Chapter Text
I find myself lost once Erid comes into view. I track it with my screenreader over several months. A prominent dot amidst an endless texture of other dots crowding the viewer, though far in the distance. Such a vast plane, ongoing eternally in every direction around us, and yet our path is linear and unobstructed. The position of Erid never changes relative to us, only growing larger and larger until we can spot its fuzzy rings, and then the thick swirling clouds blanketing the planet, and its texture, only a little smoother than the planet Adrian’s. This place that I have spent decades striving for now overwhelms me, and I find myself wishing that Grace and I had a few more years to prepare for this moment. But there is nothing more to prepare for. Taumoeba-1262.5 is safely stowed and ready for dispersal. Grace is fluent in both Standard Eridian and my regional dialect, Equatorial Montes Eridian B, and I in English, Russian, Mandarin, and Nahuatl.
I wish that I had more time to stall, but time has become a very precarious element. Grace is worryingly ill. He has run out of rations, and so he consumes taumoeba for energy. Taumeoba is not a nutritionally-rich food for humans. In large quantities, it has some fats, some calories, trace amounts of sodium and protein, and no minerals or complex carbohydrates. The only thing taumoeba can really do is postpone starvation. As a result, Grace now suffers from a number of diseases associated with nutrient deficiency, such as wasting disease, scorbutus, and anemia. As such, his appearance has changed drastically. He emits an entirely different electromagnetic wavelength--both his mass and energy have depleted by a great margin. His wavelengths are long, and they make it easier for me to see inside his body at his shriveling organs and hollowing bones. I want all the time in the world to wander the stars and revel in my reclusivity, but Grace is out of time.
He dozes on his mattress by the xenonite wall in the lab while I read through the edits he made earlier on an article draft I wrote, detailing the construction and applications of my xenonite breeding tanks. I accept most of his edits, fixing the strikethroughs and word changes, addressing the formidable and mildly offensive English interrogative symbol. Grace is a skilled writer, far better than I am. We do not write as much on Erid, but rather participate in and record thrums, which communicate and archive all formal knowledge. He has tried to placate me by assuring me that writing is an unnatural skill for humans, but I know that he means the physical act of writing with an implement by hand. The concept of creating a cohesive and salient narrative to transmit an idea is one of humanity's greatest strengths. It is this skill where we Eridians fall short. His insights during the drafting process are valuable, but I struggle to not become embarrassed or defensive when he makes his corrections. This must be how he feels in all other matters between us.
A strange sound in the control room pulls me away from my work. I leave the manuscript and climb up to the cockpit. Again the sound repeats.
“...nauth…zed ship,” says the voice from Hail Mary’s radio, scratchy and far away, in between frequencies, “Id…fy yo… imm…ly.”
It takes me a moment to realize that the voice is an Eridian voice, speaking Eridian words. Erid is making contact.
“Unau…ip…ntify your…ediately.”
“Grace!” I cry, flinging myself back down the handholds to the lab. “Grace, Grace, wake up!” I throw on my prototype EVA suit and burst out of the airlock into his atmosphere. “Grace Grace Grace!”
He appears deceased on his mattress, rail thin and still, but I can sense his heart beating slowly. He stirs and dredges himself up from sleep. This process takes much longer than it used to when his fatty brain was fully energized. “What…what’s wrong? What is it?”
“The radio! Erid is hailing us on the radio!”
“Oh, shoot,” he says, the grogginess from his voice quickly clearing. I am still lingering by the ladder to dart back up to the control room, but I force myself to slow down and go to him, giving him a hand up, which takes, and he braces himself on the top of my carapace. He is still leaning on me, one hand grabbing me while the other covers his eyes. I want to tell him to slow down, to take his time, ingest dihydrogen monoxide and some taumoeba before moving about, but this matter is pressing. I resist the urge to tell him so; Grace knows. Once I feel him stand on his own, I hurry back up to the control room. He follows me and collapses in the pilot’s chair.
“Un…oriz…ip…entify…elf im…ly.” Grace leans over and tunes the frequency. “Unauthorized ship. Identify yourself immediately.” He continues to tune until the transmission is clear.
“How do I use the radio?” I exclaim.
Grace starts to explain, but just takes the radio receiver from its cradle and holds it towards me.
The words get caught in my tangled vocal chords. How much time has passed since I have heard another voice speaking my language? “This is Roc--Materials and Aerospace Engineer From the Third Precinct Of the Sixty-Third Line Who Serves as Engineer on Ship. I have returned from my mission.”
There is a long pause on the radio. It is so long that Grace ducks under the control panel to make sure that the radio is functioning correctly, handing the receiver to me. He bumps his head coming back up and I can tell he has cut himself. Foolish, foolish. He is too weak to be making more trouble for himself. I almost snap at him for it, but the radio crackles again. “You are on an unidentifiable craft, Serves as Engineer on Ship. Explain.”
