Archive of Our Own

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA 

All ships had to dock sometime. Unless they sank. 

He just didn’t think that an international fugitive who spent the better half of a decade evading governments on the seas would decide to make port in San Diego of all places. 

The beaches weren’t even warm there anymore. 

The entire Sierra program had been dismantled and declassified almost two and a half decades ago, but that didn’t mean that Courtland Gentry was a man without a mission. Even as the world fell into despondence and desolation around him and there was one less brother for him to protect, Court wasn’t all that different from the man for whom the price of freedom tallied up to becoming a government-sanctioned weapon for eighteen years.

This mark had been eluding him for longer than that. 

When news of Eva Stratt’s escape from prison came, it was only as a footnote in the grand text of the world media’s constant transcription on the slow apocalypse they found themselves in. Fires burned in the boreal forests, a once-in-a-century earthquake and subsequent tsunami had devastated islands in the South Pacific, and it looked like citrus growth was done for. 

Oh, and among all that, one woman had escaped from a French prison.

As infamous as someone like Eva Stratt was, collectively speaking, there were far greater concerns for society than her illicit liberation. 

But not for Court. Not when it came to his family. 

Colt had tried to talk him out of it the first time Court mentioned his intentions to track down Eva Stratt following her escape. Claire had violently cussed him out and threatened to hospitalize him in some impressively creative ways if he went any further down this line of thought. Jody looked like she wanted to smack him, but instead fully walked away, giving him the cold shoulder for a good week. 

That had been years ago. While Court had let the topic drop back then, he continued to plan, reaching out to his contacts- the ones that were still alive, anyway. Even if they didn’t owe him favors personally, there wasn’t a single person on Earth who wasn’t about to be indebted to his brother. 

This past Tuesday marked the twenty-fourth anniversary of the Hail Mary launch. According to best estimates, if the crew had been successful in their mission, they'd have been dead for about twelve years and their work would be reaching Earth any day now. 

If there was one thing that Courtland prided himself on, it was being an expert in human behavior. It was a necessary part of being a Sierra agent. It was encoded in his blood and bones. A good agent knew who their marks were. A better one knew what their mark would do. 

Eva Stratt hadn’t just been the head of the Petrova Task Force, never mind the face of it. She was the whole thing. There wasn’t a single part of that entire mission that hadn’t been directly orchestrated by her, nothing that her hand wasn’t behind, nothing her eyes didn’t see. The woman had said as much while on trial for the world to see. Given that, Courtland knew there was no way she could resist emerging from hiding to receive the Hail Mary’s payload. Even if the contents weren’t valuable enough to exonerate her, the curiosity alone would be impossible to resist. 

It was as good a time as any. 

He had left home weeks ago, leaving a note that was clear enough to assuage any worries, but obscure in a way that ensured the crux of his mission would remain unknown. 

That was how he found himself in the cab of a crane overlooking the Port of San Diego, watching a ship that shouldn’t exist pull into the terminal below him. 

Dawn was on the verge of breaking through the steel gray sky overhead and while Court knew he was in for some miserable weather today, he underestimated how fucking cold it would be up here. He chose his gloves for the grip they provided on his long range rifle, but they did fuck-all for keeping his fingers actually warm. When you were over sixty years old, that kind of thing was a big deal. Court understood that he was in pretty impressive shape for someone his age, owing to his training and good genetics, but climbing up the crane at five in the morning hadn’t exactly been what he would call a walk in the park. 

The Port of San Diego was massive, but Court had spent the past few days keeping his ear to the ground to figure out which cargo terminal Eva Stratt’s ship would seek shelter in. He’d gotten satellite visual on the ship a week ago, tracking its heading to realize it was coming to California, and now, thanks to his scope, had a birds-eye view of the freighter entering the speed reduction zone on its way to the Tenth Avenue Marine Terminal. It had been a fifty-fifty shot between here or National City. Both were specialized cargo terminals used for military operations and staging purposes, and while the Tenth Avenue terminal’s overall purpose was receiving perishable items and natural products, he knew one thing for sure- the ship he’d been tracking definitely wasn’t carrying fertilizer. 

Court pulled his cowl tighter around his neck, lowering his weapon only for a moment to blow warm air onto his hands. Even with the sunrise not far off, it was still far darker than it should be, and much too cold. He supposed that was what happened when the heat source for an entire solar system got the dimmer put on it. A summer morning in San Diego might as well have been a balmy winter night in Oslo. 

Just as he started to entertain the possibility that he would get frostbite before he even put eyes on his target, he peered through his scope again to see the massive ship finish docking below. One by one, lights flickered on along the ship’s deck and railing, and he switched off the night-vision function as the flashes began to hurt his eyes. A few uniformed crew members appeared on the prow, walking around and speaking into radios. Minutes passed, and a ramp was set into place. 

A thudding sound reached Court’s ears and it took him a moment to realize it was his own heart racing in his chest. He took a deep breath through his nose, trying to steady the surge of adrenaline, even if the subsequent rushing of his blood to his extremities helped with the chill. 

The viewing range on his scope wasn’t all that wide and he almost missed the movement by the ship’s bridge. The structure rose up high from the deck with multiple levels of stairs, not unlike an aircraft carrier, just a hell of a lot smaller. A door opened and a figure emerged, soon obscured by railings as they descended from the tower to the deck. 

Court measured his breaths, counting seconds like they were footsteps, estimating the moment the figure would exist the staircase and reveal themselves. 

It took fifty six seconds for Eva Stratt to appear in his crosshairs.

“Gotcha,” Court breathed, his stomach twisting like someone had just reached into his gut and formed a fist around whatever they could grab. His breath was a fleeting cloud in front of his face, condensing on the window of the crane’s cab. The view he had of Eva Stratt was distorted by the fogged glass and he quickly made to clear it, tugging the cowl up over his nose and mouth so he could keep watch of his mark without further interruptions. 

He observed as Stratt walked freely to the edge of the ship, stopping at the railing to peer overboard past the dark waters of the harbor below her and to the structures surrounding the terminal.

It had probably been a long time since she was this close to populated land. Court didn’t think she would risk disembarking, though. The concept of maritime laws was a little murkier now with the way governments were restructured and collaborating, but one thing was startingly clear- if Eva Stratt stepped foot off that boat, she would be on U.S. soil, and the world now knew that prisons could not hold her. Such an act was likely tantamount to a death sentence. 

Court would have to come to her. 

From as far away as he was, Court could still tell that she looked much older than the photos circulating on the news at the time of her arrest. Color was hard to determine in the dim morning light, but it looked like her once red hair was now entirely gray and white, partially covered by a dark, knit cap pulled down tight around her ears. Her coat was too big for her and when her hands moved to rest on the ship’s railing, they were pale, gloveless. 

He watched as she withdrew her hands to tuck them under her arms, hugging them close. It was almost satisfying to see, in a way. 

Several hundred feet below, Eva Stratt was just as cold as Courtland Gentry in his perch. 

This wasn’t meant to be a hunting blind, though. The kill shot would have been easy from here- he’d worked with much worse before. The only things between Stratt and a bullet were the quarter inch pane of glass it would punch through and the distance it would travel to hit her. That, and Court’s will, of course. 

But that wasn’t the plan. She needed to atone for her sins, and he needed to be close enough to hear the words come from her mouth. 

Courtland had a lot to say to her. He had been thinking those words over for decades. 

“See you soon, lady,” Court muttered, his voice muffled by the fabric covering the lower half of his face. He removed the clip from the rifle and dismantled it, tucking the pieces behind the operator’s chair and taking a moment to massage some warmth back into his hands. Placed the clip in his backpack. Double checked the safety on the handgun holstered on his side. 

He began his climb down. 

The descent took longer and his instincts screamed that it was a tactical disadvantage, being this vulnerable and exposed for so long. If Stratt or any of her comrades thought to look his way, they would certainly be able to see him with the naked eye. Sure, they might just think he was a dock worker, but if their intention was to remain covert, a witness was the last thing they needed. 

Court’s boots finally touched down on the ground, his arms burning from the long climb. He only permitted himself a minute to recover before making his way to the ship, now taking note of the vessel’s name stenciled on the side. Stratt’s ship was called Redline. How appropriate. It was probably on purpose. 

Searbirds soared ahead, white wings standing out against the dark sky. It was slowly getting lighter out, the cover of darkness receding by the minute. There would be few shadows to hide in once he was in view of the ship’s lights. 

Still, Court had infiltrated more impregnable places than this. Some things couldn’t be unlearned. 

There were only two guards between him and Stratt. No one had been watching the ramp. When he moved to disarm their unconscious bodies, he found that they only had flare guns and tasers strapped to their belts. It was a little embarrassing, and Courtland genuinely wasn’t sure which of them had the worse end of that deal. 

After his weeks of effort, finding Stratt was easy now. She hadn’t moved from the spot he’d seen her in from his view up in the crane. 

Courtland had been treading lightly as he crossed the deck, attempting to remain unheard and unseen, even as the sounds of birds screeching and waves lapping served as cover, but once he found himself ten yards away, he lowered his cowl and deliberately made his steps audible to draw her attention. 

It worked. 

Eva Stratt turned to face Courtland Gentry just in time for him to aim his gun at her chest. 

She was taller than he thought she would be, and older up close, her eyes creased with wrinkles at the corners even as they widened slightly in surprise. Maybe it was global famine or years in a French prison, but there was a sallowness to her cheeks that spoke of a sudden, unhealthy loss in weight. Though her lips parted as if to speak, she said nothing, instead silently taking stock of the man before her, pale eyes fixed unwaveringly on his. 

He wondered if she saw his brother there.

“Bonjour,” Court said, if only to try and be witty. She was meant to be serving a life sentence in La Santé after all. 

The woman blinked as if suddenly coming back to herself, closing her mouth. Opening again. “Qui est-tu?” 

Who are you?

Court couldn’t keep from scoffing at himself. Though he knew what the woman had asked, he hadn’t expected her to actually respond in the same language. That was what he got for trying to be clever. 

“Tu connais mon frère.” You know my brother. Not an answer to her question, but he wanted her to figure it out on her own. He wanted to see the recognition dawn on her face, wanted to hear her say it. Courtland Gentry was by no means his brother’s twin and now just north of thirty years older than Ryland was when she last saw him. Ryland Grace was a man frozen in time. With Colt as a reference, though, Court knew that the family resemblance still ran strong with age. 

If Eva Stratt knew Dr. Ryland Grace all those years ago, she would be able to place his brother, no problem. 

The woman stared at his face, studying in his features some more. Her eyelids flicked up a little. 

There it was. The moment. 

“Your security sucks, by the way,” Court told her in English as he readjusted his grip on the weapon. Heart thudding in his chest, blood rushing to his fingers, he found he didn’t feel all that cold anymore. Resolve burned hot under his sternum, igniting his veins. 

Stratt glanced over his shoulder as if to try and see the security in question, but couldn’t. He’d cuffed the men to the railing on the other side of the ship. 

“That’s very good to know,” Stratt rubbed her nose, red from the cold, before stowing her hands safely under her arms again. God, she probably actually meant that, didn’t she?

“You asked me who I was,” Court looked her in the eyes, his stance not wavering for even a second. “But I think you already know, right?”

