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Someone is crying in the supply closet again.
Martin understands. Supply closet 4B is one of the few places on the ship that can offer some actual privacy. He and Dr Shapiro are well-acquainted with all of these spots, though for a rather different purpose.
Unfortunately, this particular supply closet is also the only place where Martin can get a micro Torx screwdriver, which he happens to need. Thus, he waits outside the supply closet door, and listens with a sort of distant curiosity as the poor soul behind it sniffles and sobs.
It isn’t until the door opens and the man coming out of it freezes that Martin realizes he probably should have waited somewhere out of sight.
“Oh—uh—” It’s Alan Kirouac, a young IT technician. “I guess you heard all of that, didn’t you?” It looks like he’s blinking back tears again.
Oh, dear. Martin summons from the back of his mind the social skills that he built up to deal with overwhelmed undergraduates long ago. “There’s no shame in crying.”
“Ugh.” Alan wipes his face. “I don’t know. I probably couldn’t be more embarrassed if I tried, anyway…”
“Did something happen?” Martin asks, doing his best not to eye the shelves behind the doorway Alan is blocking. The training hour is almost up, and he really needs that screwdriver to practice taking apart the specialized microscope they’re familiarizing themselves with…
“It’s just—” Alan leans back against the doorframe, covering his face with both hands. “He’s so damn—there’s just something about those graphic tees he wears, you know?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Who?”
“Dr Grace,” Alan groans in despair.
“Ah.” His annoyance evaporates. “Yes, I have to agree.”
“Really?” Alan peeks an eye from between his fingers.
“Dr Grace is a very attractive individual. I take it you’ve also fallen under his spell.”
“Gosh. I’m such an idiot.” Alan wilts further into the wall, his feet sliding out in front of him. “He’s probably already seeing someone.”
“Not as far as I can tell,” says Martin.
“Really?” Alan shakes his head. “That just makes it worse.”
Martin has an inkling of what’s going on. “Did you proposition him?”
Alan snorts. “I tried. I was helping him solve a Windows bug, and I asked him if he’d like to get a coffee sometime.”
“And what did he say?” he asks, his curiosity picqued.
“That he’d love that, and he takes it with a lot of sugar.”
He frowns. “Was it an innuendo?”
Alan shakes his head slowly, his eyes closed, the picture of hopelessness. “I thought so. But… when I told him that I could be sweet, he just looked confused.”
Martin places a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “There, there. If it makes you feel better, Dr Shapiro and I have been trying to get through to him for weeks. We’ve tried various methods of flirtation and messaging based on a variety of cultural norms and attachment styles, but it’s proving more difficult than expected to communicate our interest to him. Recently, we started an Excel spreadsheet to track the results of our experiments.”
“Your… experiments?” Alan blinks.
“Yes. Last Tuesday, for instance, Dr Shapiro informed him that he looked hot in his ‘I had potential’ shirt.”
“Augh, that one is so tight… What did he respond?”
“That he was actually quite chilly.”
“Wow. Just… wow.”
“Would you like to be given access to the spreadsheet?” Martin asks.
“I… I don’t know, it seems kind of weird. And I’m not a scientist, so…”
“Anyone can be a scientist if they are curious, open-minded, and motivated,” he says firmly, giving Alan’s shoulder a squeeze. “And you, Mr Kirouac, have a strong motivation. We may not be able to crack Dr Grace’s code separately, but by pooling our expertise, we have a chance.”
Recruiting Alan brings a tipping point. Somehow, within the next month, several other admirers find out about Martin and Dr Shapiro’s little research project. There’s Kosheen Chandola from the astrophysics team; Jerry Ndukwe, one of Dr Grace’s own lab assistants; and Sofia Galeotti, who is a bit of an oversharer (“There’s just something about watching him with one of those Twizzlers, you know? Makes you wish you were a Twizzler”). To their surprise, Ilyukhina shows great interest when Dr Shapiro mentions the spreadsheet to her. “Normally I don’t swing that way, but for Dr Grace, I make exception!” Even Bai Ke, one of the sailors, joins in. She communicates mostly through Google translate, resulting in some puzzling mistranslations of Chinese slang.
The most shocking addition to their research team, however, is Lokken. She uses an anonymous email address and only signs her comments on the Excel spreadsheet with a capital letter L, but Martin is sure it’s her. If anything, she’s the most obsessive out of all of them.