“I had to abandon ship. In the process of my mission, I made contact with an intelligent alien organism from Bihexal Planetary System 2 who was on an identical mission as ours. Ship experienced a catastrophic fuel-line failure, which I was unable to repair. I abandoned the ship and was rescued by the organism.”
“What is the status of the organism?”
“Alive.”
“What is the location of the organism?”
“On the ship with me.”
“What is the disposition of the organism?”
“Friendly.”
“What is the status of the Ship crew?”
“The crew is dead. They died en route.”
“Before or after contact with the organism?”
“Before.”
Another long silence. Beside me, in the pilot’s chair, Grace lets out a sigh. Not one of boredom, or frustration, but a pressure-releasing gesture. He is experiencing stress. If he had more energy, I am sure his knee would be bouncing. He brings his thin hands to his sunken eye sockets. I follow his lead and vent out some of the heat building in my carapace, stretching my radiator. Much better.
The radio clicks and both Grace and I become tense once more. “Stand by.”
Silence.
“What are they doing?” Grace asks, not at all impatiently.
“They are in our communications institute, which is part of Erid’s governing complex. All communication is done there, from interpersonal to intergalactic,” I explain. “They have already begun a thrum to plan our arrival, but each piece of information we provide must be fed into the thrum, and the song changes. Many communications and science Eridians will be aware of the thrum as it grows in number and duration. It will embed itself into our shared consciousness, which will make communications easier, but for that to happen, they need more relevant Eridians to join the thrum.” I have been to the communications institute only a few times, mostly to deliver messages back to Adrian while I was away in preparation to depart on this very mission. I never found communications interesting enough to learn more about, so this is all I can say on the matter for Grace.
“So they’re getting people?”
“Yes.”
“And this will eventually be part of your…shared consciousness? Like a hive mind?”
“Yes.”
“Can you…are you part of the hive mind? Can you perceive the thrum?”
Before I can answer, the radio clicks. “Serves as Engineer on Ship,” says the voice on the radio. “Confirm the following: Continue your approach to Erid. We will transmit course adjustments and specifications for entering low orbit, which you will maintain above a specific coordinate location continually until further instruction. Confirm.”
“Confirm.”
“Serves as Engineer on Ship, confirm the following: we will establish an orbital tower and you will exit the spacecraft. You will undergo testing and medical care here, and you will testify in a formal hearing in supermagisterial court regarding the mission.”
“The organism requires urgent medical care. There must be a plan in place for his care on Erid.”
The voice ignores this. “Serves as Engineer on Ship, confirm.”
“Confirm.” I go to implore further on Grace’s behalf, but the Eridian on the other line speaks first.
“The organism must remain on the ship in low orbit. The organism must not leave containment. Confirm.”
I hesitate. These terms feel definite in a way that makes me uneasy. I do not want to agree to them, even if they are only temporary designations. I consider our bargaining chip--the taumoeba canisters. We are still far enough away that we could divert our course and miss Erid without using an excessive amount of fuel, like we would in order to propel out of a stronger gravitational field if we were closer. I had hoped for more time to assess my array of leverages and come up with a plan before entering such existential negotiations, but I am ready enough if now is the time to settle.
“Rocky,” Grace says quietly, leaning towards me. “Don’t do anything impulsive. We’ll figure it out later. Just agree.” It is as if he can sense what I was thinking. It is a maddening and endearing esoteric skill of his.
Very well. I did not want to say this in front of Grace, but I must make the situation clear as fully and as succinctly as I can. I engage the radio receiver: “The organism will die without immediate medical intervention.”
“The organism must not leave containment. Confirm.”
“Confirm.”
“Stand by for course adjustments and coordinates.”
I hang the receiver up and sit back in my chair. Grace is looking at me. My senses are focused on him, but I do not turn. “Don’t worry, Rocky,” he says softly after a time. “We expected skepticism, right? I mean, I can’t even imagine how much worse it would be if we were doing this on Earth. I’d probably never see you again. They’d whisk you off to who-knows-where. Nevada, probably. You know what’s in Nevada, bud?” I don’t answer. I’m thinking, and he’s rambling. “Exactly,” he says. “So don’t worry. We’ll get it figured out. We’ve got a lot of time, still. And then we--”
“Save your calories,” I snap, and instantly regret it. Grace falls silent. Why did I say that? I’m afraid, and so is he, and it's coming out of us in different amplitudes and frequencies, clattering against one another dissonantly. It’s like we’re caught in a storm in one of Earth’s oceans, tossed in the surf, and I have just pushed him underwater so that I might keep my head above the dissonant waves. I need to apologize but I can’t. The words are trapped in my vocal chords. I wish for a moment that he was like me, and he could perceive my regret, feel my reserved contrition wafting off of me as heat haze. The time runs out, and the moment passes. There is nothing more for me to say.
I get down from my chair and find a pencil and paper so he can write down the course adjustments and coordinates.
