Chapter Text
He felt odd to say the least.
Glancing over at the clock, Grace frowned. It was hours into the day cycle and he felt groggier than usual. Eyes crusty and lashes heavy, every blink dragged him closer to sleep. “What on Earth?” He peeled himself up off his cot with a groan. Everything ached. Taking a deep breath, his chest felt tight. “Holy moly, this is…not great.” Above him, Rocky idled in his xenonite tube. “Do you feel strange, Rock?”
Was he getting sick? Some space flu? A virus from Rocky’s ship? Who said that couldn't happen because that could absolutely happen, right?
God, he didn't want some wacky version of space mumps.
Shifting, Rocky said, “Rocky feel fine. Grace look different.”
“Ugh, you look different,” he grumbled, rolling over onto his elbows. Another moan escaped him when the pressure inside his head doubled down at the movement, kicking the base of his skull and squashing his eyeballs. “Crap. I feel awful.”
“Why, question.” Rocky asked.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, Grace said, “Uh, I dunno. Maybe I ate something bad or…something.” He felt flushed, his cheeks hot to the touch. Was something wrong with Mary’s temperature regulation? Or did he have a fever?
Rocky faced his direction, unmoving. “If food bad then why Grace eat, question.” Grace could practically see the alien’s flattened incredulity. If Rocky had eyes, they’d be half-lidded with an eyebrow raised.
Huffing, Grace got up onto his knees and stretched. “It's not like I can tell the food has gone bad. It's powdered chili.” But his stomach felt fine. He wasn’t nauseated. Maybe he was just getting old? Is this what old age felt like?
It wasn't like he could ask anyone.
“Uh, let’s…let’s…” Blinking fast, Grace’s brows furrowed as his train of thought slipped away. Connecting two coherent ideas felt like lifting boulders in his sluggish mind. “Jesus.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Let’s go check the…the…” Waving his hand towards the flight deck, he groaned.
What was the word?
“The main consoles,” he finished lamely, sighing.
What was going on?
Getting upright was a chore in and of itself, though, as Grace stumbled over himself, nearly faceplanting. He caught himself against the circular frame of the doorway and the world spun. Rocky said, “Grace testing gravity again, question.”
“Oh yeah, bud, just giving it the old college try,” he mumbled, swallowing back a bout of nausea.
Rocky repeated, “College try.” Then, “New phrase. Don’t understand.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Grace said. Together, the two of them meandered into central command, the ladder journey up straining his exhausted limbs. Grace dropped down into his chair, a chipper “pilot detected” chime echoing throughout the flight deck, ringing in his ears. Groaning again, he began scrubbing through the ship’s parts: engine bays? Fine, functional. Temperature regulation? Normal, a balmy 23.4 degrees celsius. Oxygen: stable.
He paused.
What else should he check?
Staring at the screen, Grace blinked. A heavy, fuzzy emptiness dimmed his thoughts. He sighed. “This is annoying.”
“What is annoying, question.” At his side, Rocky passed his little visualizer device between Grace and the console screens.
With a sigh, Grace slumped back in his seat, “I just keep…forgetting things. It’s like there’s a fog in my head.”
“Forgetting reduces productivity,” Rocky said.
Rolling his eyes, Grace scoffed, “No crap.”
“Correct, there is no fecal matter present.” Rocky said. Then, waddling closer to the console, he aimed his device at it and hummed. “Is Mary broken, question.”
Grace bit at the inside of his cheek as he scrolled through the ship’s logs; it was free of error codes, warnings, or failures. With a sigh, he said, “I don’t know if she’s broken, Rock. Nothing is coming up.”
“Hm,” Rocky began sagely. “Grace break Mary.”
Shaking his head, Grace said, “I didn’t break the ship. It’s just…maybe I’m sick.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. Getting up again, he fumbled down the ladder. “It’s fine. I’ll go eat. Maybe then I’ll feel better.”
“Grace no eat. Grace get sick from food.” The sound of Rocky’s scurrying through the tubing sparked a line of pain through his head. His ears rang, low and subtle and just annoying enough for the inklings of irritation to grow. “Grace no eat!”
Waving his alien friend off, Grace continued into the kitchen. “I have to eat, Rock. It’s fine.”
Rocky fell behind, the pattering of his footfalls disappearing.
As Grace reached the food storage, he slumped, his eyes sliding shut. He rocked forward, exhaustion dragging him down. Chin plopping to his chest, he sighed hard. “Jesus,” he whispered to the open air. “What’s wrong with you?”
Patting his cheeks to startle himself awake, he pulled open the food storage drawer and fished free a protein bar. He bit into it. Even chewing was an endeavor. Jaw aching and head throbbing, he squeezed his eyes shut for the dozenth time.
Something had to be wrong with Mary. Maybe he was missing something, or perhaps the diagnostics had failed and skipped over something crucial? Otherwise, why was he feeling sick now of all times? Or had the Taumoeba mutated again? Had they broken free and caused an illness?
He should check on them.
Grace turned around.
He stopped, scowling.
What was he going to do again?
“Grace!” Rocky hollered, his voice echoing in the ship’s speakers. “Grace! Mary sick!”
The words rattled in his head, bouncing against the things he was forgetting to do. Scrunching his face in confusion, he turned in the direction of Rocky’s frantic scrambling. “What does that mean?”
When he stopped by Grace’s side, his little limbs moved about desperately. “Mary sick! Rocky find sick!” Wagging him forward with a wave of his arm, Rocky continued, “Grace, come, come, come!”
