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Eva Stratt is only ten months in to her life-long prison sentence when she hears the news.
It’s the first of her world tour; nearly every country wanted a crack at her, and, of course, the United States wanted it first. All things considered, it could be worse. She has heard of dank, rat-infested facilities in certain parts of the country where the food, if they even remembered to feed you, was moldy, and the drinking water not much better. The solid cement walls around her are cold, but she has a skinny, short bed with thin sheets, and the premises that surround her are mostly quiet.
Even better, her network of informants can still reach her here.
She cared about nothing else in the outside world except the Hail Mary’s progress and the rate at which everything on the planet was deteriorating. For the latter, news was fairly even keeled: only a slight tick up in climate disasters, though that rate would get exponentially worse as the years wore on.
For the former, she wanted every detail that she could get her hands on, though she considered herself lucky to get any information at all.
For nearly a full year, everything was nominal. The ship was holding together beautifully, the onboard systems sending back impassive pings to Earth on its progress and inhabitants, completely indifferent to the direness of their situation.
And then, as the Hail Mary rockets its way along the orbit of Uranus, she receives the devastating blow.
Yáo and Ilyukhina are dead.
What happened, she does not know. She is moved to a prison on the border of Mexico before she can find out, where her accommodations are much worse and her informants dare not get close.
Yáo and Ilyukhina are dead. The odds have dramatically shifted.
She smooths a shaking hand over the crumpled piece of paper that came with the sorry excuse for a dinner.
2025-12-07T21:54:02Z - All onboard systems nominal.
2025-12-07T21:58:34Z - Status: Commander Yáo Li-Jie. ERROR. Biometrics unavailable.
2025-12-07T22:04:42Z - Status: Commander Yáo Li-Jie. DECEASED.
2025-12-16T08:25:06Z - Status: Engineer Olesya Ilyukhina. ERROR. Biometrics unavailable.
2025-12-16T10:01:49Z - Status: Engineer Olesya Ilyukhina. DECEASED.
2025-12-16T11:45:39Z - Status: Scientist Ryland Grace. STABLE.
She needs to rid herself of the incriminating evidence before anyone can notice, but she can’t bring herself to do it. She holds it like a lifeline while scenarios and hypotheticals race through her exhausted brain. The implications are… staggering. What exactly went wrong doesn’t matter now. What matters is shifting focus and finding a solution to this new problem.
But that is not for her to do. It is in no one’s hands except one: Dr. Ryland Grace. Her right hand. The one person who was by her side from nearly the beginning. The man who she drugged and forced on the Hail Mary without his consent to save their planet.
Even now, she does not regret it. There was no other solution. There was no other person she trusted more to figure it out. Send him, or watch the human race and all other life slowly go extinct.
Still. She can barely swallow back the rising nausea. The medical team had given a 99.2% clearance to use the amnesia cocktail with the coma drugs, but the redundancies of having Yáo and Ilyukhina on board to combat any issues that could arise and help Grace upon waking was part of the design.
Now he’s completely on his own, with so many pieces of the puzzle that need to go right almost overwhelming in their magnitude. And none of that problem solving can even begin for another twelve years from their perspective on Earth.
Eva allows herself exactly six and a half minutes of crushing despair to imagine the worst, to be overcome with the possibility that the last few years of her life and so many other peoples’ lives were for nothing, that she had doomed an entire planet and had flung one of the only people she could consider a friend into the gaping, unforgiving maw of space.
Then, she calms her breathing and wipes the salty tears from her cheeks. She crumples the paper in her fist, her knuckles going white.
She had once told Grace that believing in God was better than the alternative.
“Please,” she whispers. “Please, Grace. Please figure it out. I have faith in you. Please.”
It becomes her prayer, her desperate plea that she recites into the far-flung universe every single night, hoping it reaches exactly who it’s supposed to.
*
Earth doesn’t find out about the blow to their odds until a few months later.
The sentiment is, of course, shock, and then anger. Fingers pointed at every person who took part in Project Hail Mary and more specifically at Eva Stratt. Television channels around the globe filled with pundits and politicians who spend more time haranguing project members than platforming other possible solutions. But like all news cycles, the shock gradually fades away to make room for other pressing items.
It doesn’t become front page news again until a few years later when it snows two feet in São Paulo, and Italian beaches along the Amalfi coast are completely covered in ice.
Considering the future effects of their dimming sun is one thing. Presented with actual staggering evidence of their cooling planet quickly turns most skeptics.