We loop under Erid’s rings within a day or two and establish our vector that will keep Hail Mary skating over Erid’s atmosphere. Grace consumes one of the final portions of his dwindling coma slurry with a crushed up caffeine pill in it in addition to his regular taumoeba to perform the maneuver. The Eridian calculations were good, of course, and we soon are turning in a smooth arc over Erid, just above the churning clouds. The Eridians send up a chute for me to take down to the surface. It fixes itself to the airlock snugly.
All of a sudden, I find myself standing in my xenonite suit next to the airlock, looking at Grace in his overstretched socks, his multi-textured quilt wrapped around him. It has been years since we have been apart. Years since he was ever anywhere where I could not sense him. It feels very wrong to leave him. When two have been together for so long, it is not right to separate them. If they were meant to be apart, it would have happened already.
“I will hurry back,” I promise. We have already tried to say goodbye three or four times, but ended up stalling for a long time.
“No need,” says Grace. “It sounds like you’ll be there for a while, anyway.” He is right, but I didn’t want to say it. It is better for him to let me go than for me to leave him.
“Are you sure that you will be okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Just come back after a few days. Earth days,” he specifies.
“I understand.” If we take any longer, say anything deeper, it will feel like a permanent departure. Grace shuffles over to me and arduously kneels and sits back on his feet. I step into him and wrap two arms around his back. His feeble arms hold my thorax, hands latched on top. I feel him squeeze, releasing air heavily. Eventually, it becomes even more uncomfortable than how it began, and I release him. He pulls away, his eyes blinking rapidly. I help him to his feet and he walks me to the airlock. I step into the hallway, the door sealing behind me. From inside, Grace presses the button opening the exterior hatch. I step out into the chute. The doors all close. I can just make Grace out behind three sets of doors. His face is pressed to the small airlock window. Behind the hatch, I can tell he is rubbing his knuckles up and down his forearm. I mirror the gesture back at him with two arms, and with my third, pull the xenonite lever that will lower me down to the surface. I strain for him until he is out of view.
The door to the chute opens and I am received by a group of Eridians in decontamination suits, much like my own EVA suit, standing low to the ground in solid, defensive stances. There are doctors and medical scientists behind them. There are about twelve Eridians in total gathered around the end of the chute. “Materials and Aerospace Engineer From the Third Precinct Of the Sixty-Third Line Who Serves as Engineer on Ship, please remain calm,” orders one of the decontamination suits. “Remove your suit.”
Welcome home, Rocky. Now take your clothes off. Our clothing is purely utilitarian, so to wear nothing is no great offense, but the request is still jarring. I do as they say, and the moment my xenonite suit is off, I find myself in the middle of an acrid vapor sprayed at me by the decontamination people. It settles on my carapace in a tight film, the bitter, sterile feeling seeping into me. I feel the tingling burn, damaged slightly by the strong chemicals designed to eradicate any contaminants on me. Likely unnecessary, but prudent.
As it dries, I realize how cold the atmosphere is. I shiver without my insulating xenonite suit, chilled further by the sterile vapor. I walk quickly with the entourage and find myself struggling to keep up. We are surrounded by familiar structures with flat pentagonal walls. This is the governing complex. I recognize the layout, the metal monuments to events and figures in our shared history. The sciophytic plants have all gone brittle. Most have been removed. If I strain, I can tell that their roots have been pulled up, and the soil never came to settle around the holes left in their absence. As I strain further and further, I notice that the complex is empty. Entirely empty of all life--plant, animal, Eridian. We are the only living beings around.
One of the decontamination group interprets my sonar. “The climate has changed considerably since you left, Serves as Engineer on Ship. It is good that you are back; we ran out of solutions in your absence, and have transitioned most of our population to subterranean cities.”
Subterranean cities? Most of Erid’s heat is generated from our core, radiating out through the mantle and porous crust and into the heavy air, all trapped closer to the surface by the atmosphere. Only a fraction of our heat enters the atmosphere from our two stars. Many decades ago, when our scientists first noticed our stars dimming, a fringe solution that was proposed was a shift to living below the surface. The stars would die, but because we could draw enough heat from the core, some life would survive underground, and hopefully the astrophage problem would find a way to solve itself. These ideas were put forth by a paragovernment movement of smart but not intelligent Eridians. They put on a convincing show of government, but were ultimately disruptors, racketeers, and confidence tricksters. Luckily, our government, drawn by a meritocratic system, took a more proactive approach to the astrophage question.
I am escorted inside one of the large buildings of the governing complex. The emptiness inside of the building is due to lack of life, not the lack of things. Nondescript workstations sit untouched as if they were instantly abandoned. Huge annotated relief maps of Erid on the wall were slowly falling apart, crumbling onto the cracked floors. It was once a knowledge-creation center, designated for research activities. Now it is nothing but a lifeless hub. The decontamination suits herd me into another chute, which slowly releases us downward.
