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“Why Grace have scars on chest question?” Rocky asks. I look down and run my finger down the two faint scars across my chest. The surgeon who made them must be good – they’re hardly visible. Honestly, I’m surprised Rocky can even see them. He’s never asked before, though I’m typically not shirtless around him. He can “see” through clothes somewhat (that revelation had made me a little uncomfortable when I first found out but it’s just become one of the many things I’m now used to), but the fabric muffles the sound so it’s harder to make out the details.
Currently I’m using my meagre soap rations in an effort to make myself stink less. Before I’d try and do this in the dormitory while Rocky continued working in the lab, give myself at least a bit of privacy, but at this point in our journey, privacy has gone out the window. Rocky doesn’t even make me leave the room when he eats anymore, though he does still tuck himself away in the corner. So this is probably the first time I’d spent any significant time around him shirtless, with my double mastectomy scars on full display.
I figured out I’m transgender pretty quickly after waking up aboard the Hail Mary. The combination of a beard, vagina, and scars across my chest had been a pretty big clue. Then, a few days later the medical robot had informed me that it was time for my next dose of testosterone and proceeded to helpfully stab me with a needle.
The weird thing is that until Rocky asked about the scars just now, I hadn’t actually remembered when I’d got the surgery.
-
I know I shouldn’t be wearing my binder for this long. I can feel the pain in my ribs. I can feel how much harder it’s becoming to breath but today has been non-stop from meetings to lab demonstrations to more meetings. Even the short gaps between have been filled with people chasing me down for questions or asking approval for a new experiment (honestly, I have no idea why they feel the need to ask me about that).
If I’m being honest with myself the issue wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t been overusing it for the past few weeks as well, but it’s hard to get time to myself to take it off when I’m living in close quarters with so many people. As it stands this is easily up there as the worst pain I’ve ever felt due to wearing my binder, and I had some pretty bad days back in college.
So as my final scheduled meeting for a day comes to a close, I gingerly stand up and immediately head back towards my room, brushing off anyone’s attempts at conversation. I manage to get away without causing anyone great offence (or at least I hope, it’s hard to really focus on my surroundings with the sharp pain digging into my ribs). That is until Eva Stratt walks up beside me.
“Grace. With me,” she says brusquely, before marching off ahead towards her office. I’m tempted to just keep my course back to my room, but unfortunately Stratt is not so easily brushed off as the others, and I’m sure if I ignore her I will not like the consequences. So, I try my best to keep up. Breathing becoming harder and harder as the binder continues to dig into my ribs, my lungs struggling to fully inflate.
By the time I make it to her office, I feel like I’m on the verge of collapsing. I support myself against the doorframe and try to take a deep breath in and get some oxygen back into my blood. That however, results in agonising pain and I double over. My vision goes black but I mange to maintain consciousness.
“Dr. Grace!” Stratt’s voice comes through as if she’s speaking underwater, and suddenly I feel her hands on me supporting me. “I’m calling medical.” That brings me right back into my head.
“No! You can’t!” No one on this ship knows I’m trans. Well, Stratt almost certainly does, she has her ways of knowing everything, but I know for a fact others don’t, and I’d really rather keep it that way.
“There is clearly something wrong with you. I will be calling medical.” Her tone leaves no argument, and yet I argue anyway.
“No, please,” I wheeze, “I’m okay, I just… I just need to take off my binder.”
“Your what?” She asks, clearly still sceptical, though doesn’t seem to be calling medical immediately so I’ll take the win.
“My umm… chest binder.” I’d really rather not be discussing this with her right now, but it’s better than being sent to medical. “I just haven’t been able to take a break all day, so I’ve been wearing it too long. I’ll take it as soon as I get back to my room.” Stratt frowns at me, with that calculating look of hers.
“You will take it off here.” She manoeuvres me into a chair, and I hear her click the door shut behind.
“What? No. I’d really rather do it back in my room.” I move to stand back up, and she places a hand on my shoulder to stop me.
