Chapter Text
“We cannot be sure exactly what it is. Nothing can be said definitively.” The director of Dariada City’s Astronautical Emporium, Dr. Sifare Re-mi, says, his voice cutting clean through the chatter in the astronomy thrum. “We know that astrophage migrates between stars. There is no reason to leap to conclusions.”
“Yes, but it’s heading straight for Erid. Why would astrophage migrate to a planet almost devoid of carbon dioxide, and not the established colony? Let’s not kid ourselves; it’s an astrophage engine.” This is spoken by mission control specialist Le-do Fare. His neighboring coworkers, who are half-focused on re-calculating the velocity of the astrophage-frequency light emission with several different telescopes around Erid, are momentarily stunned into silence. Fare never speaks out of turn like this.
“We still don’t know exactly how or why astrophage moves between stars. We shouldn’t get our hopes up; it’s better to wait until we know more,” says Re-mi, reasonably.
“I’m sure that’s easy for you to say when you don’t have family up there,” Fare spits, whistling sharply. Then, he seems to regain some awareness of his situation, as he suddenly goes stiff and lowers himself into his arms, ID badge clinking against the ground. “Sorry, that was–... excuse me.” He scuttles out of the room, closing the soundproof door behind him.
Dr. Re-mi clasps two of his hands together, his favored hand over its left neighbor. He addresses the stunned silence of the room. “I want it to be true as much as the rest of you. But assuming the fate, good or bad, of the Tau Ceti mission is not a call I am willing to make without more concrete knowledge.”
Everyone nods in agreement, knowing Re-mi is correct in the matter. Of course he is. Re-mi is incredibly competent, and has worked hard to get to where he is now. Being older than most everyone in the room, he is noticeably taller than all the young Eridians starting their careers, his voice naturally resting in lower tones. He’s going on his five-hundredth Earth year of life, and naturally commands respect.
However, Mission Control’s hearts are with Fare. The motion of the light is all wrong for a Petrova line, and nonsensical for an astrophage migration. That, and–it’s cold. Food prices surged at the beginning of the astrophage crisis, and although for a while, consumers were simply dealing with it, at some point forty or so Eridian years ago (that is, five Earth years), buyership hit a plateau. The poorest regions of Erid could not afford the food, even when desperate–even if the alternative was to die. Now, the rate of deaths by starvation is on a rising trend, and it’s projected to grow exponentially.
What must it be like, to be the one to make the decision to price food above the hands of hungry nations?
The mass starvation would’ve begun much sooner if not for the Coalition of Nations. Their authority, once tenuous and existing only in dollar strength, solidified during the initial phases of the astrophage crisis, overpowering individual governments in every case. The CN set strict price ceilings and forced agricultural companies to operate at a loss until they ran themselves into the ground. In the end, only two companies remained.
Mass food system failure has been delayed considerably, though. Through genetically modified foods, rationing, and legislation, the CN was able to artificially extend the food supply. They forced Eridians who had never begun an apprenticeship or whose work was considered “extraneous” to work fields. Forced labor, violation of liberty. All this to be sure as many people as possible were fed for as long as possible. But it wasn’t enough. It was never going to be enough, to toy with prices to try to fix a dying star.
The thrums at home, after sixty-eight Earth years, have almost nothing to show for themselves except for palliatives. Astrophage reproduces like wildfire, and is invulnerable to almost all chemicals and antibiotics that Eridian scientists throw at it, except for krypton, which–there is just no krypton on Erid, and they cannot make the millions of tons that would be needed before all life on Erid dies. They are trying. They are trying very hard. The CN has given the Krypton Taskforce an unlimited budget and seventy-five thousand laborers. But how do you sanitize an only-vaguely-morphous line of cellular life that stretches from a star to a planet? Erid has the power, thanks to astrophage, but the technology is simply not efficient enough. Every Eridian knows that their only real hope is the Tau Ceti mission, and it’s forty-five Earth years late. People are just trying to spend their last few decades with their families.
Adrian used to work at the Astro Emporium in Dariada City. She’s still got her very first name tag, with AstroEmp in a now outdated font in the top right corner, and her impression in the center, standing proud and tall. When this impression was taken two and a half Earth-centuries ago, she had just met Rocky. And she means that literally. They’d been right next to each other in line to get their impressions taken, Adrian Latila and Rocky Latiso, family names only a note apart.