It felt surreal, finally speaking to her after all these years. Even when she met with the Hail Mary crew members’ families following the launch, Courtland wasn’t the one there to see her- Colt had been. Even when she stood trial and witnesses were called to provide testimony against her, Colt was the one that took the podium with every global news outlet pointing a camera at him as he leveled condemnations at the woman who killed their brother. He was the one who told the world who Dr. Ryland Grace really was- not just a martyred scientist, but a man who’d been loved. 

Colt was the one who spent his life on screen. Courtland was the one who spent his life in shadows. This was the only way it could be done. 

Stratt looked over his face once more as if to be sure before answering, and her eyes seemed to soften almost imperceptibly. “Yes, I do.”

“Then you know why I’m here.”

“I do,” she nodded, her chin tipping in one stiff downward motion. A strong gust of wind came in off the ocean, long strands of silver hair whipping around her face in a near spectral display. “And if you know who I am, you must know that I’m not afraid to die. Not like this, anyway.”

That was fair enough. 

Bluff suitably called, Courtland lowered his weapon and holstered it at his side. Stratt didn’t seem any more relaxed with the gun out of her face, but perhaps she hadn’t been all that concerned in the first place. 

“Come,” she said, beckoning him toward the bridge tower and its staircase. “I’ll make some hot tea.”

“I’ll take a margarita if you’ve got it,” Court tried for a smirk, but the wind was picking up and getting cold again- he could hardly feel his face without the warmth of the cowl shielding him. 

Stratt didn’t seem impressed by his attempt at bravado. He got the feeling that was her default. “Your lips are turning blue. You’ll have tea.” 

———

AURORA, COLORADO 

Colt’s hand was still warm from Jody’s grip. 

Cassandra Grace Seavers had gone into the operating room a little over an hour ago, just before her mother. Recipients first. Even at twenty years old, the doctors had managed to relist her as UNOS status 1B by exception, but fell short of fitting her in under pediatric preference for organ donation. There were kids younger than her, sicker than her, ones that hadn’t been given their second chance at life, never mind a third. 

Her first transplant had been a split-liver altruistic transplant from a living donor. Turns out, though, people stopped feeling so altruistic when a quarter of the world’s population died from things like famine. Colt couldn’t lie and say he didn’t understand it. Except now, with his daughter’s life on the line, he wanted to start screaming his head off. 

The doctors had been very clear about the risk of rejection when Cass had her first transplant. Rejection wasn’t an improbability, it was anticipated. It would happen to almost any solid organ transplant recipient at some point, no matter how careful they were. Immunosuppressants were no joke. The point was driven home many, many, many times. 

Still, despite receiving her first transplant when she was only two, her treatment regimen had kept her safe and healthy for quite a long time. Colt and Jody were vigilant about the medications, getting to appointments, all while trying to ensure that their daughter had a somewhat normal life considering the state of the world around them. It wasn’t lost on Colt that they owed their privilege to Ryland’s sacrifice. Despite widespread government cuts over the years, the Petrova Task Force retained its authority- and its accounts. The assurance was the same as it had been two decades ago when the first phase of the program concluded. Even as the world fell apart, family members of the martyred Hail Mary crew would be quite protected. 

Colt dragged his hands down his face, leaning back in the hospital chair with a grimace. He was in his mid-fifties now and sustaining a serious spinal injury at thirty-one was taking its toll in his older age. Still, there weren’t many places where he could be right now. When Jody and Cass came out of their procedures, they wouldn’t be returning to their previous hospital rooms- those had already been claimed for new patients the second they’d been vacated. No, Colt’s wife and daughter would be stuck recovering on the Med-Surg floor until space opened back up for them, family of the famous Dr. Ryland Grace or not. 

Jody’s wedding band hung from a thin, silver chain around his neck, and he found himself worrying it between his fingers so much over the first hour that its entire surface was soon mapped out in his mind just from touch. There was a coffee machine on the counter across from where he sat in the family center, but he’d lost his taste for it after four cups the day before led to a sleepless night. Coffee was horrible now. There were only a few places left that the plants could grow, so it was now all extremely diluted and supplemented with caffeine anhydrous. 

He sighed, readjusting in the chair again. 

It should have been him in the operating room. 

When the acute cellular rejection had been flagged during Cass’ last biopsy, she started getting sicker faster than he thought. They tried the steroid pulse regimen, but even as they tried to move through the stages of the taper, her levels just refused to improve. The doctors had strongly encouraged they explore options for relational living donors to give Cass the best chance of receiving a new liver soon, and Jody had reacted so fast Colt had worried that she was about to stick herself with a needle and draw the blood for the damn test herself. ABO compatibility wasn’t an issue for them- Colt knew he was O negative and Cass had the same blood type as Jody. But type wasn’t the only issue, there were so many other factors to consider, and Colt didn’t think he remembered all of them, but the message was clear- cast a wide net. 

Claire even volunteered to test for compatibility, just to see. If Courtland had been around at all in the last few months, Colt would have had no reservations asking his older brother at all. The problem was, he had no idea where on earth Court was, only that he was on Earth. Which made for one of his two brothers. 

The tests had come back initially positive, showing that both Colt and Jody would be acceptable donors for a split-liver transplant. What it came down to, however, was medical history. Specifically, Epstein-Barr Virus. Back when he’d been on his self-destructive bender in college, Colt had gotten a bad case of mono. He remembered the experience only as physically uncomfortable and deeply inconvenient, but what it amounted to now was a risk factor for his daughter. An EBV-negative donor was preferable over a positive one. 

Jody was cleared instead. 

Out of all the fucking things, it had to be mono. 

Colt had nearly put his hand through their living room wall when he found out. That was only two weeks ago. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. It felt like ten lifetimes had passed since his daughter was taken into surgery that morning.

“I’m going to be fine, Dad,” Cass had squeezed his hand from where she lay in her hospital bed, IV lines wrapping around her limbs in a way that reminded him of the wires he’d once been strung up on back when he did stunts. “You’ll see me in a few hours.” 

The anesthesiologist pushed the sedative. She asked Cass to count down from one hundred. Colt did the same inside his head. 

Cass gave her dad a thumbs up before her eyes shut, fingers going slack. Then, they took her away.

Colt gathered up their things and went upstairs to Jody’s room to hold her and bawl his eyes out. Compared to the hospital temperature, her hand had been so warm in his. 

Fuck, he was going to start crying again. And this fucking chair was killing him. 

He got up and followed the signs to the hospital’s spiritual center. 

The multi-faith chapel was usually empty, Colt learned, which suited him just fine since it was a pretty good space to be alone with his thoughts. The room was a decent size with rows of comfortable chairs all facing a frosted glass window that he could see pine trees through, paper lamps creating a soft glow that was just enough to see by, and a honeycomb shelf holding prayer rugs and floor cushions. There was a clock on the wall and an emergency phone just below it. 

Colt took what was now his usual spot in the back of the room and leaned back so his head touched the wall behind him, turning his gaze upward to his favorite part of the place. Crystals hung from nearly invisible strings on the ceiling, reminding him so vividly of the glow-in-the-dark stars Ryland liked to hang up when they were kids.

Colt had never been particularly religious. He had some recollection of his mother taking him to a couple of church services as a kid, but he and Ryland had been too restless to sit through them, even when Court tried to keep them quietly entertained during sermons for their mother’s sake. She had lapsed at some point, though, her belief in a higher power growing smaller and quieter the louder and more violent her husband grew. 

Their father hadn’t been a God-fearing man himself, either. If he had something to be afraid of, Colt thought distantly, maybe he wouldn’t have terrorized his family the way he had for so many years until Court put a bullet in his head to save Ryland’s life. 

Even though he wasn’t religious by any means, Colt Seavers still prayed. Were someone to ask when that started, he could tell them exactly when, right down to the date. Maybe even the hour. 

It had been the day he found out Eva Stratt had his twin brother sent to space, never to return. 

While Ryland had pursued biology all his life, Colt had always had a mind for physics. If he was doing his math right- and he usually was- his brother had died about twelve years ago, give or take. 

He looked up at the crystals and pretended they were stars. 

His prayers always started the same.

“Hey, Ry,” Colt said softly, so quiet he almost didn’t hear his own voice. “It’s your brother.”

———

THE HAIL MARY, SPACE

Ryland was trying desperately to ignore the fact that he’d likely be dead by the time his transmission reached anyone. Heck, he’d probably be dead by the time he figured out how to actually send it. 

It had been a long four years back to Earth, and he’d only been able to spend two and a half of them in an induced sleep like before. Even though Rocky had given him ample astrophage fuel to make the trip back, Ryland wasn’t taking any risks with energy reserves, and the life support systems of what he decided to call coma-beds evidently took a lot of juice. Besides, he didn’t know when his chance to communicate with someone would arise. There was every chance that technology on Earth had continued advancing after Project Hail Mary’s first phases to the point that more ships like his would be sent out into space. Maybe he’d hit some traffic on the way home. 

He was also growing paranoid about the taumoeba tanks. Before they parted ways, Rocky had posited the risk that the predator could become xenonite-resistant and possibly escape the confines of their tanks at some point during their respective travels home. Ryland had lost a good deal of sleep over this worry and began workshopping a solution. 

Eventually, he had concluded that polyethylene cocoons encased with nylon-fabric composite would be adequate enough containment, and bundled up their separate batches accordingly. 

In simple terms, Ryland wrapped everything up in plastic sheeting and duct tape. 

Lots of duct tape. 

Part of his daily routine for keeping himself alive now involved checking the predator supply for leaks. As feared, a good amount had gotten free of the xenonite capsules, but the cocoons actually seemed to be doing their job. Better safe than sorry, though. 

The trade-off for conserving energy was that he needed more resources to stay alive, like food and water. Even with rationing the remaining food stores, Ryland had calculated a long time ago that he would hit a deficit way before he reached home. This was supposed to be a one-way trip, after all. 

It took a lot of work and an uncomfortable amount of reluctance, but he eventually figured out a way to turn some of his taumoeba into an edible compound. Based on its composition, he knew it wasn’t rich in any of the nutrients he really needed to remain healthy, but the calories would definitely make a difference. Scurvy and muscle wasting became an accepted reality. He found an honest to goodness box of baking soda he missed in a supply cabinet- he’d thought it would be with the food storage, okay?- and there was some sodium metal and a tank of chlorine gas that he very, very, very carefully utilized to create sodium chloride. Boom, electrolytes. 

Ryland knew things were going to get bad for him, but theoretically he had enough to stay alive for as long as he needed to get in range to call for help.

But, the problem was the same as it had been eight years ago- twenty-four, if he was going by years passed on Earth. 

He wasn’t an astronaut. 

Well, maybe he was by technicality and experience, sure, but not by formal training. Still, he’d spent months around people for whom that was their life’s work, and it wasn’t like he was an idiot. Most of the time. Besides, he’d woken up from his induced sleep eleven months ago and needed to kill time somehow. Thank Ilyukhina for supplying some reading material. 

“Okay, so here’s the thing,” Ryland turned the camera toward himself, wincing as he caught a glance of himself on the monitor. Though he’d mustered up the energy to cut his hair recently, he was having some issues with the craft’s water filtration system which, considering it was designed for a suicide mission, clearly wasn’t built for the long-haul, meaning towel baths were only on a bi-weekly basis now. He would probably think he reeked if he hadn’t gone nose-blind to his own body odor by now. While he could stick dirty clothes in the airlock for a bit to freeze off germs that caused odors, he couldn’t do that with his own body. Not without, well, dying. 