Setting the protein bar down, Grace shuffled after Rocky. “What’s going on?”
They clambered back into the console room as Rocky said, “Carbon dioxide in atmosphere of ship. Mary not see. Toxic to Grace. Grace fix, statement.”
Adjusting his glasses, Grace shifted forward. “What? That’s–” He cut himself off as he stared at the numbers sprawled across one of the larger screens: the carbon dioxide was at 6,564 parts per million and rising fast. How did he miss that? “Huh. Carbon dioxide poisoning. That…I think that makes sense.”
He blinked.
What was he doing?
God, his head was killing him.
“Grace fix, statement.” Rocky bumped against the xenonite. “Go, go, go!”
“Wait, what?” Grace blinked hard enough that his eyes rolled. From the base of his neck to the top of his head, pounding pressure pushed against his skull. Light stung. The screens burned to look at. He squinted. “What’s…?”
Rocky slammed a hand to the barrier between them. “Carbon dioxide in atmosphere,” he said. “Grace fix. Now.”
Turning to Rocky, Grace nodded hard. “Okay, yeah.”
“Now, now, now,” Rocky chanted, crawling down his tube.
Grace clumsily ripped off his belt and tumbled after Rocky, one hand flat to the ship walls with every step. Each movement was thick and awkward as if his feet were asleep. His vision swam. Rocky crawled into the back engine room, chittering. “Grace! Come fix!”
“I’m coming,” Grace huffed, the sound muffled in his own ears. “Just give me a–”
“Ryland?”
Grace froze.
His pulse kicked up into his throat.
Even now, decades later, her voice sounded crystalline clear.
How?
Slowly, he turned around. He half-expected her to be standing before him, her arms outstretched as she called his name. Those same silver-blue eyes, that white-blonde hair, those features he took after or so he was reminded of time and time again.
Instead, silence met him.
Scanning the ship, he took a breath and held it as he began to slide back the way he came. Grace poked his head down the empty corridors, glancing into the dark rooms. Distantly, he heard Rocky calling for him but his pounding heart demanded he find her, his head clear for the first time since waking.
He had to find his mom.
“Ryland?” she called again, startling him. “Where are you? It’s so dark.”
His palms were cold and clammy. A shiver ripped down his spine.
Where was she?
How–?
How had she survived?
His mind replayed those last moments, those days where she’d been confined to that sterile-white bed, breathless and cold. Back then, his hand had been smaller than hers, clinging to her icy fingers as he begged for one more day. Back then, his father had reared back, an open hand cracking against his cheek again and again and again as the man slurred, “Just shut the fuck up! She’s already dead! Just shut up, please, God, please. Stop fucking crying!”
Back then…
Grace blinked the tears from his eyes.
Some fell anyway.
“Ryland, come here,” she called, her voice echoing through the empty halls of Mary. “Come here, baby.” Head swimming and thoughts distant, his legs carried him to the lab on instinct. Time went sluggish. He couldn’t hear his footsteps, couldn’t see around the black spotting his vision.
The lab was quiet.
Barren.
Equipment gone and air stale, the room was tiled with linoleum and lined with tall, white walls. In the center of the room, a hospital bed glowed under the harsh overhead lights. Skinny tubing stretched up to the pumps and machines scattered about.
Grace inched closer. His gut cried for him to stop.
In the bed, a lump shifted under the blankets. Moving, squirming and growing more restless with every step he took. “Ryland. It’s so cold, help me. My baby.” Her voice distorted, crackling and monotone. “Grace. Grace. Grace.”
Grace’s knees knocked into the foot of the bed.
The blankets vanished. His mom stilled. Her fixed, cloudy eyes stared up at him, lips parted. More tears clogged Grace’s throat. “Mom,” he croaked. “I–”
A cockroach crawled out from between her teeth.
Grace jerked backwards as a shout tore up his throat. A sour, rotting stench rolled off her corpse as her body deflated before his eyes, skin going grey and leathery. Flies buzzed around her. Nearby, his father screamed something. His cheek burned. His ribs hurt. Had he been hit again? When? What happened?
Yanking away from his mom’s mannequin-like form, Grace doubled over the nearby trashcan and coughed up stomach acid and undigested bits of protein bar. Everything hurt. Everything hurt and he couldn’t breathe or see past the tears in his eyes. Panic flooded his veins. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong and he couldn’t pinpoint what because his brain refused to work–
What was happening?
“Grace! Grace!”
He clapped his hands over his ears, a sob tearing his shredded throat. “Please,” he whispered. “Please. Stop.” As if his cries alone could summon him, his father’s heavy footsteps echoed in his ears. Screaming followed. Demands. Anger, red hot to the touch as his father grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him up onto his knees.
Grace was six years old again, bawling so hard he rocked back with every heaving breath. The man hollered, “Look at me, Ryland!”
His gaze snapped upright.
Grace’s eyes met the blinding lights above. Focus waning, he searched for his father’s hulking form. The world twisted, blurring. Up became down. Left mixed with right as he struggled to his feet and then toppled sideways.
Staggering, his vision fuzzing at the edges, Grace smacked his palm against the far wall, fighting to prop himself up. Something whined. Was that him? More sound followed, another voice - kinder, softer, flat in tone - calling. He heard clacking of a solid surface on the xenonite tubes.
Rocky?
Rocky.
A desperate plea got caught on Grace’s tongue. His knees buckled. Too hot, too exhausted, he pitched forward.
“Grace!”
He was unconscious before he hit the ground.