Chapter Text
It’s bright. Too bright. I squint up at the fluorescent lights lining the- wait, where am I right now?
Ugh. Nope. No thinking. Thinking hurts too much. Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow.
“Eye movement detected.”
The disembodied voice nearly makes me jump out of my skin. What the FUDGE was that?! I crane my neck to get a better view of my surroundings… or try to. My neck stays rooted firmly in place.
Okay, this has to be the worst hangover I’ve ever had. What the heck did I drink last night, a pint of Everclear? Oh god, it probably tasted so bad.
One glance around the room tells me a hangover is the least of my problems – four bunk beds, three of them empty, stacked against a weirdly round wall with an automated robot arm hovering over me like a concerned parent? Yeah, no, this isn’t my house. As Dorothy would say, I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore.
That’s not important right now. What’s important is that if I think really hard, I can feel my index finger twitch. And… yep, the rest of my hand twitches too. Maybe if I just focus hard enough, I can claw back control over the rest of my body. Problem is, even if my muscles still kind of work, my joints are stiff. Which means that when I try to sit up, my limbs abruptly snap back into position.
An encouraging start. But to confirm my hypothesis, further testing is required.
I channel my inner worm and elongate my torso as I stretch as far up as I can, twisting left and right to see if I can wiggle out of my confines. I bite at the zipper trapping me inside an ugly orange sleeping bag to no avail. But that’s not all; there’s wires wrapped around my upper torso and midsection, along with tubes in my- okay, yep, they’re everywhere, including (but not limited to) all up in my business. That’s gonna hurt.
If there is a God, I’m pretty sure I’m not his favorite.
"Eye movement detected. What's two plus two?"
It’s hard not to feel like a fish flapping around on the deck of a boat as I dislodge myself from my restraints, spilling onto the floor in a tangle of cloth, wires and limbs. If I can just squirm my way over to that precarious looking ladder…
A snicker comes from the hatch on the ceiling. It’s open now, leaking a steady trickle of light down into the room. Instead of grabbing onto the ladder like I’d planned to, I flinch, banging my head on the lowest rung. I blink away the stars dancing across my field of vision and flop onto my back as I squint up, trying to locate the source of the sound. Someone else is here, wherever “here” is, and they’re laughing at me.
Huffing, I pull myself upright to the best of my ability, ready to face my – captor? Companion? It’s too soon to tell. The figure looms over me from the other side of the hatch, blocking out the rest of the light, save for a faint halo around their head. I open my mouth to demand answers, but my teeth and tongue are acting like they’ve never met before, like two magnets from the same pole.
“Help,” I try to plead, but it comes out sounding more like “hrrlghb.” Public speaking isn’t exactly my forte on the best of days, but this is just sad.
I try again, this time while expanding and contracting the muscles where my pelvis and glutes meet, a valiant last-ditch effort to maneuver my body into an upright position. My head thunks against the wall, the sound echoing off the curved walls. The stifled laughter morphs into a full blown cackle accompanied by the occasional wheeze of... pain? Asthmatic dyspnea? I can’t really tell. My mood sours regardless.
“I’m sorry,” the jerk laughing at my expense squeezes out between gasps for air, “I’m sorry, I’ll come down and get you out of that mess. Just give me a second to catch my breath.”
Don’t bother, I think, feeling more than a little like a cantankerous old man, but I don’t actually say it. Antagonizing the only person who’s around to help me would be a pretty dumb move. (It’d probably come out as garbled nonsense anyway.)
I scowl up at my savior as they descend from their comfortable perch, careful to stay out of smacking range as they inspect the wiry snare. For better or worse, they – or maybe he? I don’t know this person’s pronouns so I’m going to stick to singular ‘they’ for now, feels like the polite thing to do – seem unfazed by my irritability.
It looks like they’re all decked out for some kind of maintenance gig – the sleeves of their jumpsuit are rolled up to the elbow, showing off their muscular forearms, and- whoa. Now that’s a serious head of curls! I’m only getting brief glimpses from this angle; gray streaks in their hair, their lips pursed, deep in thought as their nimble fingers gently but firmly maneuver me this way and that. They start poking and prodding at the ones wrapped around my legs first, humming a jaunty tune.
“Wow, I’m impressed.”
“Hgaah?”
“I don’t think I’ve seen this many knots in. Well. Anything before.”
“Grrhghmph…”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it. Just sit tight.”
“Brff.”
“You know, you’re not really living up to your namesake right now.”
In spite of myself, I perk up at that. If they know my name, there’s a good chance they know more about me – and whatever’s going on.
As they wrestle with a particularly clingy wire, they lean over just far enough for me to read the bold lettering on their uniform’s nametag: ORTEGA.
Ortega… Ortega…
Nope, doesn’t ring any bells.
