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I know my body's shutting down on me.
I don't like to call it 'dying', even though by all definitions that's what it is. A long, gradual death, one that'll take weeks or months, but it's still dying. Call me a coward — the word terrifies me. If I put it as "my body's starting to lose it's strength" or "I feel like my time's running out" it feels gentler. Easier to digest, I suppose. Entirely unscientific, though, and the part of my brain that got me the title 'Doctor' protests often and profusely against it. The emotional part of my brain, however, likes to make sweeping statements about the scurvy and beriberi imminently taking hold which soften the blow, and that's the part of my brain that is the loudest nowadays.
One of the things I hate most, I think, is feeling so useless. I don't think I've ever been a person that's been okay with not being able to do anything. On my best days it's only a struggle to walk, and those are few and far between now. Oh, and the sheer level of brain fog! My words come out slower and more stuttered than I appreciate, and the laptops have taken the brunt of even the simplest calculations; I forget where I am, sometimes, if I've been out of it for too long or come up from a particularly bad vomiting spell — those are the scariest moments. Rocky has to remind me "Grace is still on Hail Mary. Still on route to Erid, with Rocky! All is good good good!". I theorise the last part is to comfort himself just as much as it is to comfort me.
God… sometimes I'll stare out one of the windows, into the endless vacuum of our galaxy and see all those stars watching us head to Erid, and I wonder what I did to deserve him. I'll admit, I never did well with relationships of any sort, in my previous life. My friendships never really stuck with anyone, nor did anything last romantically. And it looked to easy to everyone else! That's what hurt more, I think. They managed to well, always knew the perfect response to make the other smile or simply whatever they needed, never looking like they had to make up the steps to a dance they know nothing about. Heck, I never gave up trying to learn the dance; I spent 35 years trying to figure it out. Still, 'outlier' was as much as I ever amounted for myself, hanging on to superficial friendships or professional connections or the fulfilment teaching my kids gave me. It's not like I'm not smart either, I'm a molecular biologist, and I'm versed pretty damn well in physics too, and you ask me to talk about them? Well, it's like I'm a whole other person! Only the rest of the time, I felt…inept, somehow. As if everyone else got the memo on How To Be A Social Creature 101, and I just missed out.
I never understood other people, other humans, really, and then again I never felt understood in turn — but Rocky? Hell, it's like I was myself again. I'm strange; he's strange. We work like a charm.
There's little he can do, of course, but he takes care of me as much as he can. Setting him up to be a registered and recognised crew member to Mary (which was far too complicated for something that wasn't even necessary, but, hey, it felt pretty damn good when we figured it out! It has also served as a reminder on why I did not go into Computer Science… ) back when we were still trying to solve the astrophage problem has been an honest blessing… when he doesn't abuse those privileges. But, yes, Rocky being able to handle most of the day-to-day checks independently with some of my pointers — or, lets say, Rocky deciding he will be handling most of the day-to-day checks about three months ago under the insistence that memory is perfect, will learn and remember quick, Grace will not fall around ship any more — I admit, has made things much easier on me by not having to face the pain of moving around.
Well, not only that. One lovely little side effect of malnutrition and every other issue raving through my body is the fact that I feel stupidly cold all the time now. Like, the cold that makes you think someone cranked your blood down to Absolute Zero. The quilt that Earth came together to make, the sea of colours and symbols that hold the world's blessings, lives on me, essentially. But sweet Jesus, it is nothing compared to the heater that Rocky is.
When things started getting noticeably bad, he didn't like the idea of leaving my side at all. Neither is it like we're afforded much room on the Hail Mary at all, but it's like he's terrified that if he lets me out of his sight, I'll slip away from him for good. I could almost find it endearing, if I didn't see how constantly terror-struck he was. He tries to play calm and collected, as if I can't see right through him — but he'll bolt to me if something even slightly odd rears it head amongst the pool of symptoms I'm wading through, keeping up his ministrations as he tries to figure out what's wrong, despite my insistence that it's nothing for concern; or, when I really should be asleep, I can hear him chittering to himself "Will be okay, will be okay, will not happen to him what happened to them" .
Most of my time is spent slumped against his domes now sitting up unassisted takes effort, which is my offering back to ease his nerves. Still, he's turned to mostly rambling around in his hamster ball nowadays for reasons he did not specify, but I believe were so he could get to me quickly if anything truly bad did happen.
