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Do you regret it?
This is, without a doubt, the question Eva Stratt hears the most often. From the courts, from the press, even occasionally from people she may, in another world, have called friends.
Sometimes, they’re speaking broadly. They want to know about her unyielding global overreach, her sway over many of the brightest minds on the planet, her blatant disregard for policy.
Less often, they’re concerned about the Hail Mary. After all, was it really so wise to pin humanity’s primary plan onto a single ship? A vessel carrying several humans who fell into such a precarious venn diagram of traits that it defies the odds they could even find three? So much hope for seemingly so little.
These days, though, this question of regret orbits a single individual: Doctor Ryland Grace.
It was only a matter of time before that news broke. Doctor Grace’s outburst hadn’t been particularly private. Beyond the guards who had subdued him and the medical officers who sedated him, there had still been staff present who had surely seen his ignominious pursuit. And even if the person who went public didn’t have a first-hand account of the incident, Stratt knows all too well how prone people are to rumor and conjecture.
However it happened, word of Doctor Grace’s conscription had gotten out, reigniting the age old question with a vengeance.
Do you regret it?
The first thing Stratt feels upon hearing this question is irritation, though she knows she should know better by now. For every dead horse to beat, there will always be vultures circling to pick it down to the bones. This noise is the first to quiet. As with every crisis, the people wringing their hands about Grace’s exodus will be the same ones clapping when the Beetles return with his findings.
They don't have to worry about blood under their nails, after all.
Worse are the opportunists. So-called friends of Grace’s, coming up from the woodwork in defense of a man they hadn't seen for years prior to his disappearance. The close quarters of Stratt’s Vat had made privacy nearly impossible, so it had been fairly easy to figure out where relationships spanned. In the early days, Grace had made many calls to colleagues, coordinating lesson plans and student notes, but those dried up quickly, making way only for rare chats with the occasional college buddy. Nothing like Ilyukhina’s weekly chat with her father, or Yao’s daily calls to his son.
Nobody was waiting on the other end for Ryland Grace.
So yes, for years, Stratt saw firsthand just how few people looked out for Doctor Grace. And now there are somehow people crying on live TV about the indignities committed to their “close friend”? They are acquaintances at best, and even that is generous. No, they are selfish and cruel, preying on the dirty laundry Stratt had tried to hide in a final kindness to the man who was and was not her friend.
She has spent long enough in politics to know this is how the world works. One man’s tragedy is just another’s opportunity. But it annoys her all the same.
Finally, a step beyond the shallow hangers-on are people with a vendetta. Those who feel threatened by the power she’s amassed and hope to take her down, if not in a court of law, then at least in the court of public opinion. For them, the question of Ryland Grace provides the greatest opportunity of all.
Should Stratt regret her decision, it will prove it was the wrong one.
Should she not, it will prove she is a wrong one.
Make no mistake. If asked in the simple terms of yes and no, Stratt will not hesitate in her answer. There is no world where she regrets her choice to, as Grace once put it, murder him. And she expects no absolution for it. Beneath the buzz of irritation is a deep conviction: Eva Stratt will not wash the blood from her hands now, or ever.
Still, the question hangs heavier than usual today as Eva Stratt prepares to peruse the newly opened Honoring Hail Mary art exhibit. This collection, created by hundreds of highly skilled artisans, is poised for a lengthy tour around the world. The endeavor is rumored to have cost a fortune. Stratt should know: she helped anonymously fund it.
To say the decision had been a fit of impulse would be easy. It would also be untrue. Stratt respects the astronauts aboard the Hail Mary too much to make honoring their sacrifice seem like a moment of weakness. No, she’d spearheaded this exhibit with the same sharp focus as her task force: gather global talent and give them every resource they may need for success. While such a move may seem steeped in saccharine nostalgia, it’s also a shrewd decision to keep Project Hail Mary — the symbol of hope itself — alive in the public consciousness.
And hope does abound in the art. There is a beautifully detailed ink drawing of the launch, tiny prayers masterfully scrawled into the contrails. An intricate basket, dyed and woven by hand with strands representing the three astronauts, their ship, and the sun that would be Earth’s salvation. Across one wall, a massive quilt, each of its many squares contributed from children around the world.
One installation catches Stratt off guard. It is two red helmets, clearly modeled after the space helmets aboard the Hail Mary, one set about three feet above the ground, the other closer to five. Each helmet has been cleverly lined in such a way to provide a reflection of the viewer when looked at head-on, seemingly asking the audience to imagine themselves in the place of an astronaut on the mission to save Earth.
Stratt thinks of Grace’s students, his children, as he'd so often called them, peering into the smaller helmet, picturing a world where they were brave enough to walk in his footsteps.
It may seem odd, coming from her line of work, but Stratt truly believes that the majority of humanity would rise to the occasion if given a chance to save their planet. She’s rubbed shoulders with the worst of them, after all. But Stratt’s work with the Petrova Task Force has only solidified her high opinion of humanity. Some may, like Grace, need a push, but even those individuals would do what they could in the face of the end of the world.
Stratt takes a step toward the helmet, allowing her own face to fall into the frame. The lines carving tracks along her eyes and forehead have grown deeper and strands of grey have just started to dapple her reddish locks, only really noticeable to anyone who takes time to really examine her for longer than a passing glance.
Grace would have noticed. He would have commented, too, then clumsily backtracked upon realizing his faux pas. It was something Stratt had appreciated about him, his ability to notice what others had not and speak the truth without hesitation. He had done so even in his final moments.
