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"Grace."
I groan, pulling the lush, luxurious pillow over my ears. Even with my jumbled memory, I know that this is the most comfortable pillow I've ever had. I have no idea how much it cost, but it has nothing on however many billion dollars building the Hail Mary took. Maybe later I'll think about why that is—that they thought we were going to die anyway, might as well give us the good stuff.
"Grace."
Well, two of the three crew are already dead. And the third will follow soon—no, don't think about that. I bury my face into the bedsheets, trying to ignore the feeling of my heart beating. It's much slower than it used to be, and it's far from the only complaint my body is throwing at me. The scientist in me is thrilled at the opportunity to observe how the effects of malnutrition progress in real time, but…Well.
Fudging crackers, it still sucks.
"Grace!"
A sudden weight rams into my bed, and I clutch at the sheets, letting out an undignified yelp as my world tilts on its axis. I look down through crusted eyes to see the brown blob that is Rocky.
"Rocky, what the—" I grit out, raising my head. Rocky is staring—well, as much as a radially symmetric blind rock spider can stare—at me, and his claws click together inside his ball in what I've come to recognize as a nervous tic.
"Grace sleep for 36,720 seconds," Rocky chirps. "Time for Grace to move. Stimulate muscles and brain. And must eat."
Eurgh. I don't want to get out of bed. I never should've let Rocky build that stupid contraption to use the laptop from his side of the barrier. He's right, but still!
I can tell he's worried about me. The fact that he's encouraging me to eat is…well. It's certainly an indicator of how little I've been doing so ever since we set out for Erid. But the Taumoeba is disgusting. I have to hold back a retch as I heave myself out of bed to prepare to head to the lab, where a lovely portion of Taumoeba slop is awaiting me.
How wonderful.
Rocky follows me, mercifully avoiding knocking over any items in our path as I trudge to the lab. I know I should feel guilty for making the little guy worry so much over my health, but it's so hard to feel anything these days besides exhaustion. Perhaps that should concern me a little more than it does.
Anyway. Taumoeba sludge.
I don't even register entering the lab until I'm looking into an open container of goop and scrunching my nose at the odor—as if I'd blacked out. Hm. I do remember dissociation being related to depression or something, but it doesn't matter—the thought leaves quicker than it came. I tilt my head back, trying to down the substance like a shot—muscle memory from my college days does come in handy sometimes!—but it doesn't go down easily.
Still better than before though. It'd taken more than ten unsuccessful attempts of eating the stuff (and immediately expelling it, to Rocky's disgust and a range of colorful words added to our shared vocabulary) before I realized I should dilute it. Great going, Grace.
I grimace and plug my nose before pouring the Taumoeba down my throat, and the coughing and gagging that ensues is enough to send Rocky into a panic, anxiously rolling around my feet as I hold on to the lab table to steady myself. No matter how many times I go through the process, it's always an ordeal. And this is just going to be my life for the next three years.
Wake up. Force down Taumoeba. Sleep. Repeat.
An image of Yao's gun flashes through my head. It's not the first time, and I know it won't be the last. But I shove the idea down with as much force as I can muster—which, admittedly, is not a lot—and turn around to face Rocky.
"Ta-da, done!" I muster up a shaky grin and throw my hands up in jazz hands. I know he can see—or hear—through my facade, but the effort seems to satisfy him, as he does jazz hands back.
"Good," he says. "Check Taumoeba tanks now. Rocky do repairs."
"Repairs?" I repeat, frowning. "Is something wrong?" The Hail Mary has been operating far past its intended time, so problems are bound to crop up, but a pang of worry still flashes through me at the words.
"Grace do not need worry," Rocky reassures me. "I hear that several 𝅘𝅥🎝♬𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯 in ship are not working optimally. Will make new ones and fix."
I blink. The unfamiliar word sounds familiar, but I can't place my finger on it—oh, right! It's Rocky's word for lightbulb. We don't use it often, but it's hard to forget given its complexity—it's a mix of the words "electromagnetic", "radiation", and "provider". I chuckle—Rocky's naming skills are certainly straightforward.
I realize that Rocky is still waiting for an answer, so I nod. "Okay, thanks," I say. "I—thanks for doing this, I know you can't see so it doesn't matter for you, but—well, yeah. Thanks." I'm rambling again, and I wring my hands anxiously.
