Chapter Text
Parallax
[Guildenstern: "Syllogism the second. One: probability is a factor which operates within natural forces. Two, probability is not operating as a factor. Three, we are now within un-, sub- or supernatural forces. Discuss. Not too heatedly."
Rosencrantz: "I'm sorry, I - What's the matter with you?"
Guildenstern: "A scientific approach to the examination of phenomena is a defence against the pure emotion of fear. Keep tight hold and continue while there's time."]
Chapter 1: (Einstein & Rosen(crantz) are dead.)
<Blip-B detected.>
He shouldn't have entertained the notion. Really, he'd just been asking for it.
He should know by now that the Universe is a selective listener.
thirty hours earlier.
Six months is a ridiculous amount of time.
Ridiculous, in that it can be experienced at just about any speed possible. On Earth, for example, six months is two seasons—a lively summer and a new school year, sweltering city pools to autumn-crisp leaves in a slog or a blink, depending on your feelings about temperature and sweat. In space, six months hit different, as his kids used to say. Believe it or not, six months comatose pass by pretty quick, boy howdy. On the flip side, that same length of time can be a real glacial beast, when 182 days is how long he needs to ration calories from a short supply or face his organs finally shutting down. So yeah, six months can feel instantaneous, snatched wholesale from memory, or six months can be very long, very awful, and… moving on.
Six months on Erid can sail by just as strangely as on Earth. His first six months, woof. Those are a bit of a blur. He wasn't fully conscious for a lot of it— the slow destruction of his body from starvation had ensured a heavy payback period where he was non compos mentis a third of the time, and the rest he was dead to the world, with Eridian doctors fussing over him like he was the last adorable, sickly baby penguin on the planet or something. Well, he sort of was, to them. And he was dying, then. Very literally, cell by cell, the muscles and organs and tissues of his body atrophying in quiet, gnawing agony—until eventually, with a lot of hard work and luck, he stopped. Stopped dying, turned the corner, and started getting better. Slowly, but surely. Go, team.
Rocky, of course, was there the whole time. A personally appointed Nurse Ratchet few dared challenge, clucking and henpecking him every minute of the next six months that passed. Depleted muscles and weakened skin eventually allowed him to stand, to start physical therapy, and that was a whole 'nother rollercoaster— even in peak physical shape, he would have struggled to adjust to Erid's gravity. And that's if he'd come from Earth, let alone a very long, stressful stint featuring ample chunks in zero-G. He wasn't alone in his suffering; Rocky had to re-adjust too, but he had a very strict, very affectionate mate to ensure he did his exercises. Rocky reflected all the frustration of slow improvement onto him, and overall, Grace spent a lot of his rehab feeling like a fussy office succulent that an entire department fought to water correctly.
Six months of touch-and-go. Another six months of baby-birding carefully calculated nutrients and learning to move and think clearly again. Another six months of gentle physio, and then another stretch sharing everything he knew to inform the creation of his biodome. Eridians, overtly thankful for his contribution to Operation: Grace and Rocky Save Stars, had basically written the planetary equivalent of a blank check for the research, development, and sustainment of his every need. He had teams of people—er, Eridians—assigned to different aspects of his medical care, habitat (heh.), food development, and to the propagation of the plantlife and seeds from Mary's seed stores.
Another six months, and he was given a… home. A very real one, as real as could be given its creation was without total context. He has a mostly-abled body that could move around inside it, can lean on his cane and feel the floors with bare feet that gravity ties solidly to the ground. He can rummage through items in his kitchen— kitchen! That's his! Bigger than his old apartment in San Fran!— and he can find food. Food that isn't slurried coma gloop or Taumoeba de jur. He has plants for flavor, and a meat source for protein and carbs (Rocky still makes jokes about Grace eating himself; he still doesn't understand how Rocky managed to figure out how to surf the Mary-net on his computer for "human mating rituals", and he refuses to engage with how much Rock's managed to learn). He has safe water for drinking and washing, and a big bed to sleep on.
He has a beach outside.
Beautiful, warm sand. Fog.
A classroom. A classroom, with pebble-sized children in it that squeal at the sight of him.
Most of all, he has an entire new world to explore. Language to master, culture to learn, sights to see. Progress to contribute towards, for the future of both of their races, and for the benefit of others that might be out there with the propulsion of more Eridian-made, distribution-ready Beetles to the other Astrophage-affected star systems. He has a life as a teacher again, and a best friend who is thrilled to see his every feasible whim realized.
