Project Hail Mary

“Hey. What’s is your ship’s name, anyway?”

“Blip-A.”

“No, I mean, what do you call it?”

“Ship.”

“Your ship has no name?”

“Why would ship have name, question?”

I shrugged. “Ships have names.”

He points to my pilot’s seat. “What is name of you chair, question?”

“It doesn’t have a name.”

“Why does ship have name but chair no have name, question?”

When you’re stupid tired, accept that you’re stupid tired. Don’t try to solve things right then.

“Are all Russians crazy?”
“Yes,” he said with a smile. “It is the only way to be Russian and happy at the same time.”
“That’s…dark.”
“That’s Russian!”

doesn’t have a magnetic field, but positively charged particles might be drawn there because it’s electrically neutral

Rocky waits for me on the Eridian side. “Finally! I’ve been waiting for ℓλ minutes! What took you so long?!”

I can understand Eridian fluently now, of course. And Rocky is equally fluent in English comprehension.

“I’m old. Give me a break. It takes me a while to get ready in the morning.”

“Oh, you had to eat, right?” Rocky says, a tinge of disgust in his voice.

“You told me not to talk about that in polite company.”

“I’m not polite company, my friend!”

I snicker. “So what’s up?”

He wiggles and jiggles. I’ve almost never seen him this excited. “I just heard from the Astronomy hive. They have news!”

I hold my breath. “Sol? Is it about Sol?!”

“Yes!” he squeals. “Your star has returned to full luminance!”

I gasp. “Are you sure? Like, Iℓℓ percent certainty?”

I’m particularly interesting, so pretty much every scientist on the planet came together to thrum up ways to keep me alive. I’m told it was the second-largest science-oriented thrum ever executed. (The largest, of course, was when they had to make a plan for dealing with Astrophage.)

Thanks to my Earth scientific journals, they know all my nutritional needs and how to synthesize the various vitamins in labs. Once they solved that, smaller, less-focused groups worked on making them taste better. That’s more or less up to me, actually. Lots of taste tests. Glucose, common to both Eridian and Human biomes, comes up a lot.

The best thing, though, is they managed to clone my muscle tissue and grow it in labs. I can thank Earth science for that. They were nowhere near that technology when I first showed up. But that was sixteen years ago—they’re catching up quite well.

Anyway, it means I can finally eat meat. Yes, that’s right, I’m eating human meat. But it’s my own meat, and I don’t feel bad about it. Spend a decade eating nothing but odd-tasting, vaguely sweet vitamin shakes and then see if you’ll turn down a burger.

I love meburgers. I eat one every day.

“Wait,” he says. “You no can eat Erid life. You no have Earth life to eat. What about Adrian life, question?”

I snort. “Astrophage? I can’t eat that! It’s ninety-six degrees all the time! It would burn me alive. Plus, I doubt my digestive enzymes would even work on its weird cell membrane.”

“Not Astrophage. Taumoeba. Eat Taumoeba.”

“I can’t eat—” I pause. “I…what?”

Can I eat Taumoeba?

It’s alive. It has DNA. Is has mitochondria—the powerhouse of the cell. It stores energy as glucose. It does the Krebs cycle. It’s not Astrophage. It’s not 96 degrees. It’s just an amoeba from another planet. It won’t have heavy metals like Eridian life evolved to have—they aren’t even present in Adrian’s atmosphere.

“I…I don’t know. Maybe I can.”

He points to his ship. “I have twenty-two million kilograms of Taumoeba in fuel bays. How much you want, question?”

I widen my eyes. It’s the first time I’ve felt genuine hope in a long time.

“Settled.” He puts his claw against the divider. “Fist my bump.”

I laugh and put my knuckles against the xenonite. “Fist-bump. It’s just ‘fist-bump.’ ”

“Understand.”

“Grace, question?”

“Yes!” I’ve never been so happy to hear a few musical notes! “Yeah, buddy! It’s me!”

“You are here, question?!” his voice is so high-pitched I can barely understand him. But I understand Eridian pretty well now.

“Yes! I’m here!”

“You are…” he squeaks. “You…” he squeaks again. “You are here!”

“Yes! Set up the airlock tunnel!”

“Warning! Taumoeba-82.5 is—”

“I know! I know. It can get through xenonite. That’s why I’m here. I knew you’d be in trouble.”

“You save me!”

“Yes. I caught the Taumoeba in time. I still have fuel. Set up the tunnel. I’m taking you to Erid.”

“You save me and you save Erid!” he squeaks.

“Set up the darn tunnel!”

“Get back in you ship! Unless you want to look at tunnel from outside!”

“Oh, right!”

Finding a spaceship “somewhere just outside the Tau Ceti system” is no small task. Imagine being given a rowboat and told to find a toothpick “somewhere in the ocean.” It’s like that, but nowhere near as easy.

It takes a surprisingly long time for a ship to lose all its air. In movies, if there’s a little breach everyone dies immediately. Or the muscular hero guy plugs the hole with his biceps or something. But in real life, air just doesn’t move that fast.