“You are clearly in no state to walk back to your room. Either I call medical to assist you or you take it off here.” I don’t have it in me to argue, especially since I know she’s right. Even just the slight movement I’d made to stand up had sent my head spinning and searing pain through my ribs. Still.
“I… can’t.”
“Those are your options.” She continues to look at me with her arms across her chest.
“Well, I definitely can’t with you watching me.” I suppose this means I’m relenting. She nods.
“I will turn around.” Then she does just that, standing stock still facing the wall. My increasing heart rate certainly isn’t helping with feeling out of breath.
You can do this. I tell myself. Very slowly, very gingerly, I manage to pull off my fleece and then my t-shirt, sucking in a breath to try and stop myself making pained noises. I see Stratt twitch slightly at the sound, but she remains facing the wall. I look down and see angry dark purple bruises peeking out the bottom of my binder and I know it will be worse below, but at this point I just need to get it over and done with.
It’s then I realise I have a problem. As I go to lift my binder I realise I can’t. Pain shoots through me and I find myself physically unable to bend my arms in the right way to pull it up. I try again coming from a different angle – the same.
“I can’t,” I say.
“Dr. Grace,” Stratt says, and wow I really must have sounded pathetic because I can actually hear the sympathy in her voice. “You know your options.”
“No, I mean I physically can’t. I can’t lift it.” There is a pause before Stratt responds.
“May I turn around?”
“Yes,” I say weakly. At this point I don’t think there’s anything I could do to fight it. As much as I hate the idea of her seeing me like this, I suppose I am at least grateful it’s not anyone else on the ship.
I hear her take a sharp breath in as she looks at me, before quickly regaining her composure. I can feel tears starting to prick at the corner of my eyes. As if this couldn’t get even more embarrassing.
“Dr. Grace, I understand this is distressing for you, but I believe I should call medical.”
“No please don’t,” I beg. The tears are now flowing down my cheeks.
“You are injured.”
“I told you I’ll be fine once I can get this thing off.” I can tell she doesn’t believe me.
“And how do you intend to do that?” I can’t answer that. We stare at each other for some time, and this feels like one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. She hasn’t called medical yet though, so that’s something at least.
“Would you allow me to help?” she asks. Again, that sounds utterly humiliating, but better than any alternative I can think of. I nod.
She kneels down in front of me, and then carefully hooks her fingers under the bottom of the binder. The pressure against my bruises hurts, but it’s not unbearable, at least not until she starts to lift. I let out an involuntary cry and she immediately stops, then looks as me, assessing.
“I believe it would be best for me to cut this off.” I immediately shake my head.
“No, I only have a couple of these, you can’t cut it off.”
“I will replace it.” Her response is simple and practical as always. She’s already rummaging around her desk for scissors before I respond.
“Fine.” At this point anything that gets this over with quickly is better. She nods and gets to work. She’s careful and methodical with the scissors, cutting from one side up to the armpit. When she makes the final cut, the binder comes loose and I feel air rush into my lungs so suddenly it almost hurts. I take a deeper breath than I’ve managed all day and the relief is overwhelming. My ribs still ache but the crushing pressure around my chest is gone.
Then the fabric falls away slightly. I freeze, and the relief curdles into a sick, hollow feeling in my stomach. My previously compressed breasts sag and are clearly visible. Stratt lifts the remains of the binder over my head and then I’m sitting there with my bare chest on full display. I can feel my panic quickly rising, my rapid breaths aggravating the pain. Stratt doesn’t comment but simply picks up my t-shirt from the floor and hands it to me. With some difficultly I manage to get it on. It helps a little, but the shape of my breasts is clearly still visible below.
Stratt stands up, then sits behind her desk and starts tapping away at something on her laptop. The normalcy of it helps. I don’t know what I’d’ve done if she’d started trying to comfort me. I don’t really know how much time passes but my breathing starts to even out and my head clears. The whole mini breakdown I’d just had in front of Stratt feels rather embarrassing now. I’m almost tempted just to sneak out of her office and hope she doesn’t try to stop me, but there’s one pretty glaring problem: my breasts. Without my binder, they’re clearly visible, even if I hunch over and there’s no way I’d be able to get back to my room without anyone seeing. At minimum there’ll be the guards and it’s more than likely I’ll bump into others on the way. As I’m trying to figure out a plan, Stratt looks up.