She had just gotten to the emporium, harried and very unhappy about only being five Erid-minutes early, and not eight. She almost didn’t notice the stumpy Eridian next to her twitch in shock. “Jeez, but you’re tall,” he exclaimed.
She moved her leg out of the way, because it was blocking her view of him. Upon first glance, he was stubby and plain-looking, with legs too short for the size of his carapace, in her aesthetic opinion. “And you’re short as hell,” she said back. She could see him huffing his vents in frustration, which was immensely funny. Adrian was always the youngest in any room, but also usually the tallest in her age group. Even then, it wasn’t every day that she had such a vertical advantage over someone that she could see the entire top of their carapace. “Can you even see the tops of my legs?”
“That’s offensive.”
“And you aren’t?”
That was a long time ago. Now, Adrian works at a plantation to the north of Dariada. Once, she’d been on the Krypton Taskforce, giving scientific advice to her higher-ups on methods of krypton synthesis. But once they had the science figured out, they had no need for her brains. She was only a middle-management worker, after all. She was eventually pushed to agriculture by the Food Supply Preservation Act, and now tries not to feel as if she could be doing so much more elsewhere. At least she gets to spend more time with her family, who live nearby.
…That is such a fake reassurement, and she knows it. She is a materials scientist. What the hell is a materials scientist doing working in the fields during the greatest materials science crisis in Eridian history?
Adrian fans her vent as she pulls dorabora, a flat, oblong vegetable rich in nutritious metals and sugars. The action of fanning herself is a little sardonic. How long until it’s not warm enough out for the heat to be a problem for her? How long until it’s too cold to have any dorabora to harvest at all? This one vegetable, this single dirt-crusted slab she holds in her hands, is probably all that stands between a family and the mists of death. She is holding some little pebble’s salvation. And she is well-thanked by society: farmers are held in high esteem, and get much compensation in discounts and salary (or, as much as can be afforded. Rations and food prices are the same for everyone). How can she admit to discomfort? How can she feel as if her talents are better suited for other work, when 7500-and-rising Eridians a day are dying to the emptiness of their bellies?
She shakes herself and returns to the task at hand.
“Adrian, do you need time in the shade?” asks Fileso, a fellow harvester who is working the row ahead of her. He is tall, like Adrian, and heavily tattooed. They usually pass the workday by conversing about Dariada city and the changes wrought by astrophage. I probably do need to rest, thinks Adrian, aware her movements are more sluggish than at the beginning of the day.
“I’ll give it another quarter-hour or so,” she says. “You?”
“I’m peachy.” Fileso titters. “You seemed distracted, is all. That’s a sign of heat stroke.” He is joking, but Adrian chooses to respond seriously.
“Don’t worry. I’m distracted for mental reasons, not physiological reasons.” Adrian returns to her harvesting.
Just when she’s about to stand again to haul her basket to the truck, Fileso chirps at her. “Adrian, you can’t just say that and then not provide an explanation.”
Adrian is not the type to involve her personal life in her work. Rocky was the singular exception. When she and Rocky first began dating, at her insistence, it was kept entirely hidden from the rest of AstroEmp. Not because she didn’t trust the thrum, or thought it would seriously affect the emporium’s operations, but because Adrian was, at her core, a huge prude when it came to workplace relationships. She kept even her friends at a distance, because she believed enjoying herself too much would distract from her work.
Before they got together, Tetira from the mechanical department, where Rocky worked, was surprised to see them conversing once in the hallway. She laughed at the sight. “What an unlikely friendship,” she said. “You two are such opposites. In appearance and personality both.”
“We are not friends. Coworkers only,” she said primly.
“Stop, you’ll make me blush,” Rocky chittered. Tetira did, too, because she personally found Rocky to be the funniest Eridian in all of AstroEmp. Adrian felt no particular way about it. “So, like I was saying, if you turn this knob here, it shifts the focus of the lens, which makes the projection more or less clear…” Rocky pushed his newest gadget into her hands. She handled it with interest.
