Work Text:
Grace went home.
He stored the taumoebas somewhere safe and he went home.
Years drenched in monotony frayed and stretched on until they collapsed into indistinguishable days. No one could tell a year from a day when every night sky tasted identical to the last.
He rationed his thoughts with the same precision with which he rationed his shrinking food supplies and the dwindling dregs of vodka. The liquor seared a bitter path down his throat.
The whiteboard stood untouched in the corner, the scribbles of numbers clinging to the stark white surface.
The engine hummed, accelerating, pushing past light speed until stars blurred past the portholes like trees racing alongside a highway lane.
He had dropped Ilyukhina here, and Yao. Commended their bodies to the stars. He wondered if he was doing the same thing right now, except no one was being released into the vast unknown. Can you commend someone to the stars by stranding them?
When Earth came into view, blue and green and white, he did not register the familiar planet. It was the computer, intoning in its calm, flat voice, that informed him of reaching his destination.
"Destination reached. Earth. Orbit established."
He contacted Earth. No facility was currently equipped to receive the Hail Mary. But they figured out a way to land his ship. They always did.
Throughout his descent, he had the unshakable feeling that he had left something behind. Something important.
The blue of the sky felt new. The air scraping against his windpipe felt new. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale again.
There were people. And parties, he remembered—like the ones thrown on the cruiser in the middle of nowhere, when treacherous and uncharted waters still lay ahead. The parties then and the parties now were not much different. Dancing. Loud music. Small tables and high stools. People flirting, drinks in hand. The drinks. He quite liked the drinks. He hadn't had enough, back on the Hail Mary.
He knew Stratt had combed through his log, knew that from the questioning gaze she had cast his way. What was it? He could tell she was desperate to ask. But she gave him space. She probably attributed the stiffness in his pose to the unfortunate death of the rest of the crew. Or not. She was a smart woman.
All the celebrations stretched late into the night. If he ventured out or simply took a glimpse at what lay beyond the tight curtains, the galaxy would unfurl before his eyes in its black and starry splendor. He didn't. He didn't want any glimpse of the night sky. Glimpses would last for hours.
The taumoebas were possibly being towed off to somewhere remote enough for scientists to conduct further research on mass production. Like a farm. A farm that grew taumoebas. Something neither edible nor of any particular beauty. He had thought them beautiful once. He wouldn't make that mistake again. There were even times he wished they were more beautiful. Gentler. But the taumoebas had faulted no one. At least not deliberately.
And Rocky...He tried to forget him, lock him up somewhere deep enough in his mind that he wouldn't remember. He kept that piece of Xenonite in his pocket, the miniature Rocky waving its arm at him when he took it out into the sunlight. Rocky never touched sunlight. He never would.
It was over. He should be rejoicing. The parties went on.
His house was a mess. He didn't remember leaving it like this. Everything that was misplaced used to carry meaning here. But he couldn't seem to recall what that meaning was. It was like everything had been overwritten by time and something new, and he couldn't recall what had been.
No matter.
It didn't matter.
Right?
He drifted through the rooms. He tidied the whole place up. Everything went back to its right place. Neat. Organized. Tidy.
No litter lay on the floor, no scattering strewn across the dining table. He wondered when he had last seen something like this. Probably too long ago. Long enough for him to have grown accustomed to the other normal and returned to this, only to find it...out of sorts. He thought that was the right word. No, the right phrase. But he wouldn't know, would he?
Streaks of light filtered into the room. Dawn arrived. He threw open the curtains, allowing the artificial lights to escape into the void of early morning, spilling over the windowsill and dripping onto the overgrown lawn. The overgrown lawn. He had to mow it at some point. After all, he couldn't just leave it like this. He didn't think he owned a mower. He would have to borrow one. From a neighbour? He didn't feel like talking or making small talk.
Maybe he should just leave the lawn as it was. The green grass shot through with yellow weeds had a certain beauty to it.
No, he shouldn't just leave it like that. Mowing the lawn was just a part of tidying up the house. He should finish what he had started. He should, but he didn't feel like moving.
The curtains needed washing as well. The years that the thick fabric had spent guarding the house in solitude had left traces of dust and stains on the cloth.
He didn't make it to the bed. He collapsed on the dining table, head on hand, his breath evening out to the soft thrum of morning air.
Dusk would fall regardless.
The students were yelling for a "Lightning Round".
Smiling, Grace grabbed a handful of beanbags and leaned on the edge of a desk. His face hurt a little bit. He was getting old. He looked down at his hand, curled around several beanbags. Something felt amiss. He couldn't tell what. Just a hitch in his breath, an aching in his chest. He really was getting old.
"Name one important factor that determines the nature of a biological community."
"Species composition!" Charlotte shouted. She was a smart student, a tricky one too. The weight in Grace's hand lessened as a beanbag was fired off in her direction. The weight. The weight was what had felt wrong. Or was it? He wasn't sure about that. He wasn't sure about most things these days. Things had been slipping away.
"The speed of light?"
"Three times ten to the eighth meters per second!" Charlotte again.
"So close." He skimmed over the eager kids.
"c!" Someone shouted at the back of the class.
"Yes!" He threw a beanbag in that direction. His hand felt cramped from holding so many.
"Which microbes are used to make wine?"
"Yeast!"
"Components of an ecosystem?"
"Abiotic components and biotic components, which include producers, consumers, and decomposers!"
