Chapter Text
It takes me an embarrassingly long time to realise that Grace has been eating in front of me. The idea was just too appalling for me to put together the obvious.
Once the tunnel was correctly pressurised, both of our atmospheres preserved, Grace stopped wearing its bulky protective clothing. And it started…ingesting things. Liquid, mostly. Its sharp teeth, round and disturbingly many in quantify, latching onto a little tube attached to a bag. Its mouth muscles contracting to suck various liquids into itself. It did this during spare moments as we tried desperately to understand each other's languages.
I had still not fully understood that Grace's mouth also served the same purpose as my own, as well as several more mine did not. I had not yet realised that Grace's talking orifice was its eating orifice. So, likely in part due to denial, it took me several of the human's sleep cycles for it to click. The human had already eaten several meals by then, as well as the staggering amount of water.
After I calmed down from the blinding disgust of the realisation, it couldn't help but focus far too much attention on the mechanics of the eating. It was horrifying, to put simply.
Humans had tools to eat. Multiple. Grace wielded them with skill.
The human's teeth tore and bit and ground the food together, seemingly not prepared into the easily swallowed paste Eridians processed their meals into. In fact, it seemed to enjoy it. The act of mashing and tearing up a range of textures and firmness brought it some kind of satisfaction. It made happy sounds sometimes, which was potentially one of the most disturbing things I have heard in my life.
It was so uncoordinated in so many other instances, struggling to walk and carelessly knocking things around. But the fine motor control in its hands was astounding. I had seen those tiny bones, the layers of muscle, when Grace had pressed its hand to the xenonite that first meeting.
I couldn't help but listen to the human's deft wielding of the eating tools. It was experienced, so fluid and natural and intricate in its movements. It spoke to a lifetime of practice.
I could almost respect the mastery. Almost.
But worst of all was when the human ate more like an Eridian. When it abandoned its tools and used its hands.
Its hands were delicate, dainty, so small and intricate of a contraption. I didn't know how those hands weren't crushed under the weight of the human's minuscule atmospheric pressure.
It should have been less alien, but instead, it was worse. The human particularly liked the food it ate with its hands. Rocky could tell because, again, it made happy sounds. It would rip parts off, nibble absentmindedly, and take massive bites. Its blunt claws dug into the food's fragile carapace.
It looked like an animal, like some predator I had heard tearing through the carapace of its prey in the distance. Nothing intelligent or sophisticated, no manners or dignity.
Worst of all, the human continued to talk as it ate. It did not let me at least have the decency of being able to pretend that Grace wasn't doing what it was doing from right across from me. I couldn't leave, either. The human held me captive, forced it to witness it eat over and over again. Twice a solarian day.
One fifth of a boon was a curse, an old saying one of my siblings is fond of. Four arms gave, the last took back. I had never quite believed that, but this might qualify.
—
We are talking about families.
Grace had made what it called 'The Rockboard' as a talking aid. It had covered a flat board that reached up to Grace's full height in Velcro. Grace would stick pieces to the board when explaining something more complicated that it wanted visual aids for, since it was much worse at making puppets than me.
Grace also had a writing implement that it mainly used to gesture and point. I did not understand why Grace could not just use its fingers.
They were built in pointing tools with far more joints and much more dexterity than anything else in the Hail Mary.
Grace taps at the square in the centre, then traces the lines up to the square's parents, then over to the square's aunt.
"So, a lot of English speakers get tripped up on cousins once removed versus your numbered cousins. You can have first, second and third cousins. I mean, I think you can have as many numbered cousins as possible, but I've never met someone who's referenced a 4th or higher cousin…"
Grace trails off, tapping the marker against its chin.
"A cousin once removed is when your cousin is the child of your grandparent's sibling," it says eventually.
Grace traces up the family tree, a phrase that had gotten them side tracked for one thousand three hundred and sixty three minutes.
It taps each wonky square as it goes, dissolving and warping the family member as the dull twack lands, making the surrounding family far more distinct.
Grace pauses, marker hovering over the supposed cousin once removed. It frowns. I have gotten better at listening for that, but it's still hard to hear Grace's expressions when it is speaking.
"Wait."
The marker returns to Grace's chin, tapping. Then, Grace puts the marker in its mouth.
It wedges the tip of the marker cap between its teeth, clamping down. It is eerily similar to how Grace fits its water container into its mouth, or the moments before it bites down into its food. I have been forced to listen to Grace eat enough to be intimately familiar with the mechanics.
Grace had already eaten its first meal. I didn't think this would be an issue again for many, many minutes. Grace had even drank one of its not-water pouches before the family tree discussion. And yet, here was Grace, eating once more.
I freeze in disgust. It's instinctual in response to hearing Grace bite down on something unexpectedly.
The part of myself that has been forced to become a scientist over the last few decades starts considering how this might be yet another form of consumption that humans need. That this might be the true purpose of the marker, rather than a pointing aid.