He flipped open Ilyukhina’s manual- while the engineer’s notes were in Cyrillic, the physical manual itself was thankfully printed in English. Yikes, not super PC, Dr. Grace. Considering his situation, though, he felt he could excuse his Anglocentrism in this case. 

“This far out into space, radio transmissions are super hit or miss,” he told his own face being mirrored back to him on the monitor as he workshopped his salvation in real time. “Like- literally. Back on Earth, we use massive radio telescopes to catch these. If I were a really technologically advanced civilization like the Eridians, I could theoretically have a receiving system big and strong enough to pick up on transmission leaks from the ISS or stray waves sent out into deep space. Kind of like playing beer pong with salad bowls instead of cups.”

Seriously, if he sent out a transmission in the direction of Erid, there was every chance that Rocky or one of his kin would receive it. It would just take a really, really long time. And that was with Eridian tech. No matter how advanced the receiver would be, that didn’t change the length of radio waves. They would always take as long as they needed to. The main variables to control were the size of the target and the receiver’s ability to even capture the significantly weakened signals that would reach it. That, and amplifying the original transmission. 

Which was a problem for him, because-

“Comparatively, though, my transmission system is like two tin cans connected with string.” He rapped his knuckle apologetically against the nearest wall. Ouch. “No offense, Mary.”

“None taken, Dr. Grace.”

“So,” Ryland continued, stifling a cough into his fist. Frick, coughing hurt now. With the shape his gums were in, raw and swollen, every cough tasted faintly of blood and something rotting. Unfortunately, that something was his own sickened tissue. “That leaves the Tracking and Data Relay Satellite System. If I’m getting this right, the International Space Station uses stronger, high-frequency radios to communicate with astronauts and handle telemetry and data communications, and the TDRSS is essentially one big router that sends those signals where they need to go on Earth.” Or, if NASA actually continued the Artemis launches, to a lunar base. That would be pretty cool. “Hail Mary, meet salad bowl.”

His stomach was staging a serious rebellion against itself now. Ryland sighed, knowing there was no point in denying his bodily needs right now, especially since these recordings were really just for the sake of his own sanity and posterity. The beetles were already locked and loaded with all the data he needed to get to Earth. Even if something were to happen to him before he got ahold of someone, he’d set a timed release for the probes to launch themselves in twelve days time. It was a necessary contingency to ensure that the payload reached the humans who needed it whether he was alive to deliver it or not. On-board resources would be nearly depleted within two weeks and he was too fragile to keep MacGyver-ing his way out of starving to death. 

The clock was ticking. His mental faculties were dulling a bit from lack of adequate nutrition so Ryland had been having a harder time than usual figuring out timelines once he started deceleration, but based on his current heading, he was seven days travel away from the moon. Earth’s moon. Add on two days as a buffer to hopefully rendezvous with some other craft, whether that was the ISS or something else with docking capabilities. Then, it was three days to get from the moon to Earth without detours.  

So, twelve days. 

But it was still going to take time for his communication to get to Earth, and for someone down there to decide he was worth coming up to get. This timeline relied on there being a lunar-bound ship available for launch, and optimal launch conditions within this window. Even if those stars aligned, it would still take three days for a manned ship to reach him. 

Which meant he really needed someone to pick up the phone sooner rather than later. 

Ryland sighed deeply and eased himself out of his chair, shuffling carefully toward the lab, half of which had been redone as a small kitchenette to save him the time getting to his former informal dining area. The only thing on the menu for him nowadays was taumoeba broth. Not nutritious at all, and definitely not solid. Empty as empty calories could be. He couldn’t do solids now, not even the slurry- it would take a careful reintroduction to get his stomach to accept it again. Though he’d been carefully rationing the electrolyte powder he’d made when he had the supplies to chemically manufacture salt, it was long gone, and refeeding syndrome had never been more of a danger than it was now. Better to starve slowly than put himself out of commission entirely. 

He reheated the broth using an Erlenmeyer flask and Bunsen burner just for the fun of it. It looked disgusting. Too bad Rocky wasn’t here for this. 

Ryland thought of his friend and felt a pang of emotion in his chest. No, it was better that Rocky was on his way home, unable to bear witness to the messiness of human suffering. This was too private and vulnerable, even for him. 

Finishing the broth without throwing up was a task in its own right, but Ryland managed it this time, taking measured breaths and refraining from sudden movements. He drank water with a pipette, squeezing just enough drops onto his tongue to wet his mouth and give the illusion of hydration. He would drink water properly later when he started to get dizzy. 

Settling back into the pilot seat, Ryland buckled himself in and propped the manual open on his knee, re-familiarizing himself with what he’d been learning over the past handful of days to prepare for the last leg of his homebound mission. He needed to configure the transmission system to start searching for radio waves. Then, triangulate the source. Then, use said source to phone home. 

“I almost just said ‘easy, right?’ out loud,” Ryland scoffed to himself, forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t recording anymore. He’d really just gotten used to speaking out loud. Not weird at all. 

Okay, time go. 

He got to work. 

It actually wasn’t all that different from hitting the ‘seek’ function on the radio of the old Toyota Yaris he drove during undergrad. 

All he heard was static, though.

Again, not unlike the Yaris. 

Ryland sighed and pulled his quilt off the back of the chair, wrapping it around himself as he tried to get comfortable. He figured he would try to find any active frequencies before sending out a general mayday. Heck, he wasn’t even sure the mayday could be broadcast across other frequencies, he just remembered it was programmed to alert the Petrova Task Force base in Colorado in the event of catastrophic mission failure, whatever form that might have possibly taken. Failure wasn’t an option on a suicide mission, but still, good to let Earth know in case it was all for nothing even if the message would take years to reach anyone. Not like they could shoot the messenger. 

For a few long minutes, there was nothing but white noise. It would probably stay that way until he was within receiving range of any transmissions. What was the Hail Mary’s receiving range? Oh shoot, did he know? All he knew is that it was very limited, but he’d been generously guess-timating the parameters. He should ask Mary-

All of a sudden, the static stopped with a click, so soft he almost missed it. 

That was when he heard it. 

The first real human voice other than his own in eight years. 

“-I can’t remember my mom and dad,” a young woman’s voice crackled through the receiver. The audio quality left a little to be desired, but if he had to guess, the voice was that of a teenager- maybe young adult.“My uncle raised me for a while before he died, too, and I went to live with Six. I guess he was kind of a father-figure to me, but like- in an older brother kind of way. I wasn’t going to call someone named Six ‘dad’.” The speaker paused to laugh. “Oh, well, you know him as Court, I guess.”

Ryland’s mouth fell open. Court? Court? She couldn’t possibly be talking about his brother, there was no freaking way-

“I’ve never met you, but I know what you look like because Six says you and Uncle Colt are twins. If you think about it, that kinda makes you my uncle, huh, Ryland? My uncle up in the stars.”

Ryland froze, feeling like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Of course, if it had, he would be dead. Not just slowly dying like he had been for months, but well and truly all-the-way-dead. Maybe he was now because- wow. Wow. Holy mother of Charpentier. This wasn’t just a random transmission. It was a message. For him. 

This girl was talking to Ryland. 

Okay, maybe at him was a more accurate description. The more she spoke, the more it sounded like it was some kind of recorded monologue. There were no openings for responses, and some timing and intonations were off between sentences, indicating that pieces of audio had been cut out or spliced. He had no idea who this person was. If she had introduced herself before he had tuned into the frequency, he’d missed it. Maybe it would loop through and he’d catch it again from the beginning?

Ryland had gotten distracted and missed the end of her message. The girl had stopped speaking and suddenly the ship had never felt more silent, even when he first awoke from his coma as the only living soul aboard. What if that was it? What if that voice was all he would get? One message cast out into space like a dart thrown blindfolded, like Voyager. 

“No,” Ryland said numbly, fingers reaching weakly for the dials on the control panel as if that would do anything. “Bring her back. Please, bring her back.”

He wanted to scream and cry into the vacuum of space. For a split second, he wondered if this had been some devastatingly vivid auditory hallucination. For another split second, he considered that he was dead and that had been the voice of an angel. 

Then, suddenly, the radio spat out a brief melodic tone. When the next transmission came through, someone else was speaking. 

“Hi, Ryland,” Jody Moreno’s voice said, transmitting to the Hail Mary from somewhere in interplanetary space.“God, this is a real fucking mess, isn’t it?”

It sounded like she was crying. But this was a recording. Those tears had been shed long ago. Who knew how many years had passed since these words were first spoken?

That didn’t mean they didn’t break his heart. 

Jody’s message ran through and he hung on to every word, committing them to memory. She shared stories about her life, things that Ryland would have no way of knowing. He listened as she told him about his brother, how Colt was alive and they were married now. His heart soared when he heard they had a daughter, Cassandra, who was born with biliary atresia but doing better after her Kasai procedure. She told him about Courtland, now back in their lives for good, and a girl called Claire. From what Jody described, that had been the girl from the first transmission. This wasn’t in his head. 

It was real. 

Jody’s recording ended with a tearful goodbye. Ryland forgot how to breathe, his hands motionless in the space before him as if to hold the words that had already slipped through his fingers. 

It was dangerous, selfish, but he allowed himself to hope for more. 

The tone sounded again. 

Then- 

“Hey, Ry,” Colt exhaled. “It’s your brother.”

The truth of it finally set in. 

Colt was alive. 

In real time, Ryland began to sob. 

———

“You’re Dr. Grace’s older brother, then,” Eva Stratt glanced at Courtland over her cup of tea, taking a long sip. 

More security had arrived within a few minutes and it was clear they were unsatisfied with Stratt’s insistence that he was not a threat, especially considering his refusal to relinquish his gun, but they did know how to take orders. They returned to their posts and Stratt pulled a lanyard from her pocket, using the attached key fob to open the door that allowed access to the bridge. From there, she led Courtland to a room that resembled a small command center, complete with monitors on one wall and a conference table in the middle of the floor. One side of the space was entirely windows overlooking the deck, and beyond that, the vast ocean. 

Court took a seat across from Stratt at the table, looking down at his tea, which, as far as he could tell, wasn’t laced with anything. It was some kind of mushroom tea that tasted herbal and earthy- Court couldn’t tell if he hated it or not, but he took another drink of it as well. At least it was warm. 

“One of them,” he said, choosing to be pedantic for the hell of it. He didn’t intend to make this conversation easy on her. Colt was twelve minutes older than Ryland, anyway. 

Stratt arched an eyebrow, thinking for a moment before she tilted her head. She got it. “Ah, yes. Colt Seavers. The one who died.” 

Court bristled at that. It was a taste of his own medicine, he supposed. “He wasn’t really dead.”

“Yes, I know,” Stratt said plainly, turning toward the window as a pelican flew by. It was then that Court saw the large tattoo on the left side of her neck- a strange shape that was possibly an inverted letter A or some kind of Masonic symbol. 

No, he recalled, thinking back to another life. It was a crossed out V. The symbol indicating a French life sentence. He’d killed people with that mark before. 

Paying attention now, he noticed one on her wrist as well. Three small circles with an individual line drawn through each one, slanted, like they were being crossed out. 

“Did you get that in prison?” Court asked, gesturing toward the smaller tattoo.

Stratt touched the inked skin lightly with her fingertips, looking at Courtland curiously. It was the first time she seemed to actually take an interest in something he said- probably because she hadn’t been expecting it. “Why would you ask that?”

