Chapter Text
602.7 years after twenty-three of the most brilliant minds left for Tau Ceti, there is a nearly unnoticeable skip in the deep space networks honed in the direction of Erid’s heroes.
It is nearly unnoticeable.
56 days after the blip is noticed, they receive a strange and terrifying radio interception that is completely unrecognizable. The frequency is all wrong, cast at a pitch no sane Eridian would even think to use, and the quality is too low to even attempt to interpret. The deep-space research node turns their receptors to max sensitivity and waits.
They do not have to wait long.
Every day, there is a new transmission shot from the depths of unknowable space. At first, it is nothing more than a strange mash of sound, crammed together too tightly, too compact and mixed together to understand. Every day it comes, and every day it unwinds itself just a little more, like unraveling mesh. They receive 25 unintelligible messages from the stars before finally the academic node is able to run it through a frequency circuit and fine tune it until it is something recognizable.
[...HELP…]
No one can decide if the help is being offered to Erid, or requested of it.
It takes 6 more days to fully understand the incoming ship is not of this world. It’s getting closer, and it’s getting closer fast, but the skip in the wavelength is so miniscule that the node spends many days debating on whether it’s actually anything more than space debris. This cannot be the ship they sent away so long ago. If it’s not Erid’s ship, and it’s not an errant chunk of meteor, then what else could it possibly be?
The signals get clearer every day. They are short bursts only, a few basic notes at a time, but woven together they sing a terrifying song.
[HELP]
Then the next day.
[HELP, REQUEST]
And the next.
[THREE]
And so on.
[HELP]
And so forth.
[HELP, REQUEST]
[EMERGENCY]
The signal is still too ultraprocessed to decipher exactly who it belongs to. All twenty-three families argue that it’s their loved one, it’s got to be, there’s no one else in the big empty sky that it could be except them. For a while, it’s generally accepted that it’s the captain, because why would it be anybody else? But as the signals get stronger, that certainty becomes weaker. This isn’t like any crew member they know. None of this is like anything anyone knows.
So Erid does the only thing it can. It catches the signal and slingshots a message right back at it, straight from the very tip of the world’s first and so far only orbital travel tower. It’s a buffet of frequencies for this mystery ship’s receptors to choose from, each one saying the same thing.
[WE ARE HERE]
It’s a gentle reminder. So long has it been since the desperate voyage of the stars, maybe the voices behind this strange signal just need a beacon to hone in on. Erid has cooled, and it has suffered the loss of some of its intangible starlight, but it still stands strong and hopeful as ever. It stays waiting, listening.
There is a worrying gap between incoming frequencies. So long that the deep-space node sends another message, this one just a little more desperate, a little more pleading, just in case there was ever any doubt.
[COME HOME]
That seems to do the trick. With each passing day, the signals get clearer, longer, and take less decoding. They also grow more and more desperate.
[SAVE STAR SUCCESS]
[HELP, REQUEST]
[SURVIVED, SINGULAR]
[DIED, PLURAL]
It’s a dawning horror with each incoming ping of the satellite. This isn’t the homecoming everyone spoke of. This isn’t what was quietly promised between mates and hatchlings the eve of the launch. Twenty-three Eridians swore they would come back to them one day. The loss of a few was expected. But to have a singular survivor? It’s more unthinkable than to have none at all.
Erid speaks again.
[ARE YOU WELL, QUESTION]
From the depths of space, an answer.
[NO]
The gaps between responses are closing in and it begins to resemble a crude form of conversation. There is always someone posted at the orbit tower, ready to process and interpret any message that may bounce in. The signals come in odd intervals, occasionally erratic and random, but usually every five days or so. The patterns make no sense. The deep-space node works in shifts manning the radio, to make sure this strange singular survivor is never alone.
But are they alone? Some academics insist it was a mistranslation, a processing error. Someone recorded it incorrectly. Three. The message came so early in this complicated little back and forth game that it’s almost disregarded in the chaos. The note for three is only a few octaves shy of the note for one, after all. So they do not question it, because ‘lone survivor’ and ‘three’ cannot exist in the same context, and maybe, just maybe, because they are a little bit scared of the answer.
It takes a very bored, very curious, and very rebellious node member risking their status and their entire life’s career to get an answer. To get an answer, you must first ask a question no one is willing to ask.
[HOW THREE IF NO SURVIVORS, QUESTION]
There has been no incoming signal in days, and they are not expecting one for many more to come, but their shift isn’t even half over before the radio sings with an incoming message that will be forever remembered, marked, and dated as a turning point in Erid’s history.
[ONE ERIDIAN]
[TWO ALIEN]
Caught between fleeing in terror or singing in amazement, the node member, who is no longer bored and will not be so for the foreseeable future, shakily presses a claw to the receiver and replies,
[ELABORATE]
They wait the entirety of their shift to no answer. This mysterious ship must truly be a savior from the sky, because just as the node leader’s vents begin to puff hot and angry at the fact that they contacted the incoming signal without permission, the radio beeps again and they receive an answer.
