Chapter Text
Thomas wakes up aboard the Hail Mary. The same four years of flight behind him, the same confusion about what the hell is going on. And for now, he's the only one conscious—out of two, as he can tell from the sounds of breathing in the bunk next to him. And in the emptiness of the enormous ship, this is palpable. The first thing Tom does, after becoming aware of his body and answering a series of terribly stupid, yet unbearably difficult questions, is demand a haircut, shaving off his hideously thick beard, meticulously instructing the robotic arm on how to cut his hair. He brings back his iconic tousled curls—as best he can under these conditions, of course. And it's better than nothing. His hair may have grown out, the stylish highlights left on the floor, but he won't miss the feeling of scorched ends. His own hair was much nicer, and his eyes were more expressive.
And then his partner in misfortune wakes up. "Eye movement detected," a robotic voice announces steadily. A middle-aged man, frightened, twitches, trying to escape. Tom doesn't stop him—it's pointless, after all—and simply follows him.
Along the way, they find dead people. Mummies, strictly speaking. Their faces, as far as one can tell, are calm and relaxed. They left, at the very least, without suffering. Tom is too disoriented to be horrified.
For some reason, his partner understands the ship's structure, all the instruments, even muttering something under his breath, trying to get his bearings.
"Who else is... here?"
The robotic voice helpfully announces:
"There are two people on this ship. The main one: Captain Ryland Grace. The second person: Thomas Ryder. End of list".
The blond man looks hopefully:
"Maybe 'captain' is about you?"
"Well, no, I definitely don't vibe with Ryland. It's you. I'm Thomas. I just... know it."
***
His partner in misfortune merely shakes his head, continuing his search:
"We're definitely not in our solar system," Grace mutters, staring at the monitor. "Oh, absolutely... we're just incredibly far away."
Tom keeps his terror in check:
"How far?"
"Uh... Something like... 16 light-years from Earth. Give or take, I need a board for more precise calculations," Grace paused, marking something directly on her wrist. "Yeah, I was right."
"Wait. Light-years... that's like the speed of light, right? How long does it take for light to reach an object?"
"Yes. It's the distance a beam of light travels in a vacuum in a year."
"So. So... what's one light-year? Remind please, for those of us who've studied art?" "Tom gripped the dashboard.
It took Rhynd two seconds for the answer to pop into his head:
"That's approximately 9.4 trillion kilometers. Twelve zeros. Nine point four thousand billion."
So simple. Saying it—simple. Thomas breathed heavily:
"And the distance from... the moon to the earth?"
"Simple! 1.3 light seconds! Or about 380,000 kilometers. That's all!"
"That's all? Oh my God," Tom felt as if all the air inside him had been replaced with smoke from fires, "Let this be the worst nightmare of my life. Captain Grace, I'm having a panic attack."
Grace somehow knows what to do. He forces his partner to sit down, lowering himself across from him, and begins speaking in a calm, monotone voice:
"It's okay. You're okay, and you're not alone. You can feel your body, you can hear my voice. Right now, I need you to breathe. Don't think. Just do it, okay?"
And Tom inhales. The sound is ragged, quick. Almost whiny. But he still does it.
"Good job. Now try to name five things. That you see. You can name them, that's okay."
Thomas glances around:
"I don't know how to call... this. What is this, a dashboard? Like in Alien, or even that cheap Fassbender parody movie... oh, that's it: a chair," he turns his gaze to Ryland, "a stupid translucent suit. Hair, long. Nose. Eyebrows: one and two."
Ryland nods:
"Excellent. I also... haven't quite gotten it yet, sorry. But we'll figure it out. I see you've managed to shave, huh?"
"Of course. You should too," Tom began to brace himself, "or you look like a Neanderthal. Always have to keep up appearances, you know that? Dignity."
"Maybe. But I'm too stunned. And at least now we know where we are."
"Clearly not in a normal hotel. There's not even a single snack machine."
***
Then Ryland cried. Tom heard, but couldn't even find out the reason for his tears. Consoling him wasn't an option either. It would end with him sitting somewhere nearby, silently watching, and then they would both fall asleep. Grace was exhausted by tears, Thomas was fading from boredom.
