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There are lots of human phrases and idioms about hearts. Maybe because they only have one, and their bodies are mostly water. They can sense its movements so easily.
“Heart of gold” is one example. Gold doesn't have any special meaning to eridians. Its acoustic properties are perfectly average. But I understand the sentiment. “Hearts of quartz” is my new equivalent.
Grace described the feeling once, not unlike how it sounds to me – a thrum behind his rib-cage, a steady pulse underpinning his movements. It’s percussive compared to his other ambient ‘alive’ sounds. I try to drown most of them out. Especially digesting. And blinking. Sometimes he blinks extra just to piss me off. What do you mean your sensing organs can’t lubricate themselves?
I can drown out Grace’s heartbeat. I have when I’ve absolutely needed to, but rarely. It was the first sound I heard when I connected the tunnel to the Hail Mary. A rhythm that got louder and faster the closer he got to me. Faster still when he ‘saw’ me properly. Slower when he slept. But always there. It was a passive, fluctuating constant. A little beacon of life. Something I could keep time to.
Why choose to ignore the unwavering reminder that Grace is alive (alive alive) and he's here (with me) (and I’m not alone.)
And then it started wavering.
The first time I heard it, I lost my damn mind. I can admit that. I’d spent months listening to every sound of Grace’s body and cataloging what was and wasn't normal. His heart stuttering over itself with spasms, his gasp for air, was not normal. He didn't even try to hide it, so I knew it was bad.
“Heartstrings” and pulling on them is a funny one. Again, it makes sense conceptually, for a species that holds their heart in high regard.
He did try to convince me it was okay. Arrhythmia, he told me. “Without rhythm.” Not good, but “expected.” It was a symptom associated with most of Grace’s nutrient deficiencies. I hated that. I still hate it and it's only gotten worse. I worry about it. Grace did too, when he was still awake to think.
Induced sleep was his best chance of survival. Nobody liked it, but that didn’t make it untrue. Grace agreed. He told me it was okay, but his heart can’t lie. I heard how it raced as we pushed the medication into his body.
Dreams will never not be insane to me, but I’m choosing to believe that worry hasn't followed Grace into his sleep, because I can't stand the alternative. His job right now isn't to worry, it's to stay alive. We'll take care of the rest.
“Heart of stone” was one we laughed about.
Humans think a lot about their hearts. Now I do, too. Having one heart makes it unique. Having one heart also means if it stops, you die.
It happens when I’m not there and I’ll never forgive myself for it. I know something’s happened when Adrian messages for me and starts with “Love, I promise it's okay now, but—”
I listen to the rest as I run.
Bones talks to us in Grace’s room. I lean in the spot between Grace’s shoulder and neck, mindful of the tubes and wires. I press my legs in close so I can hear and feel his heartbeat. It's slow and fluttery, and stopped
for twenty seven seconds
while I wasn't here.
Bones explains how electricity influences heart rhythms. I already know that. Little signals telling it what to do and how to do it, like a circuit board. External sources of electricity can also be used to restore normal heart rhythms. To correct arrhythmia in multiple forms. The doctors knew that in theory, but they didn't have the equipment for it.
Armando did, and was programmed with the function. Bless that stupid robot. If we hadn't relocated it from the Hail Mary at my insistence, Grace would be dead. He would have died while I wasn’t here.
“Electrolyte imbalances are bad for the heart. And long term malnutrition has damaged the tissue. It's not operating like it should.”
“But we've been able to isolate most of those electrolytes!”
Adrian has an arm on me, tapping between our suits.
“Yes, and they've helped. But the muscle itself is still weak. Without proteins and the full spectrum of nutrients, the isolated elements can only do so much.”
They also “taste” awful. Grace was awake for the first few trials. “Wouldn't you know, metal tastes like metal,” he said. No, I didn't know, but I would fix it if it meant he could consume them without being sick, and without looking so miserable.
Now they were being given by an IV directly into his blood. A medially induced coma in humans isn’t unlike an eridian sleep. But Grace isn't supposed to sleep like this. It's unnatural.
I promised him I would watch him sleep.
I was here for Grace to describe more tastes to me. And I was so worried but so damn hopeful, because if Grace could still have strong opinions about his senses, he would be okay.
And I wasn't here. I was fixing someone else's problem because they were useless and “needed my expertise,” and I wasn't fucking here.
Strange – one of the other doctors – says something. Adrian asks a question. I listen.
“Rocky?”
It's been so long since he could talk back to us. To me. I don't know if he can hear me, but I don't care. His twitching fingers could be a reflex or a nerve misfiring, but they could also be acknowledgement and why would I take the chance by not talking to him? I want to know what he’s dreaming about when he wakes up.
“Rocky.”
I’m not a doctor, but my proximity to Grace and his laptops for four years puts me on level ground with most of the medical team. At least in terms of human-specific medical knowledge. Definitely in terms of Human Grace-specific knowledge, medical and otherwise.
I know what the doctors are saying. And I know they’re talking to me, I’m not stupid. I just don’t have a response worth sharing. I don't know how to take what I know and turn it into something useful, and what's the point of saying anything if it isn't useful?