Adrian could not help but be fascinated by Rocky. She wasn’t trying to be involved, and he wasn’t trying to be impressive. It just happened. He seemed to find her chemical experimentation awe-inspiring and foreign, while having no idea of his own technical prowess. It was humbling. That, and, well, he was easy to get along with. It was easier with him than with anyone else.
Once they’d taken to going on regular walks around Dariada, going to yoga sessions together (a more social activity than Earthen minds would understand) and criticizing museum displays–the peak usage of their education–Adrian had to admit that, perhaps, he had wormed his way into her heart. A little. A very eensy bitty tiny bit.
Rocky clamored into the materials office on three legs, carrying something in two of his hands. “Adrian! Adrian, come here and look.”
“Rocky, what have I told you about bothering me during the workday–?”
“You don’t have two minutes? Look, I finally worked out the kinks in the robotic arm’s motion. I want you to see the inner function.”
He presented to her the deceptively simple inner functions of the arm, which could provide equal force no matter the direction in which it was oriented, designed to compensate for irregular gravity.
“This is wonderful,” Adrian said, awed. “I couldn’t even begin to…” She didn’t finish, rather opting to test its ‘tracking feature’ with a finger. “It’s no wonder they have you in charge of the hull-bot team. You're incredible.”
“…Thank you,” Rocky said, oddly quietly. Adrian looked up, and saw Rocky halfway hidden behind his legs, in an uncharacteristically bashful motion. He was breathing more rapidly, but not more deeply—not as if he was in need of warming, but as if he was in need of emotional regulation—as if Adrian had well and truly flustered him.
Oh. She hadn’t—never before had she had that effect on someone. Unexpected. That was unexpected.
Adrian found that she wasn’t entirely unhappy to befuddle the audacious, goofy mechanic from down the hall. Not unhappy at all.
Adrian returns from her memories and reorients herself. Fileso still sits there, bugging her for answers about her distraction. Adrian, private and reserved, but with a terrible romantic core, does not want to be overly vulnerable with this coworer, but she also wants to honor her late mate in some way. Would Rocky have taken her reticence to speak of him as an insult, or as yet another endearing trait of hers? Adrian finds she cannot recall. That, above anything, spurs her to tell some of the truth. His memory cannot perish with her.
“My mate,” she begins. “He is dead. Missing, but, you know. Dead.”
“I— Adrian.”
“I feel discouraged on this plantation. Like my skills are better for more important work. Would he even recognize me, now? Engineering was so important to us both.”
Fileso clicked his claws. “I didn’t know him, so I apologize if this is wrong, but I’m sure he’d be proud of what you’re doing now. Doing your part to save Erid.”
Adrian stills, and, to Fileso’s shock, shakes her hands in gratitude. “You’re right. I can’t believe I’d forgotten—“ She chokes up and shuffles her limbs to try to dispel it. “Thank you. Of course he would be proud.”
They return to picking dorabora. The space elevator disappears into the chaotic whirls of the mid-atmosphere, 20 miles to the east.
–
It’s smaller than the Tauship, and moving more slowly. It cannot be the same ship, evidently, unless the crew of the Tau Ceti mission made major adjustments to their vehicle, and chose to accelerate at 0.75 g (Erid terms) rather than 1.66 g like planned. But if it’s not a ship, the AstroEmp has no clue what it is, because the light is only coming from one end, and it has corrected its course twice since entering the vicinity of the fifth planet from Eridani prime.
Whatever it is, it’s headed for Erid. Whatever it is, it has a goal, the capacity to make errors, and the capacity to correct them.
Dr. Re-mi knows, deep down in his heart of hearts, what it means. Intelligence—whether Eridian or not. But he cannot let go of the fact that the ship is the wrong size and speed, and he cannot let go of the lesson he has instilled within himself to never publicly confirm hypotheses until proven beyond a shadow of a doubt.
He shows up late one morning as the second starrise begins, entering the office of radio communications. They are mostly apprentices, and surprised to see the director of AstroEmp before them, naturally, but the time for hesitation has passed.
“Are our radio systems still capable of two-way communication with the Tauship?” he asks without preamble.
“Sorry—of the Tau Ceti mission?” a young Eridian with a name tag labeled ‘Domi’ asks. “Why do…”
“We don’t know what it is, or who it belongs to,” Re-mi confides. “We can only hope it’s our ship.”
One of the apprentices drops a receiver.