The chute doors open to a low arched corridor. There are broad symmetrical rectangles carved into the ceiling bending over the curved hallway, long, straight lines carving through them. A thin flow of people move up and down the wide hallway, vibrating a collective thrum about their work. It is a low, even tune, more of a chant than anything. The sound of different Eridians in song overwhelms me, their song lighting up their different somatotypes and textures, living, breathing, moving, thinking. My hearts clench and twist inside my carapace. I tremble with the effort to contain myself.
I can pick out individual strains comprising the thrum. They sing about the different variables in the index they are constructing to model optimal conditions for artificially incubating eggs. I hear one tone buzzing about the soil cores they have to cut, hurrying through the corridor to carry another large sample from the freezer to the lab. Another sings about how studying electromagnetic fields makes them miss their mate-cluster and young, expressing happiness at giving in to the magnetic charge and going home to be with them after a day of work. Another voice grumbles about the lack of metal sheets to print on in the communal print room, and how this selfishness signals the end of all Eridian society. There is dissonance and strain, worries about experiments not working, patents and grants rejected, layoffs and uncertainty. There is harmony, passing greetings, collaborators working through problems, student research assistants gossiping. It runs over me and through me, and as much as it makes me feel like I am home, I am filled with deep, strange loneliness.
Immediately, the decontamination suits join the thrum and sing a shared song about the engineer who must be tested and treated. I think I should join and sing as we now march through the corridor, but I am unsure how to. I know I knew how at some point, but this instinct is disused.
I am taken to a gutted and repurposed laboratory. Only a few people are there, three doctors waiting around expectantly, orderlies preparing sample tubes. I can tell where large chemical equipment has been replaced by cabinets and standard mobile medical equipment. A rack of tools, an examination platform, canisters of more compressed sterilant gases.
The doctors weigh and measure me with a sonographic amplification emitter, which records the displacement of my body in space. It will accurately report my height and mass, including specialized measurements like the length of each of my appendages, the dimensions of my thorax, and even the thickness of my carapace. It is an unpleasant experience that time has made a little less unpleasant. Rather than a series of sound waves blasted at me, the new technology only needs one shot to read me. Then, the doctors ask me to mount an examination positioner, which is similar to our sleeping apparatus. However, this version is taller than the ones intended for sleeping on. This device is intended for ventral seam and inner orifice examinations. I climb the apparatus, settling as comfortably as I can, and the examination begins.
The process starts slowly. Before anything else, I am wordlessly asked to excrete—a small pan is brought underneath me. It takes me a while to relax enough that the different tissues in my carapace can shift and engage the digestive organs that will release my compact waste into the pan, but I eventually manage it. The sample is taken away to be assessed for nutrient content, answering many questions that I could easily have told them myself. Now that I am empty, hematofluid and tissue samples are collected with a small hose made of tightly-knit metal, taken from the shallow insides of my ventral seam. It sucks out a circle of tissue with a sharp pinch of pain. The clinical wounds are dressed, signaling that the easy part is over.
Covered with a protective glove, the doctor reaches inside of me and prods about, while dictating to the scribe whether certain parts of my anatomy and physiology are normal or abnormal and to what degree. I oscillate between trying to relax, letting my mind take refuge away from here, and ensuring that my ventral seam remains open, which requires focus. The slit is closed when I am in a state of repose; it takes intentional muscle energy to keep it open.
My soft innards have a considerable amount of give and elasticity, like any Eridian, but the poking and digging, pressing one organ against another stifles the flow of my hematofluid, and thus my air. The weak muscles lining the inside of my seam flutter and spasm as the doctor feels this node and that polyp, reaching up further and further until my seam is blocked and I experience a choking sensation. I try to ask for a moment to calm and collect myself, but my vocal chords are all pressed against one another; the doctor is measuring the thick scar tissue still wrapped around the porous bellows organ that sustained burns after combusting in Grace’s oxygenated atmosphere. They stick the tissue with small vise-needles to measure its depth and density. I cannot speak. The process leaves me with the unique feeling that my body is falling apart, the precarious feeling that all my innards might tumble out and leave me empty.
I am dismissed to gather myself in a cleaning stall. The stall has a large, shallow basin in the center, filled with an assortment of mineral-laden rocks. I step into the basin and rub and twist myself over the warm stones. Some fracture into smaller chunks, leaving pulverized crystals of dust on me. Others slough old, dead layers from my carapace and sharpen the new layers beneath, refreshing my sonic footprint. The minerals, like realgar, galena, and fine, fibrous silicates, clean and refresh me. I regret to leave this moment of singular refinement, left unscrutinized for only a bit, but I am aware of the orderlies waiting for me. I finish my cleaning, letting the settling mineral dust ease my heart somewhat.
The orderlies, also in their decontamination suits despite my decontamination, escort me again out through the halls. It is a short, disorienting walk to a different part of the complex. The wing is much quieter; no one sings through the halls about their work. In fact, the artificial sound of people humming low, meaningless notes plays quietly to drown out any conversation that might be overheard. I am brought to a threshold leading into a low, simple room. A single Eridian rests comfortably on a stool, a singular claw pressing intricate manual symbols on a moist tablet. They look up at me as I am herded inside and then quickly abandoned by the orderlies.
