Erid is a long ways away.
Grace ran out of his normal food months ago and now has to choke down the coma slurry. More often than not, it’s Rocky who forces him to eat. Constantly reminds him about it despite thinking eating is gross.
Grace’s body trembles from hunger but he can't bring himself to ask the robot for the slop.
“Grace. Eat,” Rocky commands once more.
Grace doesn't have the strength to speak. He’s in so much pain. His healed-over burns itch on his arms.
“Grace,” Rocky’s voice is pitched higher in terror, “Eat. Now.”
He wants to sleep. He’ll eat later.
“No, no, no! Grace no sleep yet! Eat! Now!” Rocky is on his side of the Xenonite barrier, pressed right up against the wall. It’s the closest they can get, but still too far to reach out and touch. “Grace needs food!”
Yes. Real food. Not the coma slurry. He’d rather die than eat that again.
“Robot arms useless!” Rocky grumbles. “Grace.” Rocky tap, tap, taps the Xenonite. “Grace!” his notes are shrill with panic.
Grace changed the system of Armando to react only when called. That way he wasn't awoken by the arms giving him food too early or changing his clothes. Mainly to stop it from changing his clothes. He was not prepared for that type of manhandling.
He hasn't gotten out of bed in… a while. Maybe he needs to change Armando back. But then Armando would administer him food and he’d run out before reaching Erid.
Rocky suddenly skitters out of the crew bay through his tunnel system.
He must've gotten sick of seeing- well not seeing- but also basically seeing Grace so sick. He’s sure he doesn't sound pleasing.
Rocky comes back with the translator being dragged along by a magnet on the outside of the Xenonite. That way the little device wasn't affected by the intense heat on Rocky’s side.
Grace hasn't needed the translator in a while. Why did Rocky grab it?
Rocky resumes his position against the Xenonite where he’s as close as they can reach. He says a chord.
The translator plays out, “Dinner.”
Armando comes to life and opens a near invisible hatch to pull out a slurry in a sealed sippable container. It’s hand stays outstretched, awaiting for Grace’s weak body to take the offering.
Rocky shuffles in place. His patience wears thin. “Help Grace.”
Armando accepts it as a command. The coma slurry goes back into the hatch and an IV is inserted into Grace’s arm. A breathing tube is shoved down his throat. Armando changes the bed sheets and also Grace’s clothes.
It wipes him down and cleans all the filth.
All while Rocky watches dutifully.
Grace keeps drifting in and out of consciousness. He has to admit, he does feel better once it's all over. He can't speak around the tube. But he holds up his fist. It’s too far to touch the Xenonite, but Rocky understands.
Rocky always understands.
“Fist my bump!” Rocky says.
Grace chuckles. It hurts. But it feels good to feel something. Rocky knows that's not how it's said. Rocky also knows it always makes Grace laugh.
“Grace sleep now. Rocky watch.”
The IV nutrients run out.
Grace has to stay awake. Rocky has resorted to throwing full tantrums if Grace doesn't listen to him when he says to eat or sleep.
There's two things keeping him going.
And the strangely warm seedling that's always in his breastpocket. Grace was never a fashionista, nor could he sew, but he did have a lot of tape. He placed the seedling in a plastic baggie and sandwiched it in tape to make a strap that he draped over his shoulder. The bag rested over his heart. He’d open it every now and again, just to check that it was still there and unchanged. If it tried growing, Grace wasn't sure what he’d do.
Grace doesn't like his bed. It’s too far away from Rocky.
He leans against the thick Xenonite wall that separates him and Rocky. The heat of it makes him sweat, but doesn't burn. “I don't know how much more I can go,” Grace’s voice is barely a whisper. He isn't even sure if he spoke.
Rocky’s hard body clonks against the wall, leaning close to Grace. Maybe Grace is delusional, but he thinks it’s warmer now. “Grace cannot die.”
Grace swallows down a lump in his throat. If he dies, Rocky would be alone. But not for long. They only had, what? A month left of their journey. Then he’d be back with all the others. Grace’s mission was already complete. He sent back the Beatles. That's all Earth ever expected to get.
“Grace thinking stupid thoughts.”
“Grace is supposed to be a scientist.”
“Yeah.” He doesn't have the strength for banter.
Rocky stomps. Grace can feel the vibration along the Xenonite, and also underneath him. It’s almost like a hug. The seedling in his little pocket warms his heart. “25 days, and 15 hours left. Grace made it through 1,869 days and 9 hours. Not long left. Grace make it.”
Grace’s head was limp against the wall, but a lopsided grin pulled across his face. “Alright. Alright. Grace make it,” he says it more to convince himself. “I’ll try.”
What Grace doesn't say, is that humans are liars.
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