You know, xenonite does it's job really damn well. It can keep Rocky's 200+°C, twenty-nine times stronger atmosphere snugly inside, without heating up my weak and inferior atmosphere or cooling down from it, and manages all that while being maybe…one centimetre thick. Mary is also very good at keeping their climate at room temperate, and for reasons that should be very obvious (see: there is no air in outer space, and I am currently in said outer space), has no need for heating or air conditioning facilities. If there ever happens to be a problem with the climate control for whatever reason, well, go get your engineer and wait for them to sort it out. When your body is viciously ill and feels like it's permanently freezing, you know, it's really deeply incredibly annoying not having a heat source.
Cue my second-greatest ever discovery:
One time, I tried to clamber my way up to the console to double-check the navigation systems, even though there was zero reason to believe Mary would've gone off course. Right: I will fully and of my own free will admit that this was out of pure paranoia from my own making and nothing else — poor physical health doesn't really set you up for the most logical thinking patterns, sue me. In any case, my legs protested insistently against that (as did Rocky, and I really should've learnt by know that he knows best) and, sooner than I'm willing to admit, I ended my short journey crumpled against the wall (thank you, oncoming osteomalacia!).
Everything within and around me reeled. I've gone through this sensation a hundred times by now, but god, it never makes it feel any less awful. From between my hands clamped over my face, the entire bleary space was caught in a constantly morphing white, save for the earthy smudge of xenonite-enclosed Rocky clambering over to me. Faintly, I heard a mixture of chastising and concerned notes coming from him unendingly. Perhaps it was the subconscious comfort of knowing he was there with me now, maybe it was the vertigo, but for whatever reason my knees took this as the perfect sign to give in and give up. I collapsed fully to the floor. Really unflatteringly. He practically sprinted over at that, his vocalisations beginning to peak into a crescendo — I blindly reached out and felt my hand make contact with that familiar, smooth surface. Slowly, I wrenched my upper body up, and draped against his ball.
Some combination of "Foolish foolish foolish, illness make Grace act stupider than normal which is why Rocky tell Grace not to move, Grace act like Grace want to die, Grace not allowed to die," hit my ears. None of it truly sunk in as much as he probably hoped it would, given the diplopia-induced disorientation…and the new-found appreciation that hit me like a truck in that moment. That Rocky is so warm when he presses against his barrier.
I'm fairly certain I was still being disciplined when I gave in and wrapped myself completely around the ball. Shame barely pricked at the back of my mind — every urge that crossed my brain told me to stay like that for as long as I physically could. His ceaseless notes finally stopped for a moment, and I could feel him shift around, unsurely.
"Hug, question?" he ventured.
"Kin…da. Oh, gosh, stay like that, you're so nice and warm…" I mumbled unhelpfully.
"Eridian body temperature is not new information." He did not say it unkindly.
"Yeah, but…it's cold. I'm cold, I mean. Symptom," I replied, before my words gave up.
He chirped sadly and ever slightly curiously at that.
So, that's how I end up here. Swamp of mattresses and and whatever blankets I can find piled onto the floor. Rocky in his ball, mushed up against me. Myself, exactly where I want to be. Ever since we both learned his warmth is like toasty heaven to me, he has been on me like velcro if he can help it. He even did his engineering magic(!) to make his ball a little bigger so he can comfortably tinker with something whilst inside it, doting on me (I'm fairly certain this ball variant emits a sliver more heat than his old one did?). It's all so very…there's a lot, to be honest. I don't want him to devote everything to me. Not at the sacrifice of caring for himself, or even simply keeping himself sane. Selfishly, I want nothing more than to have him in my arms forever. Then he'll hum contently and nuzzle in closer, and the selfish part of me wins again.
If I ever did say I was 'at peace' we'd know damn well I'm a liar, but with these kinds of moments I truly want to believe that, no matter whatever is next for me, I'd feel fulfilled with what I've done. Like, I helped save two entire freaking planets and intelligent species! I'm the human that's been the deepest into space and did that at the same time! I mean, what the actual heck. If that's not 'viable for being mentioned in every textbook that will ever be made ever' stuff, I don't know what is. Not to mentioned I'm surrounded by every resource I could ever need for one of my life's greatest loves, which I have used and overused to hell and back for purely my own pleasure when I still had the strength for it (oh, if only Ryland the PhD student was were — he would be in tears.). Most importantly, I'm with the one who is the most innately important being to me, of everyone I have known. My best friend, kindred soul even, alive and healthy and just about hopeful next to me.
I wish I could say I could go without any regrets.
Blearily, I arise from a state of half-unconsciousness. The drawings calling me and my long-deceased comrades 'heroes' gaze at me from the periphery. I kind of want to cry.