“Hello, Serves as Engineer on Ship. My name is Established Indicators for Mental Anguish. I am a psychologist and I help employees of the state who have undertaken difficult work tasks feel better if they are struggling to readjust to life. Please,” they gesture before them, “make yourself comfortable.”
I enter the room and settle on the ground. I draw my appendages beneath my thorax in a compact and neutral position. “Hello,” I say. “I am not sure if this is necessary; I feel fine.”
“I am sure you do,” they say gently. “This is just a formality. Today I will administer a psychological evaluation. This evaluation is intended to assess and quantify your individual psychological state as a result of your mission. If you feel that this is not necessary, then your generous cooperation will help us establish a baseline and ensure the best care for future patients. I will ask you a series of questions. I apologize if some seem invasive or overly intimate. Please answer honestly. You can neither pass nor fail this examination. Are you ready, Serves as Engineer on Ship?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. For these first few questions, please answer yes or no. Have you ever been in a serious mechanical accident during your mission?”
“Yes.”
Established Indicators for Mental Anguish makes a note on their tablet. “Have you ever been in a major natural or technological disaster, such as a fire, chemical storm, magnetic storm, seismic eruption, volcanic eruption, flood, or chemical spill during your mission?”
I think for a second. Was the taumoeba leak in the fuel lines a chemical spill? Was being exposed to Grace’s atmosphere one? “No,” I decide.
“Have you ever had a life-threatening illness or injury during your mission?”
“Yes.”
“Has anyone ever made or pressured you into having some type of unwanted sexual contact during your mission?”
“No.”
“Have you ever made or pressured someone into having some type of unwanted sexual contact during your mission?”
“No!”
“Has a coworker died violently, for example, in a serious mechanical, technological, or chemical accident, attack, or disaster during your mission?”
“Yes.”
“Have you witnessed a situation in which someone was seriously injured or killed, or have you ever witnessed a situation in which you feared someone would be seriously injured or killed during your mission?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. Next, I will read several statements. Please respond to each one with a number from one to six, with one being the lowest level of association, and six being the highest level of association. During my mission, I acted in ways that violated my own morals or values, including those of my sibling Eridians.”
“Two.”
“I violated my own morals or values, including those of my sibling Eridians by failing to do something I should have done during my mission.”
“Three.”
“I saw things that violated my own morals or values, including those of my sibling Eridians.”
“Six.”
“I have withdrawn from others more often. Please answer this hypothetically.”
“Six.”
“I am bothered by what I did not do during my mission.”
“Four.”
“I am worried that bad things will happen to me or my loved ones.”
“Six.”
“I think about how I should have been able to do more.”
“Four.”
“I am bothered by what I did during my mission.”
“One.”
“I do not seek support because I worry others would not understand.”
“Six.”
“I doubt my own judgment.”
“One.”
“My life feels like it has less purpose.”
“Two.”
“I do not trust those around me.”
“Six,”
“I feel betrayed by leaders or institutions.”
“One.”
“My mate is no longer a source of comfort.”
“Four.”
“I feel powerless.”
“Four.”
“I cannot provide any value to Eridian society.”
“One.”
“I do not recognize those around me.
“Five.”
“I am not a source of honor.”
“Three.”
“I feel disgusted.”
“Four.”
“I do not belong.”
“Six.”
Silence.
“And that concludes the examination,” Established Indicators for Mental Anguish says. “How do you feel?”
“Fine.” I feel like I cannot respirate. I feel like I did when I stepped carefully through the splay of my crewmates’ rigid upturned bodies, appendages contorted in anguish, layers of their carapaces having been burned off, splatters of mercury and waste having erupted from their ventral seams. I feel like I did when I pulled Grace’s nearly lifeless body through Hail Mary, feeling his soft flesh bubble and melt in my hand, barely able to scream as the smoke billowing out from my lungs asphyxiated me from the inside. I am home now and I am safe but those years of wandering alone, lost and disoriented, carving out a life of unlife, an identity of unbeing, unbecoming, those years cannot be undone by a chemical shower and questionnaire.
“Good. Very good. I will be in touch with you again, Serves as Engineer on Ship.” Established Indicators for Mental Anguish begins to collect their notes.
“Where am I supposed to go now?”
“You wait here,” they say brightly and head for the exit. “The hearing is next.”
I balk. “So soon?”
“Some of the magisters came all the way from the supermagisterial building to hold the hearing here, so that you might be more comfortable. It is a great honor, you know.” Established Indicators for Mental Anguish looks like they want to leave. They are lingering by the exit, waylaid by my questions. I keep myself from asking anything else, such as what is the supermagistrate, what do they do, and when did they become relevant. Although I suspect they have something to do with why all of Erid is living underground like a bunch of caulk worms. “I will be in touch with you again. Welcome home,” they say, and depart.