After a few days, they learned to adapt. After a long sleep, after a coma, after such shocks, their bodies were weakened – both physically and mentally. They constantly wanted to rest and simply get some sleep. It seemed to be getting better. And then the realization began to overwhelm them both.
Then they committed the dead mission participants to space. Grace, now with a shaved face and a haircut, couldn't hold back tears.
Thomas kept his expression stony. Something inside him told him he knew these people. He'd seen them. He'd joked with them and shaken their hands. And now, they were dead. Lying motionless. Clutching photographs from their personal belongings in their bony hands. Grace took the liberty of pressing the button, consigning them to space.
They both had personal belongings, too. Ryland had a pair of glasses on top, which he immediately put on, breathing a sigh of relief. His eyes seemed touchingly enlarged behind the lenses. There was also a pile of T-shirts, keychains, children's drawings, and a whole bunch of other odds and ends. Tom peered around a bit, squinting, but couldn't see everything. He didn't ask out loud. Grace didn't tell him. Thomas's set, however, was... more impersonal. Pants. Shirts. A pair of ultra-short shorts, a huge, comfortable sweater. Sunglasses (he chuckled at the irony – that was the last thing he'd need in the middle of nowhere). But there was something nice, too – the watch, which immediately felt good on his wrist. The rings remained in a small cosmetic bag, awaiting their time. The earrings, which immediately found their way into his ears. Thomas felt like himself – at least a little – and that was nice.
Grace loved going through his things, but he was reluctant to share them – too personal. Tom didn't insist, leaving him alone with them in the sleeping compartment.
***
Thomas also needed a lot of personal space. He could wander the ship for days, or sit somewhere in a remote room, trying to sort out the emptiness in his head—memories returned reluctantly and inconsistently, which irritated and even irritated him. Dozens of small pieces of paper, which he used instead of Post-it notes, were scribbled with dozens of trivial details:
"color – blue"
"wisdom teeths removed"
"only child"
"drama club"
"French dog??"
"popcorn"
"Star Wars sucks"
Little by little, he was reassembling his identity, using tiny fragments.
One day at dinner, he and Ryland met, their faces equally cheerful:
"I was a teacher!" Ryland said.
"Cool. And I was an actor. Which doesn't explain why we're here at all, but it's nice to know who you are, Mister Grace," Thomas grinned at him.
Rydand chuckled.
"Something like that. Our presence here is intriguing. Could you stay within my reach today? I appreciate your privacy, but the chronology is starting to become clearer, and I want to share it with you. Maybe it'll be useful and productive."
"Of course."
That's how he learned—or rather, remembered—about the astrophagic problem. The sun is fading. About Tom, how they assembled a team to solve it, and...
***
"Tom," Gail began sternly, her tone brooking no argument. Thomas was actually on vacation, spending his holidays in Italy, but for Gail, he had to be available at all times. "Tonight, you're flying to the cruiser where they're preparing the Ave Maria."
"Sorry, what?" Tom didn't understand. "I don't have any flights tonight."
"Yes, you do. Have you even read the news, my dear? The sun's going down. They're solving the problem."
"Cool. What does this have to do with me, Gail? I'm on vacation. I've been working for three years, four projects, my dear."
"And now you have a new project. There. Tom, I don't want to hear anything from you, okay? This is a government contract. This is a really good government contract. They're even above the government: they're practically gods. We can't miss this chance. All they need is a talking head, increased empathy for their scientific endeavors, that sort of thing. The whole world will see you, Tom. This is a chance. A real one."
Tom thought—not long, just a few seconds. Then he sighed:
"Okay. And when will they pick me up?"
"Six. Take your suitcase with you, okay? They'll bring you up to speed."
This conversation was followed by a truly insane chain of events: he was picked up not by just any ordinary private jet, but by some specially designed ultrasonic jet, which was doing somersaults in the air and clearly testing its strength. But Tom isn't so simple: suppressing his nausea, he walked steadily down to the aircraft carrier, greeting the red-haired woman who met him.
