Chapter Text
Ryland Grace did not remember much of his journey back to Earth. The time dilation, malnutrition, and isolation had maybe made him a little mad. He was sure he had watched a lot of television and movies in the weeks, months, years that passed as the Hail Mary navigated her way home. Played a lot of Super Mario, got really good at Solitaire and Minesweeper.
He had slept most of the time, especially towards the end. The coma slurry (or curry, as he had seen fit to call it, so at least he could fantasize of real food) had lasted him towards the end, but just barely. He had diminished his portions from three-quarters to two-thirds to half the needed intake over time, trying to convince himself he was getting used to the cramps and gurgles of his stomach, but the constant fatigue was the only respite.
Grace had considered reentering the coma but…he just couldn’t do it. It wasn’t just the fear he would join Yáo and Ilyukhina amongst the stars, sure his luck would finally run out. Logically, he assured himself, he would need to stay conscious in case the ship ran into any trouble. There certainly wasn’t anyone else to do it. And he didn’t know if he could modify the nannybot to ration the curry to keep him alive the whole trip. And…he just couldn’t. So he didn’t.
Doctor Captain Ryland Grace was pretty sure he had talked most of the trip home. Awake, he would mutter to an unseen audience. Sometimes it was his Life Science students as he explained the importance of checking on their microbiome breeder tanks regularly, even if after a year and a half of his journey home he was certain everything was stable and contained. There’s no such thing as what? Silence greeted him. That’s right. No such thing as too meticulous, not in the wonderful world of bacteria.
Sometimes it was Yáo and Ilyukhina, as he pondered how Earth had changed between their departure and now. Would there even be humans to return to? Stratt had backup plans on backup plans, he would assure the ghosts with as much confidence as he could muster. They’re alive. Maybe not how we remember them, but they’re waiting for us.
Most of the time, though, it was Rocky he spoke to. It was Rocky who haunted his waking hours, in the same way Stratt haunted his dreams. Rocky was a pleasant guest, at least. He found himself looking over his shoulder, expecting to see Rocky’s ball barreling around a corner or see him scuttling through the various corridors he had erected during their shared time. Rock, Grace would call as his fingers flew across the buttons of the controller, I’m about to beat this guy’s butt, come see.
No, he explained to his friend as The Wizard of Oz illuminated the dark, vacuous sleeping quarters. It’s unique because the movie changes from black and white to color! It’s like if…if you went from hearing one tone at a time to four or five, all at once.
I swear, buddy, I’m good. He would mumble in the state between waking and dreaming, when the spaces between his ribs were hollow and his tongue was always a little too big for his mouth. Jussa bad dream. Or stomach cramps. I’m fine, I promise. Can you check the tanks for me?
Grace’s flight suits hung off him in the end; he was glad he had kept Ilyukhina’s clothes. The sleeves were too short, but that was just fine. The burns on his arms, as rippled and irregular as Adrian had looked from the portholes of Hail Mary, kept him company. They were a reminder that it had all been real. He had really found the solution to the Petrova problem, to the Earth’s near-apocalyptic event. He had really met an alien, become friends with it, learned a new language, made first contact, not just once or twice but three times, if you counted discovering the taumoeba. And he did, sue him.
Ryland Grace almost didn’t survive his return trip to Earth.
He remembered sending the beetles ahead of him as late as he dared, which ended up being T-9 months to terra firma. Mary had not been designed to…well, to land. He knew she would be too big to reenter the atmosphere safely and was fairly certain the reentry would kill him anyways.
He didn’t remember the extra note he had stashed in Ringo, thin shaky letters that read ‘did it. coming back. help me.’
He didn’t remember the barrage of radio signals when he was practically in spitting distance of Sol; English, Russian, and Mandarin echoing through his ears at earsplitting levels after years of quiet. He didn’t remember the space station that had attached itself to his airlock, the IVs inserted into his wrists, the mask he wrestled off his face every time they tried to affix it.
He didn’t remember his reentry into his atmosphere and the sparse medical bay he lay in, surrounded by security and the low drone of medical equipment. Later, he would suppose it was fitting. He didn't remember leaving Earth either, so why should he remember returning?
He didn’t remember the death grip he kept on the model of himself Rocky had given him so long ago. He didn’t remember begging for Rocky to stay, to watch him sleep. He didn’t remember why his friend couldn’t hear him.