Archive of Our Own

March 23rd, 2006. Lakes Basin, “Lost Sierra", probably Sierra County, California.

Yeah. I run.

Pretty sure I run faster than I ever have before. I'm not able to do it for long. I'm not an athlete and I'm already tired from my hike. I make it back to the stream but don't cross it. Instead, I find a good looking rock and take a seat.

Okay. So. That's a thing.

There is an alien, from space, crashed in the woods not far from me. And it was trying to communicate. And I ran.

The perks of running till you are exhausted is that it lets your brain cool down so to speak. Gives you the space to stop being scared, because you have endorphins flowing through you and you are too tired to be scared. I am not half as terrified as I was before which means I am better aware of the fact that I just blew humanities first contact. There's more to it than that, but not much. If that really is an alien in that ship, and they were trying to communicate with their taps and music? I am the guy who ran. It's not a great first impression.

I have to go back.

I don't particularly want to go back, but I have to. If not for me than for humanity, and if not for humanity then for the sake of whoever is in that ship. They're a person, probably. An inhuman person, but that's still a person. And I just left them in the middle of nowhere. If I were in that ship, I'd be pretty sad.

My problem is that I am exhausted, thirsty, and hungry. I'm about half way to camp, so I may as well go back and take care of my basic needs. Besides, if I'm going to give this whole first contact thing another try, I would like to be better prepared.

Three hours later, I am hydrated, fed, and my camp is packed in the rental truck. I have no idea if I can go off roading in this thing, but I am not dragging my tent and stove and water to the crash site by foot. I remember seeing a fire road not too far away when I got to my camp site. Technically I'm on a fire road, but I saw a different one during my hike.

I consult my map. I got it from a fire station when I first made it to the area, so it's fairly up to date. When I look the paper over I am rewarded with a confirmation. My memory was accurate. There is a fire road that will take me, more or less, to where I want to go.

I am not fond of fire roads. They aren't the worst, but I have a tendency to be motion sick. It helps when I'm in the driver's seat, but I am very green by the time I get to where the fire road ends. I have to take a little bit of time to breathe before I get out of the truck and strap the tent bag to my back. I will have to make a few trips, but it's best to start with what I will want the most.

I set up the tent right by the impact zone, or as close as I can get anyway.  The ground is too hard to navigate, most of it is covered in downed trees, and what isn't blocked is uneven. So the less I have to travel back and forth across it the better. I do find a spot that is reasonably close to the truck but not too far from the ship. Provided nothing else slams into the earth at high speeds, I should be fine. I have to make three other trips. One for water, one for my propane stove, and the last for my clothes and sleeping bag.

Home sweet home.

The whole time I set up camp, I keep an ear out for the tapping and music from before. I don't hear either, but that means nothing.

I'm out of any more possible distractions or ways to put off the reason I'm actually here. Just turning to look at the metaphorical elephant in the room makes my anxiety spike.

Okay. I'm definitely not freaking out. What's there to freak out about? I'm standing in front of an alien ship with an alien inside it. Totally normal occurrence for a Thursday.

“This is… totally fine!” It would sound more believable if it weren't for the audible tremble in my voice.

I have no idea what to do here. Sci-fi movies tell me I should probably run away before an alien can grow eggs in my stomach or something equally horrible. I've already done that, and now I’m back. Besides, that's Hollywood. And how often is Hollywood ever realistic?

I step back and take in the ship.

Now that I'm looking at it, it really doesn't look like a ship. More like a room. I can see that the outside walls look decorated. I can't say much for the choice of color, but the things on the wall look pretty. They're hollow, not unlike an organ pipe, but taper off at the end so nothing is sharp. The walls themselves are a molted and uneven brown green. It looks like someone just kept filling a paint sprayer with color and didn't care if it was the same as the last one. I pick up a rock and tap it against one of the shapes on the hull. It gives a clear clean note. I don't know what note, but it's something pleasing to the ear and way louder than I thought it would be.

Why would aliens put a musical instrument on the outside of their ship? Answer, they wouldn't. So either my hypothesis that this is a part of a larger wreck is correct or these aliens just really like music. It wouldn't be the worst design. Space is a vacuum, so there isn't any air, but that doesn't mean there isn't stuff in it. If you are a species with good enough hearing, you could use the sound the hull makes to let you know roughly what conditions you are dealing with. Kinda handy. Why waste time and energy on a fancy device when a big metallic diaphragm that doesn't sound annoying would work just as well?

I'm letting my imagination get away from me. Focus, Ryland! Think. If I were an alien, crashed into a planet, what information would I want to know first?

Easy. Can I safely breathe outside of my ship? That would be my first concern.

I look at the wreckage again.

There doesn't seem to be any way for the inside to access the outside. Or any sort of camera to see outside either. No way to get a safe sample of the air. No way to know if I will suddenly burst into flames. But just because I can't see it doesn't mean it's not there.

If no one can see me then there is no one around who will know I look like an idiot. If the being in the wreckage can see me, then I will be smart. I still might look like an idiot, but I will be a smart idiot who is communicating with extra-terrestrial life. I can live with that.

I start gathering rocks, not huge ones. But not small ones either. I look for ones that are the size of a baseball. I need twenty six of them.

I'm not a genius. Just a recent high school graduate who got into a good college. It doesn't make me special. What I have are the basics, and by God I intend to use them. And it doesn't get more basic than an atom. It's probably for the best that I don't know anything fancier. Who knows if humans and aliens would develop and depict science the same way. My bet? Probably not. But an atom is an atom anywhere in the galaxy, and I can use them to make the molecules I need.

The odds that a space fairing intelligent species hasn't developed electron microscopes are low but not zero. I just have to hope I'm luckier than that.

Once I have enough rocks, I grab a stick and draw two circles that connect tangentially. I'm not the best artist. What skills I have are because classes really like to make students learn the old faithful methods of record keeping. So my circles are wonky but passable. Once I'm satisfied that the circles are good enough, I set eight of the rocks along one circle, and eight along the other.

There. Two rings of eight. A rudimentary oxygen molecule as described by their atoms.

I take the stick and my remaining ten rocks and repeat the process, but this time I make them bigger. Four times bigger.

While the human body takes in oxygen from the air and uses it as a primary catalyst to burn the fuel we get from our food, oxygen is not the primary gas of our atmosphere. Only twenty one percent of it is Oxygen. The vast majority is nitrogen. Seventy eight percent nitrogen to be specific. The final one percent is made up of argon, water vapor, and carbon dioxide along with other trace amounts of gasses. It's a small enough amount to be negligible so I will stick with the main players. The ratio of nitrogen to oxygen is 4:1. Hence why I need to make the nitrogen molecule as close to four times the size of my oxygen one as I can.

Once I've got my molecules as close to the right sizes as I can make them, I drop my stick and dust off my hands.

Now comes the part that will make me look like an idiot.

“THIS-” I gesture to the drawings. “IS THIS.” I gesture to the air.

I look like I'm trying to summon a demon, or like I'm having a psychotic episode. But I keep at it. It's the only idea I've got.

“OUR AIR IS MOSTLY NITROGEN-” I gesture to the nitrogen molecule, then approximate how much with the tried and true “how close are my hands” method. “BUT IT ALSO HAS OXYGEN.” I gesture to the oxygen molecule, then approximate how much of the air is oxygen by bringing my hands closer together.

I do this a few more times, repeating the same hand waving and phrases. After the third time I am rewarded with a trill of musical notes. Now that I'm not freaking out, it sounds more like whale song. Not what I would have thought aliens sounded like, but at least it's a sound I'm kinda familiar with.

“Is that…is that good? Does that mean you understand?” I ask the metal container.

I get the same whale song as before, followed by different whale songs. Definitely words. Not anything I can understand, but words.

The whale song is followed by clinking and clanking. Who or whatever is inside the wreckage is doing…something. What are they doing? No idea. I can’t see anything.

After a few minutes of clinks and clangs and what sounds exactly like a welder, the whale song speaks again. They repeat their message three times. Just like I did. I have a sneaking suspicion that they are trying to do the same thing I did earlier.

Good news, we don't look like idiots because we are probably doing the same thing and this means that my new alien pal can see me. The bad news, I have no idea what they are doing or gesturing.

“I…I'm not getting any of this. I not see you.” I point to myself, then cross my arms in an x shape, then doing the “I'm watching you” gesture a few times, before finally pointing at the craft. I repeat my poor man's sign language, just to get my message across. I'm cut off mid way through my second repeat of the “I not see you” gestures by a distinctly frustrated sound.

I don't know what it means, but the whale song was definitely frustrated. Okay. So they got the message. They're smart, whoever they are. Smart enough that our language barrier isn't too big of an issue. Yet.

I don't hear any more whale song, so I scoot back to my pictographs and wait. It's not all that exciting. I'm watching a strangely shaped box do nothing. But what else can I do? Maybe I could get out my deck of cards and play a game of solitaire. But I know I can't leave just yet. I need to stay close.