The cold, white gaze of Mary's walls greets me first. All the lifetimes of things that I witnessed, went through, was complicit in have never stopped weighing on me, and now, sick and bed-bound, I have no other choice than to let myself think about it. No excuses of saving Earth, no desperate rescue mission for Rocky before only a corpse was left of his brilliance, no more trying to fend off the looming risk of malnourishment. There's nothing else but to sit with it. And I don't know what I'm meant to do with it all. I really don't know.
I lived and worked off false bravery for months. That I thought I was some hero, volunteering for a suicide mission to save my kids' lives, to save humanity. Not that my own unmitigated terror paralysed me into cowardice. Not that they held me down and stabbed that sedative into my neck, because the decision had already been made for me and I chose to take the painful way out. What sort of hero can I call myself. There's light-years of distance and twenty-six years of time between us, but every time I think to that moment, this horrid lightheaded numbness takes over and I can feel those pitiless hand prints on my back again.
Can I say I hate Stratt; no, I don't. Not truly. She never had a choice but to be ruthless. We did things to the world that, even if the Sun returns to full luminosity, means the Earth will never recover all that it had before. My life was just another one of these things. Things will heal over, yes, but what was lost cannot be replaced. And sometimes, I let myself sink into Rocky's insistent optimism that getting to Erid won't be the end for me, that something will be figured out and, somehow, I might not just survive, but live. Other times I vomit stomach acid into the toilet and lie on the bathroom floor for an hour, in shock at even the thought that I was forced to my death. Sometimes I can pretend — convince my brain that it's some major hypothetical. I'm not really in my body. This isn't really happening; I'm not trillions of kilometres from any thing I could call home. If I wanted to, I could swim back up and take in the views of my commute across San Francisco that I thought I'd see for the rest of my life. It gets cold on the bare floor, though, and I have to peel myself off, easing the ache myself by trying to remember what sun felt like on my face. I can't, though; when I think of Earth, in those moments, all that I can feel is the sense of total powerlessness, dread, terror. An absolute violation.
It's like a lake of a thousand thoughts and feelings wallows in my brain. I want to feel safe again. God, and I hate myself for being so selfish, so very, very badly. I built my entire life back together, piece by little piece, under the assumption I was the kind of intelligent and selfless that would sacrifice everything of his own to salvage a future he'd never get to see. All for me to not even be close to that man, in the end. How long have I stewed with the fact that he never even existed? And, you see, I can never make myself work it out for good. No matter how much I force myself to work over it, sit with it objectively and comb through my actions and memories like an adult, the resolution never gets closer in sight. Have I accepted the man I used to be, or will I dedicate the rest of my life to berating him? Over and over, fifty times a god-damn week…maybe some day I'll figure some of it out; maybe I'll spend the rest of my short life turning it over. But this knowing of who I was, and never being able to share it, it's suffocating.
I know for a fact I can't…leave, without getting my conscience clear. Hiding it from Rocky so persistently certainly didn't help, but shame will work diligently to make you stuff away it's source as deep as possible. Even the idea of keeping such secrets from him makes me even more ashamed, and the vicious cycle feeds itself once again. So I have still been a coward, up to this very moment.
I need to tell him. I've known this since I remembered. And still, every time I've tried to, because I really have tried to, the confession refuses to come out.
Rocky isn't fidgeting with his current project anymore — I'm fairly certain he's just been disassembling and reassembling the same thing, over and over — not even really moving, and yet hasn't said anything. Waiting, most likely, or deliberating; it's unlikely he hasn't noticed I'm awake. He's intimately aware of how my body behaves at all times, and yet isn't doing his usual gentle, teasing probing. He doesn't do it an awful lot anymore. Maybe he can tell this is a bad day. It feels weird, being treated different when people know you're seriously sick.
A small tap resounds: one, two, three times from the xenonite panel next to my ear. His little "hey there". It sends my thoughts to a standstill, like a metal shutter slammed down.
The silence that fills the room after feels thick and heavy. I shift, slowly and painfully, so I'm not curled around him anymore, and turn my head to face him. A smile tugs at my cheeks instinctively. I return a weak, tap, tap, tap.
Rocky perks up at it. Tenderness curls around my ribs.
"Estimated arrival to Erid has decreased by 336 hours. Is good good good! Grace is excited, question?"
I give a breathy, pleased chuckle. "Whey, that's awesome, buddy."
I want to be pleased at the news. It's good, it's really freaking good news! He must've done the calculations whilst I was asleep — well, more like a state of drifting in and out of a daze, whatever — and he's always been damn spot on with them in the past. So, I should be happy. I could be happy for him, at least. Yet I know what Rocky means by that. We get to Erid sooner, and Grace is going to be okay! Doctors will figure out how to heal Grace and all will be well! I find it harder to be hopeful, these days. Really, I do try my best, it's just…well. Not even because I don't want to get my preemptive hopes up, it's…a persistent bleakness that hangs over me. Sometimes it's quieter, others it'll become overpowering, and it'll snap from one to the other like its nothing. All like a heavy smog in brain, that trickles down my oesophagus to sit in my chest. Maybe I should've checked if there was sertraline packed on board.