Official profiles of the Hail Mary crew had been given to the press upon launch, but now, as far-off anxieties slowly materialize to become a new everyday reality, the thirst for knowledge is insatiable, having once just been shrugged off as background facts before. How long would it take the Hail Mary to reach Tau Ceti? What was the plan when it got there? And who, exactly, was Dr. Ryland Grace, the sole survivor and their only hope?
Images, background history, curriculum vitae, academic papers, internet presence, family, friends – no stone is left unturned. Some who knew him offered glimpses of who he was and how they knew him.
Bit of an awkward kid, but a good egg. Keen instinct. Really went above and beyond on his assignments, said his biochemistry professor.
Smart guy. Like, scary smart. And not just smart, but, like, intelligent. Thought outside the box. Why the hell do you think he was on the project for as long as he was? from an anonymous Project Hail Mary staff member.
He was funny. He made class fun. I like science now, a lot, obviously, since I’m currently working on my physics degree. Oh, and he liked foxes! He had this really cute little figurine on his desk that we used as, like, an immunity idol for his pop quizzes, said a former student.
The amalgamation of facts and anecdotes create a picture of tentative hope. Many take comfort in simply gaining a better understanding of who he was, if they could indeed risk putting faith in their survival in his hands.
Faith. It gains traction.
As the years go by and summers cool and winters become harsher, the name Ryland Grace is lifted up in churches, mosques, shrines, temples, synagogues, and all kinds of congregations around the world, big or small. Prayers for safety, for wisdom, for good health. His likeness is depicted in all manner of iconography – graffiti, prayer cards, murals, statues – the evolution of a clever fox at his side spreading like wildfire, a token of cleverness and ingenuity. His name is in the lisping whisper of a young child saying prayers before bed and in the heart of those who never had much room for faith in anything else before.
Ryland Grace, they say. You have traveled so far, but you still have so long to go and so much to do. Protect us. Save us. May you find both wisdom and discernment. We have faith in you. Remember us. Save us.
*
Nearly twelve light years from Earth, Ryland Grace wakes up with a jolt on the Hail Mary to his own name echoing in his head.
*
For the first time since coming out of his coma, he feels like he can pause, take a beat, and figure out what’s next.
There’s obviously still a ton of things to do between here and Erid, but no longer carrying the weight of who am I and what am I doing here? as well as the survival of two whole species on his shoulders gives him some breathing room to process everything that had happened and what was to come.
It was done. The decision was made, and there was no going back. Considering he had only just recently remembered his initial cowardice in telling Stratt no, he would rather watch Earth starve than give up his own life, it shames him how long it took to make the decision to save Rocky. Despite still being light years away, home was so close he could almost taste it. Since waking up on the Hail Mary, he’d been on an emotional rollercoaster. From figuring out what the mission was and that he would die out in space alone, to Rocky’s offer of astrophage, to now right back where he started: dying out in space. At least this time, he wouldn’t be alone.
“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Food inventory. How much was he kicking himself right now for wasting perfectly good food over the past few months, eating three square a day when he wasn’t even that hungry? A lot. A lot a lot. But he was putting on a brave face for both himself and for Rocky. His friend had mentioned a few times about synthesizing food and essential vitamins and minerals when they got to Erid, but… Ryland is not going to get his hopes up. He had already made that mistake once.
Rocky stands as far as he can away from the small mountain of packaged food while still being in the same room as Ryland. He seems reluctant to let Ryland out of his “sights,” so to speak, ever since they reunited. Which is fine, because Ryland feels the same way.
Rocky clacks his claws together nervously. “You open food, question?”
“No, just sorting. Need to figure out how long I can stretch this and what’s left of the coma slurry.”
“And Taumoeba.”
Ryland makes a face. He had given it a try after Rocky’s initial suggestion, and “revolting” would be an understatement. “And… Taumoeba. As a last resort. Really don’t want to have to eat it if I don’t have to.”
“Humans so strange,” Rocky says in a disgruntled tone. “Taste not important if it keep you alive.”
“Is important. Texture too,” Ryland replies, trying not to remember the feel of sludgey gloop going down his throat as he sets aside another ten breakfast burritos. “Blame our evolution if you want.”
“Yes. Do want. Will blame evolution for lots of human faults if it makes Grace feel better.”
Ryland just rolls his eyes and continues counting.
He doesn’t quite understand this mood he’s settled into. Hopeful’s not the right word, and neither is resigned. Maybe some sort of middle ground of just simply… existing.
