Chapter Text
After all Grace and I have been through, idleness doesn’t sit right with me.
"Idleness" is subjective, of course; right now, it means that no one is actively dying. However, I know the worst isn’t over yet. The reminder of this trip’s final challenge sits heavy over me as Grace’s food supplies dwindle, and dwindle, and shrink to nothing but nutrient slurry and Taumoeba paste. It assures me that it will be fine, that we’ve both done the math and it will make it to Erid alive. We’ve gone over the risks of malnutrition, both physical and mental, and have developed failsafes on failsafes to ensure its absolute safety. I have checked everything I can check, fixed everything I can fix. And yet.
As an engineer, I was taught to examine a possible problem from every angle. Overlooking anything, no matter how small, how seemingly unimportant, could lead to problems. If something were to go wrong because I missed a critical flaw in Grace’s air recycling system or the medical robot’s drug distribution doses or the fucking Taumoeba breeder tanks again, that would be its blood on my already stained hands. I can’t allow it to die on my watch like I did so many others.
So, I’m building an exosuit. It’s a replacement for the ball I’ve been using to move around in Grace’s atmosphere; when finished, it will sit almost flush to my carapace, allowing me full range of motion. If anything goes wrong on Grace’s side of the ship and it’s too weak to fix it, I will be able to keep it safe. This is the objective I prioritize above all else; Grace must remain alive.
My motivations aren’t entirely practical, though. I have heard Grace curl in on itself as I watch it sleep. I have heard the way its hands clutch desperately at its own shoulders, seeking touch it can’t receive out here in the depths of space. Eridians aren’t really a tactile species, but humans seem to depend on touch more than Grace will admit. I know how much it gets just from hugging my life-support ball. Grace decided to give up so much in order to save my life; it was willing to die if that was what it took. If physical contact is something it needs, then I will gladly do whatever I can to make it happen.
I sit in my workstation, half of my mind focused on interlocking the delicate mesh of xenonite triangles piling up under my hands. The other half is currently listening to Grace discuss its latest findings from what it referred to as a “{Wikipedia} deep dive”. It’s been reading me articles about various types of clouds for around ∀ℓ Earth minutes now.
“...and the funny thing about {lenticular} clouds is that they’re apparently responsible for a lot of reported UFO sightings! Y’know, because they kind of look like—” It makes a vaguely oval-shaped gesture with its hands.
I finish sealing another patch of triangles together and set it aside. “What is U-F-O, question?”
It laughs. The sound makes something in me soften a bit; its laughter is a little harder to come by these days. “Heh, I’m surprised we’ve never covered that one. It’s an acronym, short for unidentified flying object. Basically it’s just another term for alleged alien spaceships.”
“What do humans think alien ships look like, question?”
Grace chuckles again, tapping away on its thinking machine before turning the screen to face me. I set down my xenonite and point my screenreader at it. My texture display shows me an ovular craft with a large dome in the center and several smaller bumps evenly spaced around the edges. Inside the dome is what I assume to be the alien pilot, a middle-rough teardrop with two large dots for eyes.
“Weird design. Too blobby. Eridian ship much cooler.”
Grace smiles. “Yeah, that’s what I thought too. When I first saw your ship, I mean. I was like ‘Well, even though it’s probably full of mystery aliens who want to, I don’t know, eat my face or something, at least they have one heck of an eye for aesthetics.’”
“No eyes,” I correct it. It laughs again, clicking back onto the cloud article it was reading before.
As its odd wet chatter begins to fill the room once again, I find my thoughts lingering on the Blip-A. I remember the part I played in building it, the thrum I sang in with dozens of my fellow engineers as we worked together to design a ship that would brave the emptiness of space for the first time in our species’ history. I remember the days spent assembling it and the days spent triple-checking our work, making sure that the ones who’d chosen to board it would return safely. Even though it was by all accounts a rush job, so much love and care went into its construction. It was meant to be our salvation, after all.
It’s still floating in space somewhere near Tau Ceti. Empty of fuel, it is both a corpse and a coffin, the bodies of my crew silent and crumbling in its hull. Even though I knew it would be better to push them out the airlock and set them free into the cosmos that killed them, I could never bring myself to do it. At the time, I told myself it was because I knew they would’ve wanted to be laid to rest on their home planet. But deep down, I knew I wasn’t planning on being alive long enough to return to Erid. I just didn’t want to be alone.
A xenonite triangle shatters in my grasp.
The tiny ping of the broken piece is enough to snap me back to the present. I turn my attention to Grace, who has apparently moved on from clouds and is now telling me about the history of landscape art. It doesn’t seem to have noticed me slipping away.
This is good. Grace is already struggling enough as it is, its bones becoming easier to hear through its skin with each passing day. I can carry my burdens on my own; I’ve been doing that for longer than Grace has been alive. I sweep the xenonite shards aside and pluck a fresh triangle from a pile next to me, making a mental note to check more thoroughly for structural flaws. Soon, my exosuit will be complete. I almost dread finishing it, because I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself if I don’t have a project to work on. But there are only V Earth years left on our journey to Erid; I’m sure I can keep myself busy until then.