"Stratt. It's an honor to meet you," Ryder shook her hand politely, even though he knew absolutely nothing about her. "So, tell me the secret: why am I here?"
"Didn't they tell you?" the woman asked, surprised. "Well, that happens, too. You're here to be the face of our mission. You have a colossal mention rate, making you a widely recognizable figure. Someone people will listen to. Someone whose explanations will be taken into account. Your mission: informing humanity about Project Hail Mary."
***
"I was... the head of public relations for Project Hail Mary," Tom suddenly said, emerging from the trance of returning memories.
"I see..." Rhyland bit his finger, "I was the lead researcher for Hail Mary. I hope we didn't hate each other."
"I doubt they would have sent us on the same spaceship in that case. So, Mr. Grace..."
"Just Grace. Or Ryland."
"Okay, Ryland. Then call me Tom, that's fair enough. So... The sun is dying. We're in space. What other data do we have?"
"Actually, I'm Doctor Grace," Grace suddenly chuckled contentedly.
"Quite a doctor! I imagine you're quite intelligent, Doctor Grace. That explains why you're here."
"And you were probably quite popular. But I'm not much of a movie watcher, so I don't remember any of your movies."
Thomas chuckled.
"That can be fixed. Mary told me we have the entire internet at our disposal. I checked, and it's true: even my latest film, which is still showing in theaters, has already been leaked."
"Hmm... yeah, I suppose we can work on that. But later." Grace was inwardly surprised by how easily Tom was communicating. He usually struggled to keep up a conversation. But... Thomas was chosen for public relations for a reason: he was happy to carry on the conversation himself. "I hope the memories return to you soon, because you should know that. So, the Sun is going out."
And he began explaining things using his fingers, just as he had explained them to his students. Tom nodded, asking questions in return, and it felt like a relief, like a brief return to his element. Ryland happily satisfied his interest, explaining in detail and touching on relevant topics.
Sometimes Tom would leave puzzled: to think. He would even search for something online himself, and then return in the morning with questions. Thus, these conversations became part of their coexistence.
***
"Stratt, wait a minute," Tom raised his hand, motioning for the woman to stop. She paused, looking up at him. "I don't understand a word of your explanation. If you wanted a physicist, you should have gone to National Geographic. By the way, I voiced a few episodes about penguins there, but nothing about... space."
"That's not exactly physics."
"Yeah. But not penguins either." If you want me to do the job the way you imagined, then I need a proper explanation."
Stratt is amazingly strong, one might even say an iron lady. She nodded and gestured for Thomas to follow her. Thomas obeyed, seemingly automatically, keeping a slight distance from her. Meanwhile, Stratt led him through the labyrinthine corridors of the aircraft carrier, greeting people and giving brief instructions along the way. Then she stopped at an unremarkable door and knocked:
"Dr. Grace. This is Stratt. It's urgent."
Tom, hearing the prefix "doctor," immediately remembered his professor from university, an elderly doctor who liked to repeat that they were all uneducable ignoramuses, and prepared to hold the line. Imagine his surprise when from behind the door appeared... a man who looked the least like a doctor.
"Good afternoon," he said, slightly embarrassed, tugging at his shirt, showing no recognition of Thomas. "Is this the new member of the backup cast? The main cast?"
"No and no. This is Thomas Ryder, the actor."
"Oh," Dr. Grace said, clearly surprised by this state of affairs.
"Yes. He will be briefing the public on the mission's stages and its significance. I need you to brief him and explain it... in simple terms, using your, um, skills from recent years."
A ghost of a smile appeared on Stratt's face, as if she knew some joke that Tom didn't.
"Of course," Dr. Grace nodded.
"Excellent. I'll leave you to it. You can begin right now. Mr. Ryder, once you've got the hang of it, we'll approve your script and begin filming." And she vanished. Secret passages, magic, all that.
Dr. Grace rubbed the back of his head awkwardly.
"Just Grace, yes. And you... Thomas?"
"I prefer Tom, but the direction was right."