The shared Excel spreadsheet takes up one page, then three, then five. Although Martin and Dr Shapiro added a tab explaining the methods of experimentation and guidelines for organized measurement of the variables of interest, most of the new lines of the spreadsheet are disorganized observations of Dr Grace’s behavior.
Subject switched to Swedish Fish, likely due to Vat-wide Skittles shortage. - Galeotti
Subject was heard singing “Jellicle Songs for Jellicle Cats” in the communal showers for the third day in a row. Should we do a group movie night to gather some seductive Cats references? - Ndukwe
<<- UPDATE: Watched clips on YouTube. NOT worth it.
At 3:42 AM on September 26th, subject brushed his teeth using Tom’s of Maine strawberry toothpaste. - L
Subject went and got a beer with Dimitri AGAIN. Are we sure they’re not dating, guys? - Chandola.
<<- very sure. talked to dimitri this morning, confirmed they discussed science whole time. - ilyukhina.
<<- Sure he’s not lying? - Chandola.
<<- dimitri cannot lie to save his mother. leave him out of your paranoid conspiracy theories, kosheen.
There are, however, some genuinely useful experiments. Some concern responses to language, others responses to gifts.
Some are… a little weird.
Told subject there were Skittles in my pants while wiggling eyebrows. He looked excited for one point five seconds. Then he frowned and said, “But you’re wearing a skirt?” in a questioning tone. - Galeotti
<<- Grace is American. He might not know that “pants” has multiple meanings. - Ndukwe
<<- or he was disappointed you gave him no skittles. kind of mean of you tbh. buy some real skittles for next experiment. then put them in pants (british or american) - ilyukhina
The most brazen experiment they’ve conducted so far, and the most puzzling, was by Dr Shapiro and Martin himself, when they made the leap of informing Dr Grace of their relationship. It was partly for practical reasons—as the Project’s second-in-command, it was prudent for him to be aware of any sexual congress between crew members. However, it was also an opportunity to gauge his interest in a more forward way.
For most of the conversation, Dr Grace seemed completely uninterested in the details of their sex life. Yet just before they began a lesson on the astrophage’s Kreb’s cycle, he asked, with what Martin interpreted as a spark of interest, “Wait, do you call her Dr. Shapiro while having sex?”
Subject did not show interest in details of “vanilla” intercourse, but demonstrated curiosity towards softer dom/sub dynamics. - DuBois
<<- WHAT??? - Ilyukhina
<<- See Tab 6 for full report. - DuBois
Of course, no experimentation can exist without theory, and no theory can exist without debate. After the spreadsheet becomes cluttered with over a hundred increasingly heated comments discussing everything from Grace’s past relationships (“I found Linda’s email address on LinkedIn. Should we ask her for tips?” “Yes - L” “No, we should not email his ex for tips!!!!!!!” “What about Carl, then? Didn’t they make a baby?”) to sexual orientation (“Guys, he literally wears a pansexual flag bracelet.” “He says a student made it for him… I don’t think he knows what it means”), Martin and Dr Shapiro cave and make a group chat. The spreadsheet is saved, but as a trade-off, Martin’ phone is constantly buzzing.
At the moment, he has a short lunch break, and he’s spending it up on the deck with a sandwich. He opens his messages app and sighs. As expected, it’s the same debate the group has been going over for weeks: whether or not Dr Grace and Director Stratt are dating. Personally, Martin finds it unlikely, based on the available data. He even went to the effort of coming up with a model to calculate the Bayesian probability of a relationship between Dr Grace and Director Stratt given their behavior. But of course as soon as Martin presented his model to the group, they picked apart all of his weights and assumptions. Eventually, he gave up on the debate, admitting that it was impossible to rigorously estimate the probability, and returned to devising ways to more explicitly express his interest to Dr Grace.
The rest of the group, clearly, has not moved on.
NDUKWE: I saw Stratt using Grace’s back as a table for her laptop when he was passed out. If they’re not dating, there’s something even more concerning going on
GALEOTTI: He’s always stealing sips of her coffees. And she LETS him. They’re sharing spit, guys.
CHANDOLA: Sofia, I do not want hear another word about your fucking spit obsession.
