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Of course the call comes while Rocky is asleep.
I know he's been trying to put it off until we're close enough to reach Erid by radio—partly because he doesn't trust me to communicate on my own, and partly because he's been away from home for decades and he's anxious to hear a familiar voice even if it's just some low-level radio tech. But he's been getting slower and clumsier for a few days now, and even he has to admit that the very maximum length of an Eridian sleep cycle would still have him awake by the time we reach speaking range.
He still insisted on sleeping in the control room just in case, which means I'm there too. Which turns out to be a good thing.
Radios don't crackle anymore like they did in the old days, or at least like they did in movies from my childhood, which I think is a shame. The Mary's comm system just beeps politely at me, and a small green "accept transmission" pops up on one of the screens.
We're still way out of Rocky's estimated range. But it stands to reason the Eridians would have spent the time Rocky's been away improving their communications technology in the hopes he and his crew would come back.
Oh, god, his crew. If the Eridians can "see" the Mary, can they see how many living beings are on it? Will I have to be the one to break the news?
The comm system beeps again. There's no way to wake Rocky; I have to be the one to answer.
I hit "accept".
"Hello? Eridian-star-rescue-ship, please report. You are not same shape as when you left. Is this Eridian-star-rescue-ship, question? Do you understand, question?"
Shit. I can understand them, mostly—whoever is talking is using clipped, simple sentences, just like the movie-version of NASA Mission Control does. My grasp on Eridian conditionals and moods is still a bit shaky, but this much I can handle. What I can't do is answer back. The prototype Eridian text-to-speech device Rocky has been training me on is back in the lab. If I run and get it, the Eridians might decide I can't hear or understand them, and we'll miss our chance to reassure them we're friendly.
If only the stay-awake amphetamines Stratt thoughtfully included in the Mary's med kits worked on Eridians. I've never wanted Rocky to wake up more than I do right now—well, no. I have wanted it more, one very memorable time. But this is pretty high up there.
I have to try my best.
"H-e-l-lo," I say—or attempt to say, one note of each chord at a time with a pause between chords. It's slow and probably slightly out-of-tune, but it's the best I can do. It's almost like morse code, so really it's perfect for long-range communication, right?
The comms system beeps again. The voice on the other end is speaking faster, excited and anxious. "That was greeting, question? Sounds strange, one tone at a time. Damage to speaking or not speak fully Eridian. Who are you, question?"
At least they can decipher my deconstructed Eridian; that's a relief. I'm not sure I can manage any of the inflectional endings with my human vocal cords, but Rocky and I managed without grammar for a while, so theoretically it will work here too.
Rocky. I should namedrop Rocky. They have no reason to believe I'm friendly just because I say so, or try to say so using only the base form of the adjective, but maybe if I mention a specific Eridian that will lend me some credibility.
"I-am Sol-star plaane-t Grace. Shhip is Grace, Rocky Eridian with."
Again, the reply is immediate. These Eridians sure don't ponder their words for very long. Then again, I can't imagine earth's scientists would have much patience on first contact with an alien species either.
"You are intelligent alien life form, question? Where are other Eridians, question? Can we talk to Rocky, question?"
Damn it, I really stepped in that one. Maybe they'll wait until Rocky wakes up, and he can deliver the news more eloquently?
"Rocky sleep," I try. "Not know radio re-ach. Rocky wake, can tell."
"And other Eridians, question?"
No dice. I can't blame them; if I sent twenty-three humans to space and an alien told me it was bringing back only one, I wouldn't let it off the hook either. Still, it's not going to be pleasant for either of us. I've never been good at delivering bad news even in English.
"Others no," I say, which is about the bluntest and least sympathetic way I could have put it, but I'm trying my best. "Grace Rocky only. Sorry sorry sorry."
Now there's silence. I have a horrible mental image of the families of Rocky's dead crewmates all gathered in the radio room waiting for news of their loved ones, listening to my butchered Eridian and trying to find some way to interpret it other than the worst.
"What happened, question," says the voice. It doesn't feel like much of a question. It feels more like an accusation.
What if they think I killed the rest of the Eridians and took Rocky prisoner? No, that's crazy. An alien race intelligent and cruel enough to do that would be better at learning alien languages. More likely they think I doomed the rest of Rocky's crew through stupidity.
"Rocky tell, please question?" I say. I'm getting a little better at note-by-note Eridian, but not nowhere near good enough to sound like anything other than a starling mimicking human speech sounds on earth. I can't turn this devastating news into a farce, I just can't. Not until I know if anyone who might be hurt by it is listening.
The voice thinks about it for a second. "How long until Rocky wakes, question?"
I do some quick math—not as quick as an Eridian would be, obviously, but I'm working on converting my internal clock to Eridian time in preparation, so at the very least I can do it in my head.
"Five hours most."
"We will wait," the voice says. "Sol-star life form Grace stay by radio, in case."
Easily done; not like I was going anywhere with Rocky sleeping in the control room. But—speaking of.