I let a great volume of pressure shudder out of me, released through my vents.
Before long, another entourage files in the evaluation room. My thorax lowers defensively, the joints of my appendages raising. Twelve Eridians bearing low metal stools that they arrange before me. It is too many people for this small room. My emotions hang thick in the air and I wonder if they can sense them. It is almost as unbearably humiliating to be so vulnerable in front of them as it would be to eat before this audience. They drag a table over and begin setting up recording equipment to capture a thrum, numerous presumably empty canisters resting on the table. That many canisters can capture hours of sound waves. Maybe even a day and a half. I cannot help but warble apprehensively. None of the Eridians address me. They finish reconfiguring the room and then line up by the entrance. After a moment, three Eridians enter in a single file. They each wear legal regalia, circular bronze plates hanging from each of the facets on their carapaces, exquisitely engraved with the different symbols of their offices. When I left Erid, it was not common for politicians to wear the old costume. Our politicians preferred to be known by their professions and the sources of their expertise, and thus their merit, rather than their office, and so the regalia was not often worn.
I feel pressure to stand and greet them. Their emblems are compelling, and the Eridians defiled by the entrance suggest that I should also be at attention. So I stand and wait until what I presume are the magisters take a seat.
“Who are you?” I ask. The circumstances surrounding their arrival leads me to believe that these are not people whom one should displease, but my exhaustion clouds my judgment.
Luckily, the leaders seem to take no offense. The middle Eridian answers indicatively without hesitation: “We are representatives of the Eridian people, magisters in the supermagistrate. Our job is to conduct inquiries into various matters so that we in the supermagistrate might govern more efficiently.” They are a good politician; they have said almost nothing.
I try again, more clearly, “What are your names?”
“In assuming our role as public servants at the highest level, we have forfeited individual identity markers. You may refer to them,” they gesture to their left, “as Scientist, and them” they gesture to their right, “as Engineer. I may be referred to as Overseer. Do you have other questions we might answer, Serves as Engineer on Ship?”
They might have said that facetiously, but I do have a question. “What happened to our old way of governing?”
Overseer’s answer is instantaneous: “Years after you left, when the climate began to deteriorate, polity governance was deemed too inefficient and too non-committal to address the Astrophage Question. A referendum passed that required the government to reorganize around the goal of ensuring the survival of our species. The supermagistrate was the outcome of that reorganization. May we begin now?”
“Yes,” I say, while still mulling over Overseer’s words. They make sense. Their lucidity puts me at ease somewhat.
Overseer signals to the clerks. They scamper about, fixing one of the canisters to the recorder. As they do, Overseer continues, “This hearing is intended to be an exploratory conversation. We are interested in collecting information and insights about your mission. Certainly, we will have more questions after adjourning than we do now, but we intend to continue these discussions so that we might have a better understanding. First, we would like to discuss the findings of your mission, and then the conditions of your comrades’ deaths.”
The tall recording canister now slowly circambulates and rotates on the recorder, simultaneously storing and fixing the engraved soundwaves to the spool of recording thin, metal wire.
Overseer begins to sing, and Scientist and Engineer join them. Their shimmering harmonic tones are set apart widely, open, airy chords that invite one also to join. I feel a tugging pull deep in my carapace, pleasant at first but on the brink of being painful. I hesitate, unsure of my thrumming ability, but I almost cannot help that whistling notes begin to emit from me. I manage to join their tones, matching Overseer’s until I feel sonically aware enough to find my own distinct interval and deepen our song. I sustain this for a while, feeling warm and close, before I realize that I have not yet said anything. “Um,” I say shortly, imitating the sound of Grace’s confusion-hesitation particle. “Should I go? Oh, wait, fuck--”
The thrum falters somewhat, irritation palpable. Engineer grumbles audibly. One of Overseer’s vocal chords chimes out a little flat, “It is okay,” before returning fully to the thrum.
I recover and rejoin. The telos of thrums is communication. The entire point is to communicate in such an intimate and comprehensive way that the other members of the thrum are able to anticipate what one says before they say it, and add their own thoughts, ideas, narratives that come to exist in tandem with everything else being said. Grace has compared it to our brainstorming sessions, where we come up with ideas in tandem. It is similar, but far more efficient and structured, and deeply compelling. One hardly needs to think about what they say, or how to say it; the truth flows forth, unfettered and unwitting. I begin to describe Grace and I’s astrophage discoveries. My descriptions are at first very broad and basic: we captured astrophage’s natural predator and brought it home so that it might cull the astrophage population. Then, the thrum circles. The narrative structure of the thrum is spiral-shaped, diving down the y-axis and spreading across the x- and z-axes in terms of complexity and specificity. My second pass through the narrative is more complex than the first: we captured an amoeba that consumes astrophage and bred an industrial volume of it to disseminate in the Petrova line and consume astrophage. The thrum continues, with the magisters drawing conclusions, coming to logical conclusions, and interjecting questions, which I address on the next long pass through the massive spiral, until I have communicated all of Grace and I’s findings, methods, and conclusions, and the magisters are satisfied.
