Chapter Text
I have a lot of strong feelings at the moment. The strongest one is the burning in my arms from moving all of Rocky’s stuff aboard. Again.
But honestly, I love it. I would do it a million times if I had to. Moving Rocky’s stuff means Rocky is telling me where to put it, which means Rocky is alive. I wasn’t too late.
Before this and after I left Rocky’s hull, we re-connected the tunnel. We talked over the radio and set up a nitrogen purge to keep Mary taumoeba-free. I have the advantage of a ship not made of xenonite, but we couldn't be too careful.
It takes too long for the atmosphere to recycle. When it does, I throw the airlock open, and Rocky is there. Just like the first time. And he’s alive. He's moving and he's knocking me over at the same time I drop to my knees. Good thing I’m already close to the ground.
“You are here. Grace. Grace. You are — you. Grace!”
He says my name like a song in a round.
“I know,” I say back, not at all crying even a little bit. “I know. It's okay. Everything's okay.”
And it was! I didn’t even complain about moving all of Rocky’s stuff again. He bossed me around about where to put everything, and it was music to my ears.
Everything was okay. Until Rocky asked me if I knew about the fatigue cracks in the hull.
No. No, I did not.
Mary has an ultrasonic structural health monitoring system, but it wasn’t that sensitive. None of the cracks were of immediate, life threatening, death-by-decompression concern – according to Rocky. According to me, you’ll give a man a heart attack if you say “crack” and “hull” in the same sentence on a spaceship. Should be illegal, like yelling ‘fire!’ in a theater.
“May be fine,” Rocky said, while I wrote out his math. For my own sake, because I’m a visual learner, and structural mechanics scares me to death. “But trip to Erid is long. If cracks grow, will have to stop to repair. Can do now before we leave.”
“Preventative care. I like the sound of that.”
Too much of my life recently has been reacting to problems already in motion. Considering our trip above Adrian probably caused these in the first place, it's technically more of the same. But it feels different. It feels like making a good choice. It feels like having some kind of control over the situation. Instead of waiting to die. I mean, I'm going to be doing a lot of that anyway soon, but we still need to get to Erid.
So Rocky and I do what we do best – we get to work.
If everything goes well, the modifications can be made in two EVAs. First, welding support structures across Mary’s hull, concentrated around the lab, crew module, and airlock. With Rocky's designs, we can also makes additions to allow Mary to dock to Erid’s space elevator. Assuming the design hasn't changed drastically since he last saw it. He helped build it, so I’m pretty confident it'll work.
(We can't think too hard about that, though. The height of the elevator means radiation exposure. Not as much as in deep space, but not zero. How many premature deaths had been caused by eridians working at the top of the elevator? Have they figured out something is wrong? I have to stop Rocky from spiraling down that train of thought for too long. We can't do anything about it from here.)
Another reason to get on the road, ASAP. The xenonite has barely set before I’m hooking it to the tool belt of my EVA suit.
“Be careful,” Rocky says as I close the airlock. I give him a two finger salute.
“Always am.”
I use my tethers to maneuver to the end of the crew module. It was easier to move to the furthest point, then work my way back to the airlock. The xenonite struts followed dutifully behind in zero gravity.
“First location is forty-seven centimeters right.”
If Rocky hears me put my hands up in two L shapes, he doesn't mention it.
“Roger that.”
It's not particularly difficult work; a combination of repairing panels with filler wire and welding on the support struts to reroute some of the load distribution. I thank the stars again that Rocky is an engineer. Math, physics, and I have a working relationship. But the second I see a force-moment diagram, I break out into hives.
I work in a one meter square section, then move to the next. I narrate as I go, moreso for Rocky’s sake. He can hear me moving across the hull, but I can practically feel the tension seeping through the radio when he asks me how I’m feeling for the upteenth time.
“I’m good, Rock. Compared to the EVAs around Ardian, this is a piece of cake.”
Rocky doesn't comment on the food metaphor, just asks me to hurry up. He doesn't need to tell me twice.
I mistake the first flash in my vision for the arc of the welder. The second makes me stop. It's a notification on the suit’s Heads Up Display, coupled with an audio alert.