When we get to Erid, obviously their priorities will be wanting our solution to the astrophage: then, assessing Rocky's physical and mental state, asking where the heck his ship and crew is — the list goes on. With all this, of course, they'll have to deal with the pure unreality of what that thing with him is. The obviously organic life thing that looks like its actively watching it's life flash before its eyes. Sure, they'd want to study the thing, but even with Eridians perfect memories and incredible mental capabilities, they would sure as heck struggle with learning everything on how to heal it. Rocky would demand only the treatment in my best interest — I know this above anything else — but could they even figure out every deficiency and ailment blighting my body, synthesise all the infusions and vitamins I need whilst the damage is still reversible?
Jeez, Grace, you sound like a real ray of sunshine to be around right now.
He titters around a little, shifting his carapace oddly, waving around me with an arm. "Grace is terrible at hiding thoughts, feelings. Show everywhere on body."
"Well, there's your answer on why I never got my big break into Hollywood," I shoot back at him, stretching my spine as best I can.
"Terrible joke." Still, I swear I heard a lilt of humour in his tone, though. "Rocky…" he makes a wavering noise. "Rocky is just worried. Apologies for being antsy."
God. Guilt twinges deep in my stomach. The last thing I want him to be is worrying about me more, on top of everything else.
"I'm just being dumb and paranoid and everything else. My stupid human brain, Rock, nothing else. You don't need to worry. It'll be okay, I promise." You don't even believe that yourself, Grace. "Just think, you'll get to be home sooner than we thought!"
Instantly, he perks up. "Home, yes, yes, yes, want to be home again! Want to stretch legs and feel natural ground and know Erid will be safe. Want to rest when we get to surface more, actually. Will sleep with Grace whilst Eridian doctors take care of us."
"Eh, they're not gonna compare to the five star treatment I get here," I chuckle. "Hey, and you'll get to see Adrian!"
"Adrian…" His chords take a rare tilt. "Yes, yes, yes. I want to see them soon."
I know what that tone means. Shakily, I bring up a hand and gently stroke the side of his xenonite. Instantly, even though neither of us can feel it, he leans into my touch.
"They're waiting for you, Rocky." As if I could imagine someone ever giving up on someone like him. "Trust me, bud, I know it. Feel it in my bones." I attempt (point of emphasis here is attempt) a wink.
"Grace bones weak, would not trust feelings from them."
I properly laugh at that, as close as to a full-body laugh I'm gonna be getting any time soon.
"Hey, my instincts are pristine, don't you know. I've never felt more alert."
He laughingly chitters at that. God, I love being the one to make him laugh.
"And anyway, they're all, and I mean everyone's, gonna adore you. You're gonna be called the bravest Eridian in the whole history of Eridiankind for, like, ever. It's all gonna be great." I pull the quilt up and over me, until it's grasped by my neck and I'm revelling in the warmth flooding my body again. Giving in, my eyes fall shut, and the hint of sleep dances at the edge of my mind again.
I hear Rocky chirp and whine next to me. Is that bashfulness?
"Grace is…too kind." His voice has raised an octave or so.
I smile again. It's the most I've truly smiled for the past…gosh, I don't think I remember. "Not at all, buddy. Just the truth," I say, contentment settling in me again.
It was such a small moment, but I feel the best I have in weeks. Maybe, just maybe, I can hope things are gonna be okay.
"Grace is bravest Human in all of Humankind."
The thrum of dread comes, slicing through me like a spear through the heart. Cold horror spreads itself into every corner of the room. It is inescapable. I will hate myself for that day until I die.
My mouth is stickily dry, my throat feels closed up. It's as if the walls are waiting for my response. Even though there's no need for one, no, I just accept it or brush it off and it would be fine. Why am I making this out to be some great, terrible expectation?
Because you know if you continue to lie, it'll kill you, Grace.
"I wouldn't say that, honestly." It comes out, as if something else spoke for me. Worse, it's the most honest I've been about this in a very, very long time.
A sudden, surprised sound comes from him and he taps around to get a better look at me. "Sickness is making Grace stupid, stupid, stupid. What point to minimising self. Is unnecessary, untrue."
God damn it.
I should've pretended to be asleep, even if I know that he'd know it wasn't genuine. I should've tugged him closer and enjoyed the warmth I had and ignored the cold fear in my gut. Anything but this corner I've backed myself into. If only I just could get up and lock myself away from this forever.
