Chapter Text
Part 1: Invitation
She was funny—always quick with a joke. He was professional and with nerves of steel. I think he was military and he was definitely our leader.
Weir, Andy. Project Hail Mary: A Novel (p. 26). Kindle Edition.
Chapter 1
“Dr. Grace. I want a short list of possible replacements.”
I stared with my mouth agape. “Are you made of stone or something?! Our friends just died!”
Weir, Andy. Project Hail Mary: A Novel. (p. 355). Kindle Edition.
Monday, April 11
Time to Hail Mary launch: 08:21:23:53
I am halfway to falling asleep when something rouses me. Windows shaking, followed by a low, resonant pulse of sound.
I wake almost instantly and assess the situation with barely a conscious thought. A shockwave from the direction of the central area of the Cosmodrome, probably twenty or thirty kilometers away.
I turn on the lamp by my bed and look at my watch with eyes that are not quite ready for light, but I manage to focus enough to see that the time is 21:28. I consider unlocking my sidearm. If it’s an attack…
There is no doubt that a serious event has occurred, but an attack is less likely than other possibilities. Astrophage. The word presents itself to me with a dreadful certainty. If the shockwave was caused by an Astrophage explosion, it will be our people who caused it. And it will be our people who are the casualties.
As Commander of the Hail Mary my priority is to protect the lives of my crew so that we can do the job humanity needs us to do. The time isn’t late enough that I can be sure the rest of the crew is in the dormitory. In fact, I’m probably the only one here. I dress rapidly and search the building, knocking on doors and making a quick sweep of the lounge and lobby. Within less than two minutes, I’m certain that no one else is home and I return to my room.
I will radio for my crew next. If that fails, the next step is to check the daily schedule charts. But before I can hail the crew, my radio crackles and Ms. Stratt’s voice comes through. “Prime crew—I need your locations. Call them in.”
“Yáo here,” I respond. “In my bunk.”
“Ilyukhina here. At officers’ bar. What was that explosion?”
We all wait for the third reply.
“DuBois,” Stratt says. “DuBois! Check in!”
No response.
“Shapiro. Dr. Annie Shapiro. Check in!”
Again, no response.
“Stratt to transport—I need a jeep to take me to Ground Control.”
“Copy,” comes the reply.
Ms. Stratt didn’t check on Bykovsky or Dubrova. She probably already checked their schedule documents. She wanted to hear from DuBois and Shapiro, and they didn’t respond.
The voice of the Cosmodrome director comes on the radio, speaking in Russian, followed by translations to a few other languages. “All points, we are investigating an explosion at the research center.”
I reach for the file on my desk and locate today’s schedule for DuBois.
“21:00-22:30 - Research Center - Generator Testing, A. Shapiro assisting,” reads the row on the chart that I am seeking. A cold feeling comes over me.
Our Russian hosts will move us to secure locations soon. I make preparations, pulling out my travel bag. It’s already packed with the necessities, but I add some reading material to it.
Some time later, I watch through the windows in the lobby as a UAZ Hunter, driven by a Russian serviceman, arrives outside. Ilyukhina steps out, along with a second soldier, who escorts her up to the door and stands at attention just outside as she enters the building. I hear her enter her room to gather her personal things. A short time later, she knocks on my door.
“We have to go sleep in bunker now because of idiots who want to bomb project,” she says. She notices the travel bag I have on my shoulder. “I see you already packed.”
I nod. We walk out together, joined by our escort as we exit the building. I glance in the direction of the research center, some twenty kilometers away, and see a distant, ominous light on the horizon. We get in the backseat. I can smell the scent of strong drink on Ilyukhina, but she doesn’t seem impaired.
After a minute, she says, “You heard? No answer from DuBois. Or Shapiro.”
“I heard.”
She mutters something in Russian. Then she says, “Dead. Killed.”
“Maybe.”
“You think not?”
“We will have news soon,” I respond.