Court rolled up his sleeve to reveal his own tattoo, the band of Greek letters wrapping around his forearm. “I’m familiar with the craft.”

“Ah,” Stratt leaned back in her seat and gave him a half smile, one that he could almost mistake for friendly. This woman was interesting. Strange, but interesting. 

Complicated. That was the word. 

The overhead light suddenly turned off and Courtland snapped to alertness, hand flying to his waist to reach for his weapon. He might have been out of the field for twenty years, but those instincts had been with him since childhood. 

The reaction seemed to confuse Stratt, but she figured it out soon enough. She lifted a finger upward to point at the light fixture. “It’s on an automatic timer.”

Oh. He supposed that made sense. Looking out the window, the gray sky had lightened considerably since he first set foot on Stratt’s ship. The sun had finished rising. 

“I must admit, I’m surprised you had the resources to track me down the way you did,” Stratt conceded with a raise of her mug, almost as if to toast him for his efforts. “I took great lengths to conceal my whereabouts over these past years, it couldn’t have been easy.”

She had that part right. Courtland just shrugged, curling his hands around his mug to let the warmth seep into his cold hands. His joints sometimes got stiff in the cold like this, it was just the reality of growing older. “I fell into an inheritance a while back. I’m kind of rich.”

Thanks, Fitzroy. 

Stratt made a small sound to indicate her understanding, electing not to pry into that comment any further. The details probably just weren’t of much interest to her. Either that, or she knew what he was talking about. Honestly, either option was likely. 

A foghorn blared outside and Courtland glanced over at the window to see a freight ship steadily pulling into the terminal by the crane he’d been holed up in earlier. Someone was about to find his rifle and have a very alarming start to their day. 

Court turned back to Stratt, steeling himself. He had never really been one for small talk and they were only wasting each other’s time dancing around the real conversation that needed to be had. This reckoning was twenty-four years overdue and Court wasn’t about to spend another second delaying the inevitable. Sierra Six had found his mark. Mission, commence. 

“Your name is Eva Stratt,” Courtland said, looking into the eyes of the woman who had condemned his brother to a lonely death in space. Whenever he thought of Ryland Grace, the face of killer was not far away in his mind. “You’re the first and only daughter to Werner and Elke Stratt. You’re German- you were born in Gohlis, just north of Leipzig- and claim Dutch heritage through your mother.”

Whatever Stratt thought he was going to say, it obviously wasn’t this monologue. She stared at him, lips parted ever so slightly in confusion- maybe surprise. Either way, judging by the look in her eyes, those emotions were fairly foreign to her. There was a sick sort of satisfaction in catching her off guard and Court might have smiled. But not now. 

“You applied to a program at Cambridge to study international relations, but ultimately deferred and began working your way up the ESA ranks,” Court continued his recollection, detailing everything he had learned about his enemy and her life as he followed her trail across the globe. It had been hard work, but he was relentless in his pursuit for intel. “In your application, you describe yourself as an only child, but you’re actually the youngest of two.” That had been interesting to discover, if only on a personal level. “You had a brother, Lukas Stratt, who died in a cycling accident while you were pursuing your bachelor’s in history from HU Berlin. How am I doing?”

There was a moment where all Stratt could do was stare at him wordlessly, her fingers sliding from around her mug to rest flat on the table, wrinkled knuckles and fingernails torn down to the quick in stark contrast to the dark metal. She seemed to have aged considerably in the time it took Courtland to speak, and he realized now, with her history laid bare, she was just another person. An old woman who had lived a normal life marked with an average amount of loss balanced by success, all perfectly ordinary until the day an amateur astronomer turned her sights to Venus and changed everyone’s lives forever. 

For years, Eva Stratt had existed as a monster in his mind. To the world, she was a criminal of cosmic proportions. 

It had taken Courtland Gentry less than two minutes to turn her human. 

Somehow, it was better than killing her. 

Seabirds screeched outside. Another foghorn wailed in the distance. Stratt swallowed roughly, her eyes wet. “You know about Lukas?”

Courtland nodded. “I left flowers on his grave for you.”

“I can’t tell if that’s a joke or not.”

He blinked, affronted. “Why the fuck would I joke about that?”

Stratt raised her eyebrows in surprise before her face settled back into neutrality as she decided that no, there wasn’t a reason for him to make light of something like this. “Why are you telling me all this?”

That was a great question. Court hadn’t needed to travel to Leipzig last week to lay flowers on Lukas Stratt’s grave, he’d just been there to gather information, but it felt wrong not to. The headstone and surrounding area looked clean and a caretaker was definitely still keeping up with the landscaping, and yet it seemed like no one had paid their respects in quite some time. He would have hated for the same thing to happen to Ryland. On any given day, Court knew the memorial outside of Grover Cleveland Middle was overflowing with flowers and gifts, but there would come a day when he too was lost to time. 

It wasn’t every day that a Sierra found something in common with their mark. 

Why did he do it?

“Because I know you know what it means to lose a brother,” Courtland said, finally answering her. “And that’s why I need you to tell me how you could decide to kill mine.” 

———

A nurse called from the operating rooms every hour to provide updates. The problem was, the area code on each number was the same, and the calls weren’t exactly on the hour, so when Colt picked up the phone he had no idea whether it was going to be about his wife or daughter. 

Essentially, this meant that he was having a heart attack at least twice every hour. That made for four, so far. He was absolutely keeping track.

“How are they doing?” Claire asked, dropping into the chair beside Colt where he had relocated in the cafeteria. Someone in the family center had given him a gift card with some meal vouchers to get food while he waited, but he was quickly discovering that he couldn’t even stomach the soup and bread he ordered. Anything but water made him want to throw up- hell, he could taste bile in his mouth now. 

He really had to reign in his anxiety before he got an ulcer. That was the last thing he needed. 

“The nurses say it’s going well, no complications so far,” Colt sighed, pushing his tray toward Claire. She accepted it happily, ripping off a piece of bread and dipping it into the soup. It was so strange- Colt remembered her doing that when she was a teenager, and now the kid was in her thirties. Fuck, he was old, wasn’t he? 

A wave of nausea hit him like a punch in the gut- and he was very familiar with those. As he looked over at the young woman next to him, he could so clearly recall the first day Courtland brought her into their lives. Colt still had a polaroid photo she’d taken of him in his wallet. She’d never had the chance to meet Ryland- this was after he’d been sent on the mission. 

Back then, she’d been a child. She was well into adulthood now. But that wasn’t what Colt realized. 

Claire Fitzroy was now older than Ryland Grace was the last time they were together. 

Fuck. 

“That’s good news, Uncle Colt,” Claire placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. She could clearly tell that he was wrestling with something inside his head and was intent on jolting him out of it since Jody wasn’t there to. “You shouldn’t worry. Cass and Aunt Jody are the strongest, most badass women I know, and I’ve had contract killers at my birthday parties before.”

Colt snorted out a laugh, choking on air. Claire seemed pleased with herself and thumped him on the back, hard. It only helped a little. 

“I couldn’t find you earlier,” Claire noted, ripping open the little bag of saltines that came with the soup and taking Colt’s hand to shake some into it. A not so subtle way of telling him to try and eat something. “You weren’t in the family lounge.”

“Yeah, I was-” Colt coughed into his elbow, still recovering a little from Claire’s unexpected stab at humor. “I was talking to Ryland.”

“Oh,” Claire nodded, pouring the rest of the crackers into the soup and crumpling up the wrapper. There was nothing more to be said about that. She got to work finishing Colt’s soup. 

Talking to his brother was the way Colt described his moments of solitude to his family over the years. Whether he took a drive to a church, walked outside into the open field behind the house, or just needed to sit in his car and speak at the sky for a while, it was always the same thing. Talking to Ryland.

It wasn’t unusual to talk to Ryland without a response. Every single on of them had done it. Years after the launch, the remaining members of the Petrova Task Force in conjunction with the UN decided they would be creating an auditory memorial for the Hail Mary crew. This involved gathering recorded messages from friends and family members to be broadcast from the headquarters in Colorado and into deep space. It seemed like a clever PR move at the time considering Eva Stratt had just been arrested, tried, and imprisoned months before, and the media had absolutely loved the idea of it. Colt almost declined just based on principle, not wanting his grief to be put on show for the whole world after he’d done just that by participating in the trial itself. But the way one of the scientists explained it, radio waves traveled infinitely through space. No matter how far, no matter how long, they just kept on going at the speed of light forever. 

That meant if Colt Seavers had something to say to his twin brother, even lightyears away in space, those words would reach him with time. 

Ryland just wouldn’t be alive to hear them. 

He must have recorded at least fifty messages. He added new ones all the time. Whether or not they were all actually sent, Colt wasn’t sure. He thought maybe they just let him do it to humor him now. 

More often than not, he just found a quiet spot to look up at the sky and talk, half thinking maybe those words would reach his brother, too. 

The cafeteria was filled with the low hum of muted chatter, but behind him, Colt knew there was a television mounted to the wall playing the local news. The sound was turned off but a lagging transcript of the reporters’ commentary ran at the bottom of the screen. The words never quite matched up with the movement of their mouths, but after years in the film industry, Colt was an expert at lip-reading. That was why he sat with his back to the screen. 

The top news story of the day was speculation on when the Hail Mary’s probes would reach Earth, and for some reason the reporters seemed incapable of handling this subject without reiterating the tragic, but brave sacrifices made by the project’s intrepid crew. Everyone but Dr. Ryland Grace, who had been forced onto the mission, delivered to the stars like a lamb to slaughter. 

Ryland Grace, who died in space never knowing his twin brother survived a boat crash in Australia. 

Ryland, who was supposed to be the best man at Colt’s wedding like he promised when they were seven years old. 

His brother, who died in space never meeting his niece.

Colt’s phone started vibrating on the table.

The operating room was calling again. 

———

Stratt gave him the same explanation she’d delivered during her trial which was irritating, but expected. It was the same bullshit, new day. According to the world media at the time, Colt Seavers was dead. And, technically speaking, Courtland Gentry didn’t exist. 

If he wanted to hear this all over again, he could have found it online and done this at home. This wasn’t what Court came to California for.

“I was supposed to protect him,” Court insisted, hearing and hating how much it sounded like a complaint. There was no arguing around the fact that he was complaining to an old woman about a problem she caused and neither of them could fix. It didn’t feel good, but he couldn’t stop once he’d started. “That’s what I do, that’s what I’ve always done- protect the people I care about. Everything else in my life has been second to that. Even as a kid, that’s all I did. Protect him.”

Stratt didn’t miss a beat. “From your father.”

Court couldn’t help it. He flinched. “He told you about him?” 

It seemed unlikely, but nothing about any of this was really normal, was it?

Stratt shook her head, taking a sip of her tea. Then, she tipped her chin back and drained the mug before speaking again. “All members of the Petrova Task Force underwent psychological screenings along with their physicals. It came up that he had a number of adverse childhood experiences.”

What an absurdly clinical way to say their father beat them within an inch of their lives on a regular basis. It sounded like something the forensic psychiatrist at his own trial said back when he was fifteen years old, standing before an unforgiving courtroom, trying to explain why he made the choice to end his father’s life. 

Goddamn. That sounded like Stratt. 

He deeply disliked that similarity. 

