Chapter Text
Grace
One of the most important things to do when you’re on a multi-year-long voyage through space with world-saving cargo is to frequently check and maintain your equipment– it can mean the difference between life and death. Equally as important is to stave off boredom in any way that you can, for the same reason.
Unfortunately, right now in Mary’s cockpit, checking her flight and navigation systems is boring as heck.
I sigh and flip through a couple more pages of the handbook cracked open in my lap. How long have I been on this ship? Even if we’re only talking about the time that I’ve been awake, the Tau Ceti extravaganza to reuniting with Rocky took almost 6 months on its own. We’re well into a year on our way to Erid now, so that’s roughly 547.5 days awake and on Mary. Nearly 550 days on this ship at a conservative minimum, and for anything more complicated than the most basic of maneuvers in the cockpit I still have to pull out the instruction manual for every step of this joint captain-engineer checklist. It’s almost embarrassing.
I’m normally so good at these types of recall tasks– I was a middle school science teacher, for cripes sake. Basically half of my job was remembering and teaching repetitive lab procedures! To children! Over and over repeatedly! But I don’t know, there’s just something about running down this checklist of maintenance tasks that’s out of sight, out of mind every time I finish it. At least I finally had the foresight to start bookmarking the relevant pages.
It also probably doesn’t help that, every time I have to walk through the list, I miss Yao and Ilyukhina. These were supposed to be their jobs. My checklist is a breeze in comparison– the science officer’s assigned duties are all about keeping the lab in working order and making sure no equipment is mishandled. Easiest thing in the world, especially because I’m pretty sure I helped write the maintenance procedures. But every time I sit in this pilot seat, I’m just reminded of how ill-suited I am to be in it. How I was never supposed to be.
I wasn’t supposed to be here, until I was. I wasn’t supposed to make it this far, until I did.
I’m zoning out again, aren’t I? Blinking hard and flipping a few more pages into the manual, I try to turn my focus away from being sad about dead friends I only mostly remember and back on tracking down the acceptable range of numbers I should be seeing on the panel I’m checking. I think it has something to do with Mary’s autopilot headings? Holy smokes, this is boring. I really hate doing this.
…Is this something that I could pawn off onto Simon?
He’s good at these kinds of things, anything I’ve shown him how to do on Mary already he hasn’t needed to be taught twice. And by his own admission, the man had piloted a crude excuse for a submarine blind and solo without using a handbook in…less than ideal circumstances. Surely Mary wouldn’t be too different?
Okay, that’s like comparing apples and oranges and I know it. Or, like, a rusty deathtrap made of scrap metal in an ocean of blood and the most advanced spaceship mankind has ever created in the vacuum of space. But I don’t care. Not when I’m thinking about our newest crewmate. That’s a way better use of my time than doing this stupid checklist again.
He’s come a long way from the guarded, standoffish man that Rocky and I ran into (literally) almost two and a half months ago. He’s still quiet, reserved, but much less tense now. Still not very tactile, doesn’t really initiate a lot of touching and I don’t even bother to ask, but sometimes through two blankets he leans his body weight against me during our weekly movie nights with Rocky in the Don’t-Go-Crazy Room. He's always tentative about it, like he's afraid I might pull away or break– or maybe like he might break. A few times, I’ve caught him looking at my hands when I don’t think he noticed I saw him.
My own hand still tingles sometimes, where he’d taken it and held it close and told me his name. I still don’t know why, exactly, but it was a big deal to him, to trust us with it. To trust me with it. It’s not a gift I take lightly. He’s not just Heartbeat anymore, not to us. He’s Simon.
The name suits him, just like Heartbeat did.
He usually does his own thing– not in a bad way, he just likes his own space. I totally get that. But it’s not just me seeking him out anymore. He comes to me now, too. Rocky, too, to a degree. Not to talk or anything, most of the time, but just to…exist. Share space. It’s really nice, I can’t lie. It’s like when a skittish cat finally gives you that first slow blink after they judge you to be safe to relax around.
Hang on, why am I comparing Simon to a cat? How do I know so much about cat body language? Was I a cat person? Is this why I’ve been calling Rocky’s sitting posture loafing for the longest time?
Every day, I learn something new about myself. Thanks, amnesia drugs.
Off topic. I’m thinking about Simon and pretending to do maintenance tasks right now. I go back to that, tapping the panel I’m supposed to be looking at and sighing.
It’s been about a month since he’s finally accepted that what he’s seeing on board the Hail Mary is real, and not his mind playing tricks on him– or worse. He still won’t tell me what or worse means. Being cryptic is just in his nature, I guess. Context clues have gotten me as far as it has something to do with his Quiet Rapture event, those explosive nightmares he used to have night after night, and how he may have ended up in the path of the Hail Mary in the first place. He’s adamant that my crackpot theory about alternate universes is right on the money, too, but no dice on getting him to explain that can of worms either.
The curiosity is slowly driving me crazy. I’m dealing with it, though. Mostly. It's fine. I chew on my lip.
Sometimes Simon’s caginess frustrates me, probably more than it should. I hate not knowing things. And then I remember that I’m not exactly telling him–or Rocky, for that matter–the full story all the time either, and I shut myself up. If I plan on taking some things to my grave, he definitely does.