“How can you stay so calm?” She turns to me, and I see her eyes are bright. A tear spills over and she wipes it away angrily. “They killed him. Why the hell he's there in the middle of the night, the vampire who never sleeps?”
I have no response to this. I have no comfort that I can offer her.
“How were you at the officer’s bar during quarantine?” I ask. I’m not accusing her of breaking rules. I simply want to distract her from her dark thoughts.
“Private room,” she says. “With Dubrova and Bykovsky. Of course, they had to separate me from Dubrova when everything went to hell.”
“Mm,” I acknowledge this.
“Why they are trying to kill us?” She slams a fist against the frame of the car and directs a shout in the general direction of the research center. “I did not sign up for this, you fuckers! I sign up to die to save my planet! Not get bombed by terrorists! Fuck them!”
She continues to weep and occasionally shout more obscenities, sometimes in Russian, sometimes in English, until we arrive at the bunker a few minutes later. Our escort and driver come in with us and help us set up some temporary cots. They set up three cots. We don’t question it. There will be a place for DuBois, whether he has any use for it or not. The two Russian men head back up the stairs to stand watch. llyukhina gets into her cot and falls asleep quickly, but I am too restless to sleep just yet.
I check my watch. It’s nearly 23:00. I see no way to turn off the overhead lights, so I use a clean sock from my bag to cover my eyes and attempt to sleep. No use. I pull a book from my bag and read for a little while instead.
Around midnight, a call comes in on the phone line in the bunker. It takes me a moment to find the phone, which is in a little alcove that leads to the bathroom.
“Yáo here.”
“This is Stratt,” comes the response. “We’re still trying to assess the extent of the damage to the research center and learn the cause. We’re almost certain it was caused by Astrophage. We’ve been lucky up to this point. Too lucky. We got careless.” She sighs. “But Director Vasilyev insists we take precautions in case it was a deliberate attack. So we’ll stay in bunkers tonight. More importantly…” She pauses, as though steeling herself to say something difficult. I sense what is coming before she says it. “Dr. DuBois and Dr. Shapiro are both dead. We’re almost certain of it. We don’t have any…remains. But it doesn’t look like there’s any way they could have survived. The same goes for the fourteen Roscosmos employees that we believe were in the building at the same time.”
I glance at Ilyukhina. She doesn't stir from her sleep.
After a moment of silence, I respond, “This is tragic news. What does this mean for the mission?”
“The goal is still to launch on schedule.”
I hear her words and the confidence in her voice, but I can make no sense of her statement. “The mission cannot launch without a Science Specialist. How can we find a replacement so soon? What options do we have?”
“That’s what I called you about. I have a very important task to delegate to you. And Specialist Ilyukhina as well, under your command.”
This turn in the conversation has only made her thinking more opaque. “You have already given us the most important task, the mission itself. What else would you ask of us now?”
“The mission, of course! As you said, the mission can only happen with a Science Specialist. And you still have one. Dr. Grace is going to do it. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
I’m unsure how to respond to this puzzling pronouncement.
“Dr. Grace will be ready to launch on time,” she continues. “I’ve just asked him to review the coma-resistant candidates from the original call for volunteers, but I’ve already been over the list many times. I had considered adding a tertiary crew some time ago. Unfortunately, no suitable candidates remain for the science role. He knows this, too. He was deeply involved in the initial search. I want to remind him how thin the pool is. Perhaps that will be enough for him to see what he needs to do, but I fear it won’t be. Without additional prompting, he’ll just assume that we’ll delay the launch to either train someone who is underqualified or put out a new call for volunteers. I want you to help him see that he needs to do it."
“You want me to ask him to join the crew?”
“Not yet. For now, I just want you to help him review the applicants and see if you can find an opportunity to get him interested in joining the mission.”
“I understand, Ms. Stratt. You know Dr. Grace better than I do. Do you think he will agree to go?”
She takes a moment before she responds. “To be perfectly honest, I think it’s as much of a longshot as the mission itself. But for his sake, I want to try.”
“If he refuses, what then?”