My patience is rewarded about a half hour later when I spot a change in one of the less decorated flat panels of the wreck. It's a spot of discoloration, not very big, maybe the size of a quarter. It starts off as a slightly different color than before, but it rapidly changes, getting brighter and brighter.

Oh boy, that's a lot of heat.

I am not ready for when the bright glowing spot gives way and a high pressure rush of air shoots in my direction. The air stinks. It's that smell I was smelling from before but a thousand times worse. The flow of air cuts off almost as soon as it starts, probably being plugged from the inside of the wreckage. But it leaves that stench hanging around the container.

Not only does it stink, it's noticeably hotter. So hot that I flail as I rush to get away from the scorching temperature. I might need to check my undies just in case I involuntarily wet myself, but I'm otherwise unharmed.

It's pretty informative too.

Whoever is inside the wreck likes things way hotter than a human, and their atmosphere is ammonia based. Jeeze. Super heated and highly pressurized ammonia? Those conditions could easily melt my face like the final scenes in Raiders of the Lost Ark. I'm glad I wasn't any closer.

“You okay?” I ask my new buddy.

I get some short overlapping chords in response. I’ll take that as a yes.

It's another boring wait. Longer this time. Long enough that I actually do go get my deck of cards and start playing solitaire. I look up every few minutes or so, it's only right. I'm just about to place my five of clubs onto my six of diamonds when movement catches my attention.

My new friend is cutting a square around the initial hole they made. I can only assume they have a plan for keeping our wildly different atmospheres separate. I scoot back a bit, just in case there's another superheated blast of ammonia, but none comes. The square of metal falls to the ground and beyond that I can see…nothing.

I stand up, stretch, and come over for a better look.

What I thought was nothing actually turns out to be a transparent box of some sort set into the wreckage. It's hard to make out anything inside, the wreck is pitch black. But the little box is pretty cool. There's a door on my side and a door on the other side and a tube of some sort set on the left wall.

I watch in fascination as a gloved hand comes into view and opens the inside half of what I realize is an air lock and sets a cylinder in it. The hand looks pretty normal to me. I can't see any skin, but it's got four fingers and a thumb, just like I do. It's comparable in size to my own, though the fingers are a bit longer. I’m not able to look for very long. As soon as the hand is done setting the cylinder in the airlock, it retreats and closes its side firmly. There is a hiss and then a woosh, then the box goes silent.

I've got mail.

Hesitantly, I reach for my door of the airlock. I was expecting a vacuum but it opens easily. The air inside is incredibly hot, but it doesn't smell of ammonia. That's a win.

I reach for the tube then think better of it. Or more accurately my still burned fingers throb at the temperature and I don't want to risk hurting them even more. The cylinder looks to be made of the same metal as the wreck, which means it is incredibly hot. I grab my stick from earlier and use it to fish out the object, then shut the door.

I have to wait for the present to cool, so I go back to my game. I wait for as long as I can stand before picking the object up. It's incredibly and uncomfortably warm to the touch, but I've officially hit the point where my curiosity is stronger than my survival instincts. I need to know what it is.

Turns out it's not just a cylinder, it's a container. I can clearly see a seam on one side but when I try to twist it open it doesn't budge. I try again. Same result. Out of frustration I turn the lid the other way and what do you know? Aliens use lefty tighty, righty loosey.

Now to see what my new friend sent me.

I turn the container over and out slides a bunch of  chemical models. I'm pretty sure that's what they are anyway. They are made up of loops instead of the dot and stick method I'm familiar with, but it's molecules made up of atoms connected to other molecules made up of atoms. Just like my drawings.

I wrack my brain to try and identify the individual components. There is a central ring with seven beads on it connected to three rings with only one bead each. Nitrogen trihydride. Ammonia.

Okay, it's nice to have a confirmation of my guess but I already knew this. And why did my new friend send so many?

I count them. Twenty nine. My little present contains twenty nine ammonia particles.

“Pressure!”

I think back to the violent way the air inside the wreck blasted out when the test hole was made. I'm willing to bet that the inside of the wreck is pressurized twenty nine times that of earth.

Hm. I don't like that. It means I am camped outside of a very extreme pressure vessel. But I have more important things to focus on.

I hold up the ammonia beads.

“This is your pressure! In there!”

I get excited whale song chords, the ones I think mean agreement, in response.

It's not much, but we are communicating. As far as first contact goes, maybe I'm not doing so bad after all.

—--

Stratt's Vatt, Somewhere in the Ocean, 2025

It's been nearly two weeks since I was brought on board the aircraft carrier. Two weeks of science and getting to cuddle up next to my favorite person in the universe almost every night. Two weeks of nothing but microbiology.

I would like to say it's been blissful. But it hasn't. The pressure is starting to get to me. Not because I'm having trouble with my Astrophage research. No. The breeding program is going great. Of the original one hundred and twenty seven Astrophage cells brought to earth, one hundred and twenty six survived and I have since bred those microscopic cells into eight grams.

Eight. Grams.

That is close to eighty billion cells and six hundred trillion joules of energy. It takes roughly ten million joules per kilogram of payload mass to get a modern spacecraft to the moon. So my eight grams of enriched astrophage has enough energy to get to the moon at least one hundred times. I am justifiably proud of how well my breeding idea is working. Sure, I have to give two grams away, and I'm not thrilled about that, but it's not the source of my unease.

No. Instead what has me worried is that we've started to get the doomsday cult threats. Some are vague, but others are more specific. Unsurprisingly, Stratt has received the most. She is the face of this entire project. Not that they seem to bother her, but I have noticed that she has a few guards with her at almost all times now.

I've gotten some too.

There are a lot of whackos in the world. And hey, I'm one of them. I married an alien. We have figured out how to have intimate relationships when we are both interested in the mood. I know a lot of people would question my sanity for that. But doomsday cults are a very specific brand of crazy. Some are content to preach about the end of the world. Others are a lot more proactive. Bomb threats, death threats, threats of casting dark spells— you name it, Project Hail Mary has gotten them.

It's been stressing my life partner out even more than it has me.

We need to vacuum often. Humans shed dead skin cells and hair. Eridians shed what is essentially incredibly fine sand. It doesn't bother Eridians, but it's not great on sensitive human skin. Vacuuming is also a nice repetitive task that is soothing for my nerves. It's win win. I’m not freaking out, and the room gets cleaned.

Rocky walks in and I shut off the device. They are very distressing for an Eridian, so I try not to vacuum when he's in the same room. On Erid there are only a handful of things above an Eridian on the food chain, but those that are use sound not just for hunting, but to disorient their prey. The overwhelming noise renders their echolocation a mess, and they can only use their eyes to navigate. So yeah, when Rock is in the room, the vacuum is off.

Rocky comes right over to me and wraps me in a hug from behind.

“Hey,” I say, letting the shop vac hose drop to the floor. “It will be fine.”

He croons, low and distressed.

“I do not like this.”

“None of us do. But this is a secure facility. Nothing is going to happen.” I try to soothe.

“You do not know that. You cannot know that. I once thought no one could steal me away, then I woke up in a small room without you.” He holds me tighter. I let him. “I do not want to lose you again.”

Rocky hasn't talked much about when he was taken three and a half years ago. But what he has said makes my insides churn. He wasn't treated badly as far as I can tell, but he wasn't free to do as he liked either. He confessed about a week ago that when Stratt came to him, asked him to work on Project Hail Mary, he jumped at the chance. For all that he doesn't like her, Rocky does acknowledge that she got him out of a cage and gave him his life back. I try to remember this whenever she asks me for an interpersonal favor. (Apparently a good chunk of the crew likes me better than her. Gee I wonder why). She may have grossly crossed a line back when I first came aboard, but I owe her more than words can express.

This little bit of information is just another piece to add to the growing puzzle of what became of my best friend.

“You are not going to lose me again.” I try to sound as sure as possible. “You won't let it happen, I won't let it happen, and Stratt won't let it happen either.”

I have mixed feelings about how important I've become at work. Being the world's leading expert in Astrophage has a nice ring to it right up until you realize it means you are vital and are never going home. It's a good thing my home is wherever Rocky is. But in this specific scenario, it brings me comfort. Stratt won't let anything happen to any of us who are vital on this project.

“Things are going to be fine.”

I place my left hand over Rocky's, and he traces the shape of my wedding ring.

“I…will try to believe that.”

—--

Threats aside, life on Stratt's Vatt has a predictable rhythm to it. Every 50 days, we make for port to give the crew a break, restock important items like toilet paper and food, and to get repairs done that can't be done at sea. It will take longer and longer to get to port the more Astrophage we produce using the ships nuclear reactor. But for now every 58 days we see land. Fifty to account for the basic rhythm, eight to get where we are going.

We have officially reached one fifth of a kilogram of Astrophage. Not nearly enough for the project, but it's an impressive amount. With the black boxes in production, it won't be long before Stratt and Redell can proceed with their insane plan of paving over a quarter of the Sahara. Just because all the math checks out and it will work doesn't mean it's not nuts.