Grace flexes its jaw, shifts the marker towards one corner of its mouth, then removes the marker without actually consuming it. It makes a sharp pop as it leaves Grace's mouth, brightening the tubing in Grace's nose.
"I've got it reversed," Grace decides.
I unfreeze enough to let out a loud and pointed noise of disgust.
"Yeah, sorry buddy. This isn't exactly my wheelhouse."
Without acknowledging the aborted attempt to eat the marker, nor wiping it's digestive fluids off of it, Grace taps the square it paused over again.
"This is actually a second cousin," It says.
I decide not to ask.
—
Grace finally understands the way eating publicly is so fundamentally off-putting to me. There was a lot of apologising, and Grace started trying to eat while tucked in the furthest corner in the Hail Mary. It even starts trying to drink away from me.
I stop this immediately.
I say I am used to it by now.
This is a lie.
I will take seeing Grace eat and drink in my presence over it leaving me so often. I can still hear it no matter where it is on the ship. The Hail Mary is too small for privacy, but I want Grace in the same room. I need it to be here. I need to be able to hear its loud and staccato heart and lungs in as much detail as possible.
Humans need to eat and drink so much. Eridians need far less replenishment, but humans seem to constantly be running from time. Their systems ticking towards degradation with every second. I need to hear Grace keep itself healthy and stave off its own slow deterioration.
So, after more apologising, Grace went back to eating and drinking in front of me.
—
Grace has finished the current water pouch, but still has the straw in its mouth. The pouch dangles in front of its face, bobbing slightly as Grace chews. Grace has reached a state of boredom where it lapses into dull and still silence, hands busy making chain.
I am still in jealous awe of human hands.
But it still chews on the empty water pouch. I have not seen Grace eat the pouches before, and I want it to remain that way.
"Grace hungry, question?"
Grace has made chains for long enough that it has become easy, almost effortless. When humans do something physical for long enough, it is written into their bodies.
"Huh?" Grace says around the pouch. I still hate when it speaks while eating.
Grace’s fingers still move. Smooth. Effortless. When Grace works on muscle memory,
"Grace still thirsty, then."
"Oh!" Grace finishes a chain link and sets it down. It takes the bag from its mouth.
I see the true extent of human dexterity. It is when Grace's name fits.
Grace talks to Mary, who takes the bag. It reaches over to pick up a new handful of chain links to connect together.
The lack of arms still seems like an unnecessary trade off.
"I'm just bored," Grace says by explanation.
"Humans eat when bored?" I twitch, unable to repress a reaction to the thought.
"Oh, all the time," Grace says. It has a certain tone of voice, a certain expression, that it uses when it tells something Grace knows will disgust or confuse me. A forced, amused casualness.
I make a noise that imitates a human spitting. A deeply vulgar expression I have come to enjoy. Grace finds this hilarious
—
The chain is boring. The chain is boring boring boring. I do as much as I can during it, anything else to keep some focus on. There simply is not enough to do, and not enough to think about.
We talk. I talk often, asking for Grace to find new ways to keep my other voices busy.
Grace gets irritated with the distractions, it is a human with only one path available to its mind. Only one voice.
Sad way to live; I think. Simpler, though. Easier.
Grace is much better at paying attention for longer than me. But as we near the planet, and as the chain grows and shrinks Grace's space, it starts trying to eat things more.
With such short lifespans and only once voice, how do they get anything done?
It seems to catch itself before it actually attempts it, but it nibbles and clamps onto various objects. Objects I now know aren't part of Grace's digestible foods. I distract it when this happens, and Grace seems to willingly move on from attempting to eat something that will harm it. I should ask, but the whole thing is just so awful. I fear the answer.
We are taking a break. Grace is lying on the floor, stretching out its back. I'm searching for something else for me to do while we make the chain, having exhausted most of my options already.
My inhibitions are shattered when Grace puts its fingers in its mouth. It's thumb.
It's a beautiful, delicate, intricate thumb. It's most important finger, that collection of oh so easily crushable tiny little carapaces that all of Earth and all of Erid hang from.
"Grace cannot eat finger!" I hit several frequencies I know the computer struggles with, and my human voice skips and halts, even more delayed than normal.
Grace jolts, hand flying out of its mouth. It had carefully lodged its claw between its teeth. For precious seconds I worry the claw will be torn clean out.
"What?" Grace asks. It moves its head to stare at me. I don't make that easy, shifting around from leg to leg in pure agitation.
"Cannot eat finger," I repeat, "Grace no eat self. Stupid stupid stupid. Eat food, or bag, not fingers. Erid and Earth need fingers."
Grace shifts to prop itself up on its elbows. Its long torso bends in a way that reminds me just how much we are different.
Sometimes I could pretend the torso is similar to the carapace. With its arms and legs and head that make up a clean and good five. This is ultimately foolish, but sometimes it helps me feel less alien myself.
"I'm not going to eat myse—oh," Grace stills, then looks at its thumb. "Rocky, I'm not trying to eat myself."