Six months. That's how long it's been, since his medical team gave him a squeaky-clean bill of health (by Mary's own standards), and since he was approved to teach a small group of select Eridian pebbles. A six month victory lap of eating solid food (boo-yah!), movie marathons with Rocky and Adrian, delighting himself in the classroom, and watching Petrova lines slowly degrade on their maps.
So much, he tells himself. Too much, and I'm still figuring out how to tread water. If anything, I should be burnt out.
But he's not. Far from it. In fact, he feels more like the opposite.
Nope. Stop it.
Even if he wasn't the kind of person he is— workaholic, fact-hungry, project-obsessed geek— no one in their right mind can possibly be bored on an alien planet. It would be insulting. Not only to his generous and endlessly nuanced hosts, but to his own science-loving sensibilities.
I'm not bored, he tells himself again, pouring hot water into his tea. He'd just finished a minor project with the "Greenhouse Department", or so he called them, propagating some assam leaves after lots of trial and error with Eridian-sourced soils. He hadn't been a huge tea drinker on Earth, but he ran out of instant coffee on the trip here ages ago, and he honestly misses the buzz of caffeine. I'm just… recalibrating.
Maybe I'm just not used to normal, anymore.
It's a strong possibility. He hums as he lifts his mug, mind drifting to his definitely-mandatory (see: Head Nurse Rocky) sessions with his Eridian version of a counselor. (Grace gave them the Earth name Sigmund. Not just because of their profession, thank you, but because of the silvery strip of metallic sediment down the lower front of their slim carapace.) Sigmund theorized— all they could do, really, given Grace is their first Human patient— that periods would come where he might feel like blowing it all up. Ka-boom. Screaming, tears, human wreckage everywhere.
Well, Sigmund didn't put it exactly that way, but the meaning was clear. After nearly dying a lot and having his environment change so drastically, it made sense to prepare for some epic mood swings. Obviously. he's familiar with those. Rocky had been party to many a "freak-out" aboard the Mary during their mission, but he'd missed the worst ones from before they met, thank God.
Sigmund shared that Eridians often experienced social dysfunction after trauma just like some humans did—but instead of seeking isolation, they could become excessively clingy and dependant on their "clusters" of community. They aggressively sought out conversation, connection, and, erhm, cough, other things with mates, if they had them. Some even vocalized nonstop in a sort of subvocal song to self-soothe, constantly seeking out the responses and reverberations of others so as to not feel alone. They threw themselves into their professions when they weren't connecting, as well, determined to prove they could contribute to the whole after injury or loss.
All pretty understandable stuff, Grace thinks. Not just because he's aware that these symptoms can be seen in plenty of traumatized humans, too, but because he's seen these behaviors in Rocky, too. Rocky never really stopped talking; part of that is pure personality, he's sure, but he knows it's also because Rocky loathes silence more than just about anything else.
It's a sentiment they share.
But yeah, clinginess. Need for socialization. Unlike Eridians, PTSD for Humans also included isolating tendencies, retreats into the corners of rooms to cry it out. Tiny-spaceship-induced claustrophobia. Fear of relapse after a long period of sickness. Mortal terror of loneliness. You know. The works. He has enough self-awareness to recognize these in himself, flag them as normal, so he has a handle on it. (Totally.)
But the restlessness is unexpected. For the love of Pete, he should be tired. Dog tired. And if not that, sad about leaving Earth behind, and if not that, happy as a clam to explore a new. Fudging. World.
But he isn't. Or rather, he is, all of those things, most days. But he's also…
Bored. Maybe. Sometimes.
Crud.
Rocky, the stalker that he is, notices immediately during his next visit. Why do I even bother?
"Grace need stimulation in his enclosure, question?"
He huffs a laugh despite himself. Rocky doesn't actually call the biodome his "enclosure", but after hearing Grace joke about being a zoo animal (after explaining a. what that was, and b. No, he didn't feel trapped or experimented on, and c. it's fine, Rocky, it's just a thing Humans say) the phrase had stuck. Usually, that led to a suggestion for their version of leisure time: a hike to the strato-docked Mary for some fun in the Don't-Go-Crazy room, a supervised swim on the beach, a field trip relatively close to the biodome to a controlled area of the "neighborhood" (with a retainer of guards, so he didn't get mobbed by curious Eridians. He'll never get used to feeling like an alien celebrity). He has plenty of diversions to choose from.
It's why it's so irritating, that none of them feel like they'll scratch the itch he's feeling beneath his skin. The itch he's decided to ignore, by the way.
"I'm fine, Rock. Think I overslept, got a bit too much energy."