You're murdering me.
She wonders what Grace would think of the exhibit, given his ultimate entry into the program. Would he pretend he’d made the right decision if he saw his reflection in the helmet now? It wouldn’t have been a choice for Stratt, going to space. It wasn’t even a choice selecting those who did. And yet, something still twinges in Stratt as she imagines herself aboard the Hail Mary. Imagines a world where she is a hero for her sacrifice, instead of almost universally despised.
Do you regret it?
Ego — even Stratt isn’t immune from it. She brushes away the immaturity as she leaves the helmet display. When all is said and done, Stratt doesn’t need to be remembered fondly. She only needs to have been right.
While there are several areas devoted to the mission as a whole, the wing also features a room for each member of the crew. These were prepared with special care, drawing heavily from their cultures, interests, and loved ones.
Yao Lie-Ji’s exhibit is awash with colors and shapes. A sculpture of Yao with an intricate jade carving of the Hail Mary cupped in his palms. Under a carefully crafted light sits a bonsai tree, its green-grey pot emblazoned with imagery of Earth. Paintings and drawings abound, some done with the steady hand of an expert, others made beautiful from the adoration and admiration that compels someone to create anyway.
The space, however, is dominated by a massive photograph mosaic. From far away, viewers see his strong profile, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance, already preparing for a brighter future. But as Stratt steps closer, she sees this bravery melt away into a snapshot of a man who was as kind as he was beloved. Up close she can see the person she had grown to know: a small Yao tangled in the arms of his siblings, a proud young adult brandishing his degree, a man staring down at his infant son like he hasn’t seen anything more wonderful.
Do you regret it?
Where Yao’s exhibit is largely serious and lovely, Olesa Ilyukhina’s room reflects her easy-going nature. Photos are pinned almost casually to a corkboard. One piece, a zine about Ilyukhina’s childhood, ends on a story so unexpected and funny that Stratt can’t help but huff a small laugh. There is also a simple phone booth where listeners can press the phone to their ear and hear words of encouragement in a smattering of languages. Most speakers are so conversational in addressing Ilyukhina that it feels like Stratt is back on the ship, overhearing a playfully heated debate between Ilyukhina and her partner.
The defining installation for Ilyukhina is even more involved. In the center of the room, a beautiful smattering of stars are painted on the floor, with a sprawling pink-red line connecting Earth’s Sol to the distant Tau Ceti. Each star, when stepped on, produces a beautifully twinkling tone. A sign nearby encourages audiences to join Ilyukhina’s dance in the stars.
Stratt indulges out of duty. Though her movements are stiff, a song of hope arises anyway, a beautiful imagining of Ilyukhina’s own journey to Tau Ceti. Still, its echo in the empty hall is a lonely thing.
Do you regret it?
She almost does not enter the room of Ryland Grace.
When Stratt finally wills her faltering body to step inside, astonishment catches in her throat. Whoever designed this space did their homework: it feels like a middle school classroom. Scientific models hang from the ceiling — some made of expressive glasswork, others as simple as paper mache.
While professional artists were certainly involved, this room has a greater focus on art made by children than the others. An old television plays an educational video on astrophage, entirely explained by young students. Scientific posters line the walls, the amateur nature of these creations clear in every crayon stroke. There is a heart built along one wall made entirely of old science worksheets, emblazoned by notes in Dr. Grace’s familiar handwriting:
Good work drawing that cell structure, Constance!
I can tell how hard you’ve been working, Arjun. Just review the difference between igneous and sedimentary rocks before the final.
A+ Magritte. Can’t wait to see your future scientific accomplishments.
“Really, the teacher angle is a little heavy-handed. It’s like they forgot about the scientific accomplishments,” Stratt mutters, half to herself, half to—
Unlike the other two exhibits, where the major art piece is front and center, Grace’s feels somewhat of an afterthought. Tucked away in a small alcove are a few pieces of more traditional artwork which flank a painting that stretches nearly to the ceiling. In it, Grace stands in a field of forget-me-nots. He wears his painfully familiar rain jacket, back is turned to the audience, face obscured.
The sheer loneliness of it hits Stratt like a wave. Yao and Ilyukhina felt so connected, their roots tangled deep in the Earth, even from the depths of space. Grace is a plea, a man made for forgetting begging to be remembered.
Do you regret it?
As a replacement science officer, Ryland Grace was nothing short of a godsend: a man with coma-resistant genes, immense scientific acumen, and deep understanding of the Hail Mary mission. Everything to give, nobody to leave behind. A prayer for a miracle could not have brought Stratt better than Grace.
Sacrificial lambs don’t care much for miracles, though.
Do you regret it?
She still dreams of him begging for his life. She sees his face — usually soft and filled with affable cheer — crumple, transformed by the weight of grief and fear and selfishness. To watch her closest companion become someone unrecognizable, whimpered croaks devoid of all the life that made him Grace. There will be no punishment worse than this.
Sometimes, in her dreams, Stratt shouts at him. Why couldn’t you be brave?
Sometimes, in her dreams, Stratt pleads with him. Doctor Grace. Ryland. Please don’t do this. Please don’t steal our last moments together.
Never in her dreams does Stratt apologize.
Do you regret it?
No.
If she is to be haunted by Grace, let her be haunted.
Do you regret it?
Eva Stratt only wishes she could remember his face.