When at Port, all Astrophage testing has to go on hold. We don't want to blow a crater in the coastline of China after all. This means I and the rest of my team have to vacate the labs for a few days. I am making the most of it by spending time in the engineering area with Rocky.

His team has been very friendly. I know Jessica of course. But I've gotten to meet the ten or so other people Rocky oversees too. It's not the only engineering team on the ship, but it is the least specified group. They do general fix-it work and liaise with everyone as far as I can tell. Rocky has official veto power over pretty much everything. He doesn't use it often, but when he says something won't fly, it doesn't.

To his credit, he doesn't take over projects. It's hard for Rocky sometimes, but the fact is most humans will not come up with the same solutions as him and he knows that. So as long as it meets his standards, he is willing to let it go. Grumpy, but willing. It's earned him a reputation of being hard to please.

“Not hard,” He told me one day, arms crossed over his chest as he pouted. “Just expect basic competency.”

The lab is pretty empty today. The development teams get so few days off, what with the project being saving the sun and all life on earth. But this is one of those times. Rocky can leave the ship, but not without an escort. That's not all that special, none of us team leaders get to leave the ship without an escort. The risks of losing a high ranking member of staff far outweighs the odds of that actually happening. So when we do leave, we can't go far and it must always be with a shadow.

Rocky likes to hold down the fort while the rest of his team enjoys their three days of freedom, and I don't see the appeal of visiting China without Rocky. 

It's just us in the workshop today. Well, it's just me right now. Rocky had to step out, but promised he would be back soon. He's been tinkering with a small scale prototype of the beds for the Hail Mary. They need to be able to rotate freely so that the astronauts won't have to struggle for a comfortable bed whether gravity is on or not. Currently they are not rotating the way anyone wants them to.

The obvious building method for rotation is ball bearings and lubricant. But this trip will take four long years before having to handle any changes in gravity while always bearing the load of the comatose crew. And four years is a long time for any system to have weight put on it. Turns out, ball bearing lubricant doesn’t have an infinite shelf life. They won’t get gunked up because the ship is a dust free zone, but oxidation, moisture, and load all have a hand in determining how long the lubricant will last. Everyone would rather that the beds work right and not need repair. It’s the least we can do for the people giving their lives for the sake of humanity.

All my free time is taken up by reports these days. I could work on them back in our rooms, but I would much rather engage in parallel play with my best friend. I have perhaps the nicest laptop I have ever owned in my life before me. It’s durable, has a fast processor, and isn’t too heavy. I can have my million reference tabs open at once and not run into trouble.

The door to the workshop opens and I offer a wave without looking up.

“That was fast, Rock. I thought you would be gone for longer.”

The next thing I know a throbbing pain erupts across my left shoulder as something is brought down across it. The blow knocks me from my chair, and I cry out in pain as I hit the floor. I crawl a little bit and try to look up. I have no idea who the person standing over me is, but they have a nightstick in hand and are screaming something at me in a language I don’t know or recognize. A mask covers most of their face, but their eyes are blown wide with adrenaline and have a look to them that I can only describe as crazed.

I crawl backwards, just narrowly missing another strike.

“Shit!”

There is an alarm button around here somewhere in case of emergencies. It's supposed to be for things like a gas leak or an equipment malfunction, but at this point anything to alert someone of my situation sounds like a good thing.

I look around and spot the panic button under the workbench across the room from me. I don’t have time to second guess myself. I push to my feet and make a mad dash for the alarm. Another blow clips my head and I fall to the floor. It wasn’t a solid strike and that is the only reason I’m not dead, my head cracked open and brain matter leaking from the wound. Something warm does ooze down the back of my neck though. My vision swims from what is probably a concussion, but my adrenaline keeps me present.

The alarm is just out of reach, but my body doesn’t want to cooperate with my brain. My limbs feel both heavy and fuzzy at the same time. Getting my feet under me is a struggle. I push against the floor as hard as I can. It’s uncoordinated and messy but I manage to lurch forward.

There is the sound of pounding feet then a screech of discordant chords. My attacker and I both look over. There, standing in the door, is Rocky.

I have never in my life seen him like this. His glasses are missing and his hair is even more of a mess than normal. But it’s his expression that sends ice down my spine. Fury does not begin to describe the way his lips are raised in a snarl, nor does it do justice to how his eyebrows are set in a hard line. Thunderous might come close. Murderous would be the most accurate.

The screeching sound comes out of him again. I recognize some words in Eridian but it's so loud and angry and multi chorded that I miss most of it. I’m sure that there is even more being said above and below my hearing range. It's all the warning either of us get before Rocky launches himself across the room. 

Eridian’s are sort of hive based. Like bees, each Eridian has a specific job. Rocky is an engineer, Mr. Fix-It. Most of his long life has been spent building and inventing. He doesn’t have any combat or self defense training. I don’t know if that's a good thing or not as he moves faster than any human could keep up with.

My attacker tries to run, but it’s no use. They may as well try to outrun a bullet. Rocky is on him in a second, hands roughly grabbing the man by the arms and wrenching the nightstick out of his grip. Something snaps. I am pretty sure it's a bone in the masked man's arm since the attacker screams. Whether from pain or fear I can't tell. Probably both.

Rocky doesn’t stop. Once he has disarmed the threat, he throws the man like a ragdoll across the room. This isn’t a small guy either. Whoever it is, he is my height but much sturdier. It doesn’t matter to Rocky. The man could weigh as much as a large motorcycle and it wouldn’t matter to Rocky.

I fumble for the alarm button and press it on the second try. I’m safe, and now I have a different problem. Namely, keeping my furious mate from killing a man.

“Rocky!” I shout.

My husband doesn’t pause as he stalks towards where the man has collapsed in a heap against a work table. Rocky has always been graceful, very aware of his body as he moves. He is stupidly quiet for someone who weighs at least four hundred pounds. Right now he is silent. His footsteps make no sound as he creeps ever closer to his prey. A hunter with deadly focus.

It's a little hard to have sympathy for someone who just gave me a concussion, but it is apparently not beyond me. I can only pity this idiot who thought I would be an easy mark. They have made themselves the primary target of a hyper-predator, someone who right now has no qualms about ripping them limb from limb and has the strength to do it. It’s kind of doing something for me admittedly, but at the same time: murder bad.

A low clicking fills the room. It’s in the same register as when Rocky flirts, but the meaning is entirely different. When it’s just us there is a playful purr underlying the clicks that rumbles pleasantly in my chest as well as a distinct warble that indicates humor. But right now there is only the sound of the clicking. Pure echolocation for the hunt.

I stagger to my feet and step forward. That gets Rocky’s attention. He looks back at me. His hair has fallen into his eyes, and for a moment the intense look on his face softens before he looks back at his target. Still locked on.

“Rock, hey. It's okay. I’m safe.” I try again. 

I need to get through to him somehow. I rack my groggy brain for something. I’m still bleeding down the back of my neck and the warm trickle is distracting. I have exactly one idea. Rocky is not using his higher thinking skills right now. He is running on the pure instinct of a predator species from another planet.

I don’t have a musical bone in my body. I have a pretty good ear for music, but that’s because of all the time I have spent with my best friend. You need a good ear if you are going to understand Eridian. But humans are incredible vocal mimics, and I know a few things about the alien language.

I take a deep breath and hope I get the tone right. I aim for something that's a hum combined with clicks that come from the back of my throat. I keep the sound soft and low, the same way Rocky does when he soothes me after a nightmare. It’s not quite what I was going for, but the effect is immediate all the same.

Rocky takes a step back, torn between the prey in front of him and responding to my crooning.

Encouraged, I make the sound again but this time follow it with a well practiced whistle.

“Peace.” I croon in my clunky Eridian, pleading. “Peace, mate, peace.”

That's all I got. But it’s enough.

Rocky turns away from the man who has not moved since being thrown across the room, and comes to my side. Hands that just snapped bone cradle my face with gentleness. His eyes are closed and his eyebrows are pinched together in concentration. He rumbles below my hearing and I let him check me over. My heart is beating wildly in my chest, my back aches and my head is throbbing. I am still bleeding, but I am okay. More importantly, Rocky hasn’t done something that cannot be undone.

He presses his forehead against mine, and makes an apologetic sound. It’s more than an apology though. It’s guilt, sorrow, uncertainty, shame, vulnerability, and anxiety. I put my hands on the side of his face and make the crooning clicking sound again.

“Peace,” I sing while stroking his sideburns with my thumbs.

I want to say more, but the door to the workshop bursts open and a dozen armed Chinese navy officers enter the room.

Our little bubble of peace bursts.

Rocky says something in Mandarin. The highest ranking navy officer says something back. What do they say? I don’t know. I am concussed and I don’t speak mandarin. Whatever is said results in no less than four of the personnel dragging the unconscious attacker out of the room. Three others usher Rocky and myself to medical.

So much for a relaxing few days of leave.

—---

We don’t get to leave medical for an hour.