"Stupid," Rocky informs him. "Grace never sleep too much. Always less than average for normal healthy human." Mary's medical memory bank had made him an expert on "normal, healthy" human physiology, and he always took the time to remind Grace of his failures to reach optimal standards. "Need field trip, then get more rest, statement."
He manages to still the bouncing of his knee on the couch: likely the sign that clued Rocky into his antsiness. Traitorous limb. "Nah, it's fine. I wanted to do a taste test of my tea leaves today, anyway. Mendel was excited to hear that I could taste the difference between batches with different ph-levels—"
"Mendel can wait," says Rocky, the multi-tones in his voice clipped and high in a way that brings a sniffing blue blood to mind. He almost chuckles again, amused as usual at the post-arrival discovery that Rocky's bossiness didn't limit itself to just bullying Grace.
"Rude," he says chidingly, smiling around the word. "I like working with—"
"Grace do what make Grace happy, not anything else."
The sentiment turns his words to mushy, soft syllables. "Aww," he manages, and definitely doesn't need to clear his throat. "I have lots of things that make me happy, bud. I'm doing tea today, and then I'm going to work on my lesson plan for class next cycle—"
"Grace strange human. Grace do too much work and call it fun."
"Whoa, pot calling the kettle black there, buddy."
"Rocky not pot, not black, either," Rocky says, hoity-toity again like he doesn't know full well what the idiom means. "Eridians have different culture about work than Humans. Humans need fun-leisure-relax time or they freak out, leak, get sick. You need more." He punctuated with a sassy double-tap to the floor.
Grace groans, head thumping back onto the couch. This is not the first time they've had this conversation. "Stop telling me to get a hobby, Rock. I have SO many at this point."
"Need better hobby, statement."
"What does that even mean?" What could be better than some of the stuff he's doing? Propogating new plant species on an alien planet. Teaching culture and perfecting the Eridian language on his organ for his students. Learning how to knit synthesized fabrics to make new clothes for when his inevitably fray. Perfecting new Taumeoba delivery systems to save suns faster, more efficiently across light-years— His hobbies aren't just mind-numblingly monumental for human history, they're a blast. He has plenty of fun, plenty of leisure time, he just—
"Is friend Grace… not happy, question?"
His head snaps down from the ceiling, and he feels his heart trampoline to his throat. Rocky is sitting on the floor beside him, limbs drawn together under his transparent xenonite shell as if to make himself smaller. He doesn't have eyes, but if he did, it seems like they would be facing the floor.
"Rock," he croaks out.
"Grace unsatisfied with life on Erid. Erid has not given Grace… peace, statement."
Grace gawps at him. "W— No, Rock, I—" He blinks rapidly, the sudden rush of water to his eyes as familiar as it is annoying. "You know I love it here. I have a class, a bed, a beautiful home that you helped make. I have my best friend—" He leans forward with a too-big smile, poking a playful finger at Rocky's closest arm, "Going on field trips with me all the time—"
"No."
Grace stills, hand in mid-air.
"Is not enough."
He feels the smile falter on his face in actual chunks of muscle. Rocky's rarely monotone these days, since they ditched the translator software. He only hears it in the moments Rocky comes back from his own mandated therapy sessions, raw and wishing to sleep voluntarily under Grace and Adrian's watchful presence.
"Rock."
"Is not enough, statement." He stomps the floor weakly, angrily, and Grace feels his throat swell shut. "Grace can't… Grace needs—"
Rocky breaks off, either lost for a word or lost altogether.
"Buddy," he tries, sorrow compromising his voice. They've discussed his health so many times, in so many ways, but Rocky hasn't shown this much distress since his first doomed, emotional attempts at mobility, in the early days of his physio. He doesn't know how he triggered it but he can't stand to see Rocky in pain. "Hey, it's okay. Really."
"Rocky knows Erid will never be perfect replacement for Earth." Rocky's voice bends, layers of sound curving low in wavering pitches like a bowstring. Grace bites the inside of his cheek, locking the desperate words of assurance he wants to say behind his teeth. "Knows Grace enjoys some parts of Erid and socialization with Rocky, teaching with pebbles. But Rocky knows— Rocky wanted—"
His voice thins, layers of harmonic sound stripping away to leave it shallow. Vulnerable.
"Rocky had hoped Erid could become acceptable with time. If Grace found enough fun-science. If we could make good, soft home. If Rocky good enough friend."
He can't help the noise of denial that claws up his throat. His face is hot with the tears rolling down his face, and his tongue tastes iron from the torn flesh of his cheek.
