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I have had — or I'm reasonably sure I have, anyway, my pre-Petrova-line memories still feel more like a Wikipedia page I read at 3AM on a school night — several friendships with people like Rocky. Not exactly like Rocky, obviously, but people who were always thinking of three things at once, who free-associated, who would start one conversation topic, jitterbug across three more, then circle back to the first as if they'd never left. It feels wrong to assign Rocky a human diagnosis, but the ADHD shoe does fit.
So it's not the topic change that gets me, when Rocky rolls back into the lab with a tool he'd left in the Don't Go Crazy room and says, apropos of absolutely nothing, "Grace have friends, question?"
I was thinking about starting a new paper — now we've sent off the beetles, there's nothing we actually need to do besides still be alive when the Mary gets to Erid, and I'm already starting to itch a bit. I've never been good at doing nothing. I have no idea what Eridian journal standards are like, but now the imminent peril's mostly worn off I'm also starting to itch about just how much research I did without writing any of it up properly.
So I had been sitting on the floor in the lab with a laptop and a blank word document, but Rocky's question makes me put it aside.
"Sorry, what?"
"Humans Eridians social species," he says, and right, yeah, we talked about that a while back. Our theory you need a certain level of intercommunity spirit to achieve space flight. Our super scientific theory about the power of friendship. "Rocky many friends. Rocky mate. Grace friends, question?"
Oh. Ohhh, this is about my offhand comment a couple days ago, when I remembered I'd never written a will and wondered who might have got my stuff, considering the options. Maybe less a comment and more a maudlin little tangent about Stratt divvying up my possessions amongst the remaining Project members. After I've been awake more than twenty hours I really just need to stop talking.
"I have friends!" I protest, because I do. Did. I'm for sure never replying to another email now.
"Marissa," Rocky agrees. "Dima. Grace close friends, question?"
The translator is turned off, but my Eridian is still pretty patchy. (My Eridian is going to be patchy for a while. I am not good at languages, and I've never tried to learn music by ear. But Rocky's limiting himself to a few thousand words, and dangit, I will learn them all). I can tell he's putting some kind of modifier on 'close', but I don't know what it actually means.
"Define close?"
"Grace Rocky," Rocky says, immediately, which. Okay. "Trust, know, listen. Tell everything, tell anything. Come when needed, always. Help hide body."
It's good I already know he spent pretty much our whole time apart looking things up online, or I would really freak out about that particular expression being universal.
And, okay, he really does just mean a close friend. And I would call Marissa a close friend, but there are definitely things I wouldn't tell her. Things I never told her.
"Look," I say, drawing my knees up to my chest so I can fidget with the folds in the fabric of my pants, letting my voice drift into what Rocky calls Teacher Melody, "My specific subset of human culture, it works in this specific way. There's not really a lot of social pressure to form long-lasting friendships, because— Well, okay, so I am not a social sciences guy, but when we invented advertising, companies realised they can sell even more things if everyone has to have their own thing, one thing per person, so they started going all-in on reasons for everyone to have their own individual thing, and if all households only have two adults— That's a gross oversimplification, there's a lot of factors. You have a society, you know how it works." We haven't, actually, got that into economics yet, and I almost want to ask if Eridians have ads, but Rocky makes his throat-clearing-equivalent chirping noise that means I am not allowed to change the subject. "My point is, the focus is on one person, to fill all your pack animal needs. And, y'know, I tried that once, and it didn't work, and, well, it just seemed like more effort than it was worth. And anyway I'm a grown adult with a job, my friends were all grown adults with jobs. Most people don't see their friends that often!"
There were people I emailed, somewhat frequently. My PhD advisor; the couple tolerable people from high school; Francesca, the only other person on our teaching course over twenty-five, who teaches Math in Sacramento. Various long-term acquaintances from forums and mailing lists.
Marissa was the only person I saw in-person, before the Project. Which was fine with me.
"Wow," Rocky says, "Earth sound terrible."
"Well. Maybe a bit, yeah."