Grace pushes itself into sitting and scoots itself around to fully face me. I stop shifting so much so it can look at me steadily.
"So, a lot of humans bite things when they're freaked out, or bored or stressed. It's like fidgeting."
Grace brings its thumb towards me, instinctively aiming what it wants me to look at towards where it thinks my eyes would be. After a moment, it taps its own thumb knuckle to help me hear its nail.
"Our nails grow, right? I had a habit of chewing on everything as a kid. My clothing sleeves, my pencils, but mostly my nails. I would bite them off."
Bite them off?
Bite them off?
The noise I make is outside of Grace's hearing range. It feels it, though, I think. Vibrations are so strange, but it must be stranger for it, to only hear the echoes of my speech.
Grace bursts out laughing. It grins, tuning its entire face and throat to resonate out brightly.
Our sounds are so different, but our associations to pitch and scale are eerily similar. Many Eridians will be enthralled with this information. My crew—
"Yeah! I mean, I would just nibble them off slowly, not in one bite. But it's bad for your hands, and it's a bit gross."
"Much gross," I object, faintly.
"Much gross," Grace amends. "I had to wear this coating on my nails that made them taste bad so I would stop. I don't remember if it worked. I don't really notice when I do it."
Grace's face shifts, muscles sinking down.
It moves and moves and moves. Fluid, flexible, like the oceans Adrian studies.
"Sorry, I must have been making you uncomfortable."
It is so very focused on my comfort. Always. But rarely on its own.
Adrian.
"Put dirty things in mouth," I stamp with my third claw for emphasis. "Grace get sick, statement. Preventable, unnecessary."
Grace makes what I have recently learned is a playacting gesture with its hands.
"Humans are built to be around dirty things. We're too open to our environment not to be. I won't get sick from chewing on an object or two. I promise."
"Unnecessary," I repeat.
Grace lies back down on the floor.
"Just tell me when I'm doing it, then."
I turn, position my fourth leg towards Grace. The leg that bridges the gap between the giver legs and the taking leg. Grace will not know that this means compromise, placation.
I need to remember what I can, so I don't return to Erid more than a stranger, an alien myself.
"Other ways to make Grace less anxious, question?"
It might be too late.
"Oh, plenty. You're doing a whole lot of making me less anxious, you know? Just having someone else here."
Mary makes a soft, repetitive chirping. It ripples out from a corner of the ceiling. It is the alarm Grace set.
"Chain time," Grace says with no inflection in it's voice. Hollow.
"Chain time," I repeat miserably.
—
Grace is chewing on things. Grace is chewing to an amount I haven't yet seen. It happens an average of eight times a human wake cycle. This is too much chewing. The softer writing implements scattered around the lab have teeth marks in them.
I don't have much to do besides constant repairs, as the Hail Mary ages. We are both running out of things to do. As unappealing of a task as it is, it is still a task. One that will help.
"Grace chew because stressed or because bored?"
Grace notices the knuckle in its mouth and removes it.
"I'm chewing because I'm not chewing my food anymore, I think," Grace admits.
I hum, dipping through the notes for acknowledgement and frustration and sympathy. Grace is mostly eating coma slurry and a supplement of taumeoba by now. Neither of them Grace can chew.
Grace hums back. Acknowledgement. It can manage that one.
"I have sent plans to you on thinking machine," I say, "for chewing."
"What?" Grace says as it shifts to turn on the computer on the side of the desk. "Like, you emailed me something?"
"Yes."
Grace squints at the computer, its glasses left on the other desk. It clicks the track pad twice.
"Oh my god," it says.
"Will it work?"
"Oh, my god," it says again.
"Can you make it?"
I have written out instructions, step by step, as well as multiple drafts I created in CAD. Grace will have to do some of the making for me, in its atmosphere, but I have made it simple.
Something for both of us to fix.
Grace puts its head down on the computer's keypad. "You're making me a chew toy."
"Toy? No, not a toy. Chewing device. For stress. Easy to clean."
"A chewing device," it repeats dully.
"Why is Grace being difficult, question?"
Grace straightens, runs its hands through its hair.
Its hands are thinner, as it loses weight. Their bones are even louder, closer to the surface. They have not started to lose their steadiness, their strength, but I have read that it will happen.
"Yes, it'll probably work, and yes, I can do it," Grace says.
I will use them through Grace while they are still strong. Then, I will have to rely only on my own claws again, until Erid.
I rise and fall, imitating a sigh of relief. A human gesture.
"I wonder if I could, like, dip it in the slurry or taumeoba…" Grace trails off as it stands and walks off towards the lab component storage. It is already jumping to solve the next problem.
I let it, trailing it around the lab and correcting its attempts to make a mould.
I pass the chewing device model through the airlock for it to recast.
I do this with my first limb, the best of the giving limbs.
Is the head the closest there is to a human's fifth limb? The taking limb?
Grace takes the model with it's right hand, and presses every limb to the xenonite wall to thank me for it.
I press back.
I press back.
I press back