"Rocky has been selfish. Selfish, selfish. Wanting to keep best friend forever, even if Grace unhappy." A high, strained keen, swiftly and sharply cut off. "Grace needs Rocky to hear the truth, and Rocky is ready to hear. Rocky is ready. Will support Grace… in decision to go home, back to Earth."
Just like that, his silent tears stopper like a cork. He takes a sharp inhale, a gross, surprised stuttering of mucus.
"Go. Back to— Earth? No, Rock, wait." He clears the ugly sound of his voice with his throat, shaking his head, and a laughing sort of sob falls from his mouth. "Why would you— I haven't decided anything like that! I'm not— I'm definitely not ready to go to Earth, buddy. I'm not. I'm not lying to make you feel better, I swear, I—"
He drags a hand through his hair, briefly grasping strands that no longer break apart from lack of keratin, then he sighs.
"Fudge it. Just. Come here, you big idiot."
He opens his arms.
Like a cannonball, a critical mass projectile of shuddering Eridian throws himself on top of the couch, sprawling desperate limbs across his. Gone is the careful monotone as Grace wraps his arms around xenonite-cased bits of his best friend, because Rocky's just full bawling now, or his version of it. Quivering, keening sounds vibrate through his body, into Grace's skin, half-heard words of apology and grief woven with gut-punching low subsounds of relief and yearning. Grace feels his heart break and stitch itself back together simultaneously, chest cramping with the pain and gratitude of it.
He wouldn't make it through without Rocky here. Starving isn't a threat to him anymore, but he knows there are other ways to die that are just as painful, and just as slow. Thanks to Rocky, loneliness will never be one of them.
And I'll never be able to pay him back for it.
"Rocky not big idiot," Rocky garbles, almost hiccuping his words, which sounds ridiculous, because he has four sets of diaphragms, so it's more like the sounds ping-pong out of him. "Grace idiot. Grace too-tall, leaky stupid idiot. Always make Rocky worry. Make Rocky want to do the impossible, for Grace's sake. Like build a big, long space-bridge all the way to Earth, so Earth and Rocky must share Grace-custody."
Rusty laughter bubbles out of his mouth. "You've already done a lot of impossible things for me, bud. I don't need any more. I'm… crawling up the walls a bit, yeah, but it's probably because I'm finally healthy again."
"Grace brain-sick because body-healthy? Illogical. Stupidest thing ever heard, statement, and Rocky has heard many stupid things about human bodies from Mary."
The indignant noise he makes splutters into a coughed chuckle. "It's not stupid, it's basic psychology!"
Rocky releases his version of a groan, vents lifting with the heavy pshh of displaced air. "Rocky hate psychology," he mutters.
"I know." Little hypocrite loves bullying me into therapy, but hates it way more than I do. "But listen, it makes sense, okay? It's been a really, really long time since I've… uh. Well. Since I've been physically healthy and emotionally relaxed at the same time, y'know?" He tries not to do the math to figure out exactly how long, because the number of years is probably concerning. "My body and brain got used to bad, crazy stuff happening all the time—used to making chemicals so my body could survive the stress. So now that nothing bad is happening, and I'm not injured anymore, all my extra, uhhh. My extra survival energy has nowhere to go. I'm a battery with too much charge, Rock."
There's no way in heck he explained that accurately, but he isn't that kind of doctor. Sue him.
Rocky hums at the explanation, considering. "Grace not brain-sick or homesick," he ventures, following the logic. "Similar to fuel. Grace's body just have too much. Not enough burned, so fuel particles bouncing around Grace's gross insides like fuel tank. Create pressure."
Rude, but not inaccurate. "Sure. Basically. I mean, I'm not going to explode or anything, but. Yeah. It's not a feeling I can get rid of immediately with physical activity or distractions, either. It just takes… time. It doesn't mean that I'm unhappy, dude. It just means that I'm… adjusting, still. Statement," he adds, just in case the uncertainty in his voice is misinterpreted.
Rocky hums again, more contemplative this time. He sways where he's half-crumpled over Grace's lap, ignoring the oof generated from the shift in weight.
"…Rocky has idea."
"Hit me."
Rocky very lightly bops him on the skull, the xenonite limb bouncing off his hair.
Grace grunts, adjusting his glasses with a free hand. "Smart aleck."
"Might be genius, because Rocky is genius," Rocky continues, ignoring him skillfully. "Or might be less than genius."
"You know what stupid means, it's one of your favorite words." His very favorite is "amaze", with "fuck" trailing close behind. Grace did not teach him that, but rated-R movies are a cultural teacher in their own way.
"Less than genius not necessarily stupid," Rocky says, peacocking with the sway of his carapace. "Less than genius can still be very smart. Very impressive."