“Tell me something,” Court said, getting up to pace around the room, his own reflection following him across the dark monitors on the wall. “I buy that you thought Colt was dead. Hell, even I thought he was. You had the resources and permission of every world government to do whatever the hell you wanted, though. The Sierra program was deeply classified, but if you really had as much power as I think you did, you could have found out about me if you tried to.”

Stratt considered it for a few seconds. “This is correct.”

“So, if you knew then what you do now,” Court tried to keep his tone even, breathing slowly as his hands began to tremble with anger. “If you knew then that Ryland Grace had an older brother, a living relative who loved him more than life itself, tell me- would you have made a different choice?”

Would you have spared my baby brother?

“No.”

She didn’t even blink.

Without thinking, Courtland punched the nearest monitor. It didn’t break. He thought one of his fingers did, though. 

“Fuck!” Court wrung his injured hand, holding it close to his chest. The knuckle of his index finger was already turning red and beginning to swell. He was getting too old for this shit. 

The air felt charged now, the way ozone built after a lightning strike. Stratt breathed heavily through her nose, folding her hands on the table. If she was uncomfortable at all with his sudden show of violence, those were all the tells she was going to give. “You’re unsatisfied with this answer.”

Court drew in a hissed breath through gritted teeth, kicking the nearest chair and sending it skittering into the nearest wall. Unfortunately, it was plastic and didn’t make that loud of a sound. “What gave it away?”

All Stratt did was raise an eyebrow. “Can I ask you something now?”

He stopped his pacing once he reached the windows, leaning against the cool glass and trying to level out his temper. Claire had taught him meditation a long time ago, a lot of it involving deliberate, patterned breathing. There was no way he was going to get through this whole game with Stratt if he didn’t get ahold of himself. 

“If you have to,” Court ground out, focusing on unclenching his jaw now. 

“You clearly know a great deal about me,” Stratt clasped her hands, leaning forward in her seat. “So tell me something, now. If I had given you any other answer than the one I just provided, would you believe it to be true? Or would you react the same way as you did now, throwing a tantrum, except while also calling me a liar?” 

Court’s silence was answer enough. He stared at her, unblinking, and she nodded, apparently having seen enough. She stood from her seat, pushing the chair in neatly.

“We have a medic on board,” Stratt informed him abruptly. 

“Good for you.”

She sighed, gesturing vaguely in his direction. “I am telling you this so you will follow me to get your hand looked at. I’m not done speaking with you and I’m concerned this injury will only distract you from some important information I am obliged to share.”

Court bit back a retort, breathing slower now. She wasn’t wrong, his hand was hurting something awful now, but he was still pissed off. That didn’t mean he wasn’t curious, though.

When it became evident that he wasn’t going to comply without more to go on, Stratt sighed, crossing her arms in front of her chest as a teacher would when faced with an especially petulant child. 

“A ship was spotted in interstellar space three days ago,” Stratt told him calmly like she wasn’t about to shatter the beliefs he’d held for the past twenty-four years of his life. “The Hail Mary is returning, Courtland. Not just the payload. The whole damn thing.”

Courtland swore his heart almost stopped in his chest. He forgot how to breathe. 

The realization that followed hit him like a metric ton of bricks and his limbs went numb, forcing him to lean more heavily against the window, face turned toward the Pacific Ocean. An ocean he was considering in an entirely new light now.

That was why Eva Stratt docked the Redline in San Diego. Why she braved coming to California. History told him everything he needed to know. 

A ship had been spotted, so they entered a strategic port to wait by the open ocean. 

They were preparing for a splashdown.

Someone was coming home. 

———

“Dr. Ryland Grace aboard the Hail Mary, this is the Redline Base in Rocky Flats, Colorado.  We’re receiving your mayday, do you copy?”

“Yes!” Ryland all but screamed, the word tearing itself from his throat. Speaking this loud physically pained him and he lunged for the radio to respond, the seatbelt digging into his ribs as he strained too far. “Yes, I’m here! This is Ryland Grace aboard the Hail Mary, I copy!”

Loud cheers erupted from the speaker and Ryland let out an incredulous laugh, tears springing to his eyes as he fell back into his seat, clutching the microphone to his chest. The cord wasn’t very long and there wasn’t far he could go with it, but there had never been a stronger lifeline than this. His heart was hammering uncontrollably in his chest, and this time he didn’t think it was because of sickness. 

After listening to the recordings on the frequency he’d discovered long enough for each message to loop twice- there had been one from Courtland, one from Cassandra, a few from some former students, and some from Colt’s friends that Ryland had met on set before- he continued scanning for frequencies and found two similar channels that played recorded messages on a loop, each audio clip broken up by the same musical tone. He wasn’t an expert, but he would bet his life that one was in Mandarin and the other in Russian. One frequency for each crew member of the Hail Mary sending messages from their loved ones out into the abyss of space. A never-ending eulogy, a cosmic elegy. 

Ryland drank another pipette of water. Then, he activated the mayday call. His own personal Hail Mary.

The response had been so much quicker than he could have hoped for. 

He’d noted the numbers of the channels and continued to search for other active ones. If he was close enough to receive those, he was close enough to something man-made. Radio waves could travel far into space, these would have reached in time anyway if he had managed to tune in to the right frequency, but he really hadn’t thought to check until he was this close to Earth. Had he done so any further away, it probably would have felt more taunting, anyway. 

Right now, he was close enough for someone to receive his mayday. For this to be a two-sided conversation. 

Ryland took notice of the small lag time between the end of his reply and the beginning of the cheers. It had to have been only three to three and a half seconds tops, which made perfect sense. Radio waves only traveled as fast as light- they were the same speed. For round-trip communications between Earth and its moon, lag times were around two and a half seconds, if not a little more. It was just an immutable concept- the further away you were, the further the waves had to travel. It took time. 

He was almost to the moon. The blueness of Earth was visible to the naked eye in the distance. It would be several days before he reached the orbit of either planet, but when it came to light, when it came to sound, he was only about 1.5 seconds away. 

Which meant if he could be heard, he could certainly be seen. Somewhere, somehow, another human could see his ship. 

If he hadn’t been so dehydrated, he would have been openly weeping, his cries taking on the form of painful, dry, hiccupping sobs that took 1.5 seconds to reach anyone that would care to hear them. It was so much better than nothing. 

There was several seconds of silence from the other end, much longer than the natural lag time. Whoever he was speaking to was giving him space to cry, and for that he was grateful. For all the pain and fear he felt the past few weeks as he decelerated toward Earth, his own mortality as clear as the stars themselves, the feeling of hope was like a miracle balm to all his ails. 

His stomach twinged and it took all he had not to gasp at the sharp sensation. Okay, maybe not all his ails. 

“Dr. Grace, it’s good to hear your voice,” the speaker said. It sounded masculine, low octave, but smooth. Young. The surprise of reaching Ryland had worn off and it was time to get to work. “My name is Jamar Wells, I’m a communications specialist with the Petrova Task Force, now acting as CAPCOM for your vessel. We picked up your ship on radar three days ago and have been attempting to hail you since then. Apologies for the delay, we would have spotted you sooner but we were only scanning for the tags on the probes.” 

Ryland tipped his head back against the headrest and let out a low groan, sticking a hand into his hair with such force that he could’ve ripped out several strands of it by accident. Of course. With the time-delayed launches, the transponders on the beetles weren’t live yet. He’d turned around right at the end of his mission without delay, so he was still within the project’s original window for receiving the probes. Nobody thought a whole spacecraft would be coming home. 

“Sorry about that,” Ryland said, feeling very much not like an astronaut. “I thought I was too far away for the TDRSS.” 

Lag. A chuckle from CAPCOM. “Oh, we aren’t using TDRSS, this transmission is being routed from much closer to you.” 

What? What could that mean?

“Dr. Grace,” CAPCOM began, then paused. Ryland was getting better at distinguishing genuine pauses in speech from lag times. “Request for a manifest?” 

The request threw him for a moment. Just a moment. 

Ryland sucked in a breath. Oh. 

Of course. 

His survival was already an improbability on its own. The fact that they were even having this conversation now meant that to people on the ground, there still existed the possibility that Yao and Ilyukhina were alive as well. Who could blame them for hoping? 

“One soul aboard the Hail Mary,” Ryland reported out. That was how captains reported it, right? Souls? “It’s just me here.”

“Copy that, Dr. Grace.” A moment of silence for the dead. 

Unfortunately, the dying couldn’t wait much longer. Ryland cleared his throat awkwardly, throat still dry. He needed more water. “I’m really glad we’ve been able to chat, CAPCOM, and I’m happy to explain more, but I gotta be honest- I’m in a rough spot up here.”

CAPCOM asked for elaboration and he briefly summarized his current health condition and the status of his supply reserves, detailing the timeline which was ultimately a countdown to his own death. They sounded concerned, but optimistic. He took that to be a good sign. 

“Give us a few hours to coordinate,” CAPCOM told him. There was background chatter as people began speaking hurriedly behind the speaker. “We can get you touched down to a base for medical care before your supplies run out.”

That was the best news he’d heard in years. “Hey, CAPCOM, how do you feel about a marriage proposal from outer space?” 

That got a lot of laughter from the people listening in. CAPCOM chuckled. “We’re going to start working on that honeymoon rendezvous for you ASAP. Dr. Grace, how far are you from the Nozomi 5?”

Ryland blinked, feeling like he was missing something. “The- what?”

There was a pause as if the speaker was realizing they’d asked a ridiculous question. Whatever Nozomi 5 was, it was clear that Ryland had no idea. As in, he literally had no way to know what this was. He’d essentially been living under a rock for the past two and a half decades. An infinitely large rock in an infinitely dark place. 

“Never mind,” CAPCOM said. “Cut your engines, Dr. Grace. We’re coming to you.”

———

“And you’re happy with that? With what you’ve done?” Courtland asked Stratt, trying to refrain from flexing his bandaged hand too much. After visiting the infirmary, they’d spent a couple hours walking around the ship, talking things over while he got the all-access tour of the Petrova Task Force’s recovery vessel, Redline. All this time, the ship he’d been tracking was the one that was trying to bring his brother home to him. 

It had been a lot to process. He was still processing, actually. 

“My happiness doesn’t factor into it,” Stratt replied indifferently, reaching around to hold a door open for him. The sign affixed to it said ‘mess hall’ in about five languages, only three of which he could read. Through the doorway, Court could smell food and hear the clattering of dishes and silverware. Apparently, it was lunchtime. They went in. “Happiness is not a means to an end. I do believe, however, that self-preservation is a principle of nature, rather than a wish of the mind. All things have an intrinsic desire to preserve their life to avoid destruction- participation in happiness is optional.”

“Don’t quote Boethius at me if you want this conversation to remain civil,” Court scoffed as he followed Stratt through the small dining area to a serving counter where a small assortment of food had been prepared for the crew in metal tins. It looked like some kind of hot rice porridge, grilled meat, and a small amount of broiled leafy greens. 

She cast him a look over her shoulder as she fixed two trays for them, choosing spoons from the selection of utensils at the end of the counter. He might have thought she seemed impressed. “You know The Consolation of Philosophy?”

“I’ve skimmed it,” Court lied lightly, very pointedly trading his spoon for chopsticks. “Not enough pictures for me, too many big words.”

Nobody expected the hired gun to have an interest in science, never mind early Christian and pagan philosophy. Or philosophy in general. Those same people had no idea what his tattoo was about. 