GALEOTTI: That man has an oral fixation. Someday you’ll need my expertise and then you’ll be thanking me
[CHANDOLA is typing]
ILYUKHINA: i still don’t see stratt dating a man. she gives lesbian vibe
CHANDOLA: Wishful thinking, much?
ILYUKHINA: stfu
Martin sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. This is getting out of hand. Let’s hold a group meeting next week, he types. To go over our findings. We can discuss the Grace-Stratt hypothesis then.
A few seconds pass, and then agreements start popping up. Martin puts his phone back in his pocket, hoping that they’re getting close to the bottom of this mystery.
For their meeting, they choose the less commonly used of the Vat’s two breakrooms. They gather on the semicircle of sofas, each holding their drink of choice, a big bowl of Cheez-Its on the round table in the middle.
Dr Shapiro stands in the front and claps her hands. “Alright, everybody! Thanks for showing up tonight. Martin and I were thinking we could start with everyone going around the room and presenting any evidence they’ve gathered pertaining to the Grace-Stratt question. I’ll take notes on the board.” She wheels over a whiteboard covered in partial differential equations and starts erasing. “Hope these weren’t important!”
They go around the circle, sharing observations. Martin and Dr Shapiro do their best to moderate, keeping ranting and bickering to a minimum. On the whiteboard, the FUCKING and NOT FUCKING columns steadily grow in length. A smaller column, which Ndukwe insisted on adding, reads PATHOLOGICAL SEMI-PLATONIC CODEPENDENCE??
Half and hour into an increasingly lively discussion, Alan raises his hand.
“Yes?” Shapiro points at him.
“What about Stratt’s turtleneck?”
“What about it?” says Shapiro, at the same time Ilyukhina says, “Ohhhhh.”
He leans forward and whispers, “Maybe she wears it to hide the hickeys.”
“I thought turtlenecks were just a European thing,” says Chandola.
“I am French!” Alan shouts indignantly. “I would never wear a turtleneck! And certainly not if I had the priviledge of sporting a hickey! But—”
At that moment, the door creaks open. Everyone falls silent.
Komorov walks in, and exclaims, “Ah, there you are, Olesya! I wanted to ask about—” He stops, looking around at their faces. Dr Shapiro has swiftly flipped the whiteboard so only the blank side is visible. “...Do I interrupt something?”
Half the room looks towards Martin and Dr Shapiro. The other half looks at Ilyukhina. The three of them look at each other. Ilyukhina raises her eyebrows. Dr Shapiro shrugs and tilts her head at Martin. He nods.
Ilyukhina stands up. “Dimitri! Mой милый товарищ, мой дорогой брат! Should you like to learn of fascinating experiment?”
He walks over to her slowly, peering down at the computer sitting open on the table. “What is this spreadsheet?”
“It is foundational scientific research. In fact, we believe you may have crucial insight to share, known that you are close with Dr Grace?”
“This is about Dr Grace?” Komorov looks from her to the spreadsheet and back again. The spreadsheet is open to Tab 6, where Martin reported his observations from his and Dr Shapiro’s illuminating chat with Dr Grace.
“Indeed,” says Martin, stepping forward. “Several of us have a, ah… personal or scientific interest in the subject. We decided to form an informal research group to get to the bottom of it.”
Komorov raises an eyebrow. “Get to the bottom of…?”
“How to hook up with Dr Grace,” Ilyukhina supplies.
There’s a long silence. Several pairs of eyes meet nervously across the table. Alan Kirouac’s cheeks are bright red. Even Martin and Dr Shapiro glance at each other in apprehension. Among the researchers, Komorov is almost as important as Dr Grace. If he takes offence at their work…
There’s a sound like a dying goose, and Martin looks back at Komorov, who is hunched over, his hands on his knees, wheezing.
“Are you alright?” Martin asks, twitching towards the first-aid kit in the corner cabinet.
He holds up a hand. “Fine, fine, just—” His voice shakes. “Охуеть. This is secret project Olesya has been keeping from me? Боже.”
“Hey!” says Ilyukhina. “This is serious issue!”
Galeotti extends a placating hand. “Ilyukhina is right. We’ve been trying for months to communicate our interest to him, but nothing seems to work.”