Before he had set course for Rocky, he stood in the Don’t Go Crazy room staring off into the middle distance; it was as if the decision to not go back to Earth and instead save Rocky was as inevitable as Stratt sending him here. The more he turned it over in his head, the more he let go of daydreams of splashing down into the frigid blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean, of helicopters surrounding the ship, of clambering out of a hatch and airlifted to whatever facility was nearby, bones weak and muscles nearly non-existent. Of explaining everything that had happened to scientists around the world and helping populate Venus with Taumoeba. Of maybe seeing Stratt again.
Those thoughts had disappeared into the ether, as if they had never existed at all.
He had been suddenly, inexplicably, overcome with the rightness of the decision to save Rocky. Giving into it lifted the burden of fear. An acceptance that had him closing his eyes and breathing deeply, a ringing in his ears saying it will be all right.
He blinks in the fluorescent light of the lab, coming back to the present.
“Did you say something?” he mumbles to Rocky, who had at some point scuttled closer to Ryland.
“Only ask if you are done. Grace do math?”
“Oh. No, I thought… nevermind. Yeah, hang on, let me see here.”
He clears the fuzziness from his brain and pulls out his calculator.
Each packaged food item had abbreviated nutritional facts printed on the thin aluminum. Why, Ryland isn’t sure; maybe for this very purpose. In another reality, maybe Yáo, Ilyukhina, and DuBois were counting calories for survival while they continued to work the astrophage problem.
Anyway. Sustaining himself on 2000 calories a day for nearly four years is a pipe dream at best. He pushes the number down to 1600 and factors in the nutrients listed on the coma slurry bags.
The number comes out to around three years and three months. He could potentially stretch that into three and a half years if he incorporates in fasting stints.
And that’s just the arrival time to Erid. That timeframe doesn’t account for the time waiting for the Eridians to synthesize other forms of nutrients for him, if that’s even a possibility. Rocky seems completely positive that it’s doable, but they simply just won’t know until they get there.
And if the lack of calories was bad enough, that timeframe super duper doesn’t account for the lack of essential vitamins and minerals in his diet. Though, it was possible that the Taumoeba could have some kind of helpful nutrient kicking around inside its sludgey exterior. He’ll have to run some labs to see, but there’s no way it’ll cover everything he needs.
A dread settles into his gut.
“How bad number, question?” Rocky asks, ever perceptive.
Bad, he almost replies, but doesn’t. He desperately wants to remain optimistic, if not for himself than for his friend. But reality is what it is. This was a suicide mission. Not intended for long-term survival. He had successfully completed his mission, the beetles full of Taumoeba and data long gone, zooming towards Earth. A mission that wasn’t even his to complete, but achieved nonetheless. So maybe he should just be grateful for that. Maybe he should just –
His ears ring sharply, and he winces.
He’ll do it – he’ll be brave for Rocky, survive the four years, or at least get him close enough to Erid so he can hail his home planet. He’ll get him home. But, the realization settling over Ryland like a weight, he simply cannot promise any more than that.
He clears his throat.
“Not great,” he finally tells Rocky. “But manageable. I’ll have to make some pretty serious adjustments, but. I think I can make it work.” It’s not really a lie, but the words feel bad coming out anyway.
“Good good good! But what about essential human nutrients, question?”
It was scary how quick on the uptake Rocky was, sometimes. “Ah… yeah, that might be trickier. I need to do some research first. It might get bad, pal. I’ll give you a full walkthrough of what we might be in for.”
“Understand. Whatever needed, Rocky will help.”
Which of course makes Ryland feel even more like an absolute jerk. But he simply cannot allow hope to cloud his pragmatism.
Does that make him a coward? Maybe, but what else is new.
Final mission or not, he’ll get his friend home.
*
They fall into a routine, for both necessity’s sake and to keep the monotony at bay. Ryland studies up on nutrition and what the lack of could do to the human body. There’s ship maintenance and laundry and taking the time to properly write his findings on astrophage and Taumoeba in a long form study. Not to mention documenting alien life. Ryland asks Rocky if he would consent to having Eridian biology, culture, and language documented for posterity. Rocky is thrilled, of course, and Ryland wonders if the Eridians could create another probe to send his findings to Earth after he’s gone.
Somehow, the weeks and months wear on.
Some days are good. Some days it’s just the two of them working out issues and making discoveries like they did while figuring out the astrophage problem, the thrill of which never gets old. Some days Rocky patiently tries to teach him proper Eridian, not the short, stilted vocabulary that they needed to get by when time was of the essence. While Ryland is able to quickly pick up certain nouns and phrases that are more of a one-to-one translation to English, they learn there is a whole tonal range that he is completely unable to hear and therefore unable to learn. Rocky likened it more to an accent that was oftentimes used as the basis of certain conjugations and in more formal dialects. It meant using a mashed up version of Eridian with both proper and improper grammar.