The magisters stop their singing and I stop mine, slowly returning back to myself. The clerks change the recording canisters out. I realize suddenly that I will have to describe, in great detail, the deaths of my crewmates. My vents flutter anxiously. There is very little time for me to prepare myself. As soon as the clerks are finished with their work, the magisters settle to begin again.
“I have to ask,” I say quickly. “What I am about to tell you is sensitive, and difficult to believe.” I remember how long it took for me to accept Grace’s theory about the cause of death, imagining my crewmates suffering the invisible, imperceptible destruction by gamma rays tearing through their cells. “I am wondering if I should have a councilor to represent me.”
I expect the magisters to become suspicious. I can perceive their curiosity and interest, but no mistrust or alarm. This eases me. “There is no need,” says Overseer. “If you are telling the truth, we will know.”
By the end of it, I am not entirely concerned about their belief, but that I have convinced them of my innocence. The magisters were quiet for a long time during the thrum, waiting for several passes through the spiral before they began to ask questions. First Scientist, asking about the principles of radiation, then Engineer, having me knit xenonite models of astrophage flow through the Ship’s fuel lines, and finally Overseer, asking me to describe in any way I could the effects of radiation on the body. I tell them about the high-energy subatomic particles saturating space, entirely outside our ability to perceive, both with our senses and our technology, generated from the brutal expressions of energy as stars explode. These were the galactic cosmic rays, flying at nearly 30,422,234₆ times the speed of sound, that tore my crewmates apart at the cellular level. It was the same microbes that were destroying my home that intercepted the rays, transforming them into the energy that would propel me to Grace, and saved my life numerous times over. If I were to spend the rest of my life pondering this transference of life and energy, I might be able to create some model, some way to understand why all these matters settled the way they did and what it means, but I am afraid of what I would find.
I slump forward, trying to regain my composure once the magisters are again satisfied. My body is tense. I have to work to unspool my appendages and organs. Finally, it is over.
Nevertheless, I notice that the clerks have removed the recording canister and stored it away, but they also reload a third.
Before I can ask, Overseer says, “There is one last point of interest which we would like you to testify about—the organism.”
The organism. My organism. My mind, which is never very far from him, returns with laser focus. This is my time to make my entreaty and build an argument for his cause directly to government officials. I can communicate his importance, his fragility, and the immediate need to pour resources into securing his survival. “Yes, yes, yes!” I sing, taking the initiative for the first time in our thrums. “The organism hails from Bihexal Planetary System 2, from the third planet from their singular star, which sustains many different organisms, of which the organism is a Homo sapiens, a highly intelligent bipedal, social creature containing our same organ systems enclosed in a soft body covered with fine hair, and interprets its environment using a series of unique interrelated senses, communicating with one another through a combination of many different simple verbal languages and non-verbal body languages; this specimen of the Homo sapiens is uniquely intelligent; it is of the fertilizing sex, widely known as a male, who is in its middle age of its lifespan and I would characterize as extremely able, multi-skilled, sensitive, and very friendly; however it is gravely ill and at risk of death.” Already this first pass through the thrum is quite large. “The organism is from a landmass on the planet called Earth, which hosts a massive network of interconnected species of other organisms, many of which the Homo sapiens cultivate for sustenance; it requires a significant amount of energy derived from these organisms to power its organ systems. It is utilizing its simple verbal language and the written informational logs to communicate its needs for nutritional absorption and uptake. It is trained as a specialist in life science and is able to understand something about its own chemical and material needs from sustenance. It is very easy to work with, as you can see, and would be able to think through the problem of his starvation if he were allowed certain tools and personnel. Without this aid, the organism will die of starvation, or any numerous diseases associated with starvation, in the next several days or so.” I go to make the next pass through the thrum, but already I am interrupted.
“It is not polite to discuss consumption in this company,” Overseer chides coldly.
“I understand. I apologize. It is only that this is such a pressing issue.”
“Indeed, it is. What do you perceive are the intentions of this organism?”
To me, this is an irrelevant question. I feel I have already established Grace’s goodness. “It intended to study astrophage and save its home planet, no different than us.”
“And what about now, that you have accomplished that goal?”
I pause. “It wants to survive. It wants to engage in cultural exchange. Already, it has taught me many things about the technological and scientific advancements made by its species. I would not have understood why my crew died without its help. Humans have conducted extensive research on radiation and been able to harness its power; they have a comprehensive knowledge of it and its effects, where we are unaware of any of it.”
“Harness its power?” Overseer echoes, clipped. “Explain.”
My claws click together in thought. “To generate heat energy, to communicate, to examine the health of built structures. They use it for medicine, agriculture, weapons, sterilization. Their knowledge is highly sophisticated, and this particular organism is willing to share with us. Its intentions are benevolent.”