He steadies himself against Ilyukhina’s shoulder and raises his face. Tears of laughter are streaming down his cheeks. “That’s because…” He takes a deep breath, seemingly fighting down another giggle. “He is asexual.”
“What?” Ndukwe says blankly. “Like… like a jellyfish?”
This sends Komorov back into peals of helpless laughter. “Da, yes, exactly like jellyfish! You have all been flirting with jellyfish! Боже мой. And Olesya—you know this! I know you must know this.”
She shrugs. “Perhaps. But it was very funny to mess with him.”
For several minutes, they all wait for Komorov to regain control of himself. Alan awkwardly stands and offers him a seat, but he waves him off, leaving Alan to even more awkwardly sit back down. Finally, Komorov straightens and wipes the tears from his face.
“Ah, apologies,” he says. “I think apocalypse stress has finally overcame me! I needed to laugh.” His voice turns solemn. “But in serious… Ryland Grace is most sexually and romantically disinterested person I have met. Ever. He would not recognize a pick-up line if it picked him up from drive-thru in red Ferrari wearing Vegas stripper clothes. You are lucky he is also most clueless person, because otherwise, this could be consider workplace harassment. It is, at minimum, violation of APA principles for research ethics.”
Martin shuffles his feet uneasily. Looking back, what Komorov is saying is obvious… As so often happened, he was caught up by the excitement in a new area of research, and he forgot to consider the possibility that Dr Grace was uncomfortable with any kind of sexual advances. “You’re right,” he says. “I sincerely apologize, and I assure you, Dr Komorov, that this project will be discontinued and no further advances will be made.” He looks around the room. “Agreed?”
Everyone nods, although some look distinctily disgruntled about it.
“Good, good,” says Komorov.
“So…” says Ilyukhina, bumping her shoulder against his. “You want to see our spreadsheet?”
“I thought you would never ask,” he says, already leaning forward to tab through it. Galeotti guides him to the beginning, overexplaining their various observations and failed experiments. Dr Shapiro flips the whiteboard back around and gives him a run-through of the Grace-Stratt hypothesis. (When asked whether Stratt is interested in Grace, Komorov just starts laughing again.)
In the end, despite the disappointment in discovering that Dr Grace will never want to sleep with them, it’s a fun night. They end up going through the entire spreadsheet with Komorov, their spirits raised through the reminiscence of some objectively awful pickup lines. And, of course, there’s the satisfaction of a mystery solved.
They all agree to never, ever let Dr Grace know about this.
…fifteen non-relativistic Earth years later…
It’s screen time on the Hail Mary. Rocky is exploring the laptop I gifted him while I play Miss Management, a time management game so stressful it makes me sympathize with Stratt. Suddenly, Rocky pipes up, in an accusatory tone, “You say you not have mate!”
“Cause I don’t,” I say absently, breaking up a fight between two of my characters. Just stop flirting with her, Mahavir, it’s not that hard.
“Then what this?” He flips the computer around to show the screen. I glance up. It’s open to a file called The_Spreadsheet.xlsx.
“Looks like a spreadsheet, buddy.” I turn back to my game. Brooke, my most hardworking character, is on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Goshdarnit.
Rocky’s vents steam briefly in frustration. Serves him right for distracting me. “I know it is spreadsheet. But it is full of collect lines.”
“Collect… oh, pick-up lines?” I should never have explained that episode of Friends.
“Yes. Flirtation. Many many stories of flirtation with Grace.”
“H-huh?” I pause the level and lean over. “What are you talking about?”
At my direction, he scrolls slowly through the first tab of the spreadsheet. Then the second. Then the third, fourth, fifth…
Eventually, Rocky gets impatient. “What this mean, question? You have many mates on Earth, theory? You not tell me, accusation?”
A slideshow of snapshots from Stratt’s Vat flashes through my mind. A series of bewildering interactions with other researchers. A LEGO flower set randomly gifted to me by one of the astrophysicists. A tube of Tom’s of Maine strawberry toothpaste that magically appeared in my bathroom cabinet just after I’d run out.
“Oh my God,” I’m whispering. “Oh my God. Everything makes sense now.”
“What make sense, question?”
“I think they were flirting with me.”
“Hmm.” Rocky pulls the computer back to his side and scrolls through Tab 6. “You think?”