I could say something mean. I desperately want to, so I can stop feeling uselessscaredtiredterrified. I can make the paralyzing tangle of things in my brain everyone else’s problem, but if I do that I might not be able to put it back. And then there would be,
“What?”
I don't know. Just a mess of me spilled out everywhere. And that's not helpful. I used to be able to talk and think at the same time. I could talk to two different people and think at the same time. Now I can barely do one of those things. I can barely thrum. Useless.
Adrian hums to me. Not a question or a request. Just a sound.
I force air out of my vents. It pushes against the inside of the pressure suit. It’s a familiar sensation, but still strange. Grace’s heartbeat is as quiet as it’s ever been, but I can still hear it. I count it in sets of six. I focus on that, and I tap in attention so they know I’m present.
“Humans have many many medical devices. Very fascinating. Many ways to manipulate biological processes.” Excitement lines Bones’s voice, but they reign it in quickly. “We need a device, one we don't already have. It helps regulate heart rhythms. It can prevent this from happening again.”
I sit up straighter.
Doesn’t matter what it is or how it works. I’ll build it. I’d invent it if it didn’t exist yet.
“It's called a pace maker.”
Adrian whistles sharply. “Really? It's called a 🎶🎵?”
“Almost an exact translation,” Bones says, with the hint of a laugh.
I move away from Grace so I can project my voice properly. “Show me. Now.”
We use the modified computer display to review the concept and construction. Some specifics are difficult to find because of this ridiculous thing Grace called “intellectual property,” but we manage. Three more members of the medical unit and two engineers do the same.
I build a prototype to make sure it's stable, and gives the right readings in the right form factor. I test the embedded transmitter and confirm the doctors can read the packets from their access terminal. We triple check that the materials are compatible with human biology. Bones and their assistants review the designs. It takes them just as long to figure out how to test it as it does for me to build one. Especially the battery. But there’s only one human heart on Erid. I need to get this right. I will. It's not optional.
We program Armando to perform most of the procedure, with monitoring from the doctors. I say “we,” though I do not write a single line of code. I do insist on reading it so I can understand each command. The medical and engineering teams meet for thrums about it. I don't. I can't. They don't say anything to me about it, but they don't need to. It doesn't matter. The engineers tell me the relevant information. And I work.
I build five duplicate pace makers. They run for hundreds of hours through multiple stress tests. The other engineers review the results with me, because I do not let them touch a single part. If they're bothered by it, they don’t say so around me. If they did, I wouldn’t care.
Adrian is busy with their work on the biodome. I don't leave the workshop, but they come to me. They share progress from their unit – all good news. Or, they're only telling me the good news. The thought should offend me. But right now, I think I appreciate it. Biodome problems can wait, this cannot.
What I know for sure, with every part of me I can scrape together: I love them to the end of the void and back.
(I can say that, I told them. Before the mission, before we knew what was out there, what was going to happen and how, and why. We'll fly to the end of the void, and then I’ll come home and prove it.
Adrian laughed and called me a ‘hopeless romantic.’ And then I was gone for fifty years.)
I work. The other engineers ask stupid questions, but at least they can read a schematic. I work. Adrian comes to talk to me and I talk to them while I work and it makes everything a little less awful. They still know me well; they don't ask me to stop. If they did, it would make them a hypocrite. They do the same thing. They are doing the same thing, right now. We first met because we were both working past our usual shifts and took the same route home. Maybe we're both unhealthy in that regard, but at least we do it together.
It goes like this for days. The final iteration, version ∀, I build entirely within a clean room of Grace’s atmosphere. We have a team working to perfect the xenonite pressure suits. They brought me the most recent design so I could benefit from the improved dexterity in the claws. The parts are so small, so thin, I need an amplifier to put it together.
My endurance isn't what it used to be. And what an embarrassing thing to say about such small movements. My circulatory system adapted to reduced gravity for so long, I have weakness where I never did before. And focused, repetitive movements are probably the most straining.
I switch between my limbs to reduce the shaking. But one of my claws slips, and the placement tool catches on the edge of the housing when I close it. The engineer observing says it looks fine. Strange agrees.
I build the whole thing again from scratch.
After that, It's almost stupid how simple the implementation is. I’d been bracing myself for the idea of cutting Grace open, that “open heart surgery” he likes to joke about. I almost collapsed when I learned we didn't have to. A small incision near Grace’s neck and some careful robotic maneuvers, and it's done. The doctors use their echolocation to verify everything is in the right place. The readings look good.
And that's it. Everything is fine now. Grace’s heart won't stop again,
🎶 you don't know that 🎶
and he'll wake up.
🎶 you don't know that 🎶
The pacemaker can be upgraded and replaced as needed while he recovers,
🎶 if he recovers 🎶
for as long as he lives
🎶 humans die so young 🎶
because I built it that way on purpose.
🎶 you built the xenonite breeder tanks too, and look where that got you 🎶
Adrian observes the procedure with me. They make a comment about the freakiness of Grace’s skin. They don't use the word “freaky” because there's a technical term that Adrian knows for it. It’s a word they taught me ages ago.