And I think that's that, discussion over. Rocky's belief Earth society has very few redeeming qualities reaffirmed, moving on. But Rocky thinks, for a moment, and then says, "Need word. Mate but friend."
I blink. Surely that's just, "Friend?"
"No, know friend. Need friend but more. Friend meaning-intensifier deepest-affection-indicator legal-obligation-indicator."
Fun fact: Rocky's language (Not the only one Eridians have! But they don't have quite as many as Earth, presumably because they live so much longer. Or maybe because their memories are so good, I don't know, I'm not a linguist) loves declension. It's a real pity Ilyukhina isn't here, she would definitely be picking it all up quicker than I am.
"Uh," I say. "Partner, I guess? But that's not exclusively platonic, and you aren't usually… married? Eridians marry friends?"
"Some friends," Rocky says, as if the distinction should be obvious. "Best friends. Most best friends. Rocky marry Grace, question?"
(We've definitely already translated 'spouse'; that's what Adrian is. And I know enough conjugation. I know the little inflection that means platonic, from my Don't Ruin First Contact By Telling Every Eridian To Go Frick Themselves vocab cramming. I know I'm translating that correctly. Marry-platonic.
Marry-platonic.)
I blink. Before he left to get that tool — it looks sorta like a screwdriver, if screwdrivers could solder — we'd been debating the likelihood of there being intelligent-but-not-space-faring life on Adrian. I'm still turning over his last point, and my retort to it, in the back of my mind.
I did not think this is where he was going, with this topic change. I don't—
"What."
And Rocky, still as if this should be obvious, says, "Grace stuck with Rocky forever ever ever, statement. Grace know this. Rocky marry Grace, statement."
"What."
"Grace willing die for Rocky but not marry Rocky?" Rocky asks, incredulous. "Grace many psychological problems."
I don't understand what's happening.
"Typically you wait longer. On Earth. Before proposing."
"Yes, yes," Rocky says, doing his little bobbing-nod, "Wait until sure, yes. Grace willing die for Rocky. How much more sure Grace think Rocky get, statement. Grace Rocky save stars."
"Okay," I say. I feel almost outside my body. "Right. I need to, uh. I'm gonna— I'm gonna lay on the floor for a bit."
And Rocky says, "Okay, have fun. I find better word."
And I lay on the floor. And he goes off to wherever he left his laptop.
I've never really thought about marriage. Not that I can remember. I definitely remember hitting my late twenties and suddenly everyone I knew was getting engaged, the start of a couple years where if I was close to more people in my wider social circles I could've gone to a wedding a month. I did go to a few. Was one of them Marissa's? No, no, she broke up with that guy… he didn't think a honeymoon was worth using his PTO… She came over because I was one of her only single friends and we ordered too much Italian food and drank way too much wine for a Tuesday evening, and we recounted our every dating horror story, and we decided the whole thing was stupid and once we got old we'd move in together so we could go halfsies on life insurance and remembering to feed the cats.
Oh, I don't remember if I ever called her, after Stratt decided I lived on an aircraft carrier. Oh, I am not a good person.
And Rocky just proposed to me. For real, a real marriage, an actual legal recognition of our connection to each other, because— Because I couldn't stomach letting him die and I haven't told him I'm a coward. Because he has to like me, because we're stuck together. What other choice does he have.
I am maybe working myself up into a bit of a panic attack, sat up pressed against a nook in the barrier, when Rocky rolls back into the lab.
Rocky says, "Found words! New words! Mary say— Grace, question?"
Mary dutifully repeats, "Grace?"
One of the first things we had to do, after we set course for Erid, was figure out a way for Rocky to say words he'd read that didn't have an intuitive translation in our pidgin Eridian. Because he'd read a lot.
His solution was to learn the International Phonetic Alphabet, then port the translation software onto his laptop and add a manual input function, some actual text-to-speech. And then, when he ran out of patience for accidentally hitting the wrong key on a keyboard not designed for his fingers, and not noticing in time, and saying something completely different, he transliterated the IPA to the Eridian equivalent of phonemes and plugged that into the translation software, and now he can say anything he likes in English if he spells it out syllable-by-syllable. As long as the translation software is running.
