Work Text:
Bam
My head hits concrete before I even realize I’m falling. It was just sub plans. A little packing. How had a quick trip turned into… this… so quickly?
Stratt had given permission for me to return home for a night. Funny that I needed her permission for that now, but not exactly surprising. She liked to keep a tight handle on her personnel. No working from home under her.
So, one night. I’d had two goals in mind. One: sort out my students. Now that it was increasingly clear I was in the project for a long time, not a good time, it seemed a little unfair to leave the school hanging. Stratt had already taken care of the principal, of course, made sure with her magic powers of persuasion that I wouldn’t lose my teaching license for essentially disappearing halfway through the year.
But she hadn’t accounted for my students. Stratt would probably kidnap the leading experts on evidence-based instruction to make my lesson plans if I mentioned it, but she didn’t understand that I needed to do this myself. That I owed them something, even if it was just sub plans I’d written myself in the few off hours I had. Not to mention the poor sub—whoever they were, they deserved better than being dropped into middle school science with nothing but “show a couple Bill Nye episodes, I’ll be back in a few days.”
Goal one went well enough. I dropped off a hefty binder with enough instructions to take them through the end of the year, borrowed the school’s printer to print work for the kids (somehow, even though Project Hail Mary certainly had enough paper and funding to print for me, it felt weird to use those printers for “fill in the earth’s position to the sun per season” worksheets when the next print job was “here’s how much alien life matter we need to blow a hole through a chunk of metal”), dodged a few questions from late-working coworkers, and went back to my bike.
Yeah, the bike. Goal two was packing up anything I wanted to bring from my apartment to my cozy-as-a-prison-cell room in Stratt’s Vat. Nice as driving in a car again was (and the fumes would keep the planet warmer longer. Haha. Yikes.), I didn’t care to have the Men in Black hovering over my shoulder while I went through my stuff. So they’d dropped me off at the school where my bike was still chained up.
There I’d been, pedaling down the last few poorly-lit streets before my complex, when something had tangled in my front wheels (odd. I swore the street had been clear) and I went flying.
Head.
Concrete.
Ow.
I stare at the pavement, trying to remember how to breathe. Cracks spiderweb across the concrete—no, that’s from me. My glasses are cracked. Great. At least I’m wearing a helmet.
Hands touch my jacket. Someone must have seen me crash. Nice of them to come help. Wish I could wheeze out a thank you, but for some reason, my lungs still aren’t expanding in my chest.
Too late, I realize the hands aren’t pulling me up. They’re patting me down. My crash wasn’t an accident.
I do manage to breathe out a word now— “No—”
I get one arm under me—ow, ow, ow, that burns—but before I can push myself up, something presses against the back of my jacket. Cold leeches through the fabric in the shape of a small circle. I freeze with one arm awkwardly pinned, muscles shaking.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
“Stand up slowly.”
I do, my legs wobbling like the baby horses Abby loves so much. My glasses, always dangling by a thread, fall to the ground. Not that they would have been much help with tears already blurring my vision. Even though they don’t tell me to, I put my hands on my head. Hands touch my jacket again, this time finding the pockets that were stuck under my stomach before. All the while, the cold barrel of the gun stays pressed against my back.
“Come on.” My voice breaks, high and desperate, “Don’t do this. I’m a teacher, I—I don’t have anything worth taking.” Maybe talking will only make the situation worse, but I can’t stop myself from trying.
The hands rifling in my pockets pause. “Shit. A teacher? We can’t rob a teacher.”
“He’s lying,” the first voice says dismissively, “’Sides, a teacher isn’t any better than the rest of us. Come on, hurry up.”
The hands resume, and the weight of my wallet and phone magically disappear from my pocket. “That’s it.”
“Alright. Stay here. Count to thirty, don’t turn around.” The gun presses just a little harder—a silent “or else”—and then disappears. One. Two. Three. Four. Five—
I hear the whir of a bike chain, and I can’t help myself. I do turn around, indignation overcoming fear for just a moment. “Aw, not my bike, too,” I yell at their retreating backs. Luckily, they don’t twist around and shoot me, and I’m left alone in the dark with throbbing joints and a heart beating just a little bit too fast.