A grin splits Grace's mouth, aching with fondness. "Well, what's your less-than-genius, still very smart and impressive idea, then?"
Two hours later, Grace is riding the Stairway to Heaven.
Hard as it is to believe, the most amazing thing about Eridian technology isn't his biodome. Not because he's not grateful, not at all. It's just that Eridian scientists have a tendency to blow all his puny human expectations out of the water. The coolest thing on Erid isn't the impossibly complex feat of engineering that sustains an unnatural gravity or atmosphere in effort to mimic an unseen, un-experienced planet without even a decent chance of malfunction or explosion. It isn't the marvelous DNA replication of his very cells to recreate a sustainable food source for him, or the unbelievable mastery of xenonite printing that allows the creation and transformation of any model, all without their species having evolved visual receptors.
Nope.
The most amazing thing the Eridian race has accomplished, if you ask him, is how they managed to get his dying butt planet-side.
So. The thing about most (read: all, really) Earth spacecraft— they're not meant to land. Not really, not in one piece. They're not designed for planetary re-entry at all, and astronauts typically find themselves back on Earth alive due to the nice, big bodies of water strewn across the planet. Very convenient, appropriately dense and squishy puddles that can serve as wonderful place to land for a bunch of humans hurtling to the surface. Gotta love a good splashdown.
The Hail Mary was never destined for one. Point, it wasn't designed for anything but launch and flight—and the occasional bit of random space debris. At a maximum, it was meant to skim atmospheres, like a mosquito on pond water. But it wasn't meant to land anywhere. Not whole, or in pieces. And not with living astronauts as part of the equation. Mary was a car with the key broke off in the ignition— it could slow down with a bit of brakes, but good luck trying for a full-stop. Let alone attempt a planetary parallel park job. You could wait to run out of gas, jump out, or crash.
This reality was, thankfully, unacceptable for Erid's greatest engineer. By the point this became a real consideration, Grace had been far too busy dying to worry much about this problem. Which left Rocky—after negotiation for his safety, planned medical treatment, and overall protected rights as a guest of the planet—holding the reins regarding Operation: Cougar, We Gotta Land This Thing!
The crux of the problem: how, in the name of Greyskull, when 1) Grace was too ill to pilot, 2) the Mary was too frail to land, and 3) Rocky was too Eridian to drive, were they both going to make it down to Erid's surface safely?
Well. Lucky for them (mostly Grace), this problem was Rocky's jam. He might have been relatively powerless to help Grace medically, or solve the food problem with biological or agricultural expertise, but by thunder. If he could build his way out of a problem, he could, and he would do it in style.
Rocky is the most brilliant engineer in the entire galaxy, without question. But Grace is content with applying his dominion across the Universe, until proven otherwise. (He won't be.)
So while he withered, a comatose damsel in distress, Rocky started Rocking Out. He was uniquely qualified for the job—not only because his enormous talent for xenonite craftsmanship made him the planet's top choice for the task by default, but because he was also uniquely invested in keeping the Mary intact, and Grace breathing inside of her. The Mary needed to be stable to ensure his safe transfer to the surface medical team—even if there were oceans on Erid (there weren't, by the way), he probably wouldn't have survived the rough landing of a careful crash. Rocky wanted to keep his environment as static and undisturbed as possible, with ARMando active and capable on hand in case his heart did something scary and dumb, like stop beating from stress.
Rocky also wanted to preserve Mary for the future. So he didn't lose his only chance of seeing Earth again, forever. As he made clear today, Rocky doesn't really believe Grace, anymore, when he says he's at peace with things.
Grace loves him for it. More than he thinks he's ever loved anyone.
To summarize, Rocky had a tough order to fill. He needed to figure out how to slow the Mary's descent to Erid without the ability to pilot her, then enable the safe connection of the Mary's hull across an environmentally controlled bridge to a secondary location, then he needed to a way for that secondary location to move and safely, gently deliver his fragile body to ground. And finally, he needed to provide some sort of structure that would keep the unmanned Mary from succumbing to Erid's gravity and making a new crater in Erid's surface.
As the cherry on top, he had two months to do it. Because that's how long was left on the clock before they reached Erid, when Erid's version of NASA was finally able to decrypt his messages sent from Mary's "primitive" radio transmitter.
It goes without saying that Rocky succeeded in his mission. They're alive, after all. But hoo-boy. It's like he had to outdo himself from the last time he saved Grace's life. Expose his body to a tortuously unsuitable atmosphere to drag his bestie to medical assistance? Pshaw. Passé. Rocky is a being of class. And most importantly, he's a competitive, deranged, genius little rockstar.