“Not to worry,” Rocky had said. “Eridians will not mind. Can do improper grammar for hero Grace.”
Ryland had just clenched his teeth shut and smiled.
Some days are less good.
He would go so far as to say that some days are downright bad.
Even now, the restriction of calories has him grumpy, his stomach growling at night as he tries to sleep. Though Ryland is sure Rocky is completely grossed out by the sound, his friend graciously says nothing, which just escalates Ryland’s frustration and pessimism in his situation. Some days he feels like a tinderbox, one small spark away from igniting. Some days he’s so tired he can’t bring himself to do anything except stare half-lidded at the wall of his lab, disassociating until Rocky calls his name more than once and brings him back.
And – he hates, absolutely hates to admit it, but he’s lonely.
He should be grateful he’s not dying a slow death on the other side of the galaxy all by himself. It scares him, how much Rocky means to him, more than most people he knew on Earth. He’s never had a connection quite like this, a deep bond built on a screwy kind of shared trauma, a being who shares his broad enthusiasm for learning and discovery, a being who doesn’t hesitate to call Ryland out on his crap but would drop anything and everything to help him with whatever he needed.
But that doesn’t change the innate longing for human connection, the instinctual pull of familiarity. It makes him ache down to his bones, and coupled with his calorie deficit and staring at the same walls day in and day out makes the slow crawling of time towards his inevitable end downright tortuous.
It also apparently makes him a bit more melodramatic than usual, but dopamine was in short supply.
He doesn’t mean to let it bubble up. It’s the tinderbox of it all. Most of the time, he’s really good at being able to stuff it all down and hide his frustration from Rocky. But there’s a reason why the mission plan put the crew in comas during the long trip to Tau Ceti. There’s a reason why NASA listed isolation and confinement as a hazard during space travel. Changes to neuroendocrine stress responses, circadian misalignment, detriments to the immune system, and so on and so forth.
He’s trying his best, really he is.
“No, look — there’s less of a chance of cardio issues than there is just basic exhaustion. I have to pick and choose.”
“But if heart does not function well, then all other systems go down. Poor renal function. Bad bad bad. Must combat with physical activity.”
“Physical activity will only get me so far, Rock. Electrolytes also play a pretty big role.”
“Understand. But should do anyway.”
It’s times like these he maybe regrets giving Rocky a laptop. Rocky has been soaking up as much information about human anatomy and diseases and all the many things that can go wrong and then lecturing Ryland like he’s the expert in being human.
He gets it. There’s no other way Rocky can help right now except by arming himself with knowledge.
But it’s been a bad day.
The water purifier has been on the fritz, one of his experiments that he’s been waiting on for weeks completely failed, and he’s hungry.
He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends.
“Okay, well, I don’t want to,” he finally says.
“Doesn’t matter if want. Should,” Rocky replies.
“How about I, the human, figure out what’s best for my own needs.”
Rocky stomps down an arm in his ball. “Stupid. Acting stupid. If not do physical activity, then sleep.”
“No. I’m in the middle of something.”
“Grace must take care of body seriously!”
“I am!” Ryland snaps. “It’s all I can think about all day every day! I wasn’t even supposed to – ” He slams a fist against the hull of the ship. “It shouldn’t be me here trying to figure this all out. And if I were alone, then it would be fine. I could just let it happen. But no, now I have to try.” He’s pacing in his agitation, Rocky simply watching from his ball. “I was a replacement part, and I served my purpose. That’s it. I was expendable after mission success. Meant to die. I had no one to go back home to anyway, so it’s not like it matters, but I….”
He pauses, realizes his breath is heaving. There’s a ringing in his ears that gets louder by the second. It sounds like something. Something he’s heard before, yet totally unfamiliar. He cocks his head to listen, but the ship swims before him, and he stumbles, lightheaded.
“Rock? Is that you?” he mumbles, but he can’t hear a response because his whole skull is echoing and there’s a light on the periphery of his vision. The sound spreads, filling every square inch of him, piercing through his very marrow. It feels – warm. Intimately familiar. Something agonizing in its comfort, an essential part of who he is, but also outside of him. He feels both smothered and buoyed, adrift in the sensation. If only he could just hear what the sound is trying to tell him, then he’d –
He pitches to the side and feels his eyes roll back into his skull.