Rocky is fine, not even a scratch on him. Which is good because we would have to explain why his blood is silver. I on the other hand have a concussion and a cracked scapula. I’m sent home with a sling, some stitches in the back of my head in addition to a little shaved area, pain medication, and strict instructions to not do too much with my left arm so I don’t aggravate the injury. At least it isn’t my right arm, otherwise I wouldn’t be allowed back in the lab at all.

Rocky is silent the entire check up and the entire way back to our room. He won’t look at me. I know he is checking in on me because I can sort of feel the slight rumble coming off of him, but his eyes remain firmly fixed to the floor. His glasses are still missing so he probably can’t see his own feet. But this man can fake sight pretty dang well. If he wanted to be looking at me, he would be.

He doesn’t push me away when I lean on him for support though. I’m exhausted. Between the pain and my adrenaline crash, I will need to sit down soon. Rocky loops one arm around me, helping me stay upright. I lean my head on his shoulder. He doesn’t rest his head on mine and I try to not be disappointed.

As soon as we get to our room, Rocky walks me to a chair then goes and gets some water. He comes back with water and pain killers in hand. I take both from him gratefully. These will make me sleepy and stupid for a little while, but what's a few days of enhanced human stupidity compared to the pain of a cracked bone? It’s a trade off I am willing to take.

Rocky goes over to the bed and sits with his head in his hands. They push back his hair, alternating between pulling the salt and pepper strands and tapping rhythms against his scalp. He starts making the same apologetic sound from before. The one that is so brutally honest about his insecurities and shame.

I sigh, stand, and go over to his side. I am proud to say I only wobble a little, thank you very much.

“Talk to me, buddy. I can’t read your mind. Is this… some Eridian cultural thing?”

He nods.

Okay. Progress.

“It is… was that something that would be very very bad?”

He nods again.

Hey, what do you know? Nearly killing someone is also bad on Erid. Something else humans and eridians have in common.

After a long while of us sitting side by side, his lips move and say something, but I don’t hear it. His voice is so quiet right now. I can’t be sure, but I think he has forgotten that my hearing isn’t as good as his.

“Could you say that a little louder?” I ask, trying to keep my voice gentle.

Rocky sinks in on himself but nods.

“Is shameful to lose control like that.” He whispers in English. “Old instincts, archaic. Means an Eridian cannot be trusted to act in the interest of the cluster. Is a risk to cluster mates and others.”

I frown.

“You were protecting me.”

He makes a so-so hand gesture.

“Yes but no. Instinct to protect mate, yes. But stronger. Overwhelmed nervous system.”

I think I understand.

Some things are written into our DNA. In humans, the response to having too much carbon dioxide in our blood is older than the amygdala. It’s not controlled by the emotion control center of the brain. That panic, that fear, is so primal its primordial. It makes sense that Eridians would have some things like that in their DNA too. 

“You stopped. You stopped when I talked to you. That… That’s got to count for something.”

Rocky lowers his hands to his lap, and nods.

“Some.”

He still looks devastated. The apologetic music has stopped at least. I take one of his hands and bring it to my lips. I press a kiss to the knuckles.

Was it terrifying? Yes. Was it something beyond my best friend's control? Sort of. He just needed a little help. We all need help with our emotions sometimes. So I tell him as much.

“Rock, you stopped. You needed a little help remembering how, but that happens. You remember why I was fired after yelling at the UNESCO conference. If you had been there, you would have helped me. Yeah, I wasn't throwing hands, but it came close. Was what happened today a little scary? Yeah. But you haven't scared me off.”

It was also a little bit hot.

Rocky turns his head and blinks, then makes a confused sound.

“Grace cannot mean that.”

That was supposed to be an inside thought. Whoops. I think the pain killers are starting to kick in. I'm normally a little bit better at separating my inside thoughts from my outside thoughts. I have a brain to mouth filter, it's just not always on. Now it's slowly becoming absent.

I'm blushing so hard, Rocky can definitely hear the change in my blood flow. I've dug myself into this hole, I may as well see it through. Besides, if you can't tell your person who is everything to you what you find attractive about them, who can you? Yes, that's a weird sentence but it's grammatically correct. Bite me.

“You are so incredibly strong and handsome. So imagine when my handsome, amazing, incredible, smart, and strong best friend swooped in and saved me. It was a little bit attractive.”

I'm not saying I want him to crush my head between his thighs like a watermelon, because that actually sounds really uncomfortable. But I am not immune to the occasional streak of freak. What can I say, my relationship with sex is convoluted at best but I do know what I find attractive. I don't know if it's a kink exactly or just a Rocky thing.

“Rocky… did not scare Grace, question?”

“I mean… A little. I have never seen you like that before. Ever. And I hope I never see you ready to kill someone ever again. But… you were so quiet and intense and driven. It was kinda sexy. The nearly killing a man did ruin the mood, but whoo.” I make the okay sign with both hands. “Everything else? Ten out of ten.”

Rocky gives me a long listen, then shakes his head and laughs with relief.

“Grace does not hate Rocky. I am glad.”

I give his hand a squeeze.

“Never.” I confirm.

His shoulders unhunch and his face breaks into a small smile. I lean in and kiss him. He needs a shave and his stubble rubs against my own. It's a little like sandpaper, but I don't mind.

“My hero.” I whisper against his lips.

I would love to deepen the kiss, but I am in no state for a steamy make out. Rocky knows this and he is the one to pull back after a few little smooches. I whine even though it's the responsible thing to do.

“Rockyyyyy.”

Rocky sides off the bed and kneels before me. It's entirely innocent. His fingers are working the laces on my shoes, removing them for me so I can lay down comfortably. I'm starting to feel a little loopy though, and that fluffy hair is right there.

I let my fingers run through the strands. It's chalky, and it leaves a bit of a residue on my skin. I don't mind. I love the way Rocky's hair feels. He really is so alien, it's wonderful.

How did I get so lucky?

“Rocky is lucky too.”

Ah yeah, that was out loud again. Rocky is looking up at me, eyes closed and rumbling softly.

“Grace is so kind, so understanding. Grace is so alien too. Fragile but strong. Loud, noisy. Rocky can always tell where Grace is, what Grace is doing. Rocky never thought Rocky would love so much noise, but the noise is good. Comforting. Grace see the worst of Rocky, still love. Does not run away. Rocky so so so lucky.”

I bend over and kiss the top of my best friend's head. Rocky leans into the touch. I smile into the fluffy hair.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

—--

Security on the Vatt has tripped since the attack. Rocky barely lets me out of his sight. If it's not Rocky watching me, it's one of his team hovering around. I prefer when it's Jess, because she gets that I'm a grown man and don't actually need constant supervision. Mikhail, also known as Misha, is a close second. The Russian man is a kick in the head and actively encourages me to get into situations. Which is… slightly cumbersome but a lot of fun.

It seems like everyone on Rocky's team is a misfit of some kind. A person who is on the project, but doesn't quite fit anywhere else. Like Jessica, an undergrad who was dubiously lucky when she was caught up in a sting operation to track down a hacker in the servers. Mikhail is a psych with a specialty in how the environment impacts mental health. Why is he on an engineering team? Because Rocky wanted him. That's pretty much the case for everyone on his team.

I know what's going on. Rocky is a genius in engineering. Technically speaking he is so competent in his field, he doesn't need a team. But Eridian jobs fill niches. Rocky is an engineer and that is all he is. He has no background in social science, environmental science, astrophysics, or microbiology. By collecting people across different fields, he's made his own Thrum.

A Thrum, as best I understand it, is a sort of hive mind state Eridians can reach when they all speak/sing at the same time. It's not telepathy, but when an Eridian uses their five vocal sacks and chords to communicate different things all at once and joins in with a larger group, it sure seems like telepathy. A Thrum is more intelligent than any one member of it, and is far greater than the sum of its parts. The more people who join a Thrum, the better. The wider their fields of knowledge, the better.

Rocky can't Thrum properly with humans, but he can approximate it by bringing in people with different specialties and leading group discussion. Well, Jess leads the group discussions. I think that's one of the main reasons Rocky has her on the team.

I’m holed up on one side of the engineering workshop while Rocky and his team Thrum.

I don't really mind being watched over, not quite yet anyway. Give it a few more days and I will probably need to have words with someone, but for now it's comforting to know someone else is around. It's also nice having a second set of hands considering I'm down one. And it's fascinating to listen to the group discussions.

I'm pulled from my focus by the workshop door opening. It seems like my life is now made up of doors and their various states of open or closed.

“Doctor Grace-Rockwood.”

“Stratt.” I acknowledge and turn to face her. Stratt is dressed in simple pants, a long turtle neck, and a black jacket. Her red hair is tied in a low bun. She looks as professional as ever. It might be my imagination though, but I could swear I see just a little hesitation in her eyes as she approaches.

The group discussion has gone silent. Everyone is listening in to our conversation and not even trying to hide it. Geeze, the conversation hasn't even properly started. Nosy.

“I need you to accompany me to Geneva. I have been harassed into making an appearance, but I do not have the scientific background you have.”