Stratt wasn’t one of them, though. In fact, she seemed to actually be annoyed now, setting her tray down forcefully on the table he’d followed her to. “Don’t be glib, I know you’re not an idiot.”

“I’ll stop being glib if you start cutting the bullshit, how about that?” Court shot back as he took a seat first, picking up his chopsticks to point them at the woman across from him. All he tried to do was ask a straightforward question and she delivered a paraphrased explanation from a brutally executed, ancient philosopher. “And let me just say that if you start citing the Nichomachean Ethics to me, I will shoot you.”

He was only mostly kidding. 

Stratt lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “You brought it up.”

Yeah, alright, that was fair. He considered himself lucky that she shared as much as she had since this evidently wasn’t a subject she felt like talking about more, and odds were that pushing the point would get him nowhere fast. 

Court decided he needed to stop talking for a bit. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, and they both needed to eat. 

They had lunch in silence for a few minutes and he spent that time trying to listen in on other conversations around the room, picking up on bits and pieces from other crew members. Nothing wild, just chatter. 

Stratt broke the impasse first, making a small sound to get his attention. “I was planning on asking your other brother, Mr. Seavers, to join me here this week, but I understand this is not a good time for him and his family.”

The sudden mention of Colt threw him for a loop and after a moment, Court felt his heart sink. Oh, fuck. Cassie’s operation was probably soon, if not today. It might have already happened while he was gone. 

Some big brother he was. It had seemed like Jody was in line to be his niece’s donor, meaning his sister-in-law had gone under the knife as well. He couldn’t even imagine- except he could, couldn’t he? It wasn’t so different with Claire and her heart.

Colt must be going through hell right now. Court really needed to give him a call and check in. 

They were going to have a lot to talk about. 

“I hope you understand, Courtland,” Stratt said, dragging her spoon through the rice porridge. Stalling. “I don’t yet have a guarantee that your brother, or anyone for that matter, is still alive on that ship.”

“But you said-”

“Oh, they might have started the journey alive,” Stratt conceded easily, pausing to eat some more. She looked quite hungry- he wondered when she’d last eaten a full meal. They’d probably had to ration food on this ship, considering its limited resources and long stint away from land. “But the ship didn’t need anyone awake, or alive, to reach Tau Ceti. It’s a bit simplistic to say it this way, but it was essentially on autopilot.” 

The rice felt like concrete in his stomach now. Courtland understood what she was telling him, he just wished he didn’t. He knew the mission parameters, the finite nature of fuel and resources. The math always came out the same- there just wasn’t enough. “So you’re saying someone would have only needed to set the course for a return trip. It would autopilot itself back here and keep going whether or not there was a living person to pilot it.”

In the most grim terms, the splashdown would be a body snatch. 

Stratt nodded. “I have also considered the possibility that it might not have been any of the crew who plotted the return trajectory.”

Courtland paused, setting his chopsticks down. Now that, he didn’t get. “What do you mean?”

“I mean-” Stratt started, taking a moment to look around before waving someone over from the nearest table. She gave Courtland a somewhat apologetic look. “This part isn’t really my strong suit.”

A tall, bespectacled woman approached, looking between the two of them expectantly. The badge on her uniform said her name was H. Aadvani. Stratt gestured for her to sit. “Dr. Aadvani, can you explain the fuel theory to Mr. Gentry- sorry, Courtland- here?”

Dr. Aadvani looked sincerely thrilled by the request. She greeted Courtland with a nod and picked up a discarded chopstick wrapper, straightening it out in a line. “Imagine this line is the course to Tau Ceti. It takes roughly 11.9 light years to get there.”

Sure. Chopstick wrapper is the Hail Mary’s initial trajectory. “Okay.”

“This also represents the amount of fuel required to reach Tau Ceti,” Stratt said, nodding toward the wrapper. 

“Right,” Aadvani said, also nodding at the wrapper. She then folded it in half. “Given the way time dilation works, and the amount of fuel expended in near-light-speed acceleration and subsequent deceleration, this isn’t exactly a scientifically correct rendition, but-”

Thankfully, Stratt cleared her throat, motioning for the scientist to get on with it. 

“Very loosely speaking, there was a way that- if a member of the crew had been awake before the midway point of the journey- the Hail Mary could have been turned around,” Aadvani simplified, the folded chopstick wrapper now making more sense to Courtland.

“They could have used the same amount of total fuel reserves to go halfway there and come back,” he worked out, looking to Stratt for confirmation. His lunch was now utterly forgotten in front of him. “Or, if they turned back earlier, even return with some miles left in the tank.”

“Yes,” Stratt said.

“Very loosely,” Aadvani reminded. “This is just one theoretical scenario of many, many others.”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Court realized, reaching for the wrapper and unfolding it back to its full length. He folded it in half again. “If they turned back, even halfway, rounding up, that’s the twelve years, right? Wouldn’t the ship have already returned by now, twelve years ago?”

Aadvani looked impressed, turning to Stratt. “He’s smart.”

Stratt nodded in agreement, motioning for Court to finish his train of thought. “Your conclusion?”

He hadn’t gotten there yet. He needed to think. 

Part of it was easy enough, though. 

“They couldn’t have turned around,” Court decided, letting the wrapper fall back down to the table. “The math doesn’t work out. The only way I can figure this working out is if- fuck, I don’t know- they got more fuel somehow?”

Aadvani started clapping, drawing an awkward amount of attention. Stratt dismissed her. 

“Was that it?” Court was seriously curious, staring at Stratt with wide eyes. “You think they got more fuel?”

Stratt nodded. She held up two fingers.

He frowned. “Two what?”

“Two ways they could have gotten more fuel. Can you tell me one?”

Court got the distinct sense she was enjoying this a little. To be fair, he kind of was, too. He missed talking science with his brothers. So much of Project Hail Mary was in the public domain and he would have been lying if he said he hadn’t spent a huge amount of time learning about the mission that he believed cost his baby brother his life. Court just never had an opportunity to apply that knowledge. 

He picked the obvious answer because he couldn’t figure out a second for the life of him. “The Hail Mary was going into astrophage-rich territory. A breeding ground. It’s the interstellar equivalent of an oil well. They could have tapped it somehow, refueled to come back.”

Stratt took a moment to finish off her lunch and Court waited impatiently for her to finally set her spoon down. “That is the most acceptable answer being thrown around, but I don’t think it’s the likeliest.”

Court could feel himself make a face. “How come?”

“The Hail Mary needed two million kilograms of astrophage to get to Tau Ceti,” she reminded him, setting her elbows on the table to prop her chin in her hands. “Even with your brother’s discovery on how they reproduced, I needed to pave the Sahara Desert to get it done at scale, and that took quite a long time. We sent the crew on the mission fairly well stocked with supplies, but I fail to see how they could have physically captured that much free-floating astrophage with the comparatively limited resources they had.” 

Courtland didn’t really understand it, but he accepted this was beyond his level of expertise, and probably hers as well, but she was trying for his sake. “So what’s the second option?”

Stratt spread her hands. “A Good Samaritan." 

He froze. What?

“Possibility two,” Stratt said slowly, a light glinting in her eyes. “Is that the Hail Mary refueled with an assist from someone who had the technology or the fuel to spare.”

A Good Samaritan. In another solar system. 

Courtland felt like he was going to throw up, because no way in hell was she saying what he thought she was saying. “You’re telling me aliens are real.”

“I’m addressing the distinct possibility that extraterrestrial life exists, yes,” she said simply, removing the knit cap from her head. He hadn’t thought to question why she was still wearing it in the warm dining area, but now she fidgeted with the soft material, turning it over in her hands. “It accounts for the timing. The mission was conducted as planned, success pending, they refueled with help, and they began the journey back home.”

There was another implication in there as well. It was possible that whatever- whoever- gave the crew fuel could have restocked their food supply as well. The crew might just be able to avoid starving to death. But that was the optimistic theory. Maybe the crew had to get creative. Or maybe they’d already starved to death.

Or, the most insane theory Stratt didn’t seem that interested to get back to- the possibility that an alien was actually on board. 

A Good Samaritan. Court’s head was still spinning. 

“Here, have this,” Stratt set her hat on the table, sliding it toward Court. 

He shook his head, moving to push it back to her. It was too warm in the mess hall, and even if they went outside again, he could just put his hood up. “I’m good.”

“Take it as a gift, then,” Stratt insisted a little more forcefully, something urgent in her expression. “As a thank you for the flowers for Lukas. This was your brother’s.”

Courtland stared down at the hat, reaching carefully for the small article of clothing. Holding it in his hands now, he thought there was something familiar about the look of the navy wool. Maybe he’d seen Ryland wear it, or maybe it was just in a photograph. Either way, the laundry tag inside it had the initials RG written in permanent marker. Ryland’s handwriting. 

“You kept his hat?” he asked, incredulous. He hadn’t taken Eva Stratt for the sentimental type. 

She shrugged a little. “It was warm.”

That made more sense to him, even if it was uncomfortable to hear. The fact that this hat belonged to the man she sent to die had nothing to do with why she kept it. It wasn’t a reminder or a cross to bear as penance. She kept it purely out of utility. It was a warm hat, she was often in cold places, and Ryland wasn’t around to wear it anymore. 

That kind of thinking had been behind a lot of decisions in her life. 

As a former Sierra operative, Courtland might have hated Eva Stratt more if he didn’t understand her so well.

———

“Hi, Colt,” Jody said, peering up at him blearily. “How’re we looking?”

Colt didn’t even try to stop himself from crying. Ever since she had been moved into the recovery room, she had been coming in and out of consciousness just long enough to look over at her husband before promptly passing out again. She was on some good sedatives, but they were slowly wearing off. 

Knowing Jody, she probably would have flipped her lid if she saw herself in a mirror. Her hair was a mess from the cap she’d worn during the procedure, skin slightly clammy, and a good deal of bandaging around her midsection. 

Still, she was the most beautiful woman in the universe to him. 

Waking up even more now, Jody tested out her right hand, flexing around the pulse oximeter, and gave a thumbs up. Colt couldn’t bring himself to stop crying long enough to return the gesture- the relief of finally being reunited with her had been too strong and hit him like a burning car. Which, he actually had a frame of reference for, thanks to one of Jody’s films. 

“That bad, huh?” Jody quirked her lips up into a teasing grin, reaching over to pluck his chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Cheer up, babe, you’re really crimping my style over here.”

That drew a teary laugh from him and he dragged the sleeve of his jacket over his eyes, sniffling weakly as he grabbed her hand from his chin to hold between his own. Jody’s hand was warm, strong, and so reassuring as her fingers wrapped around his scarred knuckles. 

“You look beautiful,” Colt told her, pressing his lips to the back of her hand. She tried to swat him in the head with her other hand and winced sharply, groaning a little as she settled back into the bed. Not an hour out of surgery and she was already pulling her stitches.

She considered the pump that the nurse explained would deliver more pain medication if needed, and pressed the red button without another thought. 

That was the woman he knew and loved. 

“I would say you’re lying,” Jody grimaced as she tried to get comfortable again, accepting Colt’s help in adjusting her pillows behind her head. “But have it on good authority that I’m actually a fucking smokeshow. So thank you,” she giggled, clearly starting to enjoying the effects of her pain medication. “For your extraordinary honesty, my beloved.”

Colt was laughing a little now, too, feeling slightly delirious from the adrenaline rush and lack of sleep. 