She takes a moment before she responds. “Commander, the lives of everyone on this planet depend on the mission’s success, which depends in turn on the skill of the Science Specialist. My job is to do everything possible for the mission to succeed. There is no limit to what I will do. You understand, Commander?”
I consider my words carefully.
“I understand conscription is sometimes necessary, but I prefer a volunteer. Can we delay?”
“I’ve asked Dr. Komorov to find out how long the launch can be delayed, but I don’t expect we can delay for long without serious consequences. The models are already so dire…if we delay long enough to recruit new volunteers, the casualty projections will increase dramatically. And Dr. Grace is…well, we are lucky to have him. He is coma resistant, he has the knowledge and skills. I think he will do very well as the Science Specialist. We just need to get him in the right frame of mind.”
A small sigh escapes me. The events of the evening are weighing me down. I would sit if I could, but my cot is too far from the phone.
“I agree he is talented,” I say, “But talent is not enough to withstand the psychological demands of the mission. He has knowledge of Astrophage and skill in scientific practice, but he has no training as an astronaut.”
“He logged over a hundred hours testing equipment in the Orlan suit at the Johnson Center–” she begins, but I feel I must interrupt her.
“That is not what I mean. I mean training to maintain focus and do his duty in challenging conditions. In life-threatening conditions.”
Ms. Stratt is silent for a moment. “Your reservations are understandable, Commander,” she responds. “But we are out of time. If you want a Science Specialist that is psychologically prepared for the mission, then it’s up to you to ensure that the science expert that we have is ready.”
“Understood," I respond.
“I’m having him brought to you now. He should arrive in the next ten minutes or so. He has been told that the three of you are working together to select a replacement. For now, let him think that the launch can be delayed.”
“And when do we ask him to join the mission?”
“I'll handle that part. When it’s time, I will bring the news that the launch can’t be delayed and that we need him to step up. Your job is to get him ready for that moment. Commander, I know your record of leadership. I know that you know how to inspire loyalty and sacrifice in the people under your command. I’m relying on you. Help Dr. Grace find his courage.”
She has a few more instructions. We will be under lockdown for some time, and the tragedy must be kept secret for now. Internet access and mobile phone service are blocked. We have a satellite phone in the bunker that we can use, but calls will be monitored, and we are strictly forbidden from speaking of the explosion.
A few minutes after the call ends, Dr. Grace arrives. He takes in the scene: three cots, Ilyukhina asleep on one, me sitting on one, and a third empty. Three cots for three crew members. I rise to greet him and note an expression on his face I can't easily read as he looks around the room. At that moment I am certain he will understand Ms. Stratt’s scheme. He's a brilliant man. Surely he will notice the implications of what is right before his eyes. But if he has any such realization, he gives no sign of it.
“Commander,” he says. “Stratt talked to you?”
His voice has the muffled quality that I associate with respiratory illness, but is also the sound of someone who has been crying.
“She told me that both our scientists are dead,” I respond, “And that we must review the applicants to find a replacement.”
“Yeah…I, uh…I brought some laptops for us, with everything we need. We have to go back to the beginning, look at the ones that were rejected in the first round to make sure we made the right call. There’s over 300 applications,” he adds, with a small, awkward laugh.
He puts one hand on his forehead as his face clenches up in a pained expression. “Have you seen it? The research center? Stratt showed me photos on her phone.”
“No,” I respond.
“There’s just a crater. And little beads of metal on the ground because the metals vaporized and condensed. The Russians have us all in these bunkers, but it’s not terrorists. It had to be Astrophage. But how did it happen? It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“There will be an investigation. For now, we must cooperate with our hosts here, and we must find a new Science Specialist.”
He shakes his head, sniffling, and then echoes Ilyukhina, “How can you be so calm? DuBois…was your friend.”
“He was,” I agree.
Dr. Grace shakes his head again.
What should I say? I’ve had many years to practice the habit of equanimity, from my earliest memories of following my grandfather's example to my training in the air force. I am calm because it's what the situation calls for. Neither Dr. Grace’s tears nor Ilyukhina's obscenities will change it. Maybe it makes them feel better. If so, fair enough. I have no objection. But that is not my way.
