"You two seem to be getting along," he comments mildly.
Stratt run a hand through her hair, still somehow at a loss. This is new for her. She is never at a loss. "This complicates things."
"Does it?"
Stratt sneers at Carl. "Significantly, yes. Phoebe has no other caretakers, and if it turns out we need Grace for this project—" She groans and pinches at the bridge of her nose. "The carrier is no place for a six year old."
"Surely there are other options here."
"None that don't involve separating a child from her primary caregiver." Stratt bristles and starts pacing the width of the corridor. Carl watches her like a curious spectator, a slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. She breathes in. "It's fine," she decides. "We may not even need Grace, and we will make the necessary arrangements if we do."
"That's the spirit," says Carl noncommitally.
"You don't care."
He shrugs. "You're not actually asking for my opinion," he says. "Besides, you'll figure it out. When haven't you? And anyway, for a six year old, she's done pretty well. It's, what, like nine, now?"
Stratt mutters a swear under her breath. Babysitter of the year, indeed. "Find her a cot," she grumbles. "And a change of clothes. And whatever else she needs. Hopefully Grace will have something before midnight."
But Grace is not done before midnight. Stratt realises very late in the game that Grace is one of those scientists who can be in a lab for twelve hours and not realise the passage of time. He ducks out the lab to check on Phoebe twice and is relieved to know that she's had dinner and gone to bed, before he swipes a slice of pizza for himself and gets back to work.
At four AM, he declares that astrophage are cells.
At four-thirty, he is destroying the lab because they are made primarily of water.
At dawn, Stratt finds him outside the facility with a Diet Coke and thermos full of ramen.
If she didn't know any better, she might have thought he was a grad student moping after a failed experiment. She's seen enough of them to know what they're like, and Dr. Grace and his brand of professionalism (or lack thereof) certainly fits the bill.
"Sorry if I overreacted in there," he mumbles. "Just—uh—realising I was wrong about the only original idea I ever had."
Stratt breathes in patiently. "What else did you learn?"
He swallows hugely and washes the noodles down with a gulp of Diet Coke. "They give off infrared light when they move. Like, so much I don't know how they store all that energy. But their wavelenght is exactly the Petrova frequency."
Stratt raises an eyebrow at him. "The light is how they move?"
"Yeah," says Grace. "They consume the sun's energy and then they expel it for propulsion. They toot to scoot, basically."
Stratt breathes in again, stretching what little patience she has left, but then he adds—
"Is Phoebe still asleep?"
She blinks. And then—
"Yes. I've had one of the guards stationed by… her room, I suppose you could call it. She had a rather big afternoon yesterday and didn't go to bed until at least ten. My apologies, Dr. Grace, I shouldn't have let it get so late. I suspect she'll still be asleep for a while."
If he begrudges her for it, he doesn't show it. He only rubs his palms across his face, and in the very brief moment that Stratt can see his eyes, all that is there is guilt. Her own irritation leaves her in a rush—Grace may be unorthadox as scientist, but even she can't turn a blind eye to parental guilt.
"She's fine," she says. "If anything, she might have gotten a bit spoilt. She has a tablet now. Sorry."
Grace snorts into his hands. "Look. Um." He huffs and slurps at his soda. "She needs to get to school today, and I need a nap. Can I ask—"
"Carl can take her," says Stratt firmly. "And if you want to withdraw from all of this, you certainly may. I have three hundred other biologists who can continue the work without you. Thank you for your help. We can take it from here." She turns without waiting for a response and has her walkie-talkie in hand and raised to her lips before she hears him scrambling after her, Diet Coke and ramen forgotten on the concrete.
"Wait—that's it? You just—you're taking all the stuff?"
"I cannot expect you to commit time to this, and you said yourself at the school that there were thousands of people more qualified than you—"
"I was being modest!"
"I don't need modest," says Stratt shortly. "I need people who think they're right when everyone else is wrong. I need people who piss other people off. And not to mention, your daughter—"
"She managed fine last night," says Grace snippily. Stratt actually blinks at him, surprised by the strength of his resolve. He was guilty about the all-nighter ten seconds ago and now—
"The sun's dying," he says. "My kid's gonna grow up in an apocalypse if we can't do anything about this. I can help."
Stratt studies him. It doesn't seem fair to let him. Phoebe is six.
But the end of the world is still the end of the world. Phoebe will suffer either way and if he is the scientist who can find a way to stop it—
"I'll leave you three dots," she says after a moment. "Carl will stay to assist however you need it. For now get some rest. The world is counting on you."