That's right. That smooth operator managed to plan, oversee, and successfully erect the creation of a muthafudgin' space elevator.
Grace calls it the Stairway to Heaven. Privately, he thinks the real thing might be shorter.
A space elevator is a real deal, Arthur C. Clarke kind of science fiction pipe dream. For humans, anyway. We've only ever theorized the development of one, not just because it's an insane thing to make when you (i.e., the entire world) haven't really got enough missions going on to justify an Amazon delivery system to the exosphere. Also, the creation of one would take an idiotic amount of time, and more resources and money than a lot of Earth countries will generate before the end of the next millennium. But Rocky was a dude with a mission, a vision, and beef with the idea of losing another crew member, so yeah. He made it happen.
To call the Stairway massive is like calling a cell "small". A star "bright". A California reaper pepper "spicy". The Stairway is pants-soilingly tall. It's a cataclysm in the form of towering wires. A truly stupid, incomprehensible amount of xenonite-enforced tensile cable and metal, tethered to multiple points of Erid's equator and weighed on the other side by a massive floating counterweight.
Somehow, Rocky and the rest of his maniac elevator development team not only figured out how to use Erid's rotational energy and carefully formulated Ultra Heavy Duty (Space-Approved, Patent Pending!) Xenonite to create a functional space elevator from surface to space— they also figured out how to attach a large enough, secure enough, and mobile enough metal box for the payload (aka, Grace and ARMando, in stable, artificial one-g gravity!) during ascension and descension. But that's not all, oh no. Once that technological marvel was complete—why stop at the first official Wonder of the Universe?— ol' Rock still had to figure out how Erid was supposed to catch the Hail Mary en-route after her engines were cut.
So boom, baby. Rocky drops technological marvel number two. He creates a net.
Well, it's a lot more complicated than that. Visually, it ends up looking a lot like a big crane with a baseball backstop on the end, but picture it as big as the average spaceship (so, pretty big). That description makes it sound simple, but that's the deception of fiendishly well-crafted things. Rocky's net—dubbed a Generative Inertial Spacecraft Trap, "GIST! Rocky make acronym like humans so enjoy!"—needed to act as a cushion, a set of brakes, and an interplanetary parking spot all at once. Not easy to do without the Mary scraping itself free of its reach (and ripping into pieces in the process), entering its grasp too hard or too roughly, or rebounding back into open space. So the GIST needed wings that curled around the Mary like a metal fly-trap, flexible tethers to that could attach to Mary's hull to hold it still within Erid's orbit for the deployment of a Xenonite bridge from the Stairway, and it needed to be able to swing from a sort of hook in order to catch the Mary in the same direction of its orbit, so it could carefully arrest its speed with circular momentum in the direction of its original drift trajectory— the same way that Superman would have to use momentum to catch Lois Lane from a fall from the Daily Planet building, if he didn't want to break her bones with the strength of his arms.
All in all, two miraculous feats of engineering for the price of one, all courtesy of Rocky and a team of very motivated Eridian scientists, who had never even lay eyes on him to justify the effort.
For a guy ultimately sent into space to die, he might actually be the luckiest human ever, when the scales are asked to balance one way or another.
Now, Erid has a space elevator that can be taken relatively swiftly (let it be said Astrophage is useful when it isn't damning all heat-dependent life) from the planet's surface to space in less than an hour. And once at the "top" of the exosphere, he and Rocky can deploy a bridge and waltz right over the safely docked Mary like a walk in the park. Bingo-bongo.
From his biodome to outer space in a couple hours. His life is sooo much cooler than he ever thought it would be. It's wild to think that, at this rate, he'll be the only Human astronaut in history to have experienced space travel but never a traditional mission launch (not awake, anyways). Hurled screaming strapped inside a rocket destined for the stars, with a non-zero chance of explosion and death? That's for plebs. Air-Erid's Stairway to Heaven is real first-class travel, he simply can't go without anymore.
That said. He still gets pretty queasy looking out the observation window of the skybox. The transition from Erid's electric blue atmosphere, through the hazy corona of reflected light, then… seeping into endless black. It takes his breath away.
Stepping foot back on the Mary has that effect, too. According to his mind, it's the place he used to live. A home in his memory, with all the good and bad associations that usually go with a setting with this much baggage. To his body, well. It's complicated. Regardless, padding across its floors and hearing Mary's welcome is about as familiar and known as the shape of his own hands in the dark.
"So, what's your not-stupid idea, then? Were you just wanting another dance party in the DGC room?"
