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The world around me is dark. Pitch black nothing swallows my vision. Not even the stars are visible, the usual twinkling guides. If only I could catch a glimpse of them. I could track them. Triangulate their location on the planet and finally stop being so alone.
Music, loud and impossible to parse, blasts in my ears. Every note is discordant and hums seemingly random songs. Layered together like this it sounds like a tortured choir. A soft melody with something sharp pushing beneath it, but I can’t understand it. It’s not a song I’ve ever heard outside of these torturous dreams. It’s a sound that haunts my waking hours too, when the horrible overlapping notes worm into my head.
When the music isn’t as loud, the thoughts are. A hundred a minute, fighting each other like wild dogs. Something is in my hands, I’m working on it. I need to fix it. It’s broken, I need to fix it. My- what is the word? How did this happen? Fix fix fix. That's all I can do. It’s why they chose me. An uncomfortable feeling rattles my body, one I don’t quite understand. A word comes to my mind, but it’s only music. Everything is done in songs, and they feel like a thousand heartbeats.
I shoot up in bed, drenched in my own sweat. My heart is beating faster than is comfortable, and I have to lie on my back to get it to even slightly slower. I want to scream, but if I did that every time I had one of these nightmares, I’d never stop. Each night is the same scene, a pitch black nothing that is overflowing with music.
I hear my fathers voice in my head, warning me. The burning and twisting that would come for me if I didn’t shape up. He described their screams like music then too, but even through being a good little Catholic, the dreams never changed. It was always that dark, loud hell.
I angrily throw the blankets off, stomping over to my slippers. The other half of my routine. I make my way to the empty parking lot outside of my apartment and stare up. The stars, a comfort and a tease. I’d feel more at home out there, a thought that I cannot get out of my head. I’m terrified of space, and yet on Earth I might as well be an alien. This stupid red line, extending from my chest straight up, it lets everyone know I’m different from them.
People, bound to fate by red string. Bound to each other with it mostly. Some aren’t so lucky, and find the end of their string at a hard choice. Fate is dictated by the heart, but only as much as the color of the sky is dependent on the eyes that see it. This terrible string above my head feels like an omen. The only strings that go straight up are astronauts, bound to die, bound to be given back to their families with the stars still burned in the back of their eyes.
I am not an astronaut. I am a teacher, with no friends, no real future. No soulmate. Just the stars, ever calling me their way.
…
I pull on the string. It reverberates, low pinging noise rattling in my skull. It’s a habit, if anything. Hoping something will ping back, or even make a noise. I just need proof that I am not bound to die. That my fate is something new. Stratt gave me hours. Hours to decide if my life is worth more on Earth, or another solar system. A one way ticket to the stars.
The string tells me the answer. It’s calling me upwards, begging me to follow it to death. How? How can I? The horror that paralyzes my limbs isn’t how an astronaut should feel. I’d be more useful on the ground, where I know what I’m doing and can fix it. I can fix it here.
…
“What is your name?” The computer asks. Computer. I know that word. Why am I surprised I know that word?
“Bluhhhhhh,” I say. Hm. Do I know any words actually?
“Incorrect.”
I know! But the words stick to the top of my mouth like peanut butter and grind the gears in my head like sand. I feel oddly happy though, recalling words like peanut butter and sand. I’m not completely dumb.
“What is your name?”
Is it going to keep asking that? Because I don’t have an answer. I don’t have any answers. The room I’m in looks like a hospital, but something feels wrong about that observation. Things are strapped down and the lights are too white. There is a ladder reaching into the ceiling, with a hatch at the other end. What kind of hospital has a hatch???
…
Grace. That’s my name. I found it stitched on a jumpsuit, and the name ‘Ryland’ popped into my amnesia riddled brain right after. Ryland Grace. It doesn’t mean anything special, the first name. The last name makes me feel like vomiting. I don’t know why. The word itself is lovely, falls off the tongue with a musical twinkle. But the meaning.
Grace: simple elegance or refinement of movement.
The way my arms jumble together, flailing wrong and bending in ways that feel incorrect, that is not grace. The clumsy way my steps interrupt each other, or the falls that causes. That isn’t grace.
Grace: (in Christian belief) the free and unmerited favor of God, as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings.
Christianity. A religion. I must have followed it if that sort of definition is the second to pop into my head. I didn’t find a cross amongst my things, maybe Stratt thought it wasn’t needed.
Stratt.
I know her.
Her? A partner? No. I don’t feel love towards her. I am angry towards her. Something about her name boils my blood.
…
I bat at the red line. What is that? It extends from my chest, right where my heart is, then shoots off through the wall towards…I don’t know? I faintly remember catching a glimpse of it in one of the memories. Nothing special, but passing a window I saw it. It shot straight up then, towards the sky. But now it is angled in a way that looks almost like the Petrova line. The way it curves out into open space without a real explanation why.