And then wakes some indeterminate time later to Rocky shrieking above him and nudging at him from inside his ball.
He groans and immediately folds inward, clutching at his chest where his heart sits below his rib cage. The skin and muscle throb, as though someone has gone at him with a dull knife.
“Grace!” Rocky cries. “What happen, question? Will not bother again, apology, should not have scolded – ”
The hand that isn’t grasping at his chest, fingernails dinging crescents into soft skin, flails out, looking for xenonite. It collides against Rocky’s ball, and he presses his palm against it, desperate for contact.
“‘M okay. ‘M okay. Just… one sec,” he gasps out. He takes a moment to just simply breathe, the pain, the noise, the light, all of it slowly diminishing away, leaving him utterly disoriented.
“Apology,” Rocky says again, his tone strained and anxious. “Know you are under stress. Know journey is difficult. Will try to let Grace handle body illness.”
He’s officially earned himself the Universe’s Biggest Jerk award. “No, I’m sorry.” He takes a beat and then moves himself into a sitting position, wiping a cold sweat off his brow. “That was – uncalled for. I shouldn’t have taken out my frustration on you. I know you’re just trying to help.”
“Trying to help,” Rocky repeats mournfully. “Will be better when get to Erid. Promise promise promise.”
There’s a lump in his throat, and his vision blurs. “I’m so sorry, bud, I – I really shouldn’t have said any that. I’m trying, really. I’ll get this figured out. I – won’t leave you here by yourself. I’ll get you home.”
“And after? Question?” Rocky prompts.
He opens his mouth to answer, but he doesn’t know how. The ringing in his head starts back up again, and a shudder rolls through him.
“And – and after. Gotta meet Adrian, right?” He tries for reassuring but isn’t sure he manages.
“Meet Adrian,” Rocky agrees. “Eridians will take good care of you. Grace will be loved.”
“Oh,” he breathes, unconsciously reaching toward his heart again.
It is agreed that the day is done. He’s not feeling up to doing much else after whatever episode that was anyway.
Back in his dormitory space, he cleans up, splashing cold water on his face. He peers in the small mirror, notes the sharpness of his jawline and the protrusion of his collarbones through his shirt. He sighs and peels off the shirt, turning to toss it in the corner to add to the laundry pile.
He turns back, and —
He flinches in surprise. “What in the —”
There, centered right above his heart, is a delicate arch of blood carved into his chest.
“What,” he whispers, stepping closer to the mirror and prodding it with a finger.
The wound looks fresh but it’s not dripping blood. The skin around it is tender but there’s no redness of infection.
How? He’s pretty sure he didn’t hit anything on the way down when he passed out, nothing that would give him a wound like that. He checks the shirt he just took off – no blood stains the inside of the fabric.
He squints at the mirror, the angle of the arc looking eerily familiar. He’s seen that exact angle hundreds of times, both in his home solar system and around Tau Ceti in infrared.
It’s. Well it looks like. A Petrova line.
But that’s. He doesn’t even know. He stands there, his brain short-circuiting, trying to piece together what this could possibly be and what it could mean.
He shivers from tiredness and the cold air, and lightly traces a finger along the arc.
He can hear it, all of a sudden. The echo. What the ringing in his ears was trying to say.
Remember us. Hear us. Show us your mercy. We rest our faith in you.
*
He thinks, maybe, he’s finally losing it.
Just the whole… space crazies finally taking its toll. Or maybe it’s the Taumoeba he’s been supplementing into his diet every few days. An alien microbe altering his brain chemistry. Or he’s stricken with some kind of nutrient deficiency that he hasn’t figured out yet.
He doesn’t know how to otherwise explain it.
He doesn’t tell Rocky. He doesn’t know how. And there’s nothing Rocky can do about it anyway. Ryland smothers the wound in antiseptic cream and a bandage, but even after a few days, it still looks as fresh and bloody as when he first noticed it.
So he neatly shoves his rising concern into a little box and buries it under all the other concerns that need his attention.
Routine continues to help, but his spirals become more frequent with any downtime he has. He finds himself reflecting back to his last few years, months, and days on Earth. It makes sense. When he woke up, he couldn’t remember, and then when everything slotted back into place, they still had the nitrogen-resistant astrophage problem to solve.
In hindsight, he can’t believe he was so stupid to not see how integral to the project he was. Well – that’s not true. He knew he had been the leading expert on astrophage biology. Stratt had told him that herself. But so integral that all the knowledge he accumulated had punched him a one-way ticket to Tau Ceti? After all the work, sleepless nights, the long, long hours spent in labs, trailing after Stratt in meeting after meeting after meeting, years of his life – and now he has a few short months before he gets to die of starvation or malnutrition or both, his usefulness expired.