"Rocky fix," Rocky replies, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and skitters away to his tunnel to make friggin' lightbulbs. It's hard to forget how incredible of an engineer he is. He'd get along well with Ilyukhina.
With that thought, I turn my wavering attention to the Taumoeba farms, running through the motions to make sure each of them is functioning properly. It's a routine process, and I've done it enough times by now that I could do this in my sleep. Before long, I've finished doing all the checks, and I'm left again with nothing to occupy my mind with except thoughts of the myriad ways I could die on the trip to Erid interspersed with visions of my brains splattering across the walls of the storage room.
Huh. A bit gruesome, but nothing that hasn't come to mind before. I stand up (since when was I on the ground?) with shaking legs and stumble my way to the "Don't Go Crazy" room. I roll my eyes at myself—very aptly named.
My joints and muscles protest as I lower myself to the ground, but as much as it sucks, it isn't anything new. Everything hurts nowadays. Getting out of bed takes more exertion than it should on any person of my age, and I can't even remember what it's like to not be in constant pain. I've never experienced anything even close to this, and it certainly isn't fun. I let my head fall back onto the wall, landing with an audible thunk and a hiss of pain, but whatever.
I don't know how long I spend laying there. Maybe two minutes, maybe two hours. All I know is the feeling of the cold floor beneath me, where exactly the gun is located in within Yao's belongings, the fact that I'll never interact with another human again, how easy it would be to just let go—
I blink, and I'm in the storage compartment. Huh. I can't really remember walking here, but the protesting of my entire body confirms that I did make the trek down here.
That, and the fact that around me are bags full of Ilyukhina's and Yao's belongings.
I've never been suicidal, and blood has always made me more squeamish than I'd care to admit. Even two months ago, I was horrified whenever even a stray thought of ending my life crossed my mind, but…Well. Between malnutrition, having to force-feed yourself disgusting sludgy microbes in order to not starve to death, constant pain, and knowing I'm the only human within a 12 light-year radius certainly affects one's psyche.
It doesn't really change the whole being nervous around blood thing and aversion to violence though. Oh well. I keep my face neutral as I make my way towards Yao's crate o' stuff, and lo and behold, there's a heavy box laying at the bottom underneath the books and trinkets. I brush aside a jade necklace with an ox carving to reveal the container, untouched since being loaded onto the ship.
My heart skips a beat as I realize how violent this will be, but…I sneak a glance at Ilyukhina's box and the heroin I know it contains. Needles are still scarier to me than a bullet hole in my head. I take a deep breath and open the box.
I'd never seen a gun up-close before. The guards and military personnel on Stratt's Vat and in Kazakhstan carried them, of course, but I hadn't paid attention to them. It's not like the guards Stratt sent after me in the desert would've pulled them on me; we all knew they needed me alive. But I figured I knew from movies and my imagination the general idea.
The metal is cold in my hands, and the black exterior doesn't glint like I expect it to in the low lighting of the storage bay. My fingers tremble as I identify the trigger and turn the safety off. The click echoes in the silence as if daring me to continue. Like the gun itself knew how scared I was.
This is it. This is it, Ryland.
The gun fits flawlessly in my hand—the wide handle is a perfect size for my palm. Like that's exactly where it had always meant to be. I can't believe I've always been so scared of these things—it was finally going to put me out of my misery. I smile for the first time in what feels like forever—a real, genuine smile.
My hand is shaking as I bring the gun up to my temple, and I wonder briefly if Yao would've pulled the trigger for me. He'd chosen this weapon after all, and he certainly would've had the determination to see things through. More so than me, certainly. Yeah. He was a military man. He would do what needed to be done.
Grace. You're a coward and you're full of shit.
I scoff. Stratt was right on both counts. I'm too cowardly to endure the remainder of the trip. And I'd been so excited at the thought of living whenever the probability arose, but now, the end couldn't come any sooner.
The sharp rectangular edges of the barrel dig into my temple, but my mind is too far gone to register the pinpricks of pain. Not like it's any worse than the ache in the rest of my body anyways. But that's about to end soon.
I inhale.
Exhale.
Click.