I hit it again. It makes a musical strum, like a guitar. The sound is a comfort to me. There is no real reason for me to be doing it, other than the placebo idea it will calm me. I’m hoping for something every time I do it. I…I lay my finger over it gently, listening. Feeling for some unknown change.
It vibrates!
I strum again, hoping it wasn’t just a misunderstanding.
It does it back.
“Blip A detected,” the computer screeches.
…
I remembered why I was in space.
The sun is dying. I’m the only one left of the crew meant to fix that. I was put into a coma so that the ride here didn’t kill me, and so we didn’t kill each other. Except the comas killed Yao and Ilyukhina. Their names still make my face wet and my chest heavy. I am…alone. Utterly and truly alone. Now there is an alien ship about to connect to mine, and…I hope they mean well.
If they don’t, I hope they kill me fast so I can stop picturing my dead friends, and Earth. I want to stop remembering the grass. The blue sky, blue water. The way it looks so small in pictures and models, and on the screen of the Hail Mary. I want to stop knowing what I will never see again.
…
Me and Rocky have been living together for a while now. Once he moved in it was pretty smooth sailing (not). We get a lot of science done, a lot of arguing too. He and I have enough of a vocabulary to communicate, with some hiccups here and there. He is disgusted by my humanity, I am fascinated by his being an alien. One thing I don’t understand is that stupid line. I see it from me now, and it stops right at Rocky. When he moves, scuttling to the other side of his xenonite habitat, it follows. None of my memories so far have explained the reasoning behind it. Some dumb Earth thing I have no way of knowing, and nobody to ask about.
“Rocky?” I ask. Maybe his species has one too. Maybe he has a blue one, and it’ll mean something opposite to mine.
“You have a question, question?”
“Yeah. It’s about biology- er well…I don’t know if it’s biology. It’s confusing,” I say. I open my mouth to continue, to ask about the line, but the words fall short. Shame creeps back into my cheeks, burning my face.
A man is screaming at me. My father. I asked him about the line, I knew I wasn’t supposed to but I knew too that I was different. He throws the word ‘immoral’ in my face, followed by ‘God’s plan’, and ‘hell’. I was going to hell. I was 12, and I knew that when I died I would suffer eternally for something I didn’t choose. The line led to the stars, why was it so wrong to ask why?”
“Continue,” he requests.
“Nothing. Forget about it.”
“What is wrong question?” He tilts his carapace. The line tilts with it.
“Culture thing.”
That was our get out of jail free card. You say it, and whatever thing you were talking about was now shut down. Rocky understands, going back to his silent working. Or, well, his version of silence. It is never quiet around him, seeing as he needs sounds to take in his surroundings. Sounds. Music.
My stomach churns. That music is familiar. Very, familiar. It isn’t so loud when it isn’t coming from me, so maybe that’s why I didn’t recognize it. I place what I was holding on the table and actually stare at Rocky. The line runs around the room with him, but always right to him. It disappears somewhere into the top of his carapace.
Immoral.
I am immoral for having this line.
I pick my project back up, and ignore that feeling tickling the back of my mind that something is wrong.
…
Sleep takes over most of my brain. Rocky hovers nearby. He is never far, as if clockwork when my eyes open he is there. And so is that line. That infernal, horrible line. It taunts me, reminding me I’m nothing. All I remember about it now is the way it shot up into the sky on Earth, and how close it seems now. A constant reminder of some kind of horrible thing that happened, like a scar. Ripping apart the space in front of me with a crisp string that bleeds into its surroundings. It infects everything with its filth.
I lift my finger up and lazily strum it. I don’t know what I expected. An answer. A sound that felt calming, instead of like dread.
Rocky mechanically reaches up and strums his, absentmindedly returning my gesture. The vibration shakes the red wire and makes its way into my heart, where an overwhelming peace grips my chest. I huff with relief, snuggling further down into the blankets. Rocky squeaks after a moment, scrambling backwards.
“You have one too question?” he asks in a hurry, “Line question?”
“Culture thing,” I try, but Rocky doesn’t buy it.
“No! Is line! I feel feel feel!” He grabs his side and more forcefully pulls it, sending that same peace from earlier slamming into my chest. No. It’s not peace. It’s love. The warm breath of intertwined souls grazes my thoughts. In an instant the fear I had is gone, and replaced by burning in my cheeks.
“Rocky!” I gasp, but with nothing to say I just bury my head in my pillow. After a moment I grab my side and yank it too, making Rocky trill.
“Grace is-” He says something in Eridian the computer doesn’t have. I lift my head to stare at it, squinting.
“What’s that word?”
“Means person you are meant to be with. Fate.”
“Soulmate?” the word tumbles before I catch it.
My father screams again. “This?” he yells, yanking on my string. The noise it makes is horrible and fills me with terror, “This is not God! God doesn’t tell us his plan. We are meant to live it, not dream of these immoral fantasies. You aren’t meant for anything but hell boy, remember that!”