My hands go from my head to my face, pinching the bridge of my nose. I take a step back.
Crunch
That would be my glasses. Because this whole experience hasn’t been bad enough already. I slowly pick them up, numb fingers nearly dropping them again. Oh, yeah. Crushed beyond repair.
Between losing my muscle memory with my bike and having to squint at every street sign, it takes way too long to hobble my way back to my apartment. Every stair is a herculean effort and I am thoroughly out of breath by the time I reach the door. My fingers fumble again—stupid, clumsy, numb fingers—and miss the keyhole a few times before I successfully let myself in and lock the door behind me.
I stare at my empty apartment for a few moments. The numbness breaks. My legs wobble. I barely make it to the couch before they give out completely. Suddenly I am very, very, very aware that there was a gun pressed to my back less than half an hour ago.
“Oh my god. Oh my god, I could have died. I could have—”
No more words make it out. Instead, only ragged, uneven breaths fill the silence. Even worse than the breath getting knocked out of me by the crash, I can’t breathe. I can’t see anything except a small oozing scratch on my right hand. It throbs in tempo with my heart. I press it to my forehead, trying unsuccessfully to pull in a regular breath.
I could have died
I could have died
I could have died
I could have ended right there. On a random street over, what, maybe 20 bucks in my wallet and my phone? It would have just been me lying in a puddle of my own blood until tomorrow morning when somebody finally—Oh my god.
When spots dance in front of my eyes, my body finally asserts its dominance over my flailing brain and my lungs kick in, drawing in a deep breath. And another. And another. I tug one in of my own free will. In… hold… out. In… hold… out.
I’m not dead. The worst did not happen. I unbuckle my helmet with shaking hands. The fresh air cooling my sweaty head soothes my racing thoughts. I’m alive.
Alive and sore. Alive and scratched up. I hunt through the bathroom cabinets, wincing with every step and unusual twist, until I find isopropyl alcohol, a few cotton balls, and bandaids. I start with the scratch on my hand.
A yelp escapes when the burning alcohol touches my open wound. It is a tiny scratch, Ryland. Get ahold of yourself. I clean the dirt and gravel out, wincing all the while. Bandage. Done. I survey the other cuts. So many of them. And that alcohol stings.
I give up, and just plaster bandaids over the rest of the cuts. That’s a problem for a future me. Right now, I need to get my apartment sorted.
I should call Stratt. Let her know that I need more time, that I need to recover. Wait. What am I thinking? I need to call the police, report a mugging and—
And I don’t have my phone anymore. I can’t call anyone.
Craaaap.
Okay. So I gotta get my packing done tonight. Stratt’s suits will be back for me at 8:00 AM. I’ve never known them to be late. And I’ve never known them to be accommodating. So if I ask for extra time, they’ll probably shove a sack over my head and shuffle me off.
I shuffle back to the bedroom and rummage around my sock drawer until I find my backup glasses. They’re a few years old, and the prescription is way out of date, so I’m still seeing everything with a slight blur, but they’ll do for now. Into the duffle bag goes a few personal items. A little fox keychain. My favorite pen. My beanbag is already at the Vat.
Less-personal items. My glasses case. I don’t need any toiletries, those have been provided, but I throw in a few snacks. No sense letting them go bad. I don’t open the fridge. I don’t want to know. That’s also a problem for future Ryland. Maybe a hazmat crew.
And finally, clothes. Some teachers acquire an excess of cute mugs given during teacher appreciation week. I’ve collected a bevy of punny science shirts bought by baffled parents floored by what they could possibly get for the favorite science teacher that has it all. Not that I can wear them in any professional setting, but I’m wearing a lab coat over everything these days, so what the hey. I pack some of my favorites. Might as well be comfortable. And in goes my fox cardigan while I’m at it. You mention you have a favorite animal once, and bam. That’s your Christmas gift theme for the foreseeable future.