Daggers are being stared into me — he knows my heart beat is raised, after all. Every instinct tells me to hide. Wrap myself in a cocoon of bed spreads and never come out until I've metamorphosed into a better man.
"It's not…I'm not that brave, Rocky. Not really."
Pinpricks of ease scatter throughout my conscience. Oh, it feels so good even hinting at letting this go. Yet the only thing my mind can think is "turn back, abort, you are making a terrible mistake. An awful, terrible mistake he won't forgive you for."
I feel everything, every bit of control slipping through my fingers and the feel of him focusing this entire attention on to me and the urge to vomit at what comes next.
"How is Grace not brave, question?"
He's got a tone on him. His judgy, attitude tone that I'd snark back at him for, usually. Instead, I stare into the ceiling and bite my incisors into my tongue. It's childish, really, and pointless. I can be as indignant as I want and keep my mouth firmly shut, he won't leave it. Not now.
"Grace saved planets. Plural. Put himself in harm's way many time on mission to help save planets. Gave up home so Rocky could go home and save Erid. Is not brave, question?"
Rocky is an entirely grander, specialer level of important to me than anybody else ever will. No shot I chose his life over mine. It wasn't a simple choice — I sat with that one for a day, walking around and around the Hail Mary like a ghost — but it was always an obvious one. I never was going to choose any other route except for that one, was I?
Out of my periphery, I see him start to waver, twitching his legs a few times. Uncertainty? That one worries me. What the hell does he want to say?
"Grace chose to go on mission, even when he was told he would die in space."
That lightheaded numbness hits my brain.
I'm stuck lying in a stupor for a few moments before I sit up suddenly, clutching at my forearms in a desperate bid to bring myself back down to reality. We can't go there, we can't go there. Come on Grace, we don't want this. I swallow to fight the oncoming surge of nausea.
He rolls a few inches closer uneasily, about to press against the ball and into me. My hand catches it near instantly, keeping him from me. Rocky freezes up. He could keep pushing forward, if he wanted to. I wouldn't be strong enough to stop him at the peak of my health. Still, he stops.
"No, just— please don't. Don't do that."
He steps back. More and more he keeps moving away. No, too far, the distance he leaves feels freezing cold. Instantly I want him back, and yet I couldn't bear the idea of someone touching me right now. I just…cannot afford lose him. Still, the way he holds himself looks more apprehensive than hurt.
"Did not…did not mean to upset Grace. Know that death, Earth is…difficult topic. Apologies."
His kindness, his unwavering, blind kindness.
"Oh, god, Rocky, I—" I can't think and yet my brain insists on filling me with a thousand, horrible ways this will end. He is apologising, to me. Of all people. I rub my hands over my face and dig them into my thinning hair. "—You've done nothing wrong."
He doesn't ease up.
There's a growing, grasping sensation within me. Like drowning. I'm scared. I'm so scared, because there is only one way to take this thread now. And admitting who I was will make it feel all too real, and the Ryland Grace that once existed will not end with me, will not end with Stratt and the hand prints on my back, he'll be known. I couldn't bear it, knowing I wouldn't be able smother away the fact that I was so selfish for any longer.
I don't feel quite like I'm in my body as I lower my hands to my lap, blinking ahead, zombielike. Everything around me feels distant. Do it.
"I've needed to tell you something for a while." I mumble dumbly.
He tilts his carapace slowly, and the tensity seems to ebb away into curiosity. Or plain confusion. It's probably confusion.
"And I'm so sorry for all this."
"Yes, question?"
My lip starts to quiver and I bite it down immediately. I gather everything I can, grasping to get back any sense of presence in my body. Doing everything to steel my nerves. My mouth opens and closes a few times, stupidly. I lick my lips. Squeeze my eyes shut, and reopen them. Let me be brave, let me be brave. He deserves the whole picture of who I am.
"I didn't— want to come. I didn't want to come on the mission."
Shakily I exhale and towers are crashing down in my mind. Crescents have been digging into my palms and I only just noticed the sting. It's as though a constant dead-weight has been lifted from my shoulders, but the after ache still shoots through my body. My body slumps. I rest my forehead on the heels of my hand.
Somewhere, Rocky whirrs quietly. A moment passes; I hear the ball slowly bump towards me. It's only a little, but he still bridges a tiny bit of the distance.
"Understand." My heart freezes. "Rocky did not want to go on mission either. Wished that mission wouldn't ever have been needed. Did not want to leave home. Never wanted to leave Adrian. But knew I needed to. Like Grace knew. It was painful."
Oh, god. He still thinks I was good.