"Rocky's idea much more superior than dancing. Grace is terrible dancer, anyway, would not much improve his neurological pressure gauge. Might make Grace body worse, fall too much." Given the last time Rocky saw him dance was in drunken celebration post-Taumoeba christening, that's harsh but fair.
"Okay, judgy for a dude with five left feet, but whatever."
"Rocky does not have left or right feet. All feet are skilled and graceful. Unlike real Grace. Irony. Strong irony."
He sighs. "Really, Rock. Why'd you drag me up here?"
Rocky looks… shifty in his xenonite shell, swaying a bit under his gaze. "Admit, Rocky have possible genius idea awhile ago. Hypothesized, perhaps, that it might… interest Grace. Distract enough, Grace want to stay on Erid longer."
"Aww," Grace drawls, to cover how touched he is. He kisses his hand, obnoxiously loud, and blows it towards Rocky's direction. "I'm going to tell Adrian you said that. They told me to keep a record of how many times you say something sweet a day, for science."
"Disgust. Disgust." Rocky cringes away, as if the air kiss is tangible enough to drag a streak of gross human spit across his shell. He would know, Grace supposes. He got a little emotional when they finally showed him the beach. "Adrian believes time in space has made Rocky more sentimental. Lies and slander, statement. Rocky always evolved, sensitive mate."
He moves towards the flight deck in smug strides, and Grace lopes behind him, passing through corridors and hallways whose schematics are all but ironed into the halls of his memory. Eventually, they come to a halt together, and Rocky stalls below the flickering navigational screens.
"Rocky idea is perhaps… controversial."
"How?" Grace asks reflexively. And then, more pressingly, "To who?"
"…Erid space traversal department," Rocky admits, like an extracted bad tooth. Grace balks.
"The whole—?"
"Grace medical team—"
"My—"
"Rocky annoying counselor. And Grace annoying counselor."
"Rocky."
"Also Adrian. But Adrian said might be genius idea, too! Just that genius and stupid can be similar from outside perspective."
Sweet baby Jesus. "Rocky, what the heck did you tell them? That you wanted to take us on a cross-galaxy road trip in the Mary? Practice space ollies?"
"…Not understand last word, statement," says Rocky. Mulishly.
Which is not a denial. Oh my God. "Oh my God. Rocky. You're not serious."
Rocky shrinks towards the floor, deceptively harmless. It's a lie. He's a diabolical little madman.
"We can't just go space-trotting for fun!" he splutters. "Space travel is— is— it takes so much planning, fuel, there's so much risk—"
"Rocky and Grace handle much more dangerous situations than this," Rocky says dismissively. "Have fuel arranged, plan already in place. Short trip, not very far. Rocky pitch to Erid's space team as boys trip, statement, explain importance. Counselors think risky but admit potential benefits, because Rocky knows Grace better than anyone and what Rocky and Grace are capable of as a crew—"
"Hang on, time out," he says, making a desperate T with raised hands. "Rocky… Why do you want to do this? Go… into space, again. Leave Erid." After all the years it took, for you to come back to it. To Adrian. "Why take the risk, bud?"
Rocky pauses for a moment, Mary's utter silence once again their invisible companion. "Rocky… thinks mission could be good. For friend Grace… and… for Rocky. Statement."
Grace swallows. Good for Rocky, too. Okay. The idea of venturing into space again, just him and Rocky in a sea of stars, has his palms damp with sweat. His heart pounds so loudly he can hear it slamming against his eardrums. But he's listening.
"Finding Taumeoba, stopping Astrophage. Grace and Rocky accomplish much together. Important things. Save planets and many lives. Very terrifying, very deadly mission. But… important, statement. Not all unhappy, once Grace found Rocky after so long alone. When work together, solve Petrova lines and save stars…" Rocky trails off, subharmonics shivering as his pitch dropped in volume and wavelength. "Rocky happy. Rocky more happy then since return to Erid, aside from reunion with beloved-mate Adrian. Rocky not regret success. Rocky proud. Relieved Erid and Earth are save. But before save Erid, Rocky had big…" He pauses, a frustrated tip-tap to the floor, and Grace feels his heart squeeze.
"Purpose," he finishes roughly.
"Yes. With Grace, saving stars, Rocky felt purpose. Rocky still feel purpose with Adrian, as mate. But as… just Rocky… Rocky sometimes wish for new mission with Grace. For new… purpose."
Empathy wells in his stomach like a spring, stinging cold but fond all the same. Guess hobbies aren't enough for either of us anymore, are they?