< Relative Humidity Elevated >
Huh. I go to wipe sweat from my forehead, smacking the helmet with my arm. Ugh.
The relative humidity is only seventeen percent. The nominal range for a two hour EVA is five to fifteen. Nothing crazy. I’m just sweating. A lot.
“Suit is okay, question?”
“Yeah. How did—?”
“Can hear warning. What is wrong?”
Flabbers once again gasted by Rocky’s hearing range.
“Just some extra moisture. From the sweat, I think.”
“Yes. You are extra leaky.”
“Thanks, bud.”
After a moment, Rocky speaks again.
“Grace extra leaky.”
“Yeah, you said.”
“Extra extra.”
Another HUD message appears, with an aggressive chime.
< Coolant Pressure Low >
…Huh.
I stay as still as I can. Under the prickling of exertion dancing across my skin, I can feel it – coolness around my elbow, creeping outwards. For a terrifying second, I think of my burn scar reopening, flooding the inside of my suit with blood.
Calm down. My scars have nothing to do with coolant pressure. And they’re mostly healed now. Either the pump is broken (not ideal), there's a leak (also not ideal), or the sensor is throwing garbage signals (annoying, but preferable).
I move my arm. With no gravity, the water – thankfully it's just water, not a chemical coolant – clings to my thermal suit, soaking the skin. Darn. How had I not noticed before now?
“Grace. Suit is malfunctioning.”
“It's okay,” I say automatically. “The important parts are fine. It's just the cooling lines in the ventilation garment. One must have sprung a leak.”
That is to say, my onesie has a hole where a hole ought not be. The systems that kept me more immediately alive are perfectly fine. At least for now. How wet could the inside of the suit get before electronics started getting fried?
“Not good.”
“Not really. Let me just—”
“No no no! Grace! Come back inside!”
“I will! This is the last strut. Two more minutes and I’ll be on my way.”
“Grace, do not be stupid. Fix suit.”
I get it. And that’s protocol. But I’m right here, the welder is in my hand. I don’t want two EVAs to become three. Does a few more hours really matter in the grand scheme of things? Maybe not. But I’m right here. There’s a planet waiting to get these world-saving microbes.
(Two, actually. I do not think about the beetles. I can't do anything about that from here.)
I mull this over while I’m welding. Rocky whistles sharply in my ear.
“Okay, ow. Don't do that.”
“Stupid. Grace finish. Finish now.”
“I’m trying!”
I brace myself against the hull. I feel the water coating more of my arm. It actually feels nice on my overheated skin. In hindsight, this will be the stupidest thought I’ve ever had.
“Okay, that's the last of it.”
“Move now. Okay, question?”
“Okay enough.” I turn to clip the free end of the welder back to my toolbelt. Then I freeze. When I twist, the water sloshes up my neck, seeping into my hairline.
< Loss of coolant pressure. Return to airlock. >
“Grace!”
I curse under my breath while I fumble with the tethers. Drops of water float across my vision.
“Ahh— okay, don't like that.”
“Don't like what? Don't like what, question?”
I try to answer while I move. Shaking hands can't close EVA gloves very well. “More water. It's not hurting me, it's just—”
I push myself down across the hull, towards the airlock. The change in momentum forces a stream of water upwards, trailing my cheek and pooling around my left eye.
I was that kid that needed goggles in the pool, or I wouldn’t go in. I hated opening my eyes underwater. People who say it doesn't hurt are crazy. Or I’m too sensitive. That’s what my swim instructor had to say about it, when I was nine and crying next to the diving board.
Okay. Just close that eye. And stop moving so fast.
I need to turn my head. Slowly. Let the water move with me. Did I go down far enough? For sure I needed to go left. I swore I used to know this hull in my sleep. Now with one eye I can barely tell which way is up. No way is up. This is space for crying out loud!
The panic smouldering in my throat sparks like a forest fire. I try to blink it away, but the water clings to my eyelashes and the surface of my cornea. The feeling pulls a gasp out of me; liquid grazes the corner of my mouth.
Rocky says something.