"Can ask one favhoor, question?" I wince at the sound of my own voice. I really mangled favor there; I'm not sure they got it.
"Repeat request. Beneficial, question?"
I decide against trying favor again; beneficial is probably as close as I'd get on a second attempt anyway. "I-have one ask. Please."
"We cannot guarantee, if it is favor. But ask."
Ah, I see; the problem was the trill on the second chord. I don't know how I would even begin to produce that sound with my own mouth. Luckily, the words I need now are simple.
"Tell A-d-r-i-a-n Rocky mate, Rocky to home."
To home in Eridian is one word; no tricky prepositions. I could have just said home, I suppose, but a silly, superstitious part of me doesn't want to jinx it. Rocky will say I'm being a stupid human when he's awake to hear about it.
Maybe it's just my stupid human imagination, but I think the voice on the other end of the radio sounds a bit friendlier when it answers this time. "We will tell. Radio when Rocky wakes."
It's the first time Rocky has slept since we entered Eridian orbit. He's been a whirlwind trying to coordinate the building of the space elevator, our landing, and the beginnings of a life-support system and temporary biodome for me. In between, he's been constantly mocking me for my Eridian morse code attempts.
I don't even mind the teasing; I'm so grateful to him for his dedication to making sure I survive more than a few weeks on Erid. Plus, the degree to which the other Eridians I've met so far have been surprised and impressed by my sort-of fluency in Eridian when I have the TTS instrument has been a pretty big boost to my ego, so it's probably a good thing for Rocky to knock it down a few pegs. Turns out setting expectations as low as I did on first contact means even tourist-level Eridian seems impressive in comparison.
Rocky has refused to leave my side even now that we've docked, which means Adrian has refused to leave Rocky's side—or as close as they can get with Rocky on my side of the xenonite barrier separating my atmosphere from Erid's. It's very sweet.
I'm kind of wishing they would leave now, though. I'm not quite sure how to have a conversation with them without Rocky there and awake as a buffer.
"You could sleep too," I try. "I can watch both you and Rocky."
"Thank you, but no." Adrian does not sound very confident in my ability to properly guard a sleeping Eridian, which stings a little. I did it just fine for four years, didn't I? "I have hoped for my mate's safety and guarded them with my thoughts for many dozens of years. I would like to guard them properly now that I am able to."
I do my best to blink away tears before I can disgust Adrian too badly with my leakiness. It took Rocky a long time to get used to it, and Adrian has barely known me a week.
If I'd returned to earth, who would have watched me sleep? No one. Like Stratt said, I didn't even have a dog. No one would have been keeping me in their thoughts all these years like Adrian kept Rocky in theirs.
I feel very lonely all of a sudden.
"Of course. I understand. Would you like to be alone with them?"
"No, Grace should stay. We can talk, get to know without Rocky interrupting," Adrian says.
I laugh through my slightly-clogged throat. "Rocky does do that."
Adrian shifts their craggy bulk from side to side, a movement I've learned to recognize as Eridian indecision. They're deciding whether or not to say something.
"I want to thank you," they say finally. "For bringing Rocky home to me, and for… it was difficult, hearing you on the radio."
I wince. Rocky keeps his mockery to how I spoke to the radio operator rather than the contents of what I said. He understands how guilty I feel for not being able to break the news more gently to the families of his crew, some of whom I now know were listening. Adrian was one of them.
"Your Eridian was very bad—not your fault, I know now. But very bad, hard to understand," Adrian says. "I thought I heard Rocky's name, but I could not be sure. Could not trust—could not let myself trust I had heard right. You had implied all others were gone, and I could not hope…"
"I'm really sorry," I say, in English. I'm still learning how to convey deep emotions in Eridian, and it feels important that Adrian know how deeply, truly sorry I am that only Rocky made it home to his mate.
Adrian stamps a foot on the ground, chiding. When Rocky does that it always comes across as a bit petulant, but Adrian is clearly scolding me.
"Do not apologize. I did not hope, but then… you said my name. Badly, but my name. And then one word, 'to home'. Could not be misunderstood. That was the best sentence I have ever heard. Thank you."
I guess I couldn't have put it any better after all.
"You're welcome," I say. "He was so excited to talk to you. I wanted you to know. He deserves… I'm glad he had someone to come home to."
Adrian thinks for several moments, tilting their carapace at a slight angle like a human cocking their head. Hesitantly, they ask, "you know Eridian grammar, question? Enough to know 'to home'."
"Some," I say. "Parts are harder than others."
"You know internal, external, question?"
"Yes."
Rocky taught me that difference early on, mostly because he was annoyed with me constantly telling him to walk through things rather than to things.
"Then you will understand this," Adrian says, sounding pleased. "Rocky came into-home. Was already home, returning. You came from-outside-to-home. Was not your home. Is now."
"Thank you," I manage, through tears I know I won't be able to hold back this time.
Adrian was right. To home is a pretty great sentence, all things considered.