Chapter Text
Seeing it in person makes my throat tighten.
I’m glad I’m alone. I can’t control the slight tremble in my hand and I’m not sure if it’s fear or grief, but there's something bubbling under my chest.
Grace died over a decade ago. I killed him. I know that.
I’ve had 26 years to sit alone in a cell with that. That and every other outcome.
But for some reason instead of touching the beetle I’m frozen wondering if perhaps Grace had touched it too.
If he had, was there a message in there for me? Was it something I wanted to hear?
Of course that’s silly. I took his life in my hands and he’s entitled to his opinion on the matter. It changes nothing at all.
But maybe there’s no trace of him in there. I don't want this to be the case. Logically because it means the mission failed, but there’s more than that.
A hope I didn’t realize I had until it was tangibly in front of me, though I’m sure I always held it.
I want Grace’s forgiveness.
I don’t have regrets about what I did. Not just with Grace—the whole thing. I don’t have peace about it, but I don’t have regrets either.
I said as much to the judge, because I truly am grateful for the way things went. There were other, much more plausible outcomes. Much darker outcomes.
Unity is not humanity’s default.
But by some miracle we saw a race to run and the world ran it. A course leading to some delusion in the distance that there would be salvation at the finish line.
I passed the baton to the astronauts as they began their mission to the ISS and beyond. Shortly after they went off I was detained and sentenced to life in prison without parole.
I didn’t fight it. I deserved it.
I would’ve preferred a Dutch correctional facility, but there were worse governments calling for my head and all things considered France was a happy middle ground. And over the last quarter century it’s become home.
But a week ago I received a visitor to my quaint French cell.
He gave me the news that the baton had made its way back across the galaxy and was officially being passed back to me.
Three beetles were spotted in our solar system and would arrive on Earth in the next four days.
Given the possible sensitive nature of their contents I was brought on to steward that information toward the goal of “global salvation”. I was released immediately (with conditions) and brought to an all too nostalgic aircraft carrier to begin moving forward.
I made a team to work with me, some even leftover from the first leg of the race. Most of those have died though.
The world never got the details of the final days of Project Hail Mary and I intend to keep it that way. So I’m alone in a secure room on a ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, unceremoniously processing what might be humanity’s salvation or a triumphant waste of trillions of dollars and (at least) 19 lives.
The situation on Earth is not good. It could be months before an actionable solution is put into place and years until we see benefits. Each day means thousands more casualties. I’ll have to work faster than I think I can. No time for nostalgia. No time for grief. Just taking what “George” brought back and delegating the relevant pieces to the ones who can turn it into something workable.
“John” and “Paul” made it home too. They’re propped up on the other side of the room, probably holding the same information as George but if they made the 13 light year journey we might as well take what they have to give us.
Would they send the beetles if there wasn’t a race to finish? I say a silent prayer before connecting the cord.
A slew of files flood the screen faster than I can read them. I’m thankful it was that easy. I’m not technically adept. But as the files continue to pour in I’m already dreading the magnitude of the task. This won’t be quick.
I know logically most are unimportant. Four years of medical logs, meal logs, automated course adjustments, surveillance footage, life support records, generator feedback. We really tracked everything.
All I really care about is the stuff the humans did.
As the files transfer I’m startled by the hiss of a hatch opening. They sent something back physically as well.
Good.
My first thought is salvation. My second thought is a creative “eff you” from Grace.
All I see is a sealed metal box, a little bigger than a shoebox. I carefully pull it onto the table and inspect it for any sign of its contents. There’s a sticker, but the ink is too melted and blotchy to read. A scientist should be the one to open it; anything else would be irresponsible. But it would also be irresponsible to open it without knowing what it is first. There has to be a record of its contents, Yao would’ve made sure of that. I just have to find it.
I turn my focus back to the desktop and sink into the office chair behind me. The files are loading slower now. They must be larger ones, maybe video diaries or surveillance footage.
I see different tabs have opened and the files are automatically storing themselves into their relevant categories. Course logs, power records, control unit functions, medical armature records. The right people will be able to draw good conclusions from those. But I just need an overview. Details later.
I flip through and find the folder labeled “Video Diaries”. Inside are about three dozen files labeled by their days. The first few are already loaded. Some are time stamped just hours apart, others almost a week. And no names are assigned to them.
But they took video diaries. They woke up. I’m sure I already knew that since the beatles arrived at all, but it’s good to have confirmation.
I take a deep breath before opening “DAY 2: LOG 1/1”.
Dr. Grace is talking to me.
Long wavy hair, mountain man beard, Dr. Grace. The video is from his chest up, but it looks like he’s fastened a white sheet around his bare shoulder. His voice is weak and gravelly.
He hadn’t used it in over 4 years.
The sight is so jarring I forget to listen to the words he’s saying and I have to run the video back to the beginning.