And we ask Mary to turn the translator on or off, now it's hooked into her speakers, because then we don't have to remember where the actual laptop is.
"Grace," Rocky says, again, with more worry. He's stopped a couple feet in front of me. "I leave for 1'200 seconds. This bad, question? Grace, question?"
The first couple weeks, after we reunited, neither of us could really stand to not be in the same room. The first three days, we didn't even stop touching. Through the ball, yeah, and we don't need to dwell on anything anyone may have said about opening the airlock just to stick an arm through and feel and be sure. That the burns would be worth it.
Maybe the marriage proposal shouldn't have caught me by this much surprise.
I can't quite take a full breath. My hands are shaking.
"I'm— I'm okay," I gasp. "Sorry, sorry, I'm okay, it's— Frick—"
"Grace safe," Rocky says, rolling closer, right into my space. I'm going to throw up. "Grace safe, Rocky safe, Mary safe. Taumoeba good, fuel good, air good. Grace brain stupid, incorrect. All good, full good. Grace breathe. Grace safe."
When an Eridian is trying to be soothing, their speech gets more musical. More rhythmic, almost a song. Different rhythms have different connotations. Helping a child settle, reassuring someone you're not angry, trying to de-escalate an argument. Talking someone out a panic attack.
The rhythm for talking someone out a panic attack reminds me of an old folk song my mom used to play. All men are false…
Eventually, my breathing slows.
Rocky didn't need me to explain what a panic attack was, the first time. He understands there isn't always an identifiable trigger. He asked me to marry him, and I had a panic attack, and he isn't going to push me about it. I know he isn't. He never does.
Because he knows it won't end well. Because we're stuck on this tiny ship together.
He asked me to marry him.
"I don't understand," I tell him. I want to leave, I want to push him away, I want to retreat back into my research and pretend we never talked about this and continue on in our un-acknowledgement of the potential significance of anything. I want to tell him no. I want to tear open my chest and tuck him inside. "I don't— Why would you—"
Rocky says, still in the soothing cadence, "Grace define human marriage."
He doesn't need me to do that. He's seen all of Friends, for some reason. But this is what we do, when we don't understand. We go back to basics and define our terms.
"Commitment," I say, roughly. "Big, big commitment. Publicly recognising how much you mean to each other. Uh, trust. Partnership. A wedding, a big ceremony. Sharing a, sharing a home. A bank account. A bed. Sex. The, uh, the final stage of a relationship. The most a relationship can be."
Rocky says, "Okay. Eridian marriage mostly same. Trust, partnership, legal commitment. Difficult to break. Expected, if together long enough. Grace define problem."
"We've known each other barely over a year," I say, immediately.
Rocky scoffs. "Met first known intelligent alien in space. Saved alien's life, alien saved my life, alien gave up home forever for me. Alien watches me sleep, watches me eat. What here match normal relationship trajectory, question? Grace want ask Rocky parents permission, question?"
"You have to like me," I say. "It's not— You don't have a choice, we're stuck together, you didn't choose me—"
"Grace. Shut the fuck up."
My mouth snaps shut. I really, really think I'm going to throw up.
"Bad argument," Rocky says, in this voice that reminds me of defending my thesis. Of my kids, the handful of times I couldn't divert an argument about evolution. Like he's never been as sure of anything as he is of this. "Stupid argument. Obviously chose Grace. Built airlock-bridge, built ball, built tunnels. Save Erid, save Rocky, save Earth, save Grace." I want to point out wanting to save his entire species doesn't require enjoying my company, but he doesn't pause long enough for me to even open my mouth. "Built machine help understand Grace movies, need for save Erid? Built panel touch Grace, need for save Erid? Watch Grace sleep. Sing Grace out panic. Grace first thought when wake, last thought before sleep. Grace chose. Grace came back."
I can't believe it. I can't believe him. There's something in me, something deep, something old that says No. People don't choose you. This isn't how it works.