I blink, waiting for the world to collapse into nothingness, and brace myself for the brief pain that I'm sure shooting a bullet into my brain should cause. Nothing happens. Only my shaky breathing betrays the passage of time as my finger slowly leaves the trigger.
The realization dawns on me as I finally lower the gun and feel around my head for any blood. Nothing comes away.
The gun wasn't loaded. Yao had stored the bullets in a separate container for the trip. A dry, sealed, plastic container. I remember passing the request along after that meeting. How could I have forgotten?
The gun wasn't loaded. The gun wasn't loaded.
I'd just tried to kill myself.
I barely have time to think about that before I turn around and vomit Taumoeba sludge slash stomach acid onto the ground behind me. I groan afterwards, bracing myself on the wall as I stand up on unsteady legs and fling the gun as far as I can with my dwindling strength. The ringing in my ears subsides a little, and my shoulders sag as—
Wait. That ringing isn't coming from my head.
I slowly look up, and my brain finally translates the sound to what it really is.
It's Rocky. Waving his arms around frantically and looking as panicked as I've ever seen him. Oh, god. A fresh wave of nausea rolls over me as I register what had happened.
I'd just tried to shoot myself in front of Rocky. Rocky, who I didn't hear but was probably screeching as loud as he could to stop me. Rocky, who knows what the heck a gun is and knows what—what putting a bullet through my head would do. Rocky, who'd already watched twenty-two of his friends die slowly and in agony, and was about to lose another.
As my mind clears, I start understanding the notes coming from him, even though they're raised an octave higher than normal in fear. "GRACE! GRACE LEAVE STORAGE ROOM!"
I swallow and nod guiltily. "I'm coming, I'm coming, Rocky," I mumble, hastily wiping the tears from my eyes before beginning the arduous climb out of storage. When I haul myself out into the dormitory, Rocky is a blur of motion around me, before finally slowing down and cautiously poking my knee with his ball.
"Grace," he says seriously. His voice is shaky in a way I'd never heard before, and a fresh wave of tears comes to my eyes. I quickly wipe them away, but more keep coming, and before I know it, I'm full-on sobbing on the dormitory floor. I must look pathetic.
Great going, Grace.
Rocky squeaks in alarm, and it's not like it's the first time I've been this "leaky" in front of him, but to be fair, it's not usually this sudden. Or in such circumstances. He rolls around me another time before seemingly coming to a conclusion.
"Grace stay here," he says. "Rocky retrieve item for Grace."
I barely register the notes as he rolls away, choosing instead to curl into as small of a ball I can. My shoulders ache with the strain of shaking so hard, but I physically can't stop myself. It all comes crashing down on me—I wish I didn't have to endure the rest of this journey. I'm not strong enough and I'm certainly not brave enough. I wonder what would happen if Yao and Ilyukhina were still here. I wonder how disappointed they'd be if they knew I didn't want to come. Just because I wanted to live. And that now that I want to die, I can't do it.
Hah. Not brave enough to go on, not brave enough to end it all. Stratt read me like a fricking book. I almost laugh despite it all.
I guess I'm nothing without my cowardice.
A hard surface pokes against my leg, and I lift my head up in confusion. I hurriedly wipe the last of my tears away before squinting at the brown blur in front of me. Something's…off about it though.
"...Rocky?" I hiccup, voice muffled by the arm still covering half my face. "What's—what's up, buddy?"
"Rocky has been working on suit," Rocky announces, approaching me. Only then do I notice he isn't in his usual ball, but before panic can overtake me, I see the glint of countless xenonite panels covering his body to protect him.
Oh. He made a suit.
"Rocky learn from human thinking machine that 'hug' good for sad human," Rocky says, and wraps two of his arms around my torso.
If I'd ever thought hugging the ball was warm, then this was a furnace. Not that I was complaining though; it wasn't hot enough to hurt, and even if it was, well. It'd be worth it. I blink rapidly, and immediately dissolve into another fit of sobs, undoubtedly smearing my "disgusting leaky fluid" all over the top of Rocky's suit, but I'll clean it later. All that matters now is that I'm being held. I clutch at Rocky like a lifeline and start crying harder.
Rocky starts pulling away though, and I realize he's probably worried about the fact that I'm crying again. "Good—good leaking," I reassure him shakily. "Come back, Rocky, please." I probably didn't need to tack on a "please" with the speed at which he throws himself at me, but I'm desperate. And judging from the stiffness I can feel from my friend through the suit, perhaps he is too.