“Water’s in the helmet. Hard to — hard to see.” Hard to think, too. I’ve never wanted to touch my face so badly. How much coolant did one suit need?
Enough to drown me, I guess.
A chill runs down my spine.
Oh my god. Can I drown like this?
Rocky’s cursing in my ear. “Grace. Get to airlock.”
I force myself to move. Step. Grab. Move tether. Move tether. Step. Grab. Three points of contact. The water sloshes with every movement, and with all the movements that came before, with no gravity to stop it. Stupid cohesion. Stupid adhesion. Loose droplets stick to the inside of the helmet and my skin. They combine with my sweat and coagulate around my temples.
Rocky is giving me words of encouragement. Real ones, not just the phrase. I can't hear much over my breathing, but the edges of the notes are enough. I’m not alone. I can do this.
I take what is supposed to be a grounding breath of air through my nose. Halfway through, it's replaced with water.
I don’t know what I move where. It doesn't matter. I need to get away. I need to breathe. I need to cough. Water coats my tongue and it follows me when I turn my head. I can't see. Oh my god, I can’t breathe.
I start coughing and I don't stop. Something pulls on my waist. I reach out, but my hands don’t find anything. There’s no hull under my feet. Just screaming lungs and open air. No. Open vacuum. Empty space.
I force an eye open. The droplets stuck to the visor blend in with the stars beyond. The only two things I can see. Mary is somewhere above or below me and the only thing keeping me attached to her is a single tether, coiled around my waist. I grasp blindly until I think I have the tether in both hands, and I pull myself forward with everything I have.
And the momentum slams me into the side of the ship.
It knocks the wind out of me. My head thunks against the back of the helmet, then the front. Through my streaming eyes I see water splattered across the glass. In that pattern, it kind of looks like—
“Grace! Grace! –spond–ion?”
I’m missing words. I have to breathe. Through my mouth. Tiny tiny sips that make me cough. My sinuses burn. Static whines in my ears.
“Rocky?”
More static. “...okay….question?”
It’s not me. It’s the radio. I turn myself back and forth, like I can, I don’t know, angle the antenna better? That doesn’t even make sense.
Think. There’s a lot of water where water shouldn’t be. Water must have seeped into the receiver. Fuck.
“Rocky? Rocky, please—”
I find a hand hold. Nothing. It's white noise and my straw-sip breathing.
Which way was it? Left. It was left. And then…
I don’t know. I’m not in the same position I was before. I could have flipped completely upside down before the tether caught me. Left means nothing now. I can barely see. I try to blow water away from my nose, but there aren't a lot of places for it to go.
Oh my god. I can really, actually drown like this.
I’m frozen. Thinking, thinking a lot, but going nowhere. I either stay here and die, or I start moving and hope it’s the right direction. If it isn’t, I also die. I don’t move. If I do move in the right direction and I take too long, I also die. I don’t move. The water keeps pooling around my face, keeps pumping out from the coolant lines like a burst artery.
Then I feel something. Vibrations. Discrete impacts from somewhere. From below me.
I bang my fist three times against the hull. Three knocks answer back, then six more in double time. Oh my god. Rocky.
I can’t hear the knocks at all. I put a hand flat on the hull, then my forearm. As much surface area as possible, to feel the vibrations through the hull. How hard is Rocky banging in there for me to feel through my suit? Doesn’t matter.
I feel another three impacts, slightly above my head. I have to reach to meet them, pulling myself along by a few inches. I knock back. We do this twice before I realize what Rocky’s plan is.
I can’t breathe through my nose at all. I can kind of open one eye, but my vision is so blurry with water and tears, it’s practically useless. I could talk, but if I move my lips too much I’ll only dislodge more water. My mouth is only for very careful breathing. The only exception is the desperate whine that comes out against my will. I clamp down on my panic and the hull.
Shut up. Focus. Come on.
Rocky leads me along, like the worst game of Marco Polo. Complete with the swimming pool simulation. I almost ruin the whole thing when I can’t move any further and start to panic. It’s just the end of the tether. It takes several agonizing tries to get the carabiner free. Then the other.