"Rocky… Rocky thinks could be good, for Grace and Rocky to be team again. For Grace and Rocky neurological fuel pressure. But new mission much less scary and long than last mission, obvious statement."
Grace sucks in a shaky breath, feeling recycled oxygen pool into his lungs, prickle from his center down his limbs to fingertips and toes. He's all but chewed an open wound into his mouth, so he settles for sucking in his bottom lip instead.
"…Okay," he says hesitantly. "What would a less scary, short mission look like?"
Rocky straightens from the floor, all but bouncing to full height. "Investigation of radiation spike detected by new equipment, statement! Small spike, weird. Mystery for Grace and Rocky to solve! Eridian scientists curious about radiation in celestial objects near Erid orbit, want to confirm findings of new observation tools for detection after what happen to Rocky's crew. Spike very close to Erid, take less than twelve Earth hours to complete."
Less than twelve hours. Alright. Adrenaline seems to flicker dully throughout his nervous system, like the lights in an old house. "…A day trip. Okay." He licks dry lips. "So… What do you mean by a small, weird radiation spike?"
Rocky all but wiggles with delight, sparking with an endearing energy that Grace guiltily realizes has been missing for a while. How much does Rocky need this, too?
"Rocky has coordinates! Grace and Rocky will take Mary to go look at source, record data for new technology measuring how radioactivity partial-life works—"
"Half-life."
"Then come back! Rocky has starmap data ready, show Grace on screen."
One arm pulling out the tablet from inside his utility belt, Grace watches another seize Rocky's screen mirroring wand, sending it spinning from the tablet to his navigational panel. Data spills like water across the screen, Eridian numbers traded for alpha-numeric symbols, and Grace stares up at the screen, watching Mary's sensors pinpoint the desired coordinates in space.
"Looks like… huh." He squints at the screen, decrypting distance and projected size. It's… well, as far as UFOs go, it looks like a rock. Most things in space tend to be rocks. It's small, smaller than the Mary, even. And drifting close to Erid at a slow, steady pace, so they won't be doing any chasing—they'll just be intercepting. Given its size, it won't be a match for Erid's atmosphere even if it does drift into orbit; it'll break up into atomized pieces. No chance for a Deep Impact situation, then.
"It really... isn't that far from here," he says, wavering. "So… we just take a look at whatever it is, measure its radioactivity with some new sensors your scientists cooked up, and then come back?" He rubs the back of his neck with an anxious hand. "Nothing else? No risking our lives for the universe, or space walks, or anything else that could kill us?"
"Grace even conscious this time to guide Mary into GIST!"
He huffs a disbelieving laugh. Rocky's never been so pleased about the idea of him piloting. "I guess that's true…"
He can't believe the words that have come out of his mouth.
Am I actually considering this?
This is insane. They can't just jaunt into space for a few hours and pop back to the planet like it's a walk in the park. He's still not technically an astronaut. Sure, he's earned every Scout Badge for it and more, but it’s not his job, or one that he wants. Being a teacher is what he loves. Who he is. Besides, an excursion like this is a preposterous risk for a reward that could easily be gained by— by sending out probes, or studying the debris from the meteorite pieces once it breaks apart and lands on the planet, or by—
I kind of want to go, he thinks, amazed at himself. And it's true, not just a streak of empathy driven by the strong urge to make Rocky feel the purpose he was vulnerable enough to share craving.
…Did space make me an adrenaline junkie or something?
He thinks about cataloging enough food for a trip, carefully labeling enough meals to last him for a return trip and back. Bile rises up into his mouth so suddenly he almost spews onto the nav.
No. Definitely not.
But maybe Rocky has a point.
Maybe a less-lethal taste of a shared project on the Mary could be good for them. Since he started teaching again, he's been mostly running things solo while Rocky makes up for lost time with Adrian and plays star science communicator for everything human related to the rest of Erid. They haven't done Big science together since they saved the stars. There's been no need.
He misses it, he realizes. The feeling. The partnered sense of exploration and discovery. There's no replacement for it, the sparking, fizzing current of satisfaction and success. The zone. The feeling of being consumed. The zap of realization, and final victory. When everything falls into place and he and Rocky just click, transcending language and knowledge gaps to finish something they can only accomplish together.
It could be fun, actually fun, to throw themselves into something without anybody's lives on the line. A little adventure. Grace and Rocky, hitting the town science-style. Look out, ladies (unproven hypotheses)!
It's a ridiculous idea. But the itch beneath his skin has settled already, just playing it out in his mind.
"…When would we leave?"
He closes his eyes, unable to resist his smile as Rocky squeals and throws up his arms in triumph.