I am a weak and stupid and desperate man. My throat seizes shut, chest wracking with sobs. Somehow, I fumble my glasses off my face and they disappear into the wash of colours piled around me. Instead, I press my face into my hands, like a mask. It feels even more pathetic. I know he'll still be able to hear me.
That lightheadedness comes in a slightly different manner. Heart palpitations aren't a stranger to me, and yet each time feels like a uniquely terrible, all-consuming dread. I should know my body wouldn't cooperate, not give the reprieve for me to go with dignified confession. Even worse: I just desperately want Rocky to comfort me. The one who may never see me in the same kindly light ever again. I'm like a child — a child crying it's not fair, it's not fair over and over, like it'll change the outcome.
I'm deaf to the world around me, the only real things are my cold palms around my face, some tears starting to dry on my cheeks. Everything instinctual urges me to stay in this numb little bubble. You don't have to face the consequences if you don't come back up to the real world, Grace. Better to stay right there, Grace. This is the perfect liminality for you — don't worry about how there's someone waiting for you back in reality. Here, there's nothing for you to lose. Something in my periphery nudges me to look up.
Rocky taps on the ground frantically, squarely in front of me. He squeaks like he's been struck.
"Grace? Grace? Grace?" It's persistent. "Please, please, please. What is wrong, question?"
I think my head might be filled with static.
"Not like that, Rocky. It's not like that at all." I wipe my eyes and exhale. I can't make myself look at him, not for more than a few moments.
"Do not understand."
He doesn't say anything after that. Just stops tapping, which makes it worse, I think. Tension is rife through his body. His attention is focused solely on me. There is no way out now. There hasn't been for some time.
Do something Grace. I swear to God, you need to do something. Anything.
"I didn't just…I refused to go on the mission. Refused, Rocky. I said no."
A shrill, surprised sound escape him, before he cuts it off and recomposes himself. A spike of terror still shoots through me. He shifts backwards, before taking cautious steps forward.
"But…you are here."
I snort, humourlessly. "Yeah. Duh."
He contemplates, then clicks his leg twice. "Grace was scared, question?" He pauses again.
A half-hearted grimace, even as my lips waver again. "I didn't…I didn't wanna die. Even if it meant it was just gonna happen on Earth later, in a slower, painful way. I couldn't…I just couldn't. I couldn't bring myself to give my life to…that kind of mission."
It feels as though I'm being purged of something. Like with each laboured breath I exhale, I let out this poison that's been running through me for too long, and cycle in not an antidote, but…I don't know. Something that feels more like a penance. Fresh tears fall, and I let them run down until they drip off my chin.
"…Grace changed mind, question? Or was convinced, question?"
"…Not quite, on that last one."
Please don't make me say it. Please don't make me have to play back that day again.
"What happened then, question?"
Subdue and detach. That is the only way you're getting through this. "Um…the original scientists that volunteered for the mission, and were always the top choices, they…there was an accident. And they passed away." My hands clasp together and my forehead presses into my knuckles. "Like, the primary scientist, the replacement in case something like that happened, just…gone. No way to save them."
He trills severely. "Bad, bad, bad."
"Yeah. Bad, bad, bad."
"Did Grace know scientists, question?" His tonation wavers.
"A little." I sniff. "Taught them bits and pieces, about astrophage and the rest. I didn't get to teach much after getting roped into Project Hail Mary, so I enjoyed the moments I got."
The faces of Dubois and Shapiro have never been crystal clear in my head. Their features float around and never quite stick. To be fair, it's like that with most faces from my past, aside from a select few that have burned their way in — but some guilt comes tagged along with my amnesia around them. They deserve a better remembrance. What I do remember is my admiration for them; my lack of appreciation for how candid they could be with certain topics, yes, but I always thought the highest of the high of them. Their sheer intelligence and their sheer bravery.
"I need you to understand—" I look up again, staring beyond Rocky, "—this screwed everyone. Every single person on Earth. We didn't have the free room to buffer the consequences like you guys did. It was a matter of, if we even took the few months to scout a new astronaut, assess if they fit all the criteria, and train them on everything they needed to know, the death toll would go skyrocketing up."
And you knew this, Grace. Intimately. The only person who knew it better was Stratt. Selfish man.
"The only scientist who knew everything there was to know about the Project was…me."
"So Grace was under…obligation." He sounds sad. I wish he didn't.
"There was a meeting." I sigh. "They laid everything out. I got three hours to decide."
"Three hours, question?!" He clatters closer still, as if he's propelled by some outside force. Insistently he taps, like he's trying to get the best view of me he can.
I rub my eye. "It was generous of them, in the situation. They could've just made me give my decision then and there."