“Weapons?”
Did I say that? “Yes. I know they exist, but I am not familiar with them.” This is a lie. I have done research on these applications on the computer Grace gifted me and surveyed him for anecdotal information.
“So the organism has failed to share its knowledge on that topic,” Overseer chitters.
“Only for my lack of interest.”
“Indeed,” Overseer says again. “You mentioned the organism is sick?”
I pause. “Overseer, I am unsure of how to proceed in this topic if I cannot talk about consuming.”
“How far is it from death?”
“Only it would know for sure. Perhaps a semi-year.” About five human months. This is a generous estimate, but I believe Grace is also hardier than most humans. “Give or take.”
“And after death?”
I am unsure of how to answer this. “There is no…after death for the organism. Not in any sense that involves us.” Perhaps they are wondering if Grace, like some of the species of fungus here on Erid, will release spores upon death that will create more humans.
“Is it able to reproduce?”
“Yes, but it does not currently possess the means to. Humans must cross-fertilize to reproduce.”
“How did you come by this information?”
“It explained the process to me.” I have also consumed videos of human sexual reproduction, and Grace has shown me more educational videos of artificial cross-fertilization taking place under a microscope.
Without this extra context, Overseer seems unconvinced. I would rather them see me as naive than whatever they would think of someone who has mated many times with an alien organism. Overseer sighs. “What do you feel is the supermagistracy’s responsibility in the well-being of the organism?”
“Providing reasonable life support for the organism--something to eat, somewhere to live, some healthcare. That is all. If the people of Erid should feel any gratitude or obligation to me, it should be offered sixfold to the human organism named Grace.”
The magisters stop their thrumming rather suddenly. Self-conscious and alone, I fall silent as well. A long period of silence stretches.
“We will ask you more questions in the near future about everything that we have discussed today. There is much we have to understand and measure before we can make any decisions about the organism. You will understand that the organism is of little importance but of great concern to us--”
“It is an intelligent alien lifeform; surely this is a groundbreaking discovery of more than a little importance,” I snap.
“Indeed,” Overseer throws back, “after our last encounter with alien life has laid us low, our mind is focused on preserving the recovery and strength of life on Erid.”
“Life on Erid, which still lives thanks to Grace!”
“That is yet to be seen.”
What was the point of the last several hours? “I have just spent an eternity explaining this to you!”
“Enough!” Overseer, who has adopted a very aggressive stance, settles back as I quiet. They release a long jet of heat from their carapace, trying to collect themself. I am only quiet because I know there will be more opportunities to argue these points, and hopefully with a more sympathetic magister. “You will certainly be summoned to testify in the future,” they continue, their voice struggling into a calm register. “Any decisions regarding the organism will be made at a future date. The results of your medical examination have not come back yet, so you will be required to stay here in this complex until you are cleared to leave. The results of your psychological evaluation have also not come back yet, so you will remain separated from the shared consciousness until, again, you are cleared to rejoin. Additionally, you hold a significant amount of unvetted, uncensored information that must not enter broader consciousness until the supermagistracy has had a chance to examine it all fully, so your reconnection to the shared consciousness may not be approved for a significant amount of time.”
I interrupt very suddenly. “I want to be able to come and go to Grace’s ship whenever I want, with blanket permission.”
Overseer trembles. “For what purpose?”
“I must ensure the continued validity of the taumoeba.” There are, of course, a great number of other responsibilities I have on Hail Mary--caring for Grace, continuing our chess game, watching Jeopardy! reruns, and working on repairs--but I have the sense that Overseer would not care to hear about them.
“Very well, but you must be decontaminated after each trip.”
“Fine.”
Overseer continues. “In the meantime, you are cleared to resume your post at First Precinct Science and Industry State Laboratory as a materials engineer. We have approved a new postnomen for you, so your new legal name is Materials and Aerospace Engineer From the Third Precinct Of the Sixty-Third Line Who Was Set Upon the Star-Killer. You will again join the Astrophage Department, given your expertise. You are not to share any details about your mission with your coworkers. We have informed them not to ask, so that we can handle dissemination of accurate consistent information. Your mate has been contacted and is en route to visit you. You are dismissed.”
There are more questions I should ask. Where and to whom do I report for work? When will Adrian arrive, and where will they be? How will you contact me? When? What will you do with all of the recordings? Why must you discuss what I can and cannot share from the mission if all of it was true? How can one be separated from a sense of consciousness they share with their species? What does such a state of being imply? What is going to happen to me? What is going to happen to Grace? What have you done to my planet?
But all I can do is stand up and leave, feeling like I need to be decontaminated again.
I pause in the hallway, which is still empty, populated only by the gibberish songs of recorded Eridians intending to obscure words shared behind the dense walls. I am alone for the first time since returning to Erid. I start wandering down the hall towards what I think is the laboratory that I came from, where there might be more people to ask for directions. I am not entirely sure where I need to go, but what I must do is, as always, very clear.