While I’m waiting, I take a minute to practice mouthing different words. Their shapes feel odd but not foreign, like I’m trying to ride a rusty old bike I haven’t used in years. This hypothetical bike definitely isn’t as nice as the one I take to work.
Wait.
I have a job?
And hang on, why don’t I just drive? Don’t I have a car? Maybe I live pretty close to the office, or I work in a zero fuel emissions area.
It’s gotta be a lab – something about this place just screams “SCIENCE!” What are we studying, though? The tech in this room looks state of the art, we must have gotten some pretty hefty funding to pull this off-
“That should do it!”
Oh good, I’m finally free from my cat’s cradle of shame!
I immediately make the mistake of trying to roll over and promptly tumble back onto the floor with an “oof” that’s more empty air than onomatopoeia. An exasperated sigh from a few feet to the left sends blood rushing to my face. I’ve been awake for five minutes tops and I’ve already managed to embarrass myself in front of the same person twice. And I don’t even remember my own name! Maybe I’ll just curl up into a ball and die. Maybe this ‘Ortega’ will be nice enough to let me.
Two hands scoop me up by the armpits and I let out a yelp of surprise. Undeterred, they guide me back toward the bed. The movement is a mockery of a slow dance. “C’mon, work with me here. You’re heavier than you look.”
Okay, now that was uncalled for. I go slack in their arms in protest.
Ortega just huffs in response, warm breath ghosting over my shoulder, equal parts fond and amused, and all at once, it’s like I’ve been shrunk down to the size of an atom.
How well does this person know me exactly?
Why does it feel like even if I remembered everything about my life right now, they would still know me better than I know myself?
“H-Help.” The word tumbles out before I can stop it. My breath catches in my throat, making a funny little hitched sound.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” They speak with a gentle lilt to their voice, but I can feel their grip on me tighten almost imperceptibly. “Breathe, Grace.”
At least now I know my name. Well, part of it.
“Where are we?” I rasp, stretching out a hand in front of me without looking where I’m going, hoping I’ll find something steady to grab onto. It takes a few tries before my palm grazes against something cool and smooth: a bedrail. “What’s- what’s going on?”
“Don’t worry about that right now, just focus on breathing. It’s normal to feel a little disoriented when you first wake up – happened to me, too.”
Ortega slips out from behind me and onto the other end of the cot with no trouble at all. I’m a little jealous of the ease they do it with, to be honest.
“Just give it a minute. You’ll be okay.”
A minute passes. I still don’t remember who I am or how I got here.
Another minute passes. Ortega is starting to look at me funny.
Okay, yeah, no, this is way too awkward. I have to say something.
“So, uh, weird question–” I wince at the way my voice cracks, but I’ve already broken the silence. “Do you know my name?”
Ortega blinks, surprised. Still, they answer my question: “Grace. Your name is Ryland Grace.” I shake my head slowly. “You’re the lead molecular biologist on Project Hail Mary.”
I shoot them a weak smile, hoping my expression conveys something along the lines of an apology, watching in real time as it dawns on them that there’s a lot more I don’t know about myself.
“The first person who figured out how to breed astrophage? Stratt’s second in command?”
I shake my head again. None of this sounds familiar to me. Somehow, I get the feeling that it doesn’t sound like me at all.
They groan, massaging their temples. “Please don’t tell me you forgot everything about the mission. The reason we’re here? Flying through SPACE?”
“I’m sorry, we’re what.”
Faintly, I register the sound of another louder, more dismayed groan. I’m too busy thinking about the unfortunate implications of signing up for space travel and spontaneously developing amnesia to really focus on anything else. I don’t realize I’m practically naked until the hospital gown I’m wearing slips to the floor.
“Oh shoot, gosh darn it-” I cover as much of myself as I can with my hands and curl in on myself like a roly poly.
With my pasty complexion, there’s no chance in H-E-double-hockey-sticks Ortega hasn’t noticed that my cheeks are burning with shame. Their stuttered snort confirms my suspicions.
My memories are gone, we’re in outer freaking space, and I’m naked in front of a colleague who’s probably seen me ugly cry to Adele at least once. (Who the heck is Adele, anyway?)
This is fine.
I’ll spare you the details of the next few minutes of my life: Ortega tosses me a folded up jumpsuit of my own and a razor. They’re courteous enough to give me privacy while I shave and get changed, which I do eagerly while trying very hard not to think about the horrible first impression I just made. My brain is merciful enough to remind me that this isn’t the first impression I’ve made on Ortega. For some reason, that’s not as comforting as it should be.
When I climb out of what I now know is the dormitory, they’re waiting next to the hatch, a piping hot mug of viscous liquid in hand.
“Light roast with extra cream.” They offer me the mug with a wink.
I savor the buzz of caffeine on my tongue after who knows how many years of slurry. Kindness like this is enough to make a grown man weep, but after a valiant battle against my tear ducts, I’m able to hold it together.
