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The alien is frightened. This is the thing that summons my focus as the fury escalates, curses flying like shrapnel.
“– irresponsible, feckless, idiotic –,”
“I didn’t –,”
“– braindead, a fucking moron –,”
“It’s not permanently damaged! It even said so –,”
The alien and I flinch simultaneously as Rocky rams their carapace into the research assistant. The student stumbles backwards, and their supervisor and colleagues, who had withheld comment and motion for the bulk of the argument, flock to their side.
“That’s enough –,”
“Senior Engineer Rocky, you must be calm –,”
“No,” Rocky says scathingly, their tone so agitated that it emerges as more of a hiss.
The alien makes a guttural noise and says something. It’s staccato and strange, like all of its speech, but I can discern low, softened notes within it. Its composure is impressive, considering the pattering rhythm of its circulatory organ. Usually that means the alien is stuttering and breathing too fast and leaking from all over its skin, requiring Rocky to coddle it like a hatchling.
Rocky twitches towards the alien, like they had just remembered their priority of nursing the anxieties of the creature.
“Like I told you,” the research assistant warbles, muffled behind their supervisor. “It’s fine. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
What happens next flickers by so quickly that I have to tap my claw against the floor to catch it all: Rocky flinging the supervisor and the other assistants aside, all of them rigid in shock; the research assistant skittering back against the wall; Rocky pinning them to it with two limbs, claws splayed inside their life support suit, gouging into the assistant’s and leaving deep, winding cracks.
“Rocky!” the alien yelps, rushing forward.
I spring into action before my mind can catch up, skidding in front of the alien and grabbing a hold of its uninjured limb. The alien startles, but stops moving.
“Don’t interfere,” I say, knowing it can understand me. Rocky had proudly announced its fluency in our regional dialect moments after I met it, swaying with happiness and pawing at the xenonite divider until the alien had pawed back. “You may be harmed again.”
The alien says something desperately, and I make out “want” and “help,” well enough. I manage not to sigh a gush of steam.
“Senior Engineer, I must insist –,”
There’s a struggle happening behind me. I ensure the alien’s delicate limb is properly encased in my grip and observe as the supervising professor butts at Rocky. Rocky doesn’t need my help, and certainly not the alien’s, but I monitor the supervisor’s tentative shoves anyway.
“Senior Engineer –,”
“I permitted your assistants access to the habitat for data collection,” Rocky says to the supervisor, their voice acrid, ticking higher and higher. “My rule regarding Doctor Grace was explicit. You do. Not. Touch.”
“I was just saying hello to it,” the research assistant cries out, doing their best to squirm out of Rocky’s grasp. “I didn’t know it was that fragile –,”
Rocky squeezes and the assistant shrieks. There’s a crackle, the assistant’s xenonite suit giving under the pressure of Rocky’s claw.
“Rocky,” I say sharply. The irritation feels unpleasant inside me, foreign like a toxin.
The group of biologists tilt towards me, urgent and uncertain all at once. Rocky stays immobile for a few seconds longer, like they’re considering something.
“You will never come back here,” Rocky says quietly. They jerk a limb towards the supervisor, who quails in fear. “You will never come back here, either. I want a new research team in the environmental unit of the xenobiology department. Tell the Director I demand to speak to them about this tonight.”
“Yes, Senior Engineer,” the supervisor says tremulously. “I apologise on behalf –,”
“Take your apology and stick it up your hole,” Rocky says, their tone caustic enough that it verges on a hiss again. “If Doctor Grace takes longer than a week to heal, I am going to get your title stripped.”
There are a chorus of horrified squeaks and trills, the assistant’s colleagues retreating like the supervisor’s reputation is contagious. I don’t blame them. Getting your vocation forcibly removed due to malpractice is one step below banishment from a community cluster. I don’t think Rocky has that sort of power, not even as an international hero, but I’ve never seen them this angry. Not ever. Maybe they would get their way.
The supervisor doesn’t say anything else, drawing the assistant away from Rocky’s loosening claws and backing up slowly. The research assistant is still whining in fear, cringing down low to the floor as they are yanked out of the door and into the airlock. The door whirs shut behind them.
“Rocky,” the alien says, still so frightened.
Rocky jerks like they’ve been hit, and hurries over to both of us. I release the alien, who’s trembling, its light receptors leaking. I watch it sink down so Rocky can fuss over it, fluttering their claws over almost every inch of its body before landing on the actual injury.
“Your ***** is broken,” Rocky says to the alien, and I fidget, uncomfortable not knowing the odd word, but unwilling to ask for clarification. They must mean the alien’s joint, linking its soft claws to the rest of the upper limb. Drumming my own claws against the floor near the alien, I can sense it too; the crack winding up the tiny, porous bone. Rocky cradles the alien’s claws and mutters in distress when the alien winces.
The alien says something. I’m able to translate “you” and “safe”. Or maybe the latter was “well”, or “good”. I’m no linguist, and I reflect on this sullenly as Rocky pats the top of the alien’s folded bottom limb.
“I’m all right,” Rocky reassures the alien. “Don’t worry about me. Get the robot to check on this, now. You need pain medication as well.”
The alien nods, and Rocky reaches up and touches the liquid that comes out of the alien’s light receptors. I shift, trying not to shudder in disgust. I don’t want to seem rude, but by the way Rocky’s two claws tap gently on the floor near me, I haven’t done a very good job.
I step aside as Rocky shepherds the alien to its infirmary, where the giant robot unfurls to meet the pair of them. Rocky shoots off instructions to the robot, which simpers back. Rocky tells the alien to sit still and rest while they build materials required by the robot. The alien murmurs to him and Rocky says, “then it will be ready for when the swelling goes down.”
Swelling. Leaking. Bones snapping from the faintest touch.
The Sol aliens are made of clouds and glass, I think to myself a little sourly. Softer and more vulnerable than an infant.
Rocky comes up to me, their cloven limb tapping rapidly against the floor.
“You will observe him, question? I must make a cast mould.”
“A what, question?”
“A cast mould,” Rocky repeats, still tapping, enough to vibrate. I can feel it up to my vents. “He needs to keep his ***** straight until it repairs itself.”
“He can’t just remember, question?”
“His skin won’t hold the shape on its own,” Rocky says, and he’s getting impatient, I know. “Please observe him, question? Do not let anyone else in here. I have the security controls enabled, so only I or the medical team can access the dwelling.”
I tap my claw on the floor. “Of course.”
Rocky hesitates before flitting past me, on yet another errand for the alien.
“It won’t take long,” they say. “I can build it in just a few minutes, but I need flexible alloys to make it correctly, and they’re in the Sol Research Centre –,”
“I understand.”
“I’ll be quick,” Rocky says. They skitter back towards the alien. “Grace! I will be quick!”
The alien calls something back.
“Okay. Adrian will take care of you until I get back.”
The alien says something else, more quietly.
“Yes,” Rocky says, too firmly, and then they pat my carapace, a sprinkle of sensation. I try not to lean into the gesture too much. Rocky is rarely tactile with anyone who’s not from another planet, lately. They’re too busy. If they’re not babysitting they’re sleeping, or working.
“I will be quick,” Rocky says again, and I incline my carapace towards them in acknowledgement. Rocky flies out the door, into the airlock. It will take them a very short while to get to and from the SRC, but that’s only if nobody stops them to ask what the commotion in the alien’s dwelling was all about. I’m sure everyone within a mile of the university district heard Rocky excoriate the environmental research team.
Grumbling to myself, I putter across to the infirmary. I could keep a watch over the alien from next to the door, of course, waiting for Rocky to return, but Rocky wouldn’t like that. They get quiet and curt whenever I decide not to engage directly with the alien, especially during the rare times it’s just the three of us. I hate listening to the alien’s synthesising keyboard, and Rocky gets antsy when they have to translate, so I haven’t made any great efforts to improve this. I’ve never been alone with the alien, though, so it’s never been a big problem. I should have known my luck would run out.
The alien straightens up when I come inside the infirmary, which is really just the room with the robot. There’s some medical machinery stashed under it, next to the long cot the alien is sitting on, but I’ve never heard of that technology being used outside of the alien’s ship. Not yet, anyway.
“Hello,” the alien says, and I shrink back at the sound. It’s dug its keyboard out of hiding. I prefer the alien’s natural voice to the sound of that thing, which screeches on every other synthesised word. Still, if the alien’s body shuts down due to a rustle of air or something, I suppose I’ll need it to communicate that clearly. Even if ‘clear’ in this case also means ‘loud’ and ‘grating’.
“Hello,” I say, aiming for an upbeat tone. “How are you feeling, question?”
Rocky asks this constantly, so I follow their example.
“I’m fine,” the alien says, typing on the keyboard. “I’m sorry I cause theatre.”
I get closer to the end of the medical cot. “Theatre, question?”
The alien seems to think hard.
“Production,” it corrects. “I cause much spectacle. Drama, question? Not art.”
“Oh,” I say. “Do not apologise. Not your fault.”
Not technically true, a voice inside me says, sly and mean. But the alien hadn’t been the one to threaten the livelihood of a tenured professor, so. I can’t exactly blame it.
“I scare Rocky,” the alien says, its body drooping slightly. “Not hurt bad. Should not shout when hurt.”
I had been measuring the square footage of the dwelling, planning extensions, when I heard the bone break. It had been clean as the division of slate or graphite, but sounded markedly wrong. The cry of pain that had come after had Rocky moving like I have never seen. They had tackled the research assistant to the ground and roared at them so loudly that the xenonite touching my carapace buzzed. The alien had been clutching its limb joint to its torso and breathing roughly. The crack inside its body was damning, the result of the research assistant pulling on it thoughtlessly. Rocky couldn’t even tolerate people standing too close to the alien for too long. I anticipated the explosion.
“Involuntary,” I say, and when the alien twitches, uncomprehending, I simplify. “It was not on purpose. You did not scare Rocky on purpose.”
“No,” the alien says, though it’s still drooping. It’s holding its injury awkwardly too, pressed up close to its centre mass. The joint is bigger than it normally is, I notice, and I point this out.
“It’s okay,” the alien says, shifting its lower limbs around in a manner I’ve come to read as unsettled. The creature lies a great deal when it comes to its bodily functions. It’s weakened from the travel from Tau Ceti, but lies to Rocky about this all the time. It seems to understand that Rocky worries enough over it already. I suppose I should be thankful for that, except it doesn’t actually change the fact that the alien is weak. Pretending at good health is just inconvenient.
“You should consume pain medicine.”
The alien turns to me, its top appendage manifesting surprise. “But I say –,”
“You say you are okay,” I hum, trying to keep my tone level. “Yes. But your limb is inflated with liquids. Bone cracked. Not okay.”
The alien’s soft claws hover over the keyboard, seemingly unable to formulate a reply.
“You will scare Rocky if you are crying and screaming when they come back,” I say dryly. “All because you will not take medicine for pain. Then Rocky will cry and scream at me.”
The alien turns to me again, slow as crusting lava.
“Rocky never scream at Adrian. Rocky love love love Adrian.”
I experience a needling sensation in my frame, rippling all over, penetrating straight through me. Rocky love, love, love Adrian, I think bitterly. Yes. When Rocky has time.
I go very still, attempting to conceal the sudden and overpowering urge to howl for my missing mate. I didn’t disintegrate when the Exploration Centre reported loss of contact with the first spacefaring ship to leave Eridian orbit. I didn’t stop working or meeting friends or caretaking for family when the years passed and they didn’t come back. I held myself together. I’m strong enough for myself and Rocky, and I always have been.
The alien dips down a little. It needs to use its light receptors to perceive me more clearly. So poorly made, this cloud creature from a dying planet that isn’t even strong enough to safekeep its own bones.
“Adrian?”
“Yes. Question,” I say tightly.
“You are okay, question?”
“Yes,” I say automatically. I stay still, though. Rocky used to fret over my habit of freezing in place when overwhelmed. Before the mission, when we were working together on the life support systems of their future ship, I had a lot of moments like this. A split-second of panic that would spread and paralyse me, the breath in my body pulsing like a geyser. Rocky, well aware of what was happening, would scuttle over and bump into me, over and over. I am here, Adrian. I am still here. Nobody in the universe loves you more than I do. They would tap out our marriage melody on the lip of my vents. Forever, the two of us, forever. I will come back to you. When this is all over, I will come back to you.
They were so sweet back then, even bowed with the burden of saving the world. They had never expressed even a moment of violence, of hatred or resentment. They had been patient and hopeful, right up until the ship left the planet. I was the one who got short with loud neighbours or imposing superiors. Rocky was the one who calmed me down, reminding me of the purpose of community, soothing me with rhythms across every limb. Stroking the mission carvings on each of us, like a ritual.
“Adrian, question?”
I clench my claws into points and knock them into the floor, trying to release a fraction of my frustration. I’m careful not to breach the suit. The suit lovingly made by Rocky so I could trail the alien like a nursemaid.
“I help.”
I do my best not to recoil as the alien slips off its cot and folds up its lower limbs on the floor beside me. When it places its bulbous, fleshy claw on top of my carapace I’m too bewildered to say anything. This close, the cracked bone feels like it could come apart at any minute.
“Tense situation,” the alien says, dancing out the discordant tune on its keyboard. “Rocky is upset. Adrian is upset, I understand.”
I hover awkwardly under its claw. I can feel its circulatory organ thump, slow and steady.
“Rocky is scared often,” the alien says, and I twitch. I hadn’t considered that the alien would be monitoring Rocky just like Rocky was monitoring it.
“Rocky spend many years alone. Then travel many years alone with Grace,” the alien says, pointing at itself. “Rocky and Grace, we – we need each other. A lot.”
I’ve noticed, I think, but without the usual edge those reflections carry. The alien sounds dejected.
“I try make Rocky not scared when Rocky is alone or Grace is alone,” the alien continues, the muscles of its top appendage reorienting. Thinking hard, again. “Is difficult. Miss Rocky a lot.”
“Rocky miss Grace a lot,” I mumble, and the alien flicks its attention back to me.
“Yes,” the alien says. Its claw curls slightly on top of me, then spasms. With pain, I assume.
“Will – will be alone more,” the alien says. “Will tell Rocky, Grace is okay. Rocky spend many years again with – with Adrian and friends. Rocky not be scared again.”
Its light receptors are getting damp. Its circulatory organ thumps faster.
I’m made of minerals, not actual stone. I sigh, and lift my carapace a bit, so that the alien’s claw is held higher than its circulatory organ. Logic dictates that if its claw is elevated it will not fill with liquids so fast, and the swelling will be reduced. Gravity is less forgiving on the alien than the rest of us.
I have a suspicion that even gravity would sneer at me for how I’ve behaved, however. I wasn’t raised to be cruel to pathetic creatures. Especially when they leak without meaning to and break with mild handling. Small wonder Rocky behaves so erratically now. They were put in charge of keeping this wisp alive and mostly sane for years.
“Rocky will spend many years with me,” I say, keeping my notes cautious. The alien sags even further, and I have to reach up to hold its claw to my carapace. I don’t want it to slide off and get another crack in it. I tap my claw gently against it, barely the pressure of a hatchling’s limb. “Rocky will also spend many years with you.”
The alien raises its top appendage. Leaking, still.
“Rocky is scared without you,” I confess, thinking of late nights dragging them back to the nest, only to let them scamper off as soon as I wake up, braying about ‘checking on Grace’. “It will – it will take time. For them to be okay without you. They are still healing.”
I haven’t really wanted to acknowledge that aspect of all this. It’s nicer to think that I can repair Rocky myself. I could have done it, years ago. Before the sun started losing heat. Everything changed when Rocky left, including Rocky, and including me.
“I’m sorry,” the alien says. It’s holding on to me on its own, now.
“