I lose track of time after that. I'm sure Rocky doesn't with how much of a walking clock he is, but it's certainly enough time for my cries to subside and breathing to slow down to just higher than average. Rocky can tell, too, as he lifts up a claw to poke at my shoulder.
"Grace."
I take a deep breath and brace myself. Fuuu—frick. I must've scared the little guy so badly, and I've learned enough about his mannerisms and how he carries himself that even now, he's still frightened. I did that to him, and another wave of guilt crashes over me. I owe him an explanation, if nothing else.
"I'm—I'm sorry," I sniff. "I'm sorry, Rocky, I—I'm sorry."
Rocky barely reacts. "Why Grace try to kill self, question?"
Ah. Straight to the point. Suits him. I clear my throat, preparing an answer. "I need a new word. 'Depression' is a mood disorder in humans. I'm not an expert in the area, but it has something to do with chemical imbalances in the brain. If a human has it, they feel sad and emotionally numb constantly. Sometimes it's caused by the environment, like—like in my case. There are medications to deal with this, but neither I nor the…other crew members had depression before the mission, so the Hail Mary isn't stocked with them."
"Rocky understand. Word is 𝅗𝅥 𝅗𝅥."
"Ah, so Eridians have it too?" I ask. Interesting.
"Very rare," Rocky answers. "Happens to very, very old Eridians, when organs start shutting down. But still rare."
"I see." I sigh. My heart rate's slowing down; teaching always has that calming effect for me. I continue. "For us, it can happen at almost any age, including mine. When it gets really bad, sometimes—sometimes a human will try to kill themselves. That's called 'suicide'."
Rocky clacks two of his claws together. "Understand. I create new word." He whistles out a few notes, which I can make out as the words for "death" and "attempt" with a few overlays. "Eridians close to death with depression sometimes accepting of death, maybe even eager. But do not speed up process artificially."
Wow. I just introduced the concept of suicide to a species that doesn't even have a word for such a phenomenon. I must be the worst choice of first-contact to exist.
"Why Grace want to do suicide?" Rocky asks.
I grimace. Man, I do not want to be having this conversation. "I—I don't know," I admit. "Well, I do know. But it's just—I'm malnourished and all I can eat is that disgusting sludge and everything always hurts and I'm never going to interact with another human again and I—" I'm rambling, but now that the floodgates are open, I can't stop. "—I just couldn't take it anymore, Rocky, I'm sorry."
Rocky bows his carapace down. "Rocky understand difficult for Grace. But Rocky can help! Grace should come to Rocky sooner! Rocky find ways to help Grace!"
I'm about to protest that there isn't anything he can do to help, but I look down at him and…Well. He made a whole suit for himself so that he could hug me. It's never going to replace the touch of another human being, but—well, it still helps, even if just a little. He's trying, at least.
"And Rocky make sure Erid scientists synthesize nutrients for Grace. And Rocky and Grace make Taumoeba better together!"
Rocky's optimism is infectious, and I find myself smiling at it despite my conflicting thoughts.
"And…and in the meantime, while Taumoeba sludge very nasty, Rocky distract Grace," Rocky declares.
I snort. "How are you gonna do that, bud? Pretty hard to think about anything else when I eat. 'Revolting' is too inadequate of a word to describe it."
"Grace…Grace and Rocky…eat. Together."
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Rocky, willingly eating in front of me? Breaking one of the biggest Eridian social taboos for me?
Rocky must sense my disbelief, since he tilts his carapace away in embarrassment. "Eridian eating…disgusting. Gross. Grace describe as such too. But seeing Eridian disgust eat perhaps distract from feeling Taumoeba disgust."
Well. Hm. That's actually not a half-bad idea. "If you're sure, Rocky," I smile. "But there might be a lot of other issues that crop up for me. We can't fix them all."
"Rocky already help problems that Grace mentioned. Grace and Rocky will figure out!"
I sigh. He's serious about this. "Alright, Rocky, I'll try."
Rocky does jazz hands at me and lifts a claw up.
"Fist me!"
"It's fist bump, Rocky," I chuckle, bringing my knuckles to the xenonite.
The journey's still gonna suck, but it's a start.