From the corner of my eye, I can see Rocky become very still. A stillness only possible for an Eridian.

“Someone harassed you into— actually never mind. Better question. Why me? There are many other scientists aboard. You could choose any of them.”

“Because I trust you to be honest. You have proven to me that you will speak your mind. I value that.”

I feel more than I see or hear Rocky walk over and stand behind me.

I can picture it so clearly. His arms are probably crossed over his chest, head tilted down to glare at Stratt through his glasses, shoulders set as square as he can get them. Depending on his hair situation, the effect is either intimidating or he looks like a baby owl trying to fluff themselves up to look intimidating.

“Jasper will come also.”

My buddy reserves use of his “first” name for people who have not passed his vibe check. That's not that unusual. Lots of humans reserve their nicknames for use by friends and people they like. As long as I've known him, Rocky has always been Rocky. I know he uses Jasper in more professional settings. Heck most of the people on the Vatt call him Jasper, or Mr. Jasper, or Mr. Rockwood, or Engineer Rockwood. More recently they've also been calling him Mr. Grace-Rockwood. It's still very weird for me to hear though.

At first I thought Stratt would argue. Say that no, the resident alien will remain on the ship. But the Dutchwoman is full of surprises.

“That would be agreeable, Chief Engineer Grace-Rockwood. I could use an engineering consultant for this trip as well. We will depart in one hour. Pack what you need for three days. I will meet you on the flight deck.”

Stratt nods, then leaves. The room is quiet in her wake.

“Eyyy Road Trip!” Mikhail cheers from behind us.

I turn and look at Rocky. He looks bemused.

Yeah, definitely like a baby owl.

—--

An issue with traveling with an Eridian is weight, and not just his own personal weight. Rocky needs to travel with stuff. He's a little high maintenance. But that's what happens when you are essentially living in conditions that are the human equivalent of “the peak of Mt Everest”.

Our trip with Stratt will take at least three days. That means Rocky will need to sleep at some point. His atmosphere tank and breathing mask don't take up too much space, but they are heavy. Then there is his food rations. He will also need to eat at some point during this trip, as much as he is being stubborn about it. Those won't be too heavy, but still not an insubstantial amount. Provided I can convince him to bring any food that is.

“Just a shake! Just pack at least a shake.”

“No. I do not feel comfortable eating around Stratt.”

I close my eyes and take a calming breath. I love this man. I love him and this is just a passing argument. We will get through this. I couldn't strangle him if I wanted to.

“You don't have to eat around her. But you do need to eat at some point.”

“I will be fine!”

“You will not.” I cross my arms. Rocky crosses his. “If I get stupid when I don't sleep, you get cranky when you don't eat.”

Low blood sugar is low blood sugar anywhere in the galaxy.

“Say I bring food. Say I have a safe place to eat then sleep. What do I do with my waste?”

“Uh…”

Riiiight. Eridian digestive systems. Biologically, Eridians do almost all of their most vulnerable bodily functions back to back to back. Their body will excrete waste in preparation for consuming food. The act primes various parts of the nervous system for the digestion process through a release of hormones, and starts the signals to their brain stem to shut down all non essential functions. Once an Eridian has eaten they enter what is essentially a food coma and they will sleep for the shorter end of the sleep length spectrum. It's a non-negotiable thing.

From an evolution standpoint, it makes sense to get all the vulnerabilities out of the way in one shot; It minimizes the opportunities a predator might have to catch you off guard and a sleeping Eridian always has someone watching over them.

At least Rocky doesn't poop out of the same hole he eats with. That would be a little too ocean life for me, thanks. I'd still love him. But…gross.

I blink and try to come up with something. One thing does coms to mind, and I know Rocky won't like it. I tilt my head at him, eyebrows raised.

It takes him a few seconds to get what I mean. 

“No. Absolutely not.” His chords wail just a little, overlapping with humiliation and just a hint of pleading.

“It would be a one time thing. And it would be just like when we lived in the college apartment.”

“I am not using a litter box!”

Neither of us are very nostalgic for the old bathroom solution. But you can't flush inorganic compounds. And for a broke college student desperately trying to figure out accommodations for his unexpected alien roommate? Kitty litter and a raised seat worked very well. There is no reason it wouldn't work for a business trip.

“Then you can stay here.” 

I don't like the idea of being stuck with just Stratt for company for three days. But I refuse to let my already chronically ill life partner and best friend starve himself for a little bit just because he is poop shy.

Rocky recoils at the idea, then covers his ears with his hands. It's similar to a human covering their eyes while they think. I can see the debate war across his face. Those delightful brown eyes are so expressive as they flit from side to side, and his fingers flutter as he thinks. After a few seconds he drops his hands and hangs his head.

“Fine.”

He sounds defeated. So I give him a kiss on the cheek. He's being a good sport.

“Thank you.”

One hour later and we have our bags packed, Rocky's medical equipment packed, and are standing before Stratt.

“By the way. Once we get to Geneva, we will need to get a litter box.” I say to her in lieu of a greeting.

“...What?”

Her confused face makes Rocky laugh.

—--

I didn't know I had a passport, and I know for a fact that Rocky shouldn't have one. So it's a little surreal when Stratt hands both of us the documentation, along with an envelope each full of…a few different types of currency.

“We will have to make a layover at two airports. This is your allowance. You will not get more.” She explains.

I squint at the unknown amount.

“Is this a field trip? Are you taking us on a field trip?” I ask.

“Hardly.” She says, ushering us towards the helicopter. “You will both be expected to work on your respective jobs while we travel. However there is only so much I can do to bypass flight paths and regulations. Saving our sun is important, but we cannot risk a crash because we ignored basic safety.”

“So this is a field trip.”

Stratt purses her lips.

“There will be a certain amount of down time afforded by our mandatory stops. Do not make me regret treating you as a grown adult, Doctor Grace-Rockwood.”

I look again at the wad of cash in my hands. It sure doesn't feel like I'm being treated like an adult to me.

“Is this enough for a snow globe, question?”

I can't help it. I laugh as I pat Rocky on the back.

“Yeah, Pal. This is definitely enough to get a snow globe.”

Stratt looks to the sky for strength.

—--

Turns out Rocky isn't a huge fan or airports. Not without his noise cancelling headphones at least. I had the foresight to pack them, so our layover at Istanbul International Airport isn't too bad for him. I can't blame him. Airports are overwhelming for people without super powered echolocation. All the hard walls and tile floors combined with the high ceilings make for a confusing experience. It is beautiful though. Even Rocky remarks on the architectural choices.

It's been so long since either of us have seen walls that didn't belong to the aircraft carrier. You get used to the flat grey and rectangular construction. The Vatt wasn't designed for beauty. But IST has done its best to draw on the historical architecture of Turkish mosques. The vaulted ceilings are captivating.

We have two hours to explore the airport. Stratt gives us both disapproving looks as we head into the main terminal, but I don't care. I want to take the chance to stretch my legs and see everything I can. 

Rocky stays glued to my side, our hands firmly clasped together. Which is good because there are so many people. Thousands. It's overwhelming and I nearly get swept away once or twice by the crowd. Every time, Rocky reels me back in by my good arm. I don't really mind the crows too much if it means I can be pressed a little bit close to my person.

While Rocky isn't a fan of the airport, he is very fond of the shops. We stop in so many of them, I lose count. He runs his fingers across shirts and doodads. He isn't all that intrigued by the shops that have edible treats, but if there is a trinket store we have to stop in.

We are on the second floor, wandering past a large window when Rocky stops in his tracks. I only realize he has stopped because instead of walking with someone I am tugging on a boulder.

“Rock, what—” I turn to face him, but what I see stops my words.

He has his eyes closed and noise cancelling headphones off. It's the first time he's taken them off since we touched down in Istanbul. That alone is surprising. But what really makes me pause is the look on his face.

Eridians can't cry. They don't leak, they don't sweat, they don't even pee. But right now, Rocky looks for all the world like he is on the verge of tears.

I can see the way his main artery jumps as his pulse flutters in his neck. His breathing comes shallow and fast. His lips are slightly parted. He looks wrecked, but not upset. More like he is overcome with emotion.

I have no idea why. I look around trying to understand what could have caused my best friend to react like this. There is nothing in the immediate area that could be the cause. Then my eyes land on a departure terminal screen.

Interesting thing about the IST, it has a mosque on sight that is just a short walk for the faithful who have the availability to make it to a proper place of worship. The Ali Kuscu Mosque is large, and well regarded, and if I remember correctly can hold over six thousand for prayer. Because the Istanbul airport is multinational, the call to prayer that happens five times a day is not played over the PA system. But the times for the five mandatory prayers, the Salah or Namaz depending on what language you speak, are displayed on every terminal information screen.

The time right now is 1:10 pm. Just in time for the Adhan to be chanted for Dhuhr, the mid day prayer.

I step closer to Rocky. I can't hear poop, but he must be able to.