“Are you feeling better Dr. Grace?”
“Um… yeah, I guess. Thanks.” I find myself hunching over as she looks at me. Even if she already knows, I hate the idea of her seeing me like this. I want to bring my knees up to my chest and hug my legs in front of me, but that would be far too childish.
“I can’t have you injuring yourself like this again.” I feel like I’m being told off and my instinct to curl up deepens.
“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to let it get this bad, I just haven’t really had any time to myself today, or much at all these last weeks and I if I went without then people would realise that I’m…” I trail off. Somehow despite everything that’s happened, it’s still hard to actually say the words out loud. I’m sure Stratt understands where I’m coming from here. Even if I did want people to know, this is a multinational project and many of the nations that we work with aren’t exactly known for being LGBT friendly. While Stratt operates a very strict zero-tolerance policy on discrimination (I know of at least two former staff who disappeared from the Vat never to be seen again after making discriminatory comments), me being outed as trans would cause unnecessary friction which we can’t afford.
“You haven’t opted to have surgery,” Stratt says after a moments pause, her tone entirely neutral and inscrutable.
“What?”
“You have been living openly as male for at least as long as your academic records begin. This is clearly an issue that causes great distress for you, yet you have not opted for surgery.” Again, her tone bears no judgement, if anything it’s curiosity.
“I wouldn’t say I didn’t opt to have surgery so much as I can’t afford it and my insurance doesn’t cover it,” I reply. I’d been saving up, but with a teacher’s salary and already paying for my testosterone, progress had been slow, and since being seconded by Stratt, it’s fallen on the back burner.
“So, you do wish to have surgery.”
“I mean yes, but as I said, that’s not really an option currently.” Stratt nods and looks back down at her laptop, scrolling through something. I wonder if the conversation is over and start trying to figure out how to get back to my room without being spotted again.
“I will arrange for you to have surgery in three weeks’ time.”
“What!?” I’m sure I must have misheard her. Her tone was entirely too casual for what seems like a rather significant thing.
“Three weeks will allow you to wrap up your current experiments or find someone to take over them, and for your bruises to heal. We can afford to lose you for the week following surgery and put you on lighter duty for the weeks following that.” So, I wasn’t hearing her wrong and she’s actually thought this through.
“Wow. That’s… wow. I mean that’s great and all, but there are like procedures to these things, like waitlists and consultations and stuff.” She just gives me a hard stare and, oh yeah, the whole dictator of the world thing. She can probably get a surgeon to do whatever she wants. Still, I don’t really understand why she would, it’s not like me having breasts is impeding the project in any way. I tell her that much.
“Your current condition is negatively affecting your health. We need you at your best Dr. Grace.” If this was anyone but Stratt, I’d think she was using the project as a cover to hide that she actually cares, but I know Stratt would do pretty much anything to give the project the slightest increased chance of success, so getting me top surgery doesn’t really all that much in the grand scheme of things. “I will organise a video consultation with a surgeon to discuss your desired outcome. Do you have any preference for surgeons?”
“I don’t know. I never even…” Suddenly this all feels very overwhelming. Top surgery has always felt like such a distant dream, and now with just one conversation, it’s very real and imminent and I don’t know what to think.
“I will send you a list of options. Return your preferred choices as soon as you can. In the meantime, you will be scheduled additional time during which you will not be disturbed. You will not wear your binder during this time.” At this point I’m pretty used to Stratt micromanaging my life so I just nod. “I am additionally placing you on medical leave for the next two days, during which you will also refrain from using your binder.” Ok now this seems a little excessive.
“I don’t need that.”
“Your bruises need to heal before you can have surgery. That will not happen if you do not take a break and let them.”