[IT SAVED ME]
[CORRECTION]
[IT SAVED ERID]
The signal only gets stronger, and the blip on the proximity indicator is getting clearer. This impossibly tiny ship is getting closer. The details are getting finer, and families are demanding answers. Who does this voice belong to? Who is the lone survivor? What family has won this terrible, terrible lottery? The deep-space node tries to keep news of alien life under wraps; the public has enough to worry about right now. But on Erid and Earth alike, word always gets out, and soon the entire planet is erupting with an unending geyser of curiosity. They have questions about the single Eridian and the two aliens hurtling back towards them.
Erid prepares to catch them. It’s hard to know what to expect, so they prepare for everything. The finest minds are called to gather with the deep-space node; it won’t be long until this strange little ship is within grabbing distance of the planet’s orbit. The incoming messages are getting longer and more detailed. The lone survivor still hasn’t revealed themself, and it concerns the people. They want to know. Finally, Erid pushes.
[WHAT IS YOUR NAME, QUESTION]
The reply does not come for a long while.
[UNIMPORTANT]
And Erid replies,
[YOU ARE VERY IMPORTANT]
They don’t hear from the stars for a few days after that.
The next message that flips their receiver, it rings with a strange feedback, followed by a low buzz, and the poor node member on duty that day nearly scrabbles right down the elevator shaft when they realize the signal is live. They tremble in every limb as they approach the radio, as if it’s apt to explode with the sheer force of discovery happening before their very auricles.
“Can you–”
“I can hear you,” says the stars, and it sounds like the stars are sobbing. “I can hear you. Can you hear me?”
“...Yes.”
“Can you sing more to me? It’s been so long since I–” The voice on the other end of the radio wobbles dangerously, topheavy with grief and despair. “Since I’ve heard another of me.”
The idea of this stranger, ripe with stories to be told and mysteries to be solved, wanting to hear a song from the brain-numbingly boring tip of this orbital tower would be laughable any other time. And maybe some day they will laugh about it. But for now, the node member falters.
“I… I don’t know what to sing about. I’m alone up here. There’s not much to say.”
A soft sound of pain. “Anything. Say anything.”
The node member, who will someday very soon be referred to as Buck, fidgets anxiously at the floor, softly scraping their claws against it. They’ve never been one to talk much. That’s why they took this shift, after all, far away from the simmering chaos of the surface. Never did they expect to be speaking with the very source of the excitement.
“Is it true?” They ask. “Is Erid saved? You really found the cure to the suneaters?”
“Yes.” A long pause. “Tell me about Erid. Please.”
In that moment, the Buck thinks that they’ve never heard such raw, distilled aching before. They chitter softly towards the sky– a brief and fleeting sense of connection. They’re the closest to this strange survivor than any other Eridian right now. It’s a heavy sense of responsibility to sing something worthwhile.
“You still won’t tell us who you are. But we miss you. We miss all of you so much. Everyone is so excited to have you back, whoever you are. Even the aliens. I’m nervous about it, to be honest.” A weak laugh. “But we all trust you. It’s been so hard, but Erid is strong. Very few losses. You’re coming home just in time.”
The radio buzzes lowly, waiting.
“What of Adrian?” Finally asks the voice, so small and unsure. “Are they well?”
Just like that, it all clicks into place, and the puzzle pieces all come together to form a very unexpected picture. Buck makes a surprised sound. “Rocky? Is that you?”
Of the twenty-three options, the engineer? Not the captain, or the doctors, or the scientists? Shock doesn’t cover it, but disappointment is far too harsh. In the following silence, the node member begins understanding why Rocky put off naming themself for so long.
“I’m sorry,” Rocky says mournfully. There is no joy in being discovered. “I’m so sorry it’s me and not them.”
“Don’t apologize. We’ve missed you so much, my friend.”
It’s quiet for a long, long time. Neither Eridian has anywhere else to go, so they let it settle thick and uncomfortable between them.
“And Adrian?” Rocky finally asks. “Are they–”
“They are well.”
If Rocky weren’t a lifetime away then maybe they’d hear the hesitation in Buck’s answer. It’s just enough to leave room for questions, but no questions come. That must be enough for Rocky. They do not ask, and they do not offer any more conversation. It falls quiet for so long that Buck begins to think the connection got dropped. Their claw is mere centimeters from the receiver when they hear a faint shuffling sound.
“Buck?” Rocky asks softly.
“Yes?”
Another pause. “Can you… Will you stay on the signal while I sleep? I know it’s not the same, but I’m so tired.”
Their hearts ache, each one hurting more than the last, and they can’t help but ask, “How long have you been alone, Rocky?”
“369.52 years.”
No wonder no one recognized Rocky’s voice and the strange way they speak, as if they’re learning how to for the first time ever. Such loneliness will eat away at any Eridian, wearing away more and more until there’s nothing left at all but exposed nerves and raw rotting insides. Buck wonders if it’s not the aliens that Erid should be scared of seeing. No one’s been alone that long and lived. Maybe, sometimes, Rocky wishes they hadn’t.