And then I fall asleep in the middle of the medical sector for eighteen hours.
Adrian is there when I fall asleep and when I wake up. I’m embarrassed, but too wrung out to properly express it. I don't know if they stayed the whole time and I’m too wrung out to ask that, either. I can hear Grace’s heartbeat through the partition in the room.
“Bones gave me an update not long ago,” Adrian tells me. “Everything is working flawlessly.”
“Good,” I say, numbly.
They sound unsure – not of the facts, but something else. I don't know. Of me, maybe. How to talk to me.
I listen. Faintly, I hear the buzz of the sensor beneath his skin, listening to every heartbeat. Even when I can't.
“I knew it would,” they hum. “Because you made it.”
Adrian holds me while I fall apart.
Patients waking up from induced comas may be confused, disoriented, and have trouble speaking or recalling memories, Mary's voice said. Grace is all these things and more, at varying levels of severity.
It's better to wake him up now after the worst of it than risk keeping him asleep. On one hand, I hate hearing him in pain. On another hand, when he opens his eyes and actually looks at me and makes a sound of recognition, the relief almost shakes me apart.
I insist on explaining things to Grace every time he wakes up and doesn’t remember. Which has been enough times to scare me, but Bones insists it’s normal. “Normal.” Normal for humans and their squishy brains, and squishy brains forced to sleep for so long.
Not forced. Grace agreed. But still. I’ll do it as many times as I need to. Saying “your heart stopped beating don't worry because we fixed it but your heart stopped beating” does not get any easier. Adrian says it for me once, as does Bones.
I also apologize that we did a procedure on him without asking. Grace says it’s okay. I don't know if he’s just saying that because he doesn’t have energy to say anything else. I’m not sure he understands that he's the one I’m talking to when I say it. One step at a time.
Grace is more here today, and that helps. The doctors gave him medication for pain. I know that because they told me, but I can tell by Grace’s smile. His face is smaller than it used to be, but the expression sits in a familiar way. Off-center and crinkling the skin around his eyes.
He's not really looking at us, but he's listening and responding. Bones takes over the explanation this time. Grace nods along until it makes him dizzy, and I tell him to stop.
“Pacemaker has been working brilliantly,” Bones says. “Thanks to Savior Rocky’s engineering.”
I hate when they call me that. Anyone. Bones stopped saying it when they address me directly. But they still say it to other people. Sigh.
“Used existing human design. Hard part was already done.”
Grace clumsily pats my arm with an IV-tethered hand.
“Can't take compliments,” he mumbles. I huff, pressing myself closer to his body.
Bones goes on. “We are still working on replicating the full profile of your nutrient samples. The trickier ones are—”
“I've,” Grace blinks. We wait for him to finish. “That sounds familiar.”
“What does?”
“Pacemaker.”
“It is common device on earth, yes?” Bones asks, and adds, “question?”
“No. Well…yeah.” Grace moves his arm like he wants to use it for something, but gives up halfway through. His mouth does the same thing for a moment. He continues, “I mean the. You. Your word.”
He tries to say the eridian word. He tries very, very hard. It's bad. Not even close. What key is that? I think I'm the only one who knows he's trying to speak it at all. I pat his leg through the blanket.
“Have used in conversation,” I tell him. “Before…long sleep.”
“Thrums have different structure, depending on purpose. Some thrums need someone to keep focus. Keep time. Sometimes only one, sometimes multiple. Important for very large or important thrum. Easy to lack rhythm.”
Adrian finishes for me. “Eridian word is 🎶🎵. Carry over from an old, old dialect. Translates directly to ‘pace maker.’”
Grace blinks again. “Huh.”
He might not remember this conversation when he wakes up. We can have it as many times as we need to.
Then, he laughs. Adrian makes a surprised sound. I do too, but not for the same reason.
“What is funny, question?”
Grace’s head falls to the side, looking at me. He's still laughing. “You're my pace maker.”
“What?”
He taps above his heart. “So smart. Keeping rhythm for me. Like a…like a tiny thrum. Right?”
I don't move. I don't— I. “What?”
The idiot giggles at me.
“Can't take compliments.” Grace breathes deeply, in and out. “Thanks for keeping me alive.”
Then he's asleep.
Bones and Adrian are talking again. Then, just Adrian. And Grace, who has no idea what he just said to me. If he did, he'd probably still say it. Because we have said it, in fewer words. Human words, separated by culture and context. I love you.
Adrian harmonizes with me. I don't know how; I'm a mess of frequencies. They're comforting me, but they're laughing. A gentle sound that wraps around me, like Grace's heartbeat started doing all those years ago.
“Of all the living things in the universe,” they sigh. “I can’t believe it. You are both hopeless romantics.”
It hurts to laugh, but I can't not laugh. “Emphasize hopeless.”
That's not true. I am hopeful. So hopeful, it scares me.
“I haven’t heard a human laugh before,” Adrian says. “It is so…”
“Familiar.”
“Yes.”
“Grace laughs a lot,” I say. It feels important to say out loud. “Especially at things that aren’t funny.”
“Well,” Adrian hums. “It will be nice to hear more of it.”