“Fine ok.” I’m sure I’ll drive myself crazy stuck in my room, but I know she’s right and if I’m finally getting the change to get top surgery after over a decade of waiting, then I’m not going to do anything to jeopardise that.
“Is there anything else you require?” She asks. I shake my head. She stands up and I realise I still haven’t figured out how I’m going to get back to my room. “Take this back with you.” Stratt’s voice startles me out of my thoughts. She hands me a large cardboard box. I expect it to be heavy and wince slightly in anticipation with my still sore ribs, but there doesn’t seem to be much in there.
“What is it?” I try to peer in, but the lid is closed.
“Nothing,” she responds and I frown. “It will cover your chest, and if people think you might be carrying something heavy they are less likely to stop you. I meant to take it out to the recycling, so please do so when you get a chance.” Well, that’s an elegant solution to my problem, and it’s nice that Stratt thought of it even without me saying anything. People don’t really give her enough credit for how perceptive she is, even if she usually only uses those skills to bend people to her will.
“Thank you.” I stand to leave and just as I’m about to open the door, I hear Stratt speak again.
“Dr. Grace.” I pause and turn back to her. “If you experience problems again, please come to me before it reaches the point of injury. Had I known, I would have been able to assist earlier.”
“Yeah ok. I just didn’t think there was much you could do. I mean you already knew about me being um y’know.”
“I was not aware that you are transgender if that is what you are implying.”
“Wait what?” I blink rapidly. “But you know everything.”
“I most certainly do not. I know what is relevant, and I do not make the habit of delving into my crew’s personal lives beyond what is required for the mission. I was interested in your research. Beyond what you have told me yourself, your academics are all I know. Everything I know about your gender identity I have inferred from the context of this conversation.”
“Oh.” For a moment I just stand there staring at her. I’d been so certain she knew. And yet she didn’t. Which means I’ve just told her. A knot forms in my stomach. I’d never really planned on coming out to anyone else beyond what was necessary, especially after my first few comings out went so horribly. “Is it a problem?” I ask quietly “Me being…”
“Your gender identity is not a problem for me, and should anyone else find out, I will ensure it is not a problem for them either.” I smile and get a nod and a slight upturn of her lips in return.
“Right well, thanks for all of this. And I’ll get back to you on the surgeons.” I feel like I should be saying more, but I can’t find the words, so after another nod from her, I leave.
The next few weeks leading up to my surgery are weird. I choose a surgeon, though there seems to be very little separating the options Stratt gives me – she’s certainly utilised her skill in finding professionals at the top of their field. The doctor I chose is a little frazzled at first during my consultation, clearly not having expected his skills to requisitioned for the project, but he relaxes more when I tell him I’ve been on T for well over a decade. He hadn’t exactly been comfortable with the idea of performing surgery simply at Stratt’s command, but once I go through the painful process of spelling out my entire history and dysphoria for him, he no longer holds reservations about it.
The surgery is of course scheduled for the exact date Stratt said it would be. I worry that I’m bumping some poor guy down the list, but my surgeon reassures me that he is working an extra day to accommodate me, so none of his other patients will be delayed.
Just like that I’m being flown across the ocean in a military jet, and a car takes me the rest of the way. Unfortunately, Stratt informed me that we’d have to clue in at least one of the security guys to take me and make sure I get back to my hotel post-surgery. Carl was the obvious choice – I’m closer to him than any of the others, but I was tempted to pick someone I didn’t know so well so it would hurt less if they reacted badly. In the end Stratt had got impatient with my dithering and told me to just pick Carl. That had been a good choice because Carl had taken it all well and promised to buy me all my favourite sweets for my recovery. I’m now up to two people who I’ve come out to and have reacted well, yay!
The surgery goes great. I wake up feeling pretty groggy but not in any pain. When I look down and I see that I don’t have breasts anymore, I start crying. It’s still wrapped up in bandages but it’s flatter than it’s been since I started puberty, even when I was wearing my binder.
I manage to get a hold of myself enough to talk with the doctor, make sure I know what I need for recovery and arrange an appointment to have the drains taken out in a week’s time, and then Carl takes me back to the hotel.