Keeping my hands busy keeps my mind busy. Make a checklist, ramble around the apartment checking for anything I might want for a third time. And a fourth time, even when my sore muscles grumble at me. As long as I’m not thinking about my missing phone and why it’s missing.
My body wins out, and I collapse into my bed. Mmmm how I have missed having my own bed. I set my watch alarm—thank goodness they didn’t take my watch, too, I’m time blind enough as it is—for 7. Despite the little flickers of protest from my body every time I move, the adrenaline crash does its work. I’m asleep almost instantly.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
That’s not the sound of my watch. On autopilot, I reach out and smack my alarm clock.
My alarm clock. Has it been going off every morning since I left? Just running until its time limit is up? Geeze, my neighbors must hate me. 6 o’clock every weekday. I bat the cord around for a bit before finally getting a hold and yanking it out of the wall. There. No more 6am wakeups for my neighbors.
I roll over and immediately regret it as every muscle stiffens and protests the movement. Wow am I glad I’m getting picked up by a car and not biking to work today. Not that I could bike anyway.
Well, I’m up now. And they say that the best cure for sore muscles is movement. I begin to suspect that whoever said that is a liar as I shuffle towards the bathroom like an old man, mumbling little “ow”s and “oof”s with every step. Fine. Second best cure. Warm shower. I’ve got the time.
That does help—my body relaxes the instant the hot water hits, and I find myself turning it up to almost unbearable heat just to feel the relief. As an added bonus, getting rid of the extra dirt and blood from my crash makes me feel like a little less of a loser.
I squint in the mirror when I step out. My helmet did protect my head, and by virtue of sticking out, my face from any major bruising, but the permanent indents where the bridge of my glasses usually rest are significantly more purple than usual. That’s fine. No one will notice such a tiny mark, especially covered by my glasses, and I can just go about my day like this whole mess never happened.
I move my duffle bag closer to the door and start the coffee machine. The familiar sound bubbles through the apartment, followed by the bitter smell. Mmm. Finally, something normal. Coffee in my apartment. I can hear sounds outside my window, kids grumbling their way to bus stops. For a moment, my heart aches to go back, to follow where they lead and return to my classroom. But my bike is gone, and I’d be late at this point, and there’s a car full of strangers coming to pick me up in about an hour. So. No use for nostalgia, right?
I use powdered creamer so that I don’t have to brave the fridge.
I’ve gotten used to the noisy mess hall of the aircraft carrier. It’s almost too quiet here at my dinky kitchen table with one wobbly leg that threatens to pitch my cup of coffee over. Almost.
By the time I’ve finished nursing the coffee and holding the still-warm mug to various aching joints, it’s nearly 8. Time to go. I shoulder the duffle bag with a slight groan and turn to close the door. Maybe it’s because I lost my bike, and I’m going to the carrier instead of school, but catching sight of the apartment feels so… final. Like I’m saying a last goodbye.
That’s ridiculous. I don’t know how long the project will last, but once it’s been launched, I surely won’t be needed until the results come back—if they come back. Until then, I’ll return here, back to my job and my kids for the next sixteen years and… wait. Yeah. They can nuke Antarctica or whatever Stratt has planned next without me.
A sleek black car waits down at the curb, and I shake away the lingering melancholy. Door locked, bag on shoulder, down the stairs. Ow. That hot shower is starting to wear off. I hope most of the work I’m doing today is sedentary.
I knock on the window, and it slowly rolls down. “Hi. Uh—are you here for me? Dr. Ryland Grace?”
I don’t recognize the driver, or the dour-faced man in the passenger seat. No Carl, huh? They look at me for a moment, then the passenger says “I.D.?”
“Uh—” I pat my pockets for a moment and groan. My ID. In my wallet. Which is now god-knows-where. “So—funny story about that—it…. Was stolen?”
I laugh, weakly, but the two men don’t seem amused. “No ID, then back away, sir.”