“You’re high,” he observed with humor, leaning forward in his seat to press a kiss on her forehead. “This is really irresponsible parenting, Jo. Think of what Cass would say. Really, I- I’m shocked and appalled by this behavior.”

Jody scoffed at the sarcasm, but still looked quite pleased by his insistent affection. She made grab-hands toward the spare blanket folded at the end of the bed and Colt got the message loud and clear, pulling the warm material up to her chest to add another layer. Even now, she still ran cold. “I’m not worried, she’s about to be on the good stuff soon, too.”

Colt stiffened, dreading the thought. Jody just laughed more at his reaction. 

Claire had gone home about an hour ago to grab a change of clothes and check on their dogs, but looking at his watch he figured she would be on her way back fairly soon. It made him feel less bad to know that she would be able to sit with Jody and keep her company while Colt went to go be with Cass. The back and forth between hospital rooms was going to be his reality for a bit, he recognized, preparing himself for a long couple weeks in uncomfortable cots and reclining chairs. 

Still, he would endure literal torture if it meant making sure that his wife and daughter knew they weren’t alone. 

“How’s my baby girl?” Jody asked, squeezing Colt’s hand. Despite her joking attitude before, her genuine concern for her daughter’s health had sobered her up in an instant. God, she was such an amazing person. 

“Is that what you’re calling me now?” Colt quipped, raising an eyebrow. “Have to say, I kind of like it. “

Jody just snorted. “Alright, then, my other baby girl.”

“The doctor said they should be closing Cass up any minute now,” Colt reassured her, his tone serious now as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze back. He knew she wasn’t fragile, but considering she was going to be missing half her liver for the next three to four months, he figured he was allowed to be cautious. 

It was easier for him to breathe now that both Jody and Cass were almost in the clear, and he felt significantly less unmoored than he had earlier during his sequential meltdowns. Colt didn’t know what to do with that- Ryland had always been the more anxious of the two of them, this was new to Colt. 

Courtland had always known how to help, though. That should have been reassuring. Except the fucker was nowhere to be found now, was he? Court could have fallen off the edge of the earth for all Colt knew- it wouldn’t be the first time it happened to one of his brothers. 

The whole thing seemed like a bad joke, didn’t it? If Colt had a nickel for every time-

His phone started vibrating in his pocket. 

“Hang on, this might be the operating room,” Colt told Jody, releasing her hand so he could grab his phone. 

He looked down at the screen. It wasn’t from the hospital. 

It was Courtland. 

———

The voices on the radio kept changing as CAPCOM switched out for different shifts throughout the days Ryland spent coasting toward the moon, eventually coming to a halt some distance away. He’d stopped paying attention to these extra details now, letting his new friends on the ground handle that part of things now. They assured him that his only job was to stay alive long enough for their ship to reach him. And send out the beetles.

They even said “please.” These people were really nice to him. 

The plan, according to the Petrova Task Force team in Colorado, was to send a ship called the Redline 2 up from Earth during the next available launch window. That was decided days ago, and the ship actually was able to launch yesterday. It would be reaching him in a few more days. The beetles were halfway to Earth. 

Redline 2 would dock with the Hail Mary just long enough for Ryland to transfer over to their ship. Hail Mary would be released and Redline 2 would fall into the moon’s orbit to send him and the crew down to the lunar base on the south pole. He had almost cried when they told him that they weren’t going to be able to use a slingshot maneuver to take him home in what he considered the ‘fast’ way. Ryland had been speaking with a medical doctor since the first day and it was swiftly concluded that the physical force of re-entry through Earth’s atmosphere would kill him. His body just wouldn’t be able to handle it right now. 

Moon base was equipped with an infirmary and they had a bed with his name on it. Literally. CAPCOM told him they had to assign him a quarantine space to keep him safe from the crew until his immune system was sufficiently bolstered again. 

There was a base on the moon. And he was going to be in it. Ryland couldn’t believe it. 

Ryland talked to the different CAPCOM people nonstop, asking every question he could think of about the moon base. He had a rough idea of the small crew there now, and took down a list of the names he could remember. 

JAXA - Masaki Kobayashi, Sakuya “Saku” Ishigawa

CSA - Aidan Levesque, Oren Belinger 

NASA - Dina Marwan (MD), Michael Valdez, Lauryn Abramowicz

CNSA- Lihua “Hannah” Mui 

Dina Marwan was the most important name to remember- she was the doctor that was going to fix him up to get home. Ryland resolved to get on her good side and stay there. 

It had been interesting to hear the same space agency names that existed before he left Earth. He had half entertained the idea that by the time he got back there’d be some sort of global space federation, but Ryland’s concept of time was absolutely shot. 

Hey, they got the moon base, though. 

He even got an answer as to what the audio messages from his loved ones were from. It really was a memorial like he thought, created by the Petrova Task Force and the UN to commemorate the Hail Mary crew. The audio waves of messages recorded for Yao Li-Jie, Olesya Ilyukhina, and Ryland Grace were transmitted 24/7 into the depths of space.

“Doesn’t that get confusing?” Ryland asked CAPCOM, wondering out loud. “What if someone tunes into that frequency to try and send a message like I did? Between the ISS and moon base, there’s a lot of people in space right now.”

They were getting used to his random questions and seemed fine with answering them as long as they got to ask some in return. 

They had a lot of questions about Rocky. 

“Nobody uses that channel group,” CAPCOM replied. This time the speaker was a woman and it sounded like she was chewing gum while she spoke. “It's totally just open for symbolic reasons. Kind of like a verbal memorial. We call it the Grace Frequency.”

———

Colt wasn’t sure whether he wanted to kill Courtland or not. After hearing him out on the phone for about forty-five minutes, he hung up to meet Cass once she was wheeled into her own recovery room down the hall from her mother. She would be unconscious for a while, still, but Colt still sat with her, holding her hand and brushing her hair from her forehead as his own mind spun with a million racing thoughts. 

His daughter had just gone through her second life-saving surgery and now his big brother was asking him when the soonest he could get on a helicopter was. When Colt asked where he needed to go, Court had given him coordinates in the Pacific Ocean.

What the actual fuck. 

That wasn’t even the craziest part. 

According to Courtland, Ryland was alive. 

Not only that- he was coming back to Earth. Soon. 

That had been nearly three weeks ago.

It was almost time. 

“They approximate he’ll be ready to travel by the end of the month,” Court told him over the phone that day, sounding stressed. There were sharp cuts in the audio that sounded like wind blowing past the receiver- he did say he was on a boat. “The base in Colorado only just managed to make contact with him today and it sounds like he’s not doing so well medically. They’re going to give him some time to recover before making the final leg of the journey down here.”

It was just too impossible to believe. For twenty-four years, Colt had been trying to reconcile himself with the fact that his twin brother was doomed to die in space, only to find out that not only had he completed the mission meant to save humanity, he was coming back to deliver the news in person. 

Once recovery details were smoothed out for Cass and Jody, Colt had called Court back and put him on speaker, demanding he tell Jody everything. 

Court obliged.

Hearing things the second time around, though, especially with Jody there, somehow made it more real for Colt. He wasn’t even ashamed to wake up in a cot a few minutes later, a nurse informing him that he’d passed out. 

Seriously, could anyone blame him?

His twin brother, Ryland Grace, martyred for humanity’s future, was resurrected. 

Ryland was coming home. 

Colt didn’t know how to leave his daughter after this. 

But he couldn’t imagine not being the first face his twin brother saw when he came back to Earth. 

It was an impossible decision.

And yet, Colt knew what his choice was. Cass was safe here. When she woke up soon, he would explain everything to her. Regardless of what he decided, Colt vowed to himself that he wouldn’t make any move without her blessing. He had a pretty strong guess as to what his daughter was going to say, though. 

Colt sighed, leaning forward and burying his face in his hands. 

Forget killing Court. Once Colt shared all this with Jody, she was going to get up from her hospital bed and kill both of them, ripped stitches be damned. 

———

It was decided very early on that Ryland would be returning to Earth with the next planned JAXA rendezvous. The moon base was at capacity after the Petrova Task Force members had arrived, and they still had a great deal of work ahead of them, but gravity didn’t care about deadlines. Spending prolonged periods of time in one-sixth of regular Earth gravity took a toll on the body, and they were still trying to figure out sustainable ways to simulate Earth’s gravity in the lunar base structures. There was only so long a team could stay on the moon before needing to return to Earth for health reasons, and the arrival of both Ryland and the Redline 2 crew triggered the rotation for those with soon-overdue returns to terra firma. 

“So it’s just a big lunar game of musical chairs, essentially,” Ryland had concluded in simpler terms, looking around the table. Dr. Marwan had been working him up quite intensively over the past week and a half, and while his symptoms were much better, his strength much restored, the underlying conditions had yet to fully resolve. Full recovery wasn’t going to happen here on the moon. It was time to go home. 

“Yeah,” Levesque put his head in his hands. “Pretty much.” 

He didn’t think Levesque liked the way he broke down his science very much. Good to know some things never changed. 

Once free from total quarantine, Saku sat with him in and drew out a crude chart on the wall, explaining how a lunar orbit rendezvous worked. Now that hadn’t been part of any training for the project. Of course they weren’t going to dedicate time and effort to explaining to the crew how ships were supposed to come back to Earth. 

For JAXA, this situation meant two of their people were going home. Their main spacecraft, the Nozomi 5, was already in lunar orbit and had been essentially loitering there, unmanned, for weeks, waiting for this. Tomorrow, Saku, Grace, Abramowicz, and another JAXA scientist would board the lander to launch off the surface of the moon and dock with Nozomi 5. Dr. Marwan would be joining them as their commander.

From there, it was a three-day journey to Earth.

Ryland could hardly believe it. After everything, against all odds, he was going home. 

———

Courtland accompanied Stratt on her evening walk around the deck, the same as he had every other day he’d spent on the Redline. Colt had arrived the night before by helicopter and was still understandably pissed off at him, meaning they weren’t talking much right now. Splashdown was scheduled for tomorrow, though, so he was really hoping some kind of peace could be reached before then. The two of them never held grudges against each other very long, anyway. 

So until then, as strange as it was, Courtland hung out with Stratt. It was just a habit at this point. 

Never once did she offer him a chance to remove himself from her company, and he made no additional effort to create an excuse. Courtland figured she would get sick of having a second shadow during what seemed to be one of her few opportunities for personal time, but that didn’t seem to be the case. 

It didn’t occur to him that perhaps with all this time out at sea with only a skeleton crew of trusted familiars, someone like Eva Stratt could become lonely. 

“Can I ask you a question?” Court asked her as they stood by the ship’s prow, the water surrounding the ship tainted red by the setting sun on the Pacific as they crashed through the waves. They weren’t friends, and Court still wasn’t sure he even liked her all that much, but she was good to talk to. Straightforward, minimal bullshit. 

“Shoot.”

“Do you believe in God?”

Stratt huffed out a small laugh, the sound taking form and condensing in front of her chapped lips. “You know, your brother asked me that once. A long time ago.”

“You don’t say,” Court replied deftly, but there wasn’t much bite in it. It didn’t feel right to joke about, yet it was becoming easier to talk about now. Maybe it just hurt less to discuss it with someone who didn’t seem to care as much. 

Stratt seemed to take note of his discomfort. “Can I propose a different question, instead?”

He shrugged, leaning forward to do a push-up against the railing. “Shoot.” 