I don't attempt to explain this to Dr. Grace.
“The time is almost 1:00,” I say. “We must rest now. Start the search in the morning.”
One of the Russians comes in and says, “Lights out,” in English.
I acknowledge the instruction. Dr. Grace doesn’t respond. He doesn’t seem to have heard. I gently touch his elbow to steer him toward the third cot until he begins to move on his own. Then, I settle into my own cot.
The lights go out, although some dim emergency lights remain around the entryway and the alcove that leads to the bathroom.
This time, sleep comes easily.
Tuesday, April 12
Time to Hail Mary launch: 08:14:43:52
I wake up in darkness, as I often do. My watch tells me it’s 4:08. I slept late, probably because I was up so late last night. I’ve never needed much sleep and I wake up naturally most mornings at an hour most other people would consider the middle of the night. I never met anyone outside my own family who had this peculiar power until I met Martin DuBois.
DuBois…the events of yesterday evening bloom in my mind like frost, sending a chill through my body. For a little over a year we have trained together. DuBois is…was like and unlike me in my gift for thriving on very little sleep. I prefer an early bedtime, before 22:00, and wake around 3:00 most days to enjoy several hours of blessed solitude. DuBois took his golden hours on the other end of the night, freely staying up until midnight while he reviewed and updated his daily journal, yet still waking as refreshed as ever at an hour most would consider quite early, around 5:30. Ilyukhina is also a night owl, but lacks the gift of early rising. Whenever we had to do an early morning event together, she would tease us about it, playfully demanding that the “morning people” bring her coffee, due to her “disability.”
I wonder what to do. Normally I start the day with at least a five-kilometer run, but we’re under lockdown, so I must adapt. And due to my late start, it’s nearly time for my daily phone call with Ling and Zian. So, I will go without exercise for now. Maybe there will be an opportunity for it in the evening.
I dress for the day in casual clothes and read a little until it’s time for the phone call. I was supposed to have a pre-flight physical this morning, but Ms. Stratt said last night that the schedule for today would be adjusted, as we wouldn’t be able to lift the lockdown for some time. As far as I know, I’ll be here in this room all day, with nothing to do other than pretend to do one impossible task while actually trying to do another.
A few minutes before 4:30, I pull out a flashlight and make my way to the satellite phone to call Ling. It’s 7:30 where she is, and she and Zian are finishing breakfast before it’s time to send Zian off to school. I speak softly, but there’s hardly any need. Dr. Grace and Ilyukhina are sound asleep.
For twenty minutes, I’m in another world. A world with no imaginary terrorists, no dead science team, and no impossible task, just Zian anticipating all the little thrills and terrors of another day in Grade 1, and Ling’s updates on the neighborhood, the house, the cat, and her family. She asks me about the preparations for launch. I say nothing of the tragic events of last night. I tell her all is going well. It’s been a long time since I’ve lied to her directly to keep secrets about my work, though there was a time in my career when I had to do it often, and the habit comes back easily.
Between us it remains unspoken, but not unfelt, that we have so few of these calls left. A little over a week ago, I was with them for a last visit home before coming to Baikonur for the final mission preparations and quarantine. We had our last hugs and kisses then. Now we are counting down our last conversations.
The call ends, as it usually does, when it’s time for Zian to leave for school. After, I sit on my cot in quiet solitude. It’s been a long time since I meditated for longer than 10 minutes. I breathe slowly and deliberately. I listen to the silence around me that is not silence. There is the sound of gentle snoring from the two sleepers. There is a faint ticking from my watch. Something hums, an HVAC or generator. I listen to these sounds, and to the sound of my own breath.
My eyes adjust to the dim light of the bunker's emergency lights. I see the outline of Dr. Grace and Ilyukhina in their cots. I listen. I breathe. I watch over the two of them as they sleep.
Soon, the three of us alone will bear the burden of everyone’s hopes.