Maybe dying in space won’t be so bad after all.
“Thanks, Ortega.”
There’s a flash of emotion in their eyes – anger? Hurt? No, betrayal? I frown, confused and slightly alarmed by their reaction. Did I say something wrong?
“Sorry, I didn’t mean-”
“Rocky.”
“Huh?”
“Just call me Rocky. It’s a nickname my- a friend gave me. Kind of a long story.” Their fingertips caress something – a bracelet on their wrist. It’s sloppily crafted but it was clearly made with love.
I get the feeling I’m intruding on a private moment, but I can’t bring myself to look away.
We talk for a while. Mostly about the mission – the sudden appearance of the Petrova line, researchers scrambling to find a solution, the unsolved mystery of Tau Ceti-E’s astrophage-free star, the deaths of our crewmates – and a little bit about me. I was a teacher at Grover Cleveland Middle School with a master’s degree in molecular biology. I liked morning walks on the beach when it was foggy out and singing karaoke off key, but I didn’t like to swear (or, as Rocky smugly informed me, “being told what to do”). After an accident in the lab that happened right before the launch deadline, I became the only scientist in the world who knew enough about astrophage to go on the mission, period. That’s why I’m here – to save my kids.
I learn a couple new things about Rocky, too. He’s smart but patient, measured in his approach to pretty much everything he does, whether it’s constructing a makeshift pizza oven or answering my many questions; a good combo of traits for any astronaut to have. He talks with his hands a lot, to the point where I thought he was going to smack me in the face the first time he did jazz hands in my general vicinity.
He’s considerate, too – whenever there’s an awkward pause, he switches topics before silence can fill the space between us. We could easily talk for hours, discussing the best way to build aerodynamic paper airplanes or passionately debating the difference between hot dogs and sandwiches. Somehow, I don’t doubt that we already have.
“Maybe I’m crazy, but I can’t help but feel like- were we friends?”
The words leave my mouth before I can fully process what I’m saying. I cringe.
Rocky, who’s been staring into my soul from the start of the conversation, turns his gaze to the tiled floor.
“We worked in different wings of the same facility, but sometimes we crossed paths. You ran the research lab and I was- am the head mechanical engineer in charge of building this ship. Occasionally we’d collaborate, like when we teamed up to figure out how to maximize the durability of the fuel tanks in zero gravity without compromising the astrophage’s refractory period.”
I snort. “How’d that go?”
Rocky wiggles his eyebrows provocatively. “Don’t ask questions you don’t actually want to know the answer to.”
“Okay, first of all, ew-” He chucks a pillow at me mid-sentence to shut me up. I stick out my tongue defiantly, rearing back to give him a taste of his own medicine, when-
“Where did you even get this?!”
I’m holding a 19th century electromagnetic squirrel-cage rotor in my hands. A real, bonafide piece of aviation history, in the flesh! (Well. Steel.) Gosh, the last time I saw one of these was on a field trip to the local museum.
Rocky grins. “Trust me, you don’t wanna know.”
(That’s Rocky codespeak for “I liberated a prototype from the Smithsonian and made Stratt foot the bill.”)
I place it down in the sole bald spot on his work desk. I’m running on less than two hours of sleep and the only thing in my system is half a can of mango-flavored Monster, and frankly, I don’t trust myself not to drop the darn thing.
“You sure this’ll work?”
Rocky shrugs. “Gotta start somewhere. Might as well go back to the basics.”
Call me a natural skeptic, but I’m pretty sure nothing about this is ‘basic.’ My poker face must need work because he takes one look at me and rolls his eyes.
“C’mon, Grace, where’s your scientific curiosity? You’re always encouraging people to think outside the box.”
“Yeah, but you’re forgetting one crucial piece of information here: I never told you to pull a museum heist.”
“You didn’t tell me not to,” Rocky snipes back. “Besides, you’re the one who told me where to find it. This museum heist is as much your brain baby as it is mine.”
“Please never say those words to me in that order ever again.”
“Sorry, I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
Hardy har har.
Not giving him the satisfaction of knowing I think he’s as funny as he thinks he is, I turn my attention back to the rotor. I stroke its edges and grooves as delicately as possible. Maybe my sleep deprived mind is playing tricks on me, but its surface almost feels… warm.
Ah.
“Grace?”
I pull my hand away and- yep, that’s one nasty cut, right down the middle of my palm. Now I’ve gotten blood all over a priceless artifact.
“Grace.”
Before I can even crack a lame joke, he’s there at my side, in full crisis management mode, assessing the damage with a focus he usually reserves for inspecting faulty parts. It’s a little overwhelming to have that high beam intensity aimed at me. I catch myself holding my breath as he wraps something soft and stringy – gauze, my brain supplies – once, twice, three times around the broken skin with a simple tenderness that makes me want to sob.
I promptly bend over and puke.