Bummer topic, brain. As punishment, I force myself to actually do my job and verify that the numbers do, in fact, look good. When they do, I mark it on the laminated checklist with my dry-erase marker and move to the next task. This one requires me to swivel the chair and go digging in Mary’s central console computer system to check the mission file backups. It’s a lot of scrolling to find the specific folder, mainly because I keep forgetting to flag it to find it faster. Boring.
A prime zone-out task. I go back to thinking about Simon.
I mean, did we get off to the greatest start? Definitely not. Does he still have a lot of walls up? Yeah, but so do I. It’s something we have in common, keeping people at a healthy distance. The thing is, I like him. And not even just because he’s the only human for 12 light-years. I think I’d like him even if we’d met on Earth, like on Stratt’s Vat. Or if we’d been coworkers at Grover Cleveland Middle. Simon is a good person. I like him.
We’re…something. We’re something more than something, we kind of have to be because of the whole only-humans thing. And the whole saved-from-the-void-of-space thing. But it feels kind of like the way that Rocky and I are more than something, only different.
And that’s the part that scares me.
I’m not good at this. Anything beyond a polite human acquaintanceship is light-years beyond my capabilities to maintain long-term, and we’re already way past acquaintances. We’re…well, I still don’t have a better word for it other than something. I just don’t know what kind of something we are, yet. Part of me doesn’t want to know, either. Plausible deniability, or whatever.
The point is, I’m the common denominator in all of my failed relationships, platonic and otherwise. I just…can’t afford for this to be another one.
The thought is so honest that I blink back to the present moment. I’ve already managed to scroll all the way to the bottom of Mary’s file backlog and I’ve been just bouncing the window in place for who knows how long. Oops. I’m about to fully shake myself out of it and scroll back up when the very last folder catches my attention. It’s simply labeled Informational Terminal Legacy Download.
What the heck is that? My cursor hovers over the file.
“Grace, question? Done with maintenance checklist, question? Need assistance.”
Rocky’s voice startles me. I don’t have one of his translators in here with me, and I’ve been going full Eridian with him lately. Where is it coming from?
“What are you looking at?” Oh. Simon came with.
I spin around in my seat. Sure enough, the man and the rock are both peeking into the cockpit, and Rocky waves from his ball when he notices me turn. I wave back. “Hey, guys!” My cheeks feel a little pink, being confronted with the person I’ve been turning over in my head like a Rubix cube for probably a solid ten minutes straight. How deep in thought had I been, if I hadn’t heard Rocky’s ball approaching? “What’s up?”
Simon’s got his eyepatch from Armando on again– I think sometimes his left eye bothers him. Not sure if it's psychosomatic or physical, but I don’t question it. Surprisingly, his mutated cheek isn’t bandaged up like it usually is. I smile when I see that. That’s new. He doesn’t let it breathe like this often. I choose to take it as a good sign. Maybe he’s having a good day.
I try not to stare. I’ve been dying to get a good look at that thing for ages.
Thankfully, Rocky pulls me out of getting lost in my own head again. “Time to rotate taumoeba tanks. Try to explain for Heartbeat while Grace busy. Is not going good.” Rocky stamps a foot for emphasis and rocks side to side. “Heartbeat say is visual learner. Rocky no have vision. Also cannot rotate taumoeba tanks so Heatbeat can watch while in ball. Need Grace. Taumoeba important important.”
Simon scowls down at the Eridian, and I chuckle. I kinda like that Rocky still calls Simon “Heartbeat.” We did program the software to register the word that Rocky was using to refer to him as “Simon” for a while, which, easily enough, was Eridian for “heartbeat” or “pulse.” It only took one time during an action movie for Rocky to ask “Why Simon Simon no increase like Grace Simon?” for us to realize the infrequent but very funny flaw in this system. I ended up changing the translation back and Rocky picked a new phrase to use for “Simon” instead, but more often than not he still calls him “Heartbeat.” I don’t think Simon minds it– he’s the one that suggested changing the translation back in the first place. He might even like it, on some level.
I like it too, but probably for different reasons. Rocky named Simon like I named Rocky. Something about that makes me happy.
I turn back around to the screen and go to shut it off entirely when I see the folder name again. Informational Terminal Legacy Download. My interest is piqued, but I’ll never have the patience to scroll all the way to the bottom of Mary’s console files again. I finally make use of the flagging feature and mark it. When I check the flagged tab, it shows up.
Just that simple! If only I could remember to do this for the gosh-dang mission file backups.
Rocky whistles impatiently behind me, and I finally start to climb out of the chair. “I’m coming, I’m coming! Keep your pants on, geez.” Rocky peeps in laughter at that, but I’m not sure why. Disentangled from the seat and with my feet finally under me, I gesture out beyond the room. “Lead on, I’m coming. We’ve got taumoeba to shake.”
Rocky bowls away after changing direction effortlessly. Even after all this time, it still gives me pause to remember that, technically, Eridians are completely omnidirectional. He really goes out of his way to cater to my–our, really–delicate monodirectional human sensibilities by giving us a consistent face to address. Gosh, I love him.