“Are you alone now? The aliens–”
“The aliens,” Rocky says, and Buck notices that they use a much more intimate chord for the word, one that translates closer to ‘friends from the stars’, “are with me. They usually watch me, but… Mercy is sick. Very sick. I’m so worried, Buck. I can’t–”
Rocky begins sobbing again. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, or the delirium from so many long years alone. Buck doesn’t know what to say. The alien’s name is Mercy? How strange. Everything about this is so strange. Why is it sick, and why does Rocky care so much?
“Just rest, Rocky. I’m here now,” they say, and they begin singing.
It’s a lullaby passed down for generations. They just sang it to their youngest hatchling yesterday. Maybe it’s foolish to sing a children’s song to the savior of their entire race, as if they are nothing more than a scared child, but it must work because Rocky’s sobs begin to taper off. It’s soon replaced with a merciful silence.
The silence doesn’t last long. There’s an odd shuffling, followed by the uneven thudding of something… running? Buck stops singing abruptly, too taken aback to even feel bad about leaving Rocky songless. It doesn’t sound right. There’s not enough feet hitting the ground. Buck shrinks back from the sound, as if it could jump the insurmountable space between them and lurch straight from the speaker box.
“Rocky?” Buck asks hesitantly. “What is–?”
There’s a terrifying, stuttering squeal that nearly sends Buck scrambling back down the elevator itself. They’ve never heard anything like it. So indelicate, so unrefined. It reminds Buck of hatchlings just learning to sing, confined to one note at a time. It’s the most unnatural sound, and it rises and falls in such a strange, rapid manner. The scariest part, though, is when Buck catches occasional notes that they recognize. This alien is speaking, at least partially, Eridian, and the horrifying thing is they’re not half-bad at it.
“... friend… question?...”
Instead of doing the logical thing and squealing in downright terror, Rocky answers this strange string of sounds with what seems like… patience.
“Yes, a friend. Exciting, yes?” Another awful rise and fall of one-note noise. “You may say hello.”
“Gre-eeting!”
Buck recoils. They can’t help the sound of pure disgust that whistles from their vents. It’s uncanny in every sense of the word. The alien even added the politeness indicator backnote, like it’s been doing this its whole life. There’s a dual rolling trill from the speakers and Buck realizes both Rocky and the alien are laughing.
“Is this… Mercy?” Buck asks nervously.
“No. This is Joybringer.” Rocky’s voice softens, and the cadence returns to something a little more gentle. “Is Mercyparent awake? No? That is alright. You can rest with me.”
Mercy and Joybringer. What pleasant names for such strange, terrifying creatures. After a moment of shuffling sounds, Buck speaks up.
“Did you say parent?” They ask hesitantly. Surely they misunderstood. It wouldn’t be hard to do, given how rattled they still are from the terrifying sounds of Joybringer.
“Yes. Joybringer is the… the young of Mercy.”
What is a child doing in space? Before Buck can put words to the millions of questions bouncing around the facets of their brain, Rocky begins chittering a soft little song to the bizarre youngling, not unlike how Buck sang to Rocky just a few moments before. The questions on Buck’s mind double, then triple at the exchange.
“I must go,” Rocky says finally. Buck tamps their claw twice against the floor.
“But– You haven’t slept. I thought you said you needed rest.”
“It will have to wait. Mercy and Joybringer take priority.” More strange, eerie sounds from the alien. “I’ve missed you, Buck. I’ve missed all of you. I’ll set up another hot signal this time tomorrow.”
For a moment, Buck is speechless. Then, “We wouldn’t miss it for the world. We’ll be here.”
“Say goodbye to our friend,” Rocky tells the creature, still so kind and patient after hexades of isolation.
It’s off-pitch and disjointed, but Buck recognizes the unsettling note that follows as a reedy little “Farewe-eeeell!”
The connection cuts off. Buck feels as if they’ve just heard something forbidden, so otherworldly and strange that surely there must be some sort of repercussion for bearing witness to it. The punishment must be questions, Buck figures, endless and unsolvable questions. They overflow from their carapace and cascade down the tower where they pool around the ground below. They’re compounding. At this rate, Erid is apt to flood with an ocean of questions and drown the entire cluster in confusion.
But there is one clarification that stands out, bold and loud, among the uncertainty. It lends itself to even more questions, but it was said with such simplicity that it really left no room for doubt at all.
Mercy and Joybringer take priority.
Not Rocky, the lone survivor of their entire crew. Not the cure to the stareaters. Not the ship, or the families waiting down below.
The aliens. The friends from the stars.
Buck shakily turns back to their post. They do not know it yet, but the next time they see Rocky will be at the very top of a space elevator just like this, built specifically to keep those starfriends alive.
The second time they see Rocky, it will be at the bottom of that elevator, and Rocky will be screaming at Buck and their crew profanities even their crystalline minds forgot existed.