The next week of recovery is unfortunately not as easy and pain-free as waking up from surgery was. I’m pretty limited on the painkillers I can take in order to avoid swelling, but Carl does provide me with what seems to be a bottomless supply of sour skittles to take my mind off of it. Unfortunately, Carl refuses to keep me updated on everything that’s going on with the project (Stratt’s orders apparently), but I do get to learn a lot about him and his family which is nice. I don’t offer anything about my family in return. He doesn’t ask. He keeps me to a strict routine of appropriate rest, fluid intake and food, and despite my boredom the time until my follow up appointment passes fairly quickly.
It’s then I get to see my bare chest for the first time without bandages. Of course I cry again. It’s an entirely different kind of feeling to when I started T. That had been a gradual change, my voice slowly deepening, facial hair growing, my jaw sharpening. I began to feel more confident in myself, just being out and talking to people, but there was never a specific moment where I suddenly thought, wow, this face actually feels like mine. Now is that moment. I look at my reflection in the mirror, look at my chest and it feels like a body that is truly mine. I don’t have to try and convince my brain I’m looking at someone else in order not to feel nauseated. It’s still not exactly pretty to look at, the incisions are still thick and red, and I can see where my nipples have been stitched back on, but it’s mine.
With everything looking good, I am released and cleared to return to Stratt’s Vat. Unfortunately, I am required to get one more person involved – that being at least one person on the medical team who can monitor me and negate the need for additional follow up appointments. I’m too happy to really worry about that at the moment.
My journey back to Stratt’s Vat is the slowest and smoothest I’ve ever experienced, though having become used to jet speed travel, the slower pace actually feels rather tedious. Still, it’s definitely nicer to make it through the whole journey without throwing up.
I’m given a surprisingly generous few hours to get settled back in, of which I spend most reading lab reports from my week off (no one seems to have made any catastrophic mistakes without my supervision, so that’s good), before I’m called to Stratt’s office.
I sit in my usual place across from her.
“Dr. Grace. I hope you are recovering well from your surgery,” Stratt says. It sounds suspiciously like small talk, which is rare for her, usually she dives straight into whatever she wants. Though perhaps discerning the status of my recovery is what she wants, so she can figure how much work she can feasibly pile on me.
“Doctor said it’s all going well. Will be on painkillers for a little while longer, but light activity and seated work is a go.” I reply cheerfully, sitting fully up straight in my seat in a way I’d never felt comfortable doing before.
“Good. The scientists have compiled lab reports for you to go over for this last week. Have a look at them when you can,”
“Oh, I already did that. Everything looks good. I have a few ideas for modifications on a couple and some new things to test, but I’ll chat with them about it in the lab.”
“Don’t overwork yourself.” The command is both kind and brusque in a very Stratt way. Also, wildly hypocritical coming from her considering I’ve had to force her several times to even take a five-minute break.
“I’ll be careful, I promise,” I reply rolling my eyes slightly. She gives me the same hard stare I’d give my kids when they tried to roll their eyes at me.
“You will be on a lighter schedule for the next few weeks. If anyone wants additional help with something you will either tell them you are busy, or if you think it is a priority, you will tell me and some of your other work will be reassigned.” It seems she’s taking my recovery period pretty seriously. Honestly, I think the whole me nearly collapsing in her office think shook her a little. I nod in acquiescence. I’d rather not have a repeat of that incident either. Stratt proceeds to give me a rundown of what lighter schedule looks like, which mostly seems to mean sitting at a desk designing, approving and reviewing astrophage experiments. A lot less interesting than actually getting to do the experiments myself, but not bad in the grand scheme of things, and it’ll only be a few weeks before I’m back in the labs.
“Are there no meetings this week?” I ask when I realise they are surprisingly absent from my schedule.
“None for which you are required. I will update you on any important information.” Privately I’ve always thought I’m not actually required in the vast majority of meetings that I’m dragged to, but I’m not going to argue. “You may return to your room now. A guard will bring you dinner. Make sure to get adequate rest.”