It feels like he's gripping that thing between two hands and shaking it.
"Grace came back," he says, and he's fallen into another rhythm. I don't know what this one means. I think I can maybe guess. "Grace, Grace, I crack open carapace, tuck you away, carry you, keep you. Guard sleep, bring food, carve burrow. Grace I sing until the echoes reach the dead. First song I heard in eons, most beautiful song ever sung, my Grace. My Grace my Grace my Grace."
He's pressing the ball right up against me and himself right up against the ball. As close as we can get. He's so warm.
I want to tell him no. I want to tell him he doesn't understand, he doesn't know, I'm not the person he thinks I am. No one ever stays. No one ever sees all of me and stays.
First song I heard in eons, he's said that before. It's culturally significant, Eridian folklore about the origin of the world — it's personally significant, because he was alone. He was completely alone, possibly the longest any Eridian has ever survived in silence. Of course "You've latched onto me, you were alone. I could be the worst human to ever live—"
"Grace not listening," he snaps. "Rocky not everyone friend, Rocky not easy get along with. I hate you, I tell you. Meet Grace on Erid, feel same. Meet Grace at science thrum, teaching Rocky-Adrian kids, saying bad wrong radio show opinions on forum, feel same."
I stand up. I want to storm out, but he's not letting me past. And where would I even go.
I wasn't going to tell him. I was going to die, first, before I ruined his idea of me, but he thinks he wants to marry me. We've got years, still, stuck together in here, and I can't— I can't spend that long bracing for the other shoe to drop. I'm a fox gnawing through my leg to get out the trap. And in my right hand, a silver dagger.
The thing in the core of me gasps, "I'm a coward, Rock."
And Rocky says, "No."
I make a noise like he's punched me. "I didn't— I didn't want to, Rock, they had to— I was going to let everyone die, I told them no, I wouldn't go, they had to— they chased me— Everyone, I was going to let everyone die, including you, you'd have been up here alone, forever—"
"No. Grace came back."
I feel the words in my teeth. In my bones. There's whole vocal ranges he doesn't use, so I don't lose my hearing before we even get to Erid, though thankfully they're not that necessary for every day speech. A lot of them are for strong emotions. Emphasis.
"No care about before," he says, words still ringing through me. "Not my Grace. My Grace scared, my Grace scared scared scared. Go out airlock, take off helmet, fetch collector, turn around, still. So so so scared, still turned around. No one made you. Never met Earth Grace. Maybe Earth Grace awful. Bad argument. No Earth Grace here."
Fuck.
It's like something in me cracks. I'm sliding back down to the floor as if my strings were cut. I don't— I don't know if I believe him. But I was the one who said, It's like the guy I'm remembering is someone else, when I was first trying to explain the amnesia. Before I'd even remembered what it was for. This clear, solid line between Ryland Grace on Earth, and me here.
It feels like an excuse. Like I don't have to be accountable for my mistakes. I can still remember the fear. I never managed to forget the fear.
But, fuck. Okay. Rocky's never met the man who had to be chased down like a dog. Rocky doesn't want to marry that man. If Rocky thinks I'm not that man, I can at least try. Surely no one's going to ask me to throw myself on the train tracks a third time.
I wipe at my face.
Rocky says, in a more normal tone, "Grace many psychological problems."
I make a noise that could, if you're feeling generous, be called a laugh. "And you wanna marry me anyway, huh?"
"Rocky many psychological problems," he says, easily. "Adrian have to take Rocky back, Adrian promised. Adrian not get it. Grace Rocky singular."
It rings through me like a bell.
"Yeah. Yeah, okay." I press my hand against his ball. "Frick, Rock, I wish I could hug you."
Rocky makes a chirring noise that means emphatic agreement, presses himself up against my hand.
I wipe at my face again. I feel like I just escaped from something terrible. Like I woke up from a nightmare and realised none of it was real. I remember this wasn't even the point of this discussion. "You, uh. You found some new words?"