"No. No, no, no. Not how this works—"
"And I said no!" I hurl back before he can finish. "I knew everything that would happen if I refused, and I said no." There it is, Grace. "That's it."
I fingernails dig into the back of the neck. Please let this end. I can't do this anymore. Nausea twists a lump in my throat.
"And Grace has still not explained why Grace is here!" he finally snaps.
I think this is what I expected. What I wanted, maybe. Some expression of anger, just anything, directed at me for this. Something I deserved. It does something right, at least. Deep within, something finally yields to being let out.
"Because they weren't actually offering me a choice, Rocky."
He goes still. I can't read him, and that small relief before turns to dread again.
"Do not understand," he finally says. His voice is small and scared.
"I was always going on the mission no matter what I said. I just…made it harder for myself by not going willingly." Please don't make me go back there again. Tears bubble again. I think this time I really will fall apart. I turn my head away, resting it on a palm.
"Please do not hide." His tone is gentle again. It makes me want to cry even more. "Grace…please tell me what happened. Rocky is just worried, worried, worried."
Be brave, Grace. Be brave for him. I manage to bite back the tears from overpowering me this time, even as my voice shakes. "Um…I've explained what a coma is to you, yeah?"
"Correct. Is state of profound unconsciousness." He seems to psyche himself up to say something, then draws back last minute.
Oh, god I can't. No, no. Please, I can't. "Because I refused the mission, and I tried to flee after I realised I was going on the mission, whether I wanted to or not…"
I think I'm going to faint. My throat closes up; Rocky clicks forward, minusculely. How did I just notice he's shaking?
"…they forcibly induced me into the coma." A gasping sob escapes me. "Held me down and drugged me. Oh, fuck."
I have witnessed Rocky at what I can only imagine has been some of the most awful moments of his life. I have seen him when he has nearly lost everything, when his entire body was in excruciating pain. Each howl and cry and whimper he let out have seared themselves into my memory; they have haunted me.
The shriek he lets out now, shrill and rattling, takes their place alongside them.
How quickly he rushes forward into my arms — I open them, immediately and instinctually. How hard he slams into me, it sends pain shooting through my body and I don't care. I grapple my arms around his dome, trying to stop myself from toppling over, maybe trying to stop him from leaving.
The surface of xenonite is entirely smooth and lacks purchase, yet I still dig my nails in, just for that extra sense of reality. He is here with me. He presses right against the barrier, into my body; his warmth, it's like coming home. It shoots through my body and makes me feel alive. The sobs start with full force again, if they ever stopped. Gingerly, I press my wet cheek into one of the panels and allow my eyes to fall shut. Not out of shame now; my brain's like a skittish animal, peeking out of it's burrow, asking is it safe to come out? That's it…I feel safe. Almost peaceful.
My body is wrecked. I doubt it will recover any time soon, if at all. So, Rocky's warmth is a lifeline for me. It's not literally keeping me alive, yes, but if here weren't here — weren't so kind, so loving — my life would be inconceivably miserable. Perhaps I would have given up entirely. Hell, it's only his insistence that makes me hope I might see another day.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He sings back to me, a deep hum I can sink in to. Strangely, I can't translate it, nor pick out bits and pieces of language. I think it might be the equivalent of making a soothing noise at someone.
Underneath the hum, though, I feel him bristle. A subdued bristle; but one I still caught. I tense and draw back slowly. Still, my hands linger on a panel each side for far too long, before conceding and dropping into my lap. Now I let myself look at him properly. He's drawn back too, and it's clear all over him that he's…distressed? Agitated? Something is wrong, blatantly, it's not just my paranoia talking. He trembles (it's minuscule, but constant) all over, and barely audible sounds escape him as he takes meaningless steps backwards, forwards, backwards again. And in the reflection of his xenonite, I just barely see myself. Blurily, I watch that Ryland Grace, before fishing my glasses out of the sea around me again. Now, that's better.
I see a face overtaken with pallor: my eyes dead tired, my skin looking far too worn in, the dark circles across them. There's only a glimmer of familiarity in this man. He looks unbelievably sad. It's hard to imagine this is a face that belongs to me.
A piercing stomp snaps me out of my stupor. Now drawn back from me, Rocky isn't near any level of calm. A constant back and forth, back and forth.
"No, oh no, no, no. Unacceptable. Do not understand. Do not understand—"
It goes on. To be brutally honest, the relief that floods me is like ecstasy. All the weight, that horrible secret parasite that fed off my shame for years, it's out. Not gone, but not hanging over me like a noose anymore. It's pure relief, knowing there's no more hiding it anymore. This is better than any drug. If only I didn't have that constant pinprick in my stomach that whispered how this conversation is still not over.