“Yes ma’am.” She rolls her eyes at me. “And uh… I wanted to say thank you. It really means a lot to me that you organised all of this.” She looks a little uncomfortable at the thanks. She’s the same way when anyone tries to thank her for everything she’s doing for humanity. She doesn’t want praise, that not why she does any of this.
“It was not a big deal.”
“Well it is to me. Before I could never imagine feeling comfortable in my body and now thanks to you, I can feel a whole lot more like myself. That’s a pretty massive fricking deal.” Stratt stares at me for some time, a look in her face that I can’t decipher. I feel a little like an astrophage being intensely studied under a microscope. Eventually she speaks.
“Do you desire additional surgery?”
“Huh?” That’s not what I’d been expecting.
“A hysterectomy or genital reassignment surgery,” she clarifies, as if that was what was tripping me up.
“Oh, um. I don’t really know to be honest. Just getting top surgery felt like such a distant goal. I never really let myself think beyond that.” She nods.
“It is unlikely that I will be able to arrange a suitable time before the Hail Mary launches, but should you desire it I can get it arranged for after the launch.”
I have to take some time to process that sentence. Not only is she offering to arrange more surgery for me, but she is offering to have it done after the launch, when it couldn’t possibly have a positive impact on the outcome of the project. She’s not offering this as part of a grand scheme to give humanity a smidgin more of a chance at survival, she’s offering this because she cares.
That thought hits harder than I expect. A stupid grin spreads across my face before I can stop it.
I want to tell her how much this means to me. I want to tell her that I care about her too, how much I value the time we’ve spent together on this project. I want to tell her she’s changed my life for the better, that she brings out the best in me, and I hope that when this is all over, we’ll still spend time together, perhaps as friends without the weight of the world on our shoulders.
But I can see that she’s already uncomfortable with this conversation, and I know her well enough by now. She can’t let herself worry about trivialities like friendship when she has the whole of humanity depending on her. I’ll tell her later, when all of this is over. For now, I settle for:
“Thank you.”
She smiles.
-
As if my feelings about Eva Stratt couldn’t get anymore complicated. She cared about me. Not enough not to send me to my death, but I should’ve expected that really. I know her and I know that there’s nothing she’d ever chose above the world. I’m not sure I’ll ever make peace with the role Stratt’s had in my life. I don’t think I can ever truly forgive her for what she did to me, but at the same time, she was my closest friend back on earth and all that love and care that I had for her is still there. Besides, without her I would never have met Rocky, and I wouldn’t give that up for anything.
“Rocky upset Grace. Apologies.” Rocky’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I’m not sure how long I’ve been silently reminiscing, but I can feel my eyes are damp.
“No Rock, you didn’t upset me. I was just remembering some stuff from back on earth. It made me both happy and sad.”
“Understand. Grace want to talk about it question?”
“Honestly Rocky, I don’t know how to.” I’d spent my time on earth avoiding talking about my gender identity at all costs. How am I supposed to talk about it to an alien with zero concept of gender? Will he think I’m weird for feeling this way? Probably yes, but more than likely he will simply file it alongside all of the other weird human things.
“Is about scars question?”
“Uh a little, but about other things too.”
“Someone hurt Grace question?” His voice has a trill of sadness behind it.
“What, because of the scars? No, actually these are part of the good bit.”
“Like Rocky hand scar question?” I look down at the three-pronged scar on my forearm. Rocky had been very distressed when I explained how scars form and he realised that he’d permanently marred my body by touching me. I’d explained that I don’t think of it that way, that to me the scar is proof that he saved me, and a reminder of the one time we actually got to touch each other.
“No, not quite like that. Look, there’s going to be a lot of explaining for this one, so how about I finish up then we can snuggle in the dormitory and have a chat about it?” Rocky’s created a perfectly shaped barrier next to one of the beds so we can both lean up against each other comfortably. It’s my favourite part of the ship. Rocky shakes his carapace up and down in an enthusiastic nod-like gesture. We’ve each picked up a lot of gestures from the other. I’m sure if another Eridian or human could see us, they’d think we’re both crazy.