"Yes!" Rocky trills, excitedly. "Many words! Mary say, queerplatonic! Amatonormativity! Aromantic! Asexual!"
Oh, wow, those are new words. "I've only heard that last one before, bud. And, uh, it's not how humans work."
Rocky makes a derisive noise. "Yes, English confusing. Same word mean something else. Asexual: English word for human notably low desire for sex. Grace: human notably low desire for sex. Grace aware thinking machine contain information beyond serialised visual fiction songs, question?"
Blinking at him, I try to think. We definitely haven't talked about this before. Have we? "What? When did I say that?"
"Grace watch Star Trek, Star Trek: Next Generation, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: Voyager, Star—"
"No," I say, knowing darn well he knows what I mean. "Shut up, they're good shows. When did I say that about not wanting sex?"
"Grace never say, Rocky just use ears."
I stare at him, wordlessly.
"Many many many human stories about aliens," Rocky says, with a teasing little lilt. "Many many many human stories about sex. Humans close, humans fuck. Grace never even flirt—"
"Hang on, how would you know—"
"Heard all Friends! Heard all Grey's Anatomy! Rocky study Grace culture!"
"Oh, gosh, Rock, you can't use Grey's Anatomy as—"
Rocky bonks at me through the ball. "Rocky not child. Stories over-dramatic, obviously Grey's Anatomy not realistic. Meredith Grey sees ghosts!"
"Wh. What?"
"No matter, not point. Grey's Anatomy deeply flawed story, many ongoing issues, not point. Grace asexual, statement."
This conversation is making me start to regret not saving more of the vodka.
"I don't think you get to decide that for me, bud."
"Rocky wrong, question?"
And, okay, yeah, I've never felt like I have the expected relationship with sex. It's not bad, I just wouldn't go out my way for it. I'm not sure the last time I had it. Before the Petrova line, I think. But that's never been something I've stressed over, because it's just biology. Lots of things affect libido, and variation within a species is natural. There's billions of humans, now, it makes sense if we don't all want to have a dozen kids.
I remember, now, that asexuality is part of the LGBT acronym. And I know, abstractly, that finding the right word is supposed to be a relief. A weight off your chest. A spark of recognition. And it's just never mattered like that.
I tell Rocky, "Fine, yeah, Grace asexual, statement. But I didn't, y'know. I didn't need the word, Rock."
And Rocky huffs at me. "Yes, one word Grace have already. Rocky define important words now, question?"
Oh. Right. The words I've definitely never heard before, even on the information pamphlets I printed out for sex-ed. I swallow, and nod.
"Amatonormativity," Rocky says. "Human cultural expectation for romantic relationship valued most, needed for happiness. Aromantic, human notably low desire for romantic relationship. Queerplatonic, type of close important relationship not romantic. Rocky Grace queerplatonic, question?"
Oh.
Oh, okay. There's the relief.
"Thought we just established we're engaged," I croak.
"Queerplatonically, question? Grace in love with Rocky, question? Grace want hold hands, kiss mouths—"
"Ew," I say, involuntarily. Rocky cackles.
"Humans love fluid!" He crows. "Humans share fluid, humans touch tongues—"
"Stop it! You know I think it's gross!"
"Kissing gross gross gross," Rocky says, happily. "Rocky Grace know this. Rocky Grace soulmates."
At least, I assume that's the right translation. It's duet-partner with a truly insane level of intensity modifier, and obviously Eridian metaphors for love are all very sound- and music-based.
"Rocky Grace soulmates," I repeat, to be sure. Rocky trills agreement.
I feel like I've just run a marathon.
"Can I counter your point about low-orbit satellite construction, now? Are you done?"
"Maybe. Grace more secret hurts, question?"
"Grace reveal one secret hurt a week," I tell him, firmly. "We've got years, I'm sure you'll get them all out of me eventually. But I am done for today, okay. If you don't want to defend your satellite construction theory I'm taking a nap."
"No, no, Grace make stupid argument. Rocky love Grace stupid arguments. Much entertainment."
I shove at him. He doesn't budge an inch.