"Characteristics of matter cycle?"
"Global scale and..."
"Mr. Grace, can I ask you a question?" Charlotte again. He turned to look at her. Years ago, another girl had sat in the exact same spot and asked the exact same question. He had a bad feeling about this. The jars lining his shelf reflected the afternoon sun in teal spots on the wooden floor. He studied the one near his left foot, an oval shape, the bluish-green color blending with dark brown at the edges. He sucked in a deep breath. He made sure his smile was in place before looking back up.
"Of course. What is it?"
"What are the taumoebas?"
"What's happening to the sun?" Abby had asked, nearly two decades ago.
He took off his glasses. There was no need for clarity of sight. Squinting, he pushed himself off the table and walked down the aisle between his students.
"They are the world's solution to the Petrova line."
"How?"
He explained. He demonstrated. He gave examples. The class listened. He did not. What was there left to listen to when he was the one to bring home such a creature?
"Where did you learn about the taumoebas?" he asked, voice sore.
"The news! There were pictures, and they were beautiful."
They were not beautiful.
He didn't say that aloud. The kids didn't need to know that.
At least the news hadn't disclosed Rocky to the public. Not yet. A voice whispered in the back of his head. He ignored it, running his thumb over the knitted surface of the remaining beanbags just as the bell rang. The class scurried off, jumping over chairs and bee-lining for the door. He stayed until the room was empty and only the soft flapping of curtains remained. He put the beanbags back on his desk, letting them bask in the sunlight.
Something was amiss.
He stared at the beanbags.
Earth.
Earth was missing.
He dreamed about Rocky. He didn't know why he still did that. It was a long time ago.
Those dreams were usually hazy, a thick shroud thrown over scenes that should have been vivid. He had wanted to touch Rocky in those dreams. Dreams wouldn't burn, not like vodka. And neither would Rocky. Nor would he, not in his dreams. He had never touched Rocky, yet Rocky had touched him, dragged him to his dormitory. He knew he shouldn't touch Rocky. Touching him wouldn't make him more real. Not touching him wouldn't make him more insubstantial. The haze prevented him from touching. He should be thankful.
"Rocky?"
"Rocky here. Grace need something?"
He knelt in front of Rocky, patting his xenonite EVA suit. Rocky's little arms were fidgeting with something.
"Why Grace looking at Rocky like that, question?"
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Rocky's suit. He closed his eyes.
"How long do Eridians live?"
"Grace asked Rocky that question before. Why Grace ask again? Grace not remember, question?"
He said nothing. The need to hear that answer again tingled at the back of his mind. He didn't know if it was Rocky's voice or the confirmation of how many years he had stolen from this warm presence in front of him that stirred the rhythm of his heartbeats.
Silence blanketed the room, woven through with ephemeral starlight.
After a while, the computer sounded again, carrying Rocky's voice and the answer.
"Six hundred and eighty-nine Earth years. Grace not remember. Grace bad."
He fell silent to that answer, just staying in that position, so long that his legs went numb. The lights hit the floor in weird patterns through the transparent xenonite.
He cracked open an eye. Rocky was tapping the xenonite gently, trying to get his attention. Pulling back, he sat down across from the pressurized ball, stretching out his legs.
"Grace has a problem, question?"
"No." He buried his face in his arms.
"Grace has a problem, statement. Grace tell Rocky what problem is. Rocky fix."
He kept his gaze downwards.
Out of the corner of his eye rolled a knitted ball of blue and green, sashaying to the slight tilts and sways of the ship.
The beanbag.
Earth.
Days blurred into years instead of the other way around. That was what differed the passing of time on Earth from that on the Hail Mary, Grace thought.
When death came, it was with a surprising clarity, as books often claim. He simply closed his eyes. The galaxy swarmed up to meet him, his short life crumbling into dust, the years dissolving into piles of ash. The warmth of Earth coated him with moist soil. Light could not pass through the dirt.
The soft rumbles of Earth speaking in ancient chants woke him, then lulled him back to his slumber. He rolled on, and on, and on, with the fields of green and the creeks of blue. He felt ancient. He felt all-enduring. Cells interwove themselves into his flesh, echoing with the ache in his marrows. Atoms bonded into molecules and descended upon him in a veil of silk, blanketing yet not restricting. The world faded, and he was drifting, drifting towards a place unknown to mankind that promised bursting vitality.
He could hear Rocky's singsong speech, devoid of the synthetic voice of his computer. Rocky's song tugged at the strings tied to his heart, halting his breath mid-exhale. He wondered then, to the stars guarding the sky above: Was it worth it, trading Rocky's half a millennium of musical existence for his own single century of stagnation?
He didn't know.
He still wasn't sure.
He had fallen into the cocoon of Earth with eyes shut tight. Into the same Earth that he had gifted to Rocky with that blue-and-green beanbag.
Earth.
Home.
He had asked to be cremated. That way the ashes of his bones would forever mingle with the soft hum of the planet orbiting smoothly around the sun. That way, he was home—a part of a planet. A part of a planet that turned and glided in the galaxy, where other stars and planets alike moved in mathematical grace.
He had commended his own body to the stars. The same way he had commended Ilyukhina's and Yao's and Rocky's. He joined them. In the sky. In the void. In the soft humming of the stars.
The miniature Rocky waved on in his pocket, its little arms stretching out towards the sun.
He didn't know if Rocky had passed on. But he would watch him sleep, through the stars.