The ringing in his head pipes up again. He grits his teeth and ignores it.
“Grand scheme of things,” he mutters into his hands, trying for a silver lining. “You and your alien friend basically saved your entire planet. Hopefully. That’s like, Superman level of hero.”
He’s still gonna die, though.
He sighs.
He marks the passing weeks by how much actual food he has left and the weakening of his body. Clothes become looser. Sleeping takes up more of his circadian day. His gums hurt. His bones hurt.
All the while, Rocky follows him around like a nervous mother hen, asking him how he’s feeling, telling him he should eat, suggesting he take a nap, or trying to distract him with all kinds of facts about Erid.
Ryland grouses, but truthfully, he doesn’t hate it.
They talk a lot when he’s too weak to get out of bed.
“But why celebrate day of birth, question? Is just day,” Rocky asks.
“Well,” Ryland tries to sit up a little straighter. “It’s more about celebrating how happy we are that the person exists. So every 365 days, maybe we’ll throw a little party for the person or give them gifts. Not everyone celebrates it though. Especially the older we get. Sometimes it really is just a day.”
“Hmm. Understand. We do this but only when we make great achievement. When finish all learning, or when take mate. Big party, for many Erid days. Celebrate each other’s success.”
“Love that. Very cool. Makes sense that birthdays aren’t really a thing; when you’re, like, 300 years old, it would probably get pretty tedious.”
“Will have biggest celebration when we arrive. Biggest in Erid history. Many, many, many Eridians come! Will celebrate hero Grace and hero Rocky for saving planet!”
Ryland smiles at him fondly. “That sounds great. Can’t wait.”
What a thing that would be to see. He wants, desperately, to stick around and be a part of that. But doubt hangs heavier on him each day that passes and every pound he loses.
The ringing is back. It’s happening more frequently. He sometimes finds himself completely spacing out, just listening. There are… words. He thinks. He can’t make anything out, no matter how hard he listens. But more than that, he feels… intention. Emotion. Directed at him. How he can tell that, he has no idea. Sometimes so full of fervor that he forgets about every ache and pain and even his hunger. He’ll finally come back to himself after maybe a few minutes or, at most, an hour, somehow feeling a little lighter, the bloody arc over his heart thumping in time with his heartbeat.
He can pass off these episodes to Rocky as part of the whole malnutrition thing for now. When it happens, Rocky sits patiently with him, waiting for it to end, sometimes nudging him back to awareness when his breathing patterns change.
And, of course, on top of that, he’s hallucinating.
The first time he saw it, he had been very, very gently brushing his teeth during his morning routine. Despite his carefulness, blood spatters the sink when he spits. He grimaces, washing it down the drain, and when he looks back up into the mirror, there’s a little creature standing next to him in his reflection, fluffy tail curled around small paws, staring up at him inquisitively.
He yelps and jumps about three feet in the air, turning around and looking for a fox that had somehow stowed its way aboard a space craft all those years ago and was only making itself known now.
But there’s nothing there.
“Grace okay, question?” Rocky calls down the corridor.
“Ah, yeah,” Ryland replies, eyes searching every corner, but quickly coming to the realization that he was seeing things. “Stubbed my toe.”
Rocky makes an annoyed burble. “Grace be careful.”
“I am. I was. I will,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. Just awesome. One more thing to add to the list.
He startles the next few times he sees a flash of red or a yawning row of teeth next to his reflection in a mirror or glass beaker or a black screen. And that, too, is peculiar. He doesn’t hallucinate the fox in his own physical space. It only appears in reflective materials, watching him with a calm curiosity that should leave him unsettled, but doesn’t. It also doesn’t seem to really… want anything, other than to stand guard next to his own image in his reflection.
Once, while in the lab, something triggers a memory of Earth, before the Project – in between classes, a warm spring day, taking a moment to lie outside in the sun on the lawn of the Sciences building. And suddenly all he can think about is the fact that he’d never smell fresh-cut grass ever again. He feels so heavy, as if battling excessive centrifugal force again, unable to simply move. And then he feels – a flash of fur against his arm, soft and quick. He looks up to find a reflective surface – this time a thick, plexiglass pane – and sees the fox, back leg stretched up to its ear to scratch an itch, tail flicking. It resumes its seated position and grins at him.
He simply does not know what to make of it. But it does pull him out of his slump.