He clears his throat as he half sits, half falls into a chair. “I don’t know my name,” he croaks. “I don’t know where I am. I don’t know why I’m here.” He looks down before gazing directly into the camera. “I don’t know who you are.”
To my own surprise I let out an involuntary laugh. It sounds concerningly hysterical.
“I’ve been asleep for a very long time.” He strokes his beard. “Do I have a disease? Am I in quarantine? The gravity is different here. I rolled out of bed and left a fully inflated catheter behind. My urethra does not approve.”
My eyes keep drifting to the sheet toga.
“I’m… weirdly buff,” he flexes. “That doesn’t sit right with me. I think I’m smart. Some robot kept trying to shave me… or finish me off. I hope that was a shaver but—”
He rubs his hands against his eyes and lets out a heavy sigh.
“Maybe that’s what happened to the other two.”
I pause the video.
“Oh…”
I groan and fall into my hands as the realization sets in. I fight the urge to sob but I already know where this is going.
My life’s work died before it could begin.
“…oh, my goodness.”
Yao and Ilyukhina didn’t wake up.
Maybe they woke up later on?
But Yao was supposed to wake up first. First to arrive and last to leave, that was the plan. He would explain to Grace when he woke up confused, they’d start their mission together, help each other through, be there for each other in their last moments. Before I can think too hard I hit play again.
“I-,” Grace wipes a streak from his cheek, his voice straining slightly. “I don’t know who they ar— were…, but I know I can’t look at them without feeling something. They’re my friends, right? They knew my name?”
He chuckles half heartedly.
“I wish I did. That robot really wants to know it. I know other stuff, though. I can name every machine in that lab there. I know how to calculate gravity using a pendulum. I think in imperial units… sometimes.” Grace leans back into his chair, staring up at the ceiling. “This is just a puzzle… I think I usually like puzzles.”
He looks back at the camera and smiles. “I‘ll let you know what I find. Emperor Comatose, signing off.”
I stare at the black screen.
They didn’t wake up.
Grace spent the last months of his life completely alone.
No, I don’t care about that. Humanity’s hope of salvation is two corpses and a since deceased amnesiac who doesn’t know what he’s in space to do. It doesn’t even seem like he knows he’s in space.
I wonder if he ever remembered anything on his own. I hope he did.
I hope he didn’t.
I close out the video and immediately open the folder labeled “Medical Armature Records”. My faith for mission success is at an all time low. The secret, unceremonious nature of my little viewing party feels wrong too, but there’s nothing to do about it.
PATIENT: Ilyukhina, Olesya
PATIENT: Yao, Li-Jie
PATIENT: Grace, Ryland
I open Ilyukhina’s; a chronological log of every interaction between her and the nanny bot. I skim through her first meals and the beginning of her coma before scrolling hundreds of pages down to her final logs.
DAY 588 09:00 MSK:
- Internal Body Temperature - 103.0°F
- Heart Rate - 112 BPM
- BP - 60/40
- SpO2 - 90
Treatment: 500mg IV Imipenem
Repeat every 6 hours
DAY 588 12:00 MSK:
- Internal Body Temperature - 104.2°F
- Heart Rate - 115 BPM
- BP - 60/40
- SpO2 - 87
DAY 588 15:00 MSK:
- Internal Body Temperature - 105.9°F
- Heart Rate - 132 BPM
- BP - 50/33
- SpO2 - 84
Treatment: 500mg IV Imipenem
Repeat every 6 hours
DAY 588 18:00 MSK:
- Internal Body Temperature - 107.0°F
- Heart Rate - 42 BPM
- BP - 50/33
- SpO2 - 80
DAY 588 20:01 MSK:
- Internal Body Temperature - 89.0°F
- Heart Rate - / BPM
- BP - /
- SpO2 - /
Treatment: Defibrillation
DAY 588 20:04 MSK:
- Internal Body Temperature - 87.1°F
- Heart Rate - / BPM
- BP - /
- SpO2 - /
Treatment: Defibrillation
DAY 588 20:07 MSK:
- Internal Body Temperature - 85.8°F
- Heart Rate - / BPM
- BP - /
- SpO2 - /
Treatment: Defibrillation
DAY 588 20:10 MSK:
Resuscitation failure
DECEASED 20:10 MSK
Transfer PATIENT: Ilyukhina, Olesya to biosafe storage compartment and cease treatment
Infection.
They streamed her intubation to a small conference room of PHM executives as the Hail Mary exited our solar system. It was her last time falling asleep.
I open Yao’s to see a similar story. He made it 160 days. I sit in my dread, digging my knuckles into the foam arm rests.
They didn’t get to save humanity, just die for it.
After a moment I resign myself to open the next video diary.
It’s on you, Emperor Comatose.