“Listen—um—just call Stratt—I mean, the fact that I know who’s in charge means something, right? Just call her up and she can get this cleared—”
This time, the driver barks a laugh. “Yeah, let’s just call Eva Stratt to verify your ID real quick. She’s got nothing better to do than follow up on questions from security escorts.”
This is getting ridiculous. Could they just google me or something? Surely my picture would show up with “disgraced astrobiologist” or whatever and they could call it quits. Who drove all the way out here to pick someone up and didn’t know what they looked like, anyway? “Okay—okay, what about Carl? Can you call Carl? I mean, believe me or not, but Stratt probably won’t be too happy if you drive back without Dr. Grace, right?”
They looked at each other, sighed as if I were the biggest inconvenience in the world, and turned the car off. The passenger pulled out his phone, and we waited while it rang. On the 4th ring, it finally picked up, and Carl’s voice crackled out of the phone.
“What? Can’t find him at his own apartment?”
“No sir. We got somebody here claiming to be him, but can’t provide an ID.”
“Let me see.”
They face the camera towards me, and I give it an awkward wave. “Hey.”
Carl sighs. “Let me get this straight, you go to the building we told you to pick him up at, and some guy comes out with a duffle bag of stuff claiming to be him, and you want an ID? Who else would it be? Let him in, come on.”
The line clicks, and we’re left alone. Now they’re glaring at me. As if it’s my fault I got mugged. But the back door unlocks, and I slink in, wrestling my bag in first. Neither of them makes a move to help me. Jerks. The glass partition slides shut the moment I’m in and I sink into my seat, feeling inexplicably like I’ve been called to the principal’s office.
The jet ride still isn’t easy. I still want to puke the moment it’s over. At least they didn’t ask for my ID at the airfield. Stratt waits on the tarmac, hands in her pockets. “You are late,” she says simply.
“Uh—yeah—case of mistaken identity. Lost my ID. Sorry.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks at me with that quiet, penetrating stare of hers that makes me feel like she’s dissecting me in her mind. Then she starts walking towards the labs. I hustle to keep up with her. “Those are new glasses?”
The question catches me off-guard. She’s never exactly struck me as a ‘small talk, how’s the weather’ type of person. “Um—sort of? They’re actually old glasses, but my usual ones broke, so… I…” I trail off, not sure where I’m taking this conversation.
She holds the door open, giving me another one of those looks, this one more quizzical. “You are quite forgetful and clumsy today. Lost your ID and broke your glasses the moment you got a day’s shore leave?”
I think she’s joking—well—as much as she ever does—but either way, embarrassment sweeps over me. “Yeah,” I mutter, “Guess so.”
I start to move past her inside, out of the wind, but she sticks one foot out, blocking me. “Did something happen, Dr. Grace?”
Geeze, she’s perceptive. I squirm under her eyes, too humiliated to admit the truth, but not stupid enough to lie to her. “Well—I—it’s nothing, I just—”
“Dr. Grace. Let me be blunt.”
“You weren’t already?”
“I do not have time to play mind games. Did something happen while you were on leave?”
“I got mugged.” The words come out easily. Embarrassing as it is, it also feels good to tell someone, “They crashed my bike and held me up and took my wallet and phone, so I didn’t have my ID, and I couldn’t call to tell anyone, and the crash broke my glasses. There you go.”
She moves her foot, but I get the feeling I’m still not allowed inside. “Could you describe them?”
“Um—no.” The embarrassment is back. I couldn’t even get mugged right. “Had my back to them.”
“You didn’t turn around?”
“Well, I didn’t particularly feel like getting shot.” The words escape a little angrier than I meant them, but gosh darn it, why is everyone making me feel like it’s my fault I got taken for everything I had?!
Her eyes widen and narrow slightly at that. I don’t like the look. It’s like she’s gone from a scientist, studying impassively, to a predator. “You will go to the medical bay for an exam.”