A quick search on the laptop tells him that a B12 deficiency is possibly to blame, which could also explain the numbness in his fingers and new lack of coordination in his muscles. Or it could be any number of the other missing vitamins or minerals.
He doesn’t know, and at this point, he’s halfway to not caring. The inevitable is on the horizon, staring him down like a silent sentry, inching ever closer. He feels brave enough to accept it, but too scared to admit it out loud. Instead, he writhes in his bed, muscle tremors running down his body like little earthquakes, wondering when this will finally all be over, all while the Petrova line over his heart burns like a fiery brand and a wordless echoing choir rings in his ears.
The rare moments of both lucidity and strength means rounds on the Hail Mary’s systems. He prepped a lot beforehand, when he still had the ability to do so, and Rocky is able to help with some, but only so much. Rocky is vehement that Ryland not overexert himself, preferring that he just stay in bed and not risk it, but, Ryland argues, if the oxygen recycler goes out because he neglects to run diagnostics, they’ll have an even bigger and more immediate problem on their hands.
It’s a decent enough day; he feels fairly well rested, so they decide to make full rounds across the ship. He’s taking it slow and steady, just like he promised Rocky he would. So far all systems are nominal, their course heading dead on, fuel looking good. He’s put off checking the primary systems hub, so that needs doing. There is a tricky bit with some stairs, but as long as he takes his time going down each ring, he should –
His left calf muscle cramps so suddenly and viciously that his leg gives out, and before he can process anything else, he’s already hit the floor.
His breath is knocked fully out of him, but worse is the incredibly sharp pain that radiates from his left side where he landed. He scrabbles for air, but even after a few long moments, it’s clear his oxygen intake isn’t getting any better. Every time he tries to take a breath, the sharp pain gets worse, limiting his intake. A juddering cough goes through him, and he sees a few speckles of blood land on the clean white floor next to him.
Oh. Oh no.
A lung punctured from his own rib cage, maybe – a fall like that with bones that haven’t seen any form of calcium in a long time is just about the worst possible combination imaginable.
He tries to gather any air to call out for Rocky, but that just leads to more coughing and more blood.
Surely Rocky would have heard his fall. But what could he do? Bust out of his xenonite ball again and drag him to the infirmary? And then what? The medical bot couldn’t perform major surgeries. There was only so much that could be done to fix up internal damage with the supplies they had on board.
Understanding settles over him in a cold rush.
He didn’t think it would be like this. He thought he would have more time. They’re close now, closer than he thought they would get, only a few months out from Erid. But. But that’s good. That means Rocky can get there without much trouble. Send down a hail to his planet when he gets closer. The Taumoeba are prepped and ready to be shot into the Petrova line at Threeworld on the way.
He’s done what he’s needed to do. He’s fulfilled the task thrust upon him. He was meant to die. He was just lucky to get a little extra time.
Right on cue, he hears an echoing ringing in his ears that steadily builds, louder and more emphatic than he’s ever heard it before. In between his labored wheezing, he can make out a few words that rise above the cacophony.
Grant us your mercy. Hear us. We believe. We believe.
He shakes his head, blinking away tears that steadily trail down his temples.
“It’s – done,” he gasps out. “Did all I could. I don’t know what else… I don’t know….”
We put our faith in you. Save us through your grace.
“Grace.”
He trembles, eyes squeezed shut, the pain unbearable. He doesn’t understand what the voices want. He’s given everything. The beetles are on their way to Earth with all the knowledge he has to save the Sun. All he has left to do now is –
“Grace.”
He stills. His breath whistles in the silence. He knows that voice.
“Ryland.”
With some effort, he turns his head and blinks up at Eva Stratt.
She leans over his broken body, staring down at him with the same placid expression she wore while receiving morning briefings.
“Oh,” he wheezes. “You here to usher me into the light?”
She gives him a soft smile. “The opposite, actually.”
It’s then out of the periphery of his vision that he notices the small red fox darting playfully around the servers and power conduits, startlingly and discordantly out of place. And not in a reflection, this time. It seems to know when Ryland notices it and trots over to his side where it digs fruitlessly at the floor with its front paws, before circling twice and curling into a ball next to his hip.
As far as death hallucinations go, this was all a bit weird, but not too bad. Certainly could be worse.
“Not a death hallucination,” Stratt says in her matter-of-fact way.
“Uh huh,” Ryland responds, each word feeling like a 200-pound bench press. “How do… you figure that.”
“You’re not dying.”
He barks out a laugh that has specks of blood peppering everything within a five-inch radius. “Unless you’ve – somehow teleported here to perform a… one-woman surgery on me, pretty sure… this is end of the line.”