I'm not religious, more a man of science than one of the cloth. But I know how important faith is to people. The Adhan in particular is the heartbeat of the Islamic and Muslim faiths. The word literally translates to “announcement”, but it can also mean “to listen”.

Right now Rocky is listening with everything he has.

This has happened before, though not often. Sometimes he will hear a sound that strikes a chord in his Eridian memory, something that resonates with his soul and it renders him completely motionless and truly at peace. It's not surprising that the Adhan would be one of those sounds. It's been known to move people of all faiths across history with its beauty and emotion, believers and non believers alike. 

I wait by his side. There is nothing else I can do. The Adhan will be over soon, and until then I don't want to interrupt this.

Around us, people go about their business. There are boarding announcements, children crying in the distance, the sound of thousands of feet on tile floors. But next to Rocky, the world narrows to just us. His hand is like a fire in mine and it's perfect.

After a few minutes Rocky takes a deep shuddering breath. His eyes open slowly. They are a little unfocused, like he isn't quite sure where he is. He has to blink a few times to reorient himself.

“What was that?” His voice is so quiet, I almost miss it compared to the noise of the airport.

“Pretty sure you heard the Adhan. The uh, Islamic and Muslim call to prayer. Are you good?”

He nods.

“Yes. Was like…was like the wind on Erid. The rise and fall of it. As a child, I thought I could hear voices chanting in the wind.”

I can picture a young Rocky, eyes closed as he stands on top of some hill or at the entrance to one of the caves that lead into the main underground city centers. Of course my imagination uses earth locations, and the caves are the old gold country mines I explored in my youth. In my mind's eye, I can see his hair catching in the wind as he makes up words from far away places. There is no grey in his hair yet, no stubble on his youthful face. Just wide eyes and curiosity in spades as the wind sweeps across him and fills his ears with distant song.

I can see how the Adhan might bring back those memories. There is an unearthly quality to the prayer. It carries with it around one thousand and four hundred years of history, struggle, and emotion. It is ancient in a way not many spoken traditions manage to retain over time.

“Do you want to take a moment?”

Rocky nods. His emotions are still written on his face for all to see. There are private prayer rooms nearby, but it feels rude to use one especially since it is time for the mid day prayer. So I steer us towards some benches.

My husband is very quiet. Not his deep focus quiet, or even the dead silence of the hunt quiet, but muted. It's somber. I can't begin to imagine how much he must miss Erid and all the parts of it.

His phone beeps and the moment is over. Rocky takes out his travel nebulizer.

Time zones are so strange, but Rocky doesn't really fit into any of them. So his medication schedule can be 100% predictable without needing to adjust too much to local time. So when his phone alarm says it's time for another round of ammonia, he can just go for it.

We get a few strange looks. Not many people know what a nebulizer is or why it's needed even though it's a fairly common piece of medical equipment. I can't help but feel a little defensive on my best friend's behalf. He's not some spectacle to be oogled out of curiosity, but there is nothing I can do about it. Rocky doesn't mind and that's what counts. I can sit my perfectly healthy abled butt down and follow his lead.

A few puffs and the faint stench of a used cat box later and Rocky is breathing a bit easier. I'd kiss his cheek, but this is not the time or place. And I know for a fact that the ammonia around his mouth is stronger than even my tolerance will handle. Chemical burns are not fun.

We sit for a little bit longer. I am taking all my queues from Rocky right now. So when he nods and stands, I join him. We begin to wander back toward our gate. The jet— a proper jet this time, not some two seater military death missile like what brought me to Stratt's Vatt— should be refueled by now.

We do make a detour on our way back. When we reach the gate, Stratt is there waiting for us. She looks down at the small brown bag held in Rocky's free hand. He holds up the bag with a bright smile.

“I found snow globe!”

She tries to hide it, but I swear for a second I can see the Dutchwoman smile. It's hard to not be affected by Rocky's exuberance.

—--

I do not want to meet Dr. Lokken. I want to still be curled up around Rocky in our hotel accommodations, tucked under a pile of blankets, nice and warm. I also have no idea what this meeting is about.

When Dr. Lokken finally arrives, right on time, she takes a seat at the table across from us. I am squished in between Stratt and Rocky like the world's most awkward human buffer. It reminds me of being sat between the two family members who hate each other so a fight doesn't break out over the thanksgiving turkey. I would like to be anywhere else.

“Miss Stratt, thank you for meeting with me.” Lokken says, her accent some flavor of Scandinavian. Norwegian, I think. Her eyes briefly look me over with some confusion, then linger longer than strictly necessary on Rocky.

I'm not usually the jealous sort. Rocky is a good looking man, and I know that. He wakes up with runway ready hair and has a permanent tan. His complexion is clear, his eyes are impossibly rich, and his tattooed forearms have been known to make me weak at the knees when he flexes them just right. Back in college, a few of my women friends explained that he is on the short list of men they would feel safe if left alone in a room with. And I get that. Rocky is on my short list of people I feel safe to be left alone in a room with.

Now, I'm not a bad looking guy. I clean up pretty well on the rare occasions I have reason to clean up. But I'm nothing spectacular or special. If you saw me on the street you might go “Hm not bad” but you would keep walking. Rocky on the other hand is the kind of guy you keep looking at and whose memory you play over in your head. He has a way about him that draws you in and keeps you invested. His smile is easy and he never fakes interest. And you know when he turns his focus on you that he is being genuine about it.

But there is something about the way Dr. Lokken looks at my husband. I just don't like it. Rocky, bless him, seems to be clueless. Stratt looks exhausted.

“Ms. Stratt, thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Dr. Lokken, I am only here because six different heads of state would not stop harassing me. Because you have been harassing them. I am not here as a favor to you. Please be concise.”

Stratt's brusque tone and direct manner of address makes Dr. Lokken shift uncomfortably in her seat. To her credit she doesn't take it personally. Just nods and jumps right in.

“Would you agree, Ms. Stratt, that the lab is the most important aspect of Project Hail Mary?”

Stratt gives me a quick side eye, as if to say “This is what demanded three days?”.

“Of course.” She says instead. “Without the lab aboard the Hail Mary, the entire mission would be pointless.”

“Then what would you say if I told you that, as the shuttle is currently designed, your lab and all the equipment in it won't work.”

All three of us sit a little straighter. Stratt has set down her papers. Dr. Lokken has achieved the rare feat of getting her undivided attention.

“That is a very bold statement to make.”

“And yet this is exactly what will happen. All of the equipment you are sending was designed for gravity. They will not work in zero G.”

Stratt sits back.

“Is that all? We already have companies across the world working on the development of zero G equipment.”

This is news to me, but Rocky doesn't seem all that surprised. He actually scowls a little bit.

“Is stupid plan.” He admonishes, crossing his arms across his chest. “Brand new technology, untested. Bad plan.”

“My point exactly.” Lokken says, leaning forward. She's clearly excited that someone else in the room agrees with her. “Ms. Stratt, this mission is important. It is far too great a risk to use under tested equipment.”

“What would you suggest then?” Stratt asks, tired.

Lokken rummages in her purse and draws out a document. All three of us lean closer to look the sheet over. Stratt then looks at me.

“Well?” She asks.

“I think she means to turn the shuttle into a centrifuge.”

“I know she means a centrifuge. I am asking what you think of this proposal.”

Why Stratt is asking me when Rocky is right there and much more qualified to speak on engineering matters, I don't know. Well, I might know but I don't have time to manage another pissing contest between the two. I also really don't want to manage another pissing contest between the two.

“I think it's smart. I've worked with sensitive equipment most of my career, and it's persnickety even under ideal conditions.”

“This would mean moving parts, and moving parts break.” Stratt shoots back. She shakes her head. “It's not a risk I can take when the lives of our astronauts depend on their ship. When the lives of everyone on earth depends on the ship's integrity.”

“But you are willing to risk it all on inadequately tested technology!” Lokken says, exasperated. The Norwegian turns to Rocky and I. “I did not ask your names.”

“Ryland Grace-Rockwood,” I say. “And this is my husband, Jasper Grace-Rockwood.”

I take no small amount of satisfaction in making my claim to Rocky as clear as possible. Dr. Lokken reels back as if I'd struck her. At first, I think it's a response to my statement of having married another man. Geeze, homophobic much? Though… I'm not really sure if we qualify as a gay couple considering one of us doesn't have a gender capable of being expressed by any spoken earth language. The principle of the thing still stands though. Then Lokken clarifies things.

“Not the author of “The Analysis of Water Based Assumptions”?” Lokken asks, somewhere between shocked and horrified. She turns to Stratt. “This fool works for you?”

Oh. That makes a lot more sense. Not homophobic, just me-phobic. Still, rude.

“You got a problem with my research?” I ask, crossing my arms.

Lokken marches my posture.

“Only that it was a slap in the face to all decent science! And you were wrong.”

I scoff.

“Oh please. One alien lifeform that uses water is not enough to disprove my theory.” It's two aliens, technically. Rocky is sitting right there beside me with his steam powered musculature after all. But no one needs to know that. “Besides, Astrophage is clear evidence that the Goldilocks Zone is not needed for life. Or have we reclassified the surface of the sun as “in the zone”?”