Rocky knocks five times in a rhythmic pattern. Sounds of encouragement, I imagine him saying.
I’ve lost any sense of how far I’ve moved. I just feel for Rocky, follow him, and take very small breaths. I’m lightheaded. My breath is hitching like crazy with the need to cough. I can't. Not yet.
An eternity later, I reach forward and find something new. It takes me a moment to recognize it by touch alone. The lip of the airlock. The airlock, thank god.
Of course, Rocky can’t be on the other side of the door until the atmosphere recycles. This is all on me. I feel along the door until I find the handle. A surge of desperation brings tears to my eyes that mingle with the water. I’m so close. I wretch the door open, pull myself inside, and slam it shut.
Zero gravity doesn't stop the door from having momentum. I need to put my back into it. The movement shifts the water, now covering most of my mouth.
With my hands free, I try again to grab my face. Helmet’s still there, idiot. The panic wraps around my neck like the water still leaking out. I need to get out of this thing. Now. Now nownownow.
Oh god. The airlock. I never started the recycle. I’m still in vacuum. I can’t breathe inside the suit and outside of the suit, it’s still vacuum.
It takes me three tries to find the switch. I slam it down ti start the recycle. Red light kaleidoscopes in my vision, through water and my closed eyelids.
Time to re-pressuization: forty seconds, Mary says.
The shallow breaths I’ve been taking are half water. And it tastes awful, like old plastic.
Time to re-pressuization, thirty eight seconds.
I shake my head, trying to force the water away from my face. It shifts across my skin, but there’s too much of it. All the shaking does is make me dizzy. Dizzier. My lungs are burning.
Time to re-pressurization: thirty three seconds.
Rocky’s voice is muffled by panic and solid metal. I feel him banging on the other side of the airlock. I bang back. Let me in. Please. He can't, of course he can't, but—
Time to re-pressurization: thirty seconds.
Rocky shouts something. It’s a fleeting thought, because water gets stuck in my throat and then I’m coughing. Violently. I can’t stop the gasping attempt at breathing. My chest spasms in pain.
Time to re-pressurizatio: t—
It doesn’t matter. Only that it isn’t zero.
There’s no air. It burns. I can't — oh god. I really can’t.
I’m falling, I think. My gloved fingers slip over the helmet’s clasp. Vacuum be damned. Darkness pulls at me even when my eyes are closed.
And something else. Pulling me to the side. My shoulder hits something and then my knees hit something and they both stay there. The water streams down my face and neck. I can breathe. I can breathe air.
I rip the helmet off. It rolls to the side of the airlock as the gravity stabilizes. I fall again, all fours, hacking up both of my lungs and probably a kidney. I gasp for air and I do get it, but it catches on the burnt path left behind in my airway. Every inhale is like wet sandpaper.
Mary flashes a warning at me. I probably missed proper atmosphere by a few seconds. Is that why it's so hard to breathe still? The air feels thin. But thin air is better than water.
The airlock door is heavy, but it practically flies open.
"Grace! You are okay?!"
I try to nod, but I can't stop coughing. Coughing means breathing and breathing is good. I wish it felt better than it did right now. Rocky forces his ball over the lip of the airlock, bumping into me from the force. I can’t do anything but cough and gasp. I do both for so long, I start retching water and stomach acid onto the floor. My fingers are numb.
"—is Bad. Bad bad bad."
"M–mhm.”
“Need medical bay. Move. Now.”
“Uh–h-huh.”
“Grace!”
I trip over my own feet. And the airlock door. And the EVA suit. I don’t have the energy to spare getting out of it, but it’s pressing down on me from all sides and I can't not take it off. I really, actually don’t have the energy to get out of the cooling suit. The thing that almost killed me, clinging wet to my skin. I try not to think about it, and just think about staying upright as long as possible.
Respiratory distress detected. Yeah, Mary. Insufficient blood oxygen saturation.
Shit, is Rocky stuck in the airlock? I — I couldn't help him. I should have helped him back over the threshold. I hear banging from somewhere close.
Armando puts something over my face, and that’s the last thing I remember.