“Oh—no, I’m alright, really, I—”
“It was not a suggestion. You will have an exam, and if you are cleared, then you will continue your work. If you are not, you will take whatever advice the doctor gives you, and you will wait until you are cleared. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I mutter.
“Good.”
She gestures to the door, and I slink in. Already, what a good start to my day.
Half an hour of stethoscopes, tiny lights shined in my eyes, reflex hammers, and a slew of cognitive assessment questions later, the ship’s doctor gave me a thumbs-up. “Well, Dr. Grace, I pronounce you slightly bruised. No concussions, and no broken bones. You’ll be just fine.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, swinging my legs over the side of the examination table, “Sorry bother you.” The whole experience reminded me uncomfortably of a time a particularly flighty student had scratched me. Admin had insisted I go to the nurse, get it cleaned, and document the whole thing as if I was going to catch gangrene or something from a student’s nails. Absolutely ridiculous, overkill, and a waste of everyone’s time. Bosses were the same everywhere, I guess.
“Wait—before you go, Commander Stratt asked us to administer an eye exam as well.”
“What?”
“She said she suspected you needed new lenses. So, if you don’t mind…”
I stifled a groan as he gestured towards a letter chart. Great. There went the rest of my morning. They better not blow those little puffs of air in my eyes.
They didn’t puff air in my eyes, but they did dilate my pupils, so despite being cleared cognitively for lab work, I was not cleared physically. Which is how I ended up sitting cross-legged in a swivel chair lazily spinning around and wearing shades inside. I wasn’t even allowed to look at computers because of the dilation. Ridiculous.
Something thudded onto the desk, and I lowered my shades to see a plastic ziplock bag with…
“My phone!” My feet plunked down on the floor, halting my spin, and I reached for it, looking up at Stratt’s passive face. “How did you…?”
“Tracked it to a pawn shop.”
“You can track my phone?” I blurt. She gives me a disappointed look. Yeah, okay. Of course she can and does track my phone. Obviously. That one shouldn’t have even been hard to guess. I’m disappointed in me, too.
“Your bike was there as well. The owner fortunately had the foresight to require IDs for what he believes are suspicious sells. Less fortunately, your stolen license was the one provided. So. Congratulations on managing to rob yourself and sell your own belongings.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. Yeah, that one was a joke for sure this time. “Thanks. I try to exceed expectations.” I slide the phone back into my pocket. I’d love to have my ID back, too, but anything was fine by me. Especially if I wasn’t going to be cleared any time soon. “Thanks. You didn’t have to…”
“Yes, I did. The shop owner was able to describe your assailants, and I am relatively confident that they will be found.”
Whoa. Maybe calling Stratt instead of the police was the right move. She was more efficient. And scarier. “Oh. Okay. But—it’s fine, really, if they use my card it’ll probably decline haha, so—”
“You do not seem to understand.” Stratt’s voice takes on a harder edge underneath, and I shut up, effective immediately. “You were lucky. What if the crash had resulted in a concussion? In the best case scenario, we catch it, and we lose valuable time while you recover. In the worse case scenario, it goes unchecked, and you make a mistake while handling the most potent energy source on our planet."
No wonder she’d been insistent. Maybe I was concussed, for not considering the consequences. "Oh. I—I didn’t think of that, I’m sor—”
“And if it hadn’t been just the crash?” she continues over me, “If you had been shot? We lose the world’s number one expert on astrophage.”
A shiver runs up my spine. I really, really don’t like thinking about how I could have died. I feel nauseous, and it’s not because of the spinning. “There are other scientists,” I say to change the subject, “You could replace me. I mean, I’m glad you’re taking this seriously, I just—”
“Do not underestimate your role. Do not underestimate how seriously I will take a threat to the mission. Any threat. Do you understand?”
I’m not used to seeing strong displays—or any displays, really—of emotion from Eva Stratt. And even now, she seems cool-headed, if that makes sense. But something in her eyes makes me back down. A kind of anger and determination that sets off every little prey animal instinct I have to hide.
“Yeah,” I say, hoping it’ll be enough, “I understand.”