Lokken opens her mouth to defend herself, but Stratt saves us from devolving into the kind of argument I do not miss from my academia days.

“Enough. Grace, compose yourself. Dr. Lokken, if you want to convince me of your position, aggravating my consultants is not a smart choice.” Stratt looks over to Rocky. She purses her lips but swiftly recovers. “Engineer Grace-Rockwood. What are your thoughts on Dr. Lokken's plans?”

Rocky takes a few moments to really consider the plans. He squints and tilts his head back and forth just a little. He then looks up.

“This is incomplete.” He looks up at Lokken. “Where is the rest of it?”

Lokken obligingly pulls another document from her purse and adds it to the table.

“We know that the ship will need to rotate so gravity is facing the correct way. By using tethers and hinges to rotate the separated crew cabin sides of the ship, gravity can be matched and controlled.”

My husband adjusts those ridiculous purple glasses and checks over the numbers, then nods.

“Is good plan. Simple. Hinges are easier to stress test and perfect. Will take less time. Cables can have reinforcements. Split is at correct point.”

Stratt sighs. I don't know what she was expecting, but she can't really have thought Rocky would change his mind on a point he had already made.

“Fine.” She turns to the other woman. “Dr. Lokken, you are with us. Go home, pack a bag. You will join our flight back to the carrier tomorrow at 3pm, gate 17, private flight name Stratt.”

Lokken's glow of victory vanishes as fast as it came.

“What? I was not volunteering—”

“Of course you aren't volunteering. You now work for Project Hail Mary.”

“I can't just abandon my job. I work for the ESA! They will—”

“Yeah, don't bother.” I interject. “She doesn't care. She will call your boss, or your boss's boss, or whoever it takes. You're one of us now.”

“But you cannot do this!” Dr. Lokken tries, one last ditch effort to retain some sort of personal autonomy.

“Oh I can. And I just did.” Stratt informs the gaping Norwegian. “Tomorrow, 3pm. Do not be late.”

Stratt pushes her chair back, gathers her tablet, and leaves.

“You get used to it.” I offer.

—--

Stratt does not give us the rest of the day off. I didn't expect her to, but it would have been nice to get a chance to breathe after our meeting with Dr. Lokken. More accurately, I don't get a chance to rest. As soon as we make it back to the hotel, Rocky changes into his sleep clothes, begrudgingly breaks out the cat box and kitty litter, does his business, then slurps down a nutritional shake. I give him a quick kiss before he hooks himself up to his Eridian atmosphere gas mask, then he crawls into bed and passes out.

He must have been tired because he didn't make it under the covers.

I have to make a quick call to the front desk to request some more. I won't be able to avoid sleep entirely while Rocky is unconscious and I would like to have a thin blanket at the very least. Given that we are in an unfamiliar environment, I doubt I will get much real sleep anyway. It works out for the best. Why not take advantage of the guard effect human brains naturally have?

The human brain never truly turns off. Not the way an Eridians brain does. During sleep, the human brain's metabolism can range anywhere from 5% up to 40%. That drop is linked to decreased activity of our “wakeful” centers, the parts of our brain that control motor function and awareness. But our memory, learning, and emotional centers remain very active. Sometimes even more active than when we are awake.

But when we are in new environments, our brain often switches to a survival mode. The left hemisphere of the brain will not fully undergo the sleep process. How many times have you gotten comfortable, done your whole night time routine and closed your eyes only to find you are extra aware of every bump, creak, and car alarm in the night? It's sometimes called the “first night effect”, and its purpose is to catalog new sounds in unfamiliar environments, just in case our new environment isn't safe.

We remain a little aware during normal sleep, but guard sleep takes it to a whole other level. It's not super conducive to a good night's sleep. But it is handy when your significant other physically cannot wake up or respond to outside stimulus and is counting on you to keep them safe. I don't particularly want to go to bed though.

Ever since Rocky confessed to being taken in his sleep, I do not want to let him be unguarded like that ever again. I should have stayed home that day. It wouldn't have hurt. I could have called in sick and no one at the middle school would have thought something was wrong. Instead, I packed my briefcase, kissed my best friend on the head, and left.

He wasn't even awake for our last kiss.

Yes, I blame myself. No, I probably couldn't have done anything to stop whatever government it was. I still blame myself.

I shake my head. Now is not the time for regrets and guilt. I have him back in my life and that is what counts. I will be damned if I let him be taken again though.

Paperwork is not exciting. It never is and never will be. I'm almost grateful for the knock on the hotel room door. Almost.

“Hey, thanks for bringing up more blan—” I say as I open the door, only to be met with Dr. Lokken.

“You are not housekeeping.”

“Well spotted.” The Norwegian woman says. “May I come in?”

My gut reaction is to say “no”. Instead, I step to the side and let her in.

She looks around the room, and her eyes linger where Rocky is asleep.

“I want to apologize.” Lokken says when she turns her attention back to me. “We did not have a favorable first meeting.”

I cross my arms, not impressed.

“Do you mean when you called me a quack in front of my boss and my husband, or when you were undressing my husband with your eyes?”

Lokken flushes and looks away.

“What is this?” I ask, waving a hand. “Because I know you don't give two poops about me. If this is some attempt to curry my favor so Rocky doesn't hate you, I've got news for ya. He's a big boy and makes his own decisions about people.”

Lokken blushes a bit darker, but she shakes her head.

“You both supported my stance. You did not have to do that. And I apologize for my behavior.”

I'm still not one hundred percent sure of her intentions, but it is nice that she apologized. I'm fairly certain that if Rocky hadn't been with us earlier, she wouldn't be apologizing now. But I will take what I can get.

“I appreciate it. And I am also sorry. I didn't respond very well either.”

Do I necessarily mean my apology? Not entirely. But Lokken is making an effort, and I can at least meet her at her level. Besides, I don't really like the person I am when I get like I was earlier today. That man is a throw back to my days in academia, and he was miserable. So good riddance. I will still fight for my theory as much as I can, but true academic battles are behind me.

Lokken relaxes a little and offers a small smile. She looks back over to Rocky, and seems to take in that he is asleep before looking back to me.

“I should go. I don't want to disturb either of you any more than I already have. I suppose I will see you tomorrow, Dr. Grace.”

“Likewise, Dr. Lokken.”

She leaves without any further fuss. I'm left feeling… some way. I know she likes my husband better than me, which is fine. Lots of people do. Heck some days I do too. But I really can't say I like how she likes my husband. Whatever. That's a bridge I can burn if/when I need to burn it.

I no longer have any motivation to finish my allotted work that Stratt gave me. I do the bare minimum, then get the door for the actual house keeping delivery of blankets. I quickly change into my pj’s, drape the blankets over Rocky, then slip under the covers. I do not envy housekeeping when it comes time to wash these blankets.

Rocky doesn't just smell like ammonia because of his medical equipment, it leaches from his pores and is expelled with every breath he takes. It's not the only thing he smells like either. There's the unmistakable essence of hot metal underneath the sharp smell. It's not impossible to get out of fabric surfaces, but I pretty much gave up on having “fresh” smelling sheets not long after we became roommates. Oh, Rocky had his own sheets and blankets, but he would always steal mine. By the time we were not quite married— handfasted is a better word- I was so used to the stink that I had developed a pavlovian response to the dang smells. All of my clothes smelled like Rocky for a good long while after he went missing.

I cried the day I stopped being able to smell him on our pillows.

Will I ever stop missing him? I don't know. There is a hole in my soul that was carved out with ragged claws when I came home and found our apartment empty and put back together wrong. Three and a half years apart didn't help the wound to heal. Having him back doesn't repair that wound.

It doesn't erase the weeks of tears. It doesn't make up for the times when I was so depressed I couldn't eat. It can't repair the days I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed. It doesn't magically undo the way I would scream for him on waking up from the worst nightmares of my life. 

I mourned. I grieved. I was never really able to heal.

But slowly, I am starting to feel more alive. Right in time for the end of the world. Funny how that works.

It's not just that I have my person back, though that is a large part of it. But working on Project Hail Mary has given a sense of control to an out of control situation. Before, it was almost pointless to heal. Why bother when the world would be frozen? Given how little my salary as a teacher was, odds are I would be among the at risk group for starvation. Not the highest risk, but… still at risk. Closer than anyone really wants to be.

Okay, yeah. After Project Hail Mary, I am probably going back to teaching. I love teaching. But it's been amazing not having to worry about the next pay check or rent or whatever new bug is going around campus. And It's given me a sense of purpose, given me something I can do.

And of course, I have Rocky back. It may be corny to call him my rock, but it's true in more ways than one. He has been there for all of my adult life in one way or another; My roommate, my best friend, my love, my spouse. He knows me better than anyone, almost better than I know myself. His advice has gotten me out of as many situations as it's gotten me into. He has seen me at my worst, when the academic world was eating at my sanity and mental health. He is the one who encouraged me to get a teaching degree and keep going. His support, tough love, gentle love, and teasing— permanent stink and all— has shaped me into who I am.