I cry the moment the memory hits. I am 12 again. I am shaking. I don’t know what is wrong with me and my mother isn’t around anymore to teach me. It is only my father, with his hard words and disgust in my existence. I am a burden to him, and he spends every day making sure I know that.
“Why leak question?” Rocky worries.
How do I explain catholic guilt to an alien?
“The line isn’t a good thing.”
“Why question?”
“My dad-”
“Word question?”
“Parent, male one.”
“Understand.”
“He was a catholic-”
“-Word question?”
“Rocky I will explain as I go, ok?”
“Yes.”
“Catholicism is a religion on my planet. Part of the belief is that there is an all powerful being, God, who makes our whole lives up before we are born. Then we live them according to that plan. My dad thought that the line went against that. He taught me it was a bad thing, that I shouldn’t like having it.”
Rocky messes with his fingers before speaking. “It is not bad. Is soulmate. Why is bad question?”
“Not everyone who has one has a soulmate. Sometimes they are tied to important things we have to do. Like jobs.”
“But that is love,” He asks, confused, “Soulmate is thing you love very much. Some Eridians have line to job too. They love job, it make them happy.”
“Some people have them going into space, and then die out in space. That’s not love, that’s an accident.”
“Not everyone with string is human. I am not human. I have string. You are human, and you string go to me. Means we are-”
“No!” I say quickly, sitting up, “We aren’t. That’s not possible. You’re-”
“Alien,” he finishes. He hums sadly, “I understand. I not human, you do not want to love me. I will not mention again.”
“Rocky-” I say, but with nothing to add it falls silent. My soulmate has been an alien this entire time. Is that why my dad yelled at me? Because he knew the truth? Knew I was a freak, and thought shaming me out of it might prevent the dawning realization I could never be loved?
…
Another nightmare. It is pitch black still, Rocky doesn’t have eyes to see with, even with the lights on the ship. I am sleeping, I know that because I am having the nightmare, but also because I can hear myself snoring quietly. I’m not supposed to have dreams like this anymore because I found my soulmate didn’t I? He is right next to me, I can hear me through him a foot away.
I am not good enough. The feeling rattles me, hums out of my vents quietly. I distract myself with work, but I catch myself focusing on his sleeping form anyway. Admiring the alien strangeness to it. The skin that is smooth, with marks and scars from where life got too rough. I remember him telling me about them. Explaining scars are when the skin breaks, and little cells pull it back together. My body is the same. I am similar. But not enough. Not enough. Just like with my crew, I can’t fix this.
I again sit up out of bed in a wild panic. Rocky is startled out of his thoughts by it, thoughts I was just subject to. About how little he matters to his new alien friend and the sadness that makes him feel. I’m such a disappointment. The first thing on my mind when I wake up is that I deserved worse than I got. I should’ve died in my coma, not them. They could’ve saved the planet without getting distracted by their soulmate being an alien.
I cry. Of course I do, I’m such a baby. I’m not going to save anything. I was never supposed to be here to begin with. I was a third choice, an idiot in the wrong place at the very wrong time.
I hug my knees, not paying attention to what Rocky is singing at me. I left the computer amalgamation closed to charge before I slept, so his words are just melodies with no rhyme or reason. Even an alien is more capable than me. That’s probably why my dad hated me. I’m useless.
A painful tidal wave of serenity crashes into me, numbing my emotions instantly. Looking to my left, where Rocky stands worriedly, I see our shared string rattling. He must have hit it trying to calm me down, but seeing it just makes me feel worse.
“Don’t do that,” I mutter half heartedly. The warmth in my chest makes itself at home, even though I didn’t ask it to.
“You leaking again. You sad.”
“I’m not supposed to be here.”
“You save stars.”
“I can’t save anything!” I throw my hands up in anger, “Look at me Rocky! I’m a science teacher who stumbled onto a spaceship. That’s all I am.”
He puts his work down, pressing a claw to the divider between us, “You save me. Crew dead. Sad sad sad. Rocky sad too. Grace make Rocky happy again.”
“I-...I’m sorry Rocky. I’m not a good soulmate.”
“Not understand.”
“Soulmate? You were the one that explained that word to me.”
“No. Not understand why bad soulmate? Grace is smart, and brave.”
“Stratt forced me to come. I’m not brave, it wasn’t my choice.”
“Grace stay alive. That is choice. Grace help Earth, even when angry at Stratt. That is choice. Brave choice. You not come for brave reason, but you stay for brave reason.”
I press my hand against the xenonite. There is an inch between me and fate, and I cannot do anything about it because it would kill me.
“It’s wrong,” I say, but I don’t mean it. Rocky knows I don’t mean it too.
“You are not on Earth.”
He points out calmly. There is no one to shame me here other than Rocky, who wouldn’t dream of it. I strum my string again. I listen to Rocky coo his music, and it doesn’t sound so much like a nightmare anymore.
“Yeah. I guess I’m not.”
Love makes its way into my chest, even though the wire between us is still.