The finally stops pacing, and I know now that his attention is on me. "Grace was sent to die." His words are said so numbly.
"Yeah." Great work in the conversation department Grace, honestly. I just cannot think of anything else to say. What can you say, to all this?
"Horrible. Oh, horrible, horrible, horrible. Grace…why Grace not tell Rocky, question?" he urges, his desperation palpable. He nudges forward like he wants to press into my arms again, then hesitates. The motion nearly kills me. I make the next move.
"It was me or millions, y'know, Rock? Heck, billions," I say, simply.
"No, no, no, do not change topic—"
"And still, I…I just couldn't do it," I push on. "I was scared. And I let being scared take over the fact that none of us were in a place to afford being scared. I was a coward, Rocky."
He trills, confused. "New word, question? Before stating Rocky's name."
"Huh?" I'm more surprised it hasn't come up in a conversation before, really. "It means a person who isn't brave. Someone that always tries to avoid danger, or difficulty, even if it's selfish."
"Oh. Understand." He visibly droops, as if it was him that was called it. "Grace is not coward," He stomps twice for emphasis.
"I was, Rocky."
"Not now."
I hope I am. God, I really hope I am. Each day I pray, deep down, that part of my old self isn't there anymore.
"You're too nice to me," I reply, softly laughing for a reason I don't understand.
"Untrue, untrue, untrue. Grace did things no other human will do, to save Earth and Erid." He lets the moment rest, and I want to sob from sheer relief. "Will ask again, why did Grace not tell Rocky this, question? Why not immediately, question?" He seems to stop himself and think. "Amnesia."
"Bingo." I rap his ball for emphasis. "That final piece only came back to me just before we said goodbye, and, well, it didn't seem like a great time to bring it up. I wanted my best friend to remember me kinda positively, at least."
"Thought Grace seemed odder than usual then." Oh, damn you Eridians and your perfect memory! "Assumed cause was anxiety or general sadness at parting, but couldn't stop thinking something…more was irregular. Now I now." He steps closer again, pushing carapace towards me a little. "Still wish that I…knew sooner. Why hide?"
Why indeed. A lump builds in my throat again. "I thought I was good for so long."
"Grace is good. You do not listen. Even after remembering, Grace chose to be brave and save Erid, save Rocky. Even when home was what Grace wanted most since beginning. Grace was kind, selfless, brave after remembering. Grace is not terrible human he thinks he is."
I feel stripped away, picked clean, laid bare. Fresh tears escape me. "And I was— I was so scared of what you'd think I was. I couldn't bear the thought of..."
I let my words sit, waiting for him to take them how he wants, looking to the side of him with distant eyes. It might be wishful thinking, but I think he'll understand what I mean. He lets out a sequence heart-shatteringly saddened chords and nestles himself right against my legs. Slowly, I let myself turn back to him.
"Rocky cannot pretend to know who Grace was on Earth, but I know who Grace is now. Whoever that Grace is, was, becomes, Rocky will always, always, always love him. This is a promise." He leans into the ball, thereby pressing into my knee. "Grace did not deserve to leave home like that. Even though Earth had no other way…it was not fair."
Something in me finally, finally breaks. I will never, not with the number of the years I have left, ever figure out what I did to deserve meeting him — in our impossibly large universe, how I ever met someone so kind, so gentle, so sincere. I grapple Rocky into my arms, feeling him purr underneath me and his warmth press as close as he can. He's here, he's here. My saving grace. It feels almost foolish to think I feared anything.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you…" I whisper again endlessly, my tears soaking us both. I'll never be able to truly encapsulate how I feel, not in words. Nonetheless — I could not be more certain he knows.
"I am here," he sing-songs, and he hums that soothing song once again. I close my eyes and let myself sink into it, properly this time. I feel Rocky relax under me.
We stay like that; Rocky bustled and loafed up against me, myself curled around and cuddled into his ball, in spite of my protesting back. There's no need for words. Each shift and sound, our mutual presence is all the other needs to know is there. The relief, his warmth makes me feel alive, more alive than I've felt in months. Gosh, I feel good again. Like I want to hope. It's not lonely inside my head or on this ship anymore, finally. I'm home, with him.
For some reason, I find myself compelled to draw back for a moment, pretending it's to stretch my spine.
So for a few fleeting moments, I watch my reflection again. I still don't quite recognise the man I see looking back, but it's not from a dissociative daze anymore. No, I'm not afraid of how different he looks to how I remembered myself for so long. Rocky will never know who I used to be on Earth, of course; likewise I will never be the man I was on Earth — not again, no, he can't come back. I have changed. I smile, and I think I fit this man just fine.