“You’ve read Boethius?” Stratt clarified, calling back to their conversation the day they first met at the port. Court nodded. “What do you make of his position on the goodness of God?”

Huh. That was a good question. Court did another push-up and Stratt waited patiently, politely giving him time to think about his response. She was good about that. 

"Well, if we take The Consolation at its word, Boethius suggests that perfect goodness equates to perfect happiness,” Court pointed out, standing upright again, this time with his back to the railing. Stratt copied his movement, standing a few feet away to his left. “Ergo, true happiness is found in God. But you run into a problem when it comes to creation, don’t you?”

Stratt hummed. The sun was setting ahead of them. “How’s that?”

“He says the world did not originate from a flawed creator. Our creator was evidently perfect, truly, incomparably good, the paragon of happiness that we too can hope to emulate,” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stratt nod, clearly following. “But here’s the question then, Miss Stratt,” Courtland turned his head to face her, punctuating the air with his finger. “Can we only be happy with a supremely good role model? Or can we accept that capital-H He makes some fucked up choices from time to time and reserve the right as humans to be pissed off, miserable loners?” 

A moment passed where all he heard was the crashing waves of the Pacific. 

Court didn’t expect what happened next. Stratt laughed. Honest to goodness laughed, and smiled at him. He’d been on board the Redline for over a week now and this was the first time he had seen that level of reaction from her. To be honest, he wasn’t sure she was capable. If it weren’t for Cassie or Claire, he probably wouldn’t be either. 

“You know, I respect you, Courtland,” Stratt patted his arm gently, excusing herself as a colleague approached. 

It was an interesting thing to say, but he was understanding her more, now. He figured that was the old woman’s way of saying she liked him. 

As for what he thought of Stratt- 

Well, the jury was still out. 

———

“Hey, Dr. Grace,” Saku said in his headset, waving at him from where he was strapped in across from him in the capsule. They had named it Amity for Grace and Rocky. “Say this for me: tadaima.” 

“Tadaima,” Ryland repeated, though he didn’t understand the Japanese word. He was so giddy with nerves that he would have said anything they told him to. 

“Okairi!” Saku and the second JAXA returnee, a woman named Hayashida, called back with enthusiasm. Everyone else started making cheering and whooping sounds into their headsets for Ryland to hear. The sounds echoed in the small space, and after a barely noticeable amount of lag, CAPCOM in both Houston and Rocky Flats started cheering as well. 

The happiness was downright infectious, but thankfully not literally, even if everyone in the capsule had donned full PPE for his sake. Ryland couldn’t help but smile as well, turning to the nearest person for explanation. “What does that mean?”

Dr. Marwan grinned, closing her eyes as she braced herself. “It means welcome home, Ryland Grace.” 

They broke through the Earth’s atmosphere traveling 35,000 feet per second.

———

The Hail Mary search and recovery dinghy bobbed up and down in the Pacific waves, and Colt Seavers with it. 

It was a beautiful clear day, not a cloud in the sky, and were the ocean not as choppy as it was, it might have been a perfect mirror reflecting the content of the heavens above. Colt wiped the sea spray from the front of his goggles, deciding he didn’t care very much. There was only one thing up there that mattered to him, and it would be coming down to meet him soon enough. 

He and Courtland were the only two civilians permitted to take part in Amity’s splashdown recovery, though he wasn’t sure a former Sierra agent could ever really be considered a civilian. Paired with a specialized recovery team, the two brothers sat in the dinghy with their headsets tuned to the same frequency, waiting for the green light. Waiting for visual.

Waiting for Ryland. 

Colt suppressed a shiver, still feeling cold in spite of the thermal wetsuit and gear. The dinghy was floating in the shadow of the Redline ship and the cool winds off the ocean weren’t helping matters much. Still, it was a small price to pay for the privilege of being on board. Considering the things he said about Stratt during her trial all those years ago, he didn’t think she would be so benevolent as to permit this. After landing on the ship two days ago, though, he got the sense that a lot of this was owed to Court. The woman seemed to hold a lot of respect toward him, and Colt didn’t say that lightly. 

He was thankful that she made the decision on her own to remain aboard the main ship while splashdown commenced. There would be no place for her on this dinghy, no need to face Ryland Grace just yet. Besides, she was suitably occupied with reviewing the contents of the probes that reached Earth nearly two weeks ago. For Eva Stratt and crew, the next phase of Project Hail Mary was already commencing. 

For Colt and his brothers, it ended here. 

For his family. 

Tucked safely in the dry bag he’d been given to stow inside his suit was a photograph he’d taken with Claire’s camera, capturing her, Cass, and Jody waving for Ryland in Cass’ hospital room. Colt couldn’t wait to show him. The girls had been so thrilled at the prospect of finally being able to meet the uncle they had heard so much about, and Colt was just as glad to have the chance to introduce them. 

After two and a half decades, it came down to this. In less than ten minutes, Colt might have his twin brother safe in his arms. 

The thought still didn’t feel real to him. The vastness of the blue ocean and infinite span of sky above Colt felt so small now when he thought about how far his twin brother had traveled to return to him. It hadn’t even served as a comfort to know that Ryland only experienced eight years of subjective time, over half of which he hadn’t even been awake for. It was too long for him to be alone. For so much of their lives, they’d only been separated by twelve minutes of time. Twelve minutes where one was in the world alone. That had been a lifetime in its own right, once. 

Their universe was a strange, cruel, and magnificent one. 

Colt felt a firm tap on his arm and turned around to face Court where he was sitting on the bench beside him, barely able to make out his eyes through the tint in their goggles. The chatter in their headsets and the drone of ocean waves made it hard to hear each others voices, but they didn’t always need to speak to communicate.

Court made a thumbs up. Colt returned it. 

They were going to be okay.

They were ready. 

They would always be ready for this. 

“Time to splashdown: three minutes and fifteen seconds,” a voice narrated in Colt’s headset, and he saw the members of the recovery team begin to map out coordinates on a tablet held at the front of the small boat. “Amity’s first parachutes are deployed.”

Colt felt his heart leap into his throat and he craned his neck up to the sky as if he would be able to see the capsule and its initial parachutes already. Even with the tinted goggles, he still had to squint a little with the sun’s glare- it wasn’t that dim to the naked eye. He couldn’t see Ryland’s capsule, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t there. It was coming. 

Three minutes.

“We’re moving out!” the team leader bellowed to be heard over their headsets, motioning at the expanse of turbulent ocean ahead. That was all the warning Colt got to brace himself as the dinghy suddenly lurched forward, speeding through the waves at high speed. In another life, he would have loved to be the one steering this thing. 

Right now, though, he was exactly where he needed to be. 

“Descent rate is optimal,” came the voice in his headset. 

“Good rates on board,” a woman’s voice affirmed, and Colt was sure his breath catching in his throat had nothing to do with the spray of salt water misting him in the face. That voice was coming from aboard Amity. She was in the capsule with Ryland. She was with his brother. 

Colt wished Ryland would say something. Just so he could hear his voice sooner. 

Court shook Colt’s shoulder hard and pointed wildly up at the sky, shouting something inaudible. As they sped toward the projected splashdown site, Colt looked up again to see three red and orange parachutes blossom up from a dark, round shape falling down from the sky. It was getting closer, and so were they.

“Main parachutes have been deployed,” the voice said obviously. “Capsule is at five thousand feet. Search and rescue beacon aboard Amity has been activated. Search and rescue team, maintain heading.”

We’re coming, Ry. 

“We see three good parachutes,” another voice confirmed. “Descent rate still looks good.” 

Colt felt his racing heartbeat fall in tandem with the thudding of the ocean waves beneath the dinghy. The capsule carrying his brother was falling gracefully toward the water right in front of him, so close he almost felt like he could reach it if he tried. They were close enough that he could see the craftsmanship of the thing- including a secured hatch on the side. 

Amity hit the water, the force sending a wave back toward the dinghy that caused it to rock so violently Colt had to grab onto Court’s arm to steady himself. His lips were starting to dry out from all the salty air and there was an odd taste in his mouth when he breathed, and his ears were ringing-

“Splashdown,” the woman from before announced. 

“Copy, splashdown.” 

Colt spared only the briefest of moments to glance down at his watch to check the time. If he was going by Mountain Time back home in Colorado, it was 4:18pm. He could have laughed. That was Court’s birthday. April 18. 

He would have to tell him later. 

The dinghy began to slow, approaching the floating capsule, and Colt found himself amazed at just how large the thing actually was. Of course it could fit a crew of five people without issue. 

Now it really was close enough to reach out and touch. It was almost impossible to resist, but he kept his arms in the dinghy until the commander told him otherwise. 

11.9 lightyears twice over. Now, all that kept Colt from Ryland were a few inches of metal. 

A second dinghy came up behind them, standing by. 

From the capsule came a grating metallic squeal. 

“Watch yourselves!” the commander shouted, waving at the team members crowded near the dinghy’s prow to back up as the capsule’s side hatch swung open, exposing the passengers to the cool, ocean air. Voices started calling out from inside, followed by whooping laughter and cheers. 

Colt was too shocked to cry, forgetting how to breathe when he realized the search and rescue team was beginning to pull the astronauts from the capsule. The people inside were talking to the team. One of those voices was Ryland- it had to be. 

He was there. 

He was here. 

The radio reports were becoming redundant now and Colt flung his helmet onto the floor of the boat, grabbing Courtland by his shoulder and shoving the both of them to the front of the small vessel. A few team members made shouts of protest and Colt would have felt bad had the commander not relented and waved them forward as two men gently eased the lower half of someone’s body through the open side hatch. 

Colt’s eyes traveled up from dirty Converse sneakers to a crisp, NASA blue uniform, and near-skeletal fingers reaching out into the open air for support, the tubing of an oxygen mask tangled around the man’s elbow. 

Nobody was taking his hands. Why weren’t they helping him?

Colt surged forward without thinking, reaching for the man’s closest hand and curling his fingers around the bony wrist as delicately as he could, feeling those thin bones seek his own without hesitation. He could feel a pulse jump beneath his fingertips, erratic, but strong.

Familiar. 

The man’s head cleared the hatch.

Ryland Grace was out of the Amity, blinking rapidly against the brightness of a sun he hadn’t been this close to in-

No. Colt was done with counting those lost years. The time that matter started now. 

A sharp wail broke the air and he couldn’t tell if it was him or Court- maybe both of them at once- as Colt found himself tearing his brother away from the hands that held him, gathering him up in his arms at the same time Court wrapped his around the both of them, almost knocking them all off balance.

Suddenly, there were hands at Colt’s back, and he almost flinched away before understanding what was happening.

The team was holding them all steady. 

Weak, trembling fingers curled into the front of Colt’s thermal gear and he felt tears hit his neck- not his own this time. Those hands had saved the world. 

Those hands had bandaged his knee when he crashed his bike into a tree in their backyard.

Those hands had fixed his tie before he went on his first date in high school. 

Those hands had brought him takeout and cooked for him while he recovered from surgery, too angry at himself to allow anyone else in the world to see him. 

Those hands were a twin of his own, a little less scarred, and a little younger now. 

Those hands were warm and alive.

He pressed his face against the side of his brother’s hair, holding his shaking body close enough that he could speak right into his ear. Close enough for Court to hear as well. 

“Hey, Ry,” Colt whispered to his brother, no longer turning up to the sky to reach him. “It’s me.”