“Hmm.” She shifts, leaning a little closer to him. “So quick to give up. Where is your faith?”
He very much dislikes where this conversation is heading. All the while, every moment feels as though his lungs are being squeezed tighter and tighter with a vice. “Have faith… in science. Science says… this looks bad.”
“What about faith in yourself?”
The bloody Petrova line over his heart flares to life, burning over his punctured lung, the compounded effect almost enough to send him over the edge right then and there.
“Ryland,” Stratt says again, not urgently, but also not as composed as before.
He watches feverishly as she lifts a hand and slowly places it against his cheek.
His eyes roll in their sockets, and he unconsciously presses further into her palm. Hallucination or no, it feels like the first human contact he’s had in years, and it’s – he didn’t even know how bad it had gotten, how starved he was, how much he missed just the simple act of touch. It immediately surfaces something he hadn’t so much forgotten as simply pushed to the wayside. It was the reason why he and so many others had devoted years of their life to the Project. It was the reason why Rocky and he continued to persevere despite so many setbacks, despite both of them almost dying, not resting until they had solid assurance that their solutions worked.
Life is reason.
That no matter how far he was from home, he was still connected to humanity.
“Yes,” Stratt says softly.
It flows through him, taking away what little breath he had, the simple idea of what it means to be known. To be loved. To carry something so precious and unique across the harsh and unrelenting existence of space – his own humanity.
The ringing that fills his ears softens, becoming more of a static hum, a comfort, a tether that no distance could sever.
“Is it so hard to do?” she asks. “To allow yourself such a kindness?”
Yes. That was not a well-trodden path. “Thought maybe… you’d approve that I’m… finally going along with the mission plan,” he gets out, his brain barely able to keep up.
“To do what? Die?” her shoulders go up in a little shrug. He desperately hopes the movement doesn’t dislodge her hand from his face – it feels like the only thing grounding him here to this moment. But it stays, contouring the hollow of his cheek. “Dying would have been easy. Yáo’s gun is still on board, is it not? Would have been much quicker to go that route than wasting away like this.”
“Had to stay. For Rocky.”
“You could have worked out something, I’m sure. You both solved the astrophage crisis after all.”
He groans, squeezing his eyes shut, his head swimming in pain. “Fine. Still – a coward. Is that – what you want to hear?”
She says nothing for a long moment, so he wills his eyes to open and find hers.
“Ryland,” she says. “There is nothing else left for you to do. But live.”
His breathing shudders.
It was terrifying to consider. The unknowns were overwhelming in number. It would inarguably get worse before it got better, if it got better.
“I’m afraid,” he confesses, voice barely audible even to his own ears.
She doesn’t chide him like he expects, but she does slowly remove her hand from his face. Before he can protest, she covers his heart with her palm, right over the bloody arc.
“You won’t be alone,” she says.
No. Of course not. He has Rocky. He has –
The gentle hum fills the silence, voices threading together in a patchwork of assurance and hope.
He has… humanity.
Somehow.
He doesn’t understand. But then again, his worldview had also shifted dramatically when he met an honest-to-goodness alien in a space ship twelve light years from Earth.
He cannot stand in the way of sheer force of will, as useless as planting himself in a raging river and asking the water to go around him. He can only join the flow. Accept it. Be brave enough to have as much faith in himself as others seem to.
It is certainly better than the alternative.
“So,” Stratt says, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “What will you do next?”
*
He wakes on the floor of the primary systems hub.
There is not a speck of blood on him. He does not see Stratt or the fox. He breathes deep with no issue.
The bloody arc on his chest quietly thrums in time with his heartbeat, but it’s a warm comfort instead of a biting pain.
He rises to his feet and begins his rounds.
When he’s finished, he climbs back up the ladder and is greeted by Rocky, who pretends to have not been waiting anxiously for his return.
“Grace!” he chirps, obviously relieved, when Ryland emerges. “Everything good?”
He takes in a lungful of precious recycled air and lets it out slowly. “Yeah, pal. Everything good. How about on your end?”
“Good good. Everything run smooth. Not long now.”
Ryland hums in affirmative. “You’re right. Not long now.” For the first time since the journey began, he allows himself to feel a hint of anticipation. “Big plans for the evening?”
Rocky does a little wiggle that Ryland equates to a nod. “Need to research structures for Earth habitat on Erid on laptop. You help, question?”
“Absolutely,” he says, rapping his knuckles softly on the xenonite. “I’ll be here.”