I fall in step beside Simon through the inert Don’t-Go-Crazy room as Rocky bumps along ahead. “What were you looking at?” he asks again. Man, he really doesn’t let a question go ignored. His hair looks nice today. I wonder if he washed it recently?
Right, I was asked a question. “I’m not sure, actually. I got lost staring into Mary’s eyes, I guess. I’ll look at it again later.” He huffs a little at that, not in exasperation, but in the barest hint of a maybe-laugh. I feel like my chest lights up every time I hear that, which isn’t often but it might be becoming more frequent. I’m on his right side– Simon doesn’t like when I stand on his left, especially when he wears his eyepatch. I respect that. It’s a lot of vulnerability.
When I stand on his right, though, it just reminds me how close our hands get when we’re next to each other. How warm his hand felt in mine. It does something funny to my stomach. I don’t think I like it.
I swallow and try to keep acting normal. Get a grip, Ryland. We’re something more than something, and that’s okay. That’s normal, that’s to be expected given the circumstances. Friendships happen. I’m allowed to have friends.
For once in my life, I am not going to ruin a good thing. I’ve already proven that I can do it, with Rocky. I can do it again with Simon. Transferable skills. No problem.
Right?
~~~
Simon is acting weird. Well, weirder than normal. We’re all a certain baseline-level of weird, but he’s acting weird. He’s also obviously trying to hide it, which is the weirder thing.
We made it to the lab with no issues, and my taumoeba tank demonstration is going well, I think. Through the long, lonely process of trial and error during the aftermath of Time-Go Fishing, I’d discovered that movement and agitation is a key component of taumoeba breeding. Totally static environments aren’t good for them– my main theory is that the storms of Adrian we found them in are a contributing factor to this proclivity of theirs. Rocky is still working on a design for some sort of machine that can agitate them for us, but it’s been through dozens of iterations now and he’s still not satisfied, so until then we still need to manually turn and shake the little maracas to keep the colonies active.
It’s not hard, but Rocky is very particular about the way that the tanks get shaken. Something about consistency of environment between manual shaking and the eventual automatic system he hopes to achieve? It tracks, but I still tease him about it. Bossy bossy bossy.
Anyways, now Simon can shake it with the best of them. He’s picked up the motion well, and thankfully you don’t need two hands to do it. I’m still faster at it by virtue of having done it a couple hundred times by now, and I’ve unintentionally lapped him and moved from the tanks on his right side to the tanks on his left. Is that why he’s being weird, because I’m on his left now? No, he was weird before that, too. Tense. Too composed. Still, the left-side stuff can’t be helping. I try to pick up the pace.
“Heartbeat think about Rocky idea, question?” Rocky asks from his tunnel, and Simon sets the taumoeba tank he’s holding down. His breathing is almost too even, like he’s trying very hard to keep it steady. My worry increases.
“I have,” he says after a moment, picking up another tank and starting to manipulate it back and forth. “Still thinking.”
His uncovered jaw splits open just the slightest bit every time he speaks, which is incredibly distracting. I’m suddenly very glad that today is an eyepatch day, because I am definitely gawking at the biological marvel in front of me right now. At least I’m in his blind spot, it makes me feel a little less bad.
Gosh, I want to get all up in there one day. If he ever let me, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
Rocky stamps two claws in indignation against his xenonite. “Would make life much easier for Heartbeat! When Rocky finish with taumoeba tank rotator design, will need new project. This project big and long potential, will take much time to plan and design and build. Exactly what Rocky want! As Grace say, kill two bird one stone.” He turns the part of his carapace we’ve all agreed is his “face” and chirps at me. “Grace, Rocky use human phrase correct? Have been practicing!”
I grin to myself and give him a thumbs up, setting down my own taumoeba tank and picking up the next. Only a few more to go. “Nailed it, bud. Gold star.” He trills happily, and I try to catch Simon’s uncovered eye. “You know he’s just going to keep asking. And it’s genuinely no bother, if you’re worried about that. We all need something to do, to keep us from going nuts. He likes projects.”
Simon won’t meet my gaze, but gives me a small nod. No verbal response, though. I frown. Yeah, something’s definitely up with him.
Okay, let's try a different tactic. “Hey, I was thinking in the cockpit earlier. Would you ever be interested in learning how to do the Mary maintenance checklist? It would be a huge help to know someone else could cover it if I’m ever out of commission.” And totally not because I’d really rather not do it anymore. Simon knows this, I’ve definitely complained about it before in his earshot. I’m practically baiting him to call me out.
He just nods again. My concern grows. What is up with him today?
“Rocky no understand. What reason Heartbeat have for no want new arm, question?”
And just like that, I’m alone by the taumoeba farms. I turn around, bewildered, and Simon’s already practically in the central hub. Rocky stiffens up and bleats in alarm.
“Need a sec,” is all Simon calls over his shoulder, his voice gone tense and hard. He sets the taumoeba tank he was still holding on a table with a sharp thud, and then he’s gone.
I rush forward after him to grab the tank, staring out at the empty lab entrance. My stomach twists.
Crud. Maybe Simon’s not having a good day, after all.