I've shaped him right back. Not as much. Not when he has had so much more life than me. But we have left a mark on each other.

I curl up close to Rocky as he sleeps, mindful not to bump his gas mask or kink the hose leading from the gas cylinder. I don't really need the blanket, but it's not for me. Rocky is a real trooper about it, but he is always cold. At the apartment, we have a closet that is dedicated to just blankets. How many? All of them. What kind? All of them.

Back when Rocky was still brand new to earth and he had just moved in with me, we fought over the thermostat a lot. It's not like I was unsympathetic to his plight, but heating bills are expensive. I'd have learned to live with a house that is constantly eighty degrees Fahrenheit, but my wallet would have never made that adjustment.

That first winter was miserable for Rocky. It was bad enough that he took to using me as a personal 98.6° heater. I wasn't warm enough for true comfort, but I was still better than the rest of the house. My alien would bundle himself into a blanket then envelope me the second I was back from work or classes. I didn't really mind. It was cold and Rocky was nice and toasty warm by my standards.

I run my fingers through that salt and pepper hair, then let them wander over his square jawline. I don't let them linger. If I do, I run the risk of getting ammonia burns on my fingertips. I have to settle for slinging an arm over my best friend's waist and pulling myself as close as I can stand.

So here I am now, sweating profusely while curled up under more blankets. There is nowhere else I would rather be. No one else I'd rather be with.

—---

March 30th, 2006. Lakes Basin, “Lost Sierra", probably Sierra County, California.

It's been about a week since meeting my new friend.

Meet is a strong word, but I am pretty sure we are friends. I wasn't supposed to be out camping for this long. Around day 3, I had to run into town to get more food, water, and gas. I also had to call my folks and explain that I was having “such a great time”, so I was going to stay out for a bit longer before meeting the moving truck at my new apartment. I don't know why they bought it, but they did.

It's been a really weird week as far as weeks go. I couldn't tell you the last time I watched a puppet show, but in the last seven days I have sat through dozens per day. My new friend is very good at picking up languages, much better than I am. He’s still struggling to get some of the sounds, and obviously he doesn't have the best breadth of the English language to work with. But he is rapidly picking things up. Whenever we have a language barrier, which is still pretty often, we use puppet shows. It's surprisingly effective. I can't pronounce his language at all, but I'm picking things up.

Yes, I said he. I don't actually know if my new friend is a guy or not, but his voice when he speaks what little English I have taught him sounds like a man. I can always course correct once we have enough language to, ya know, talk about proper nouns and pronouns.

Mostly we talk about the science of earth ecology and if my friend needs any materials.

It turns out I was right and that this capsule is not a proper space ship. It is a bit of wreckage that somehow didn't totally fall apart on entry to earth. I think it's a workshop of some kind given how my friend has the resources to make just about anything. But it's not an inexhaustible supply. So on the fourth day I went into town and got whatever stuff came close enough to his model dohickies that he passed through the air lock.

He has some food. I guess the workaholic habit of squirreling away snacks and meals in random spots is semi universal. But it's enough for about a month or so. Which is good because it means we have time to figure out how to feed him once that runs out. Right now our goal has been to safely get him out of the sealed room, and into the light of day.

It was his idea. He's been getting a little antsy. It's understandable really. See how long you can be locked in a single room without it impacting your mental health. Also, he is very curious about the earth. From what we've discussed, the atmospheric pressure difference isn't a huge issue, as long as he depressurizes properly. It's a little less than the equivalent of the amount of pressure astronaut space suits maintain for space walks.

The temperature will be a bit of an issue, but there is nothing the clever application of a heater can't fix. The crashed room lost a lot of heat over the course of the first day. It's stayed at a very warm temperature, but it has cooled significantly. So my friend has built what I can only describe as hand warmers. It can't be comfortable long term and once he's out in the open it will get worse, but he has assured me that it will be survivable.

The way he has been depressurizing is genius. My friend needs to breathe ammonia, and his little room is filled with way more gas than a room made of earth metals could contain. He has been slowly syphoning off the extra pressure and storing the gas. It will essentially be an oxygen tank situation, provided nothing goes wrong.

There is a lot of room for things to go wrong, and I don't particularly want any of them to happen. But it's my friend's choice, and he has decided it's better to risk a possible death under an alien sky than die a slow but certain death via starvation in a box. When I put it that way, I think I would probably take the risk too.

It's been a week of slow depressurization and communication. And now it's time for the big reveal.

I'm excited, and who can blame me? I'm officially over my fear that this alien will eat my face, and now I really want to see his face. I have no idea what will happen after. That all is solidly in the category of “figure it out later”. Right now it's a one step at a time kind of situation, and the next step is helping my friend navigate being under a different sky.

I've packed up my tent and camp. There is a lot of heat stored in the crash. Not as much as before, but enough that I want any gas set up far away.

And now I wait.

A week of build up, and it's all led to me having to wait for a door to be cut open. I can be patient, but I don't want to be. I'm about to meet an alien! I'm excited!

The door is cut slowly. Unlike when the initial hole was cut for the air lock, there is no big rush of pressurized air. Good. Seems like the depressurization has worked. It still stinks, but that's to be expected considering the room is filled with one atmosphere of eau du cat pee. After a few minutes, the door is fully cut and the sheet of metal crashes to the ground. It kicks up dust and I cough as the urine smelling soil fills my vision.

I wave the dirt away and look up in time to see my new friend come into view.

Most of his face is obscured by a breathing mask, but what I can see is striking. He looks to be in his early forties, with brown hair streaked through with grey at the front. Calling it grey doesn't do the color justice, it's more silver. A gust of wind kicks up around us, and my friend's hair catches the breeze, sending wild waves and curls dancing. His skin is tan, much more tan than I expected. Most of him is covered in a thick green work uniform, except for his forearms. What look like tattoos criss-cross exposed skin in all directions. Some are geometric, others are more organic in shape. Instead of being one solid color, the marks look mixed of blue, black, and brown.

The most striking part of him is his eyes. They are brown. Less poetic souls might say they are the color of dirt or mud, but they remind me of jasper. Not the red or green verities, or any of the more exciting colors, but the ones so heavy in the right oxides that the micro crystalline structure has become pigmented like caramelized earth.

He's older than I expected, or he looks older than I expected. Early forties or late thirties, maybe? I think his jaw is square under that mask, but it's hard to tell.

I step forward and raise a hand on greeting.

“Hi.” I say. “Welcome to Earth. I'm Ryland Grace.”

My new friend waves back, then in that whale-like multi chorded language, introduces himself. He brings his forearms together in front of him, hands balled in fists, and bares his inner arms to me. The geometric tattoos on both arms line up, and I'm sure there is information that I'm not getting. But it's as clear an introduction as I can possibly imagine.

I have no hope of pronouncing any of that. Still I smile and nod. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“Good meet you also.” He says, voice slightly muffled.

I hold out a hand. My friend reaches out and takes mine, being incredibly gentle. I'm not ready for how warm he is though. It's like I just dunked my appendage into a tub of hot water that is just barely comfortable. The hand itself is a little rough and firm. Not the “oh this person works out” kind of firm, but like I am gripping stone. Really really hot stone.

Rocky. I think I'm going to call him Rocky. It's not like I can pronounce his actual name. I don't think I can physically make half the required sounds. I don't even know if I can hear all the sounds. So Rocky will work.

Rocky trills something and turns our hands over, examining my appendage and skin. I must feel as weird to him as he feels to me. Cold and squishy instead of stone like and blistering hot.

I examine him right back. Why not? We are deep in uncharted territory, and it's not like being curious is a bad thing.

After a few minutes, Rocky lets go and he turns around to examine the clearing. Earth must be different from wherever Rocky is from. It's only natural that things like earth's biosphere would interest the guy. 

He navigates the chaotic ground with incredible grace. Like, he can have his head facing entirely away from where he is going and not trip over the hundreds of fallen trees that still litter the crash site. Yet at the same time, Rocky has to get things ridiculously close to his face to see them. Leaves, rocks, handfuls of soil— all need to be brought nearly an inch away from his eyes.

As I watch him, a thought occurs to me. Rocky has… nowhere to go. Literally nowhere. He has his box, the woods, and that's it. If my new friend has any chance of not dying once his food runs out, he will need somewhere safe to go.

The solution is obvious and it kinda scares me how ready I am to go for it. I have never wanted a roommate. I don't usually like other people, or maybe it's that other people don't usually like me. I barely survived high school as the weird science nerd with one or two friends. The whole idea of getting my own place was so that I wouldn't have to deal with… others.

I've known Rocky for seven days. Until a few minutes ago, I didn't even know what the guy looked like. But I don't hate the idea of him crashing with me until he can navigate this world. It's not an easy place to live, boy howdy do I know that. And maybe it's silly, but I want my new friend to like earth. The choice makes itself, really.

Guess I'm getting a roommate.