“Yes yes yes.” I give him a smile and quickly finish up my wash. Oddly, for the first time I don’t feel apprehensive about coming out, instead I’m actually kind of excited to be sharing a new part of myself with my best friend.
We settle in our positions in the snuggle nook. I’m nicely wrapped up in my quilt and Rocky has one of his little fidgets he likes to play with. He’d been reluctant to use them at first in case I thought he wasn’t paying attention, but I have plenty of experience with kids with ADHD, and I know fidgeting certainly doesn’t preclude listening, and often actually improves it.
“Right so,” I’d had a little time while I finished up washing to figure out how to start this conversation, “Do you remember how I told you that humans have distinct reproductive roles?” I’d given him a quick rundown of gonochorism and how humans see the two sexes differently when he’d been confused about me using different pronouns for different humans. We’d still been pretty focused on solving the astrophage problem at that point, so I hadn’t gone into any more detail.
“Yes, obviously I remember.” If he had eyes, I’m sure he’d be rolling them.
“Well, there’s actually a whole lot more to it than that.”
“Yes, you mention some humans have variance on typical reproductive characteristics.” I hadn’t actually remembered mentioning intersexuality, but I guess I must have.
“Yes, that’s true, but humans also have this other concept called gender. It doesn’t really have a specific definition. It varies between cultures, but it’s often linked to the roles and expectations society attaches to each sex.
A lot of it is pretty dumb. Like the idea that certain interests are ‘for men’ or ‘for women.’ Historically that’s meant women weren’t allowed to do jobs like being a scientist or engineer and were expected to stay at home and raise kids.”
Rocky makes a disapproving trill.
“Yeah. Things have been getting a bit better in that regard, but there’s still humans who think that way.”
“Stupid humans.” I laugh.
“Yeah, they are. But for some people, gender means something different. Rather than a set of social expectations, it’s something that they identify with, a deep internal experience that informs a part of themselves. Sometimes that identity doesn’t match the gender people associate with their sex. Humans who feel this way are called transgender.
That mismatch can cause people to feel very distressed about their body. They feel a disconnect between their sex characteristics and the ones they feel like they should have. We call this gender dysphoria.
… Is this making any sense so far?” I ask. Gender is a confusing enough concept to humans who are raised with it, let alone to an alien species.
“Is confusing, but understand.” I smile. Rocky has always been pretty good at rolling with the punches when it comes to weird human things.
“I… I am transgender.” Rocky doesn’t react much to that, just hums in a way that I know means to keep going. “Humans have a lot of stigma around being transgender.”
“Need new word. Explain word humans have a lot of.”
“Stigma. It’s a sort of societal disapproval, like something that is considered to be shameful or wrong, based on unfair beliefs about certain things or groups of people.”
“Yes, Eridians have word like this too,” He trills a new chord. I don’t have the translator on me, so I’ll have to put it in later. “Bad bad bad. Grace not shameful.”
“Thanks Rock. When I first told people about me being transgender, they all reacted pretty negatively, and for a while I internalised that belief and felt pretty negatively about myself too.”
Rocky hums a sad note and leans up even closer to the xenonite, pressing his whole body against it. I wrap my arm around him.
“I know that’s not true now, but back then I decided to keep that part of me hidden. Some human sex characteristics are determined by hormones, so I was able to take a hormone called testosterone, which made my body look more like people expect a male to look. It helped me feel less dysphoric and made it so I could live as a man and people wouldn’t notice I’m trans.
But there are some sex characteristics that hormones can’t change. One of those was that I had breasts. I think I mentioned them to you before, but they’re glands on the chest which humans use to feed our infants.”
“Yes, remember.”
“Cool. Yeah, so I still had breasts, and males don’t usually have breasts, so that made me feel dysphoric, and I had to use a binder which compresses them so they can’t be seen. But using a binder for too long can be dangerous because it compresses your chest and makes it harder for your lungs to inflate and get enough oxygen.”
“Distress about chest worse than not being able to get enough oxygen question?” There’s a high note of worry in Rocky’s voice.
“Yeah, to me it was.”
“Bad bad bad.”
“Yeah, it was pretty bad. One time it got to the point where I nearly collapsed. Stratt was there and I was scared she would react badly, but instead she helped me. She told me she could arrange for me to have surgery that would fix it.”
“Grace needed SURGERY question?!” Surgery is rather more of a big deal for Eridians. They have no immune system, so prior to more recent medical advances, any pathogen getting into their system would almost certainly spell death, and while our skin is used to healing up all sorts of cuts or scrapes, their carapace is much more resistant to damage, and thus less adapted to healing. While their internals can perform some pretty impressive repairs (as evidenced by Rocky surviving literally being on fire from the inside), their outer shell heals at an even slower rate than our bones. Eridians who require surgery must be kept in an extremely sterile environment for long periods of time. Even the smallest infection would kill them.
“It was a very safe surgery. Loads of people get it and I had one of the best doctors in the world,” I reassure him. “But that’s where these scars are from. They’re basically just where they stitched up my skin again after removing my breasts.”
“Grace feel better now question? No longer distressed about body,” he asks.
“For the most part yes. Day to day I don’t think about it so much anymore, but sometimes I feel dysphoric about my reproductive organs. There’s a surgery humans do to change them too, but it’s a bit more complicated than having breasts removed. Stratt offered to arrange for me to have that surgery after the Hail Mary had launched. I don’t remember what I decided about it, but obviously I never got to have it since I was sent up here instead.”
Rocky makes an angry noise. When he first found out I’d been sent here against my will he’d been angrier than I’d ever seen him. It had almost seemed like he was going to turn the ship around and take it back to earth just so he could fight Stratt on my behalf, and for a while I couldn’t even mention Stratt’s name without hearing that angry little noise of his. He’s now accepted that a whole host of different feelings regarding her and, will just roll with whatever my vibe is when I talk about her, whether it be admiring the woman who gave everything she had to save the world, reminiscing about an old friend, or ranting about the woman who sent me to die.
“It’s fine Rocky, really. Like I said, it rarely bothers me.”
“Want Grace to be happy.”
“I am happy, and I’m especially happy now that I’ve got to share this all with you. Even when people didn’t react badly on earth, there was a whole lot of baggage surrounding it, but now here with you I just get to be myself, and that’s the best gift I could get.”
“Rocky love Grace. Rocky never want Grace to be anything but himself.”
“Thanks bud. I love you too.” The words don’t feel enough to encapsulate everything I feel for him. He’s my best friend. Together we’d done the impossible, and he’s the one person in the universe I trust completely. Rocky hums softly beside me, a warm content vibration through the xenonite.
As I rest against him, basking in the warmth, I think back to earth again. I wonder what people think of me now.
I knew I’d be famous, a hero as Stratt had said. The man who saved the world. If people knew I’m trans, maybe that would be a good thing. Maybe some kids out there would see that and feel a little less alone.
But the selfish, cowardly part of me hopes that people don’t know. I hate the idea of strangers digging through my past, trying to reconstruct the person I used to be, imagining them finding childhood pictures of me as that perfect little girl my parents always wanted me to be. I left all of that behind a long time ago, cut myself off from that part of my life completely.
I wasn’t even brave enough to tell the trans kids at school that they weren’t alone, that I was like them too. I’d supported them of course, told them there was nothing wrong with them, cursed out teachers who refused to use their correct pronouns, handed out detentions to any students who mocked them, but I couldn’t give them that solidarity.
I wasn’t brave back on Earth.
But out here in the depths of space with Rocky by my side it’s different. There’s no past version of me to live up to, no expectations or anyone deciding who I’m supposed to be. Just me and Rocky.
Rocky loves me for exactly who I am, no hesitation. He makes it seem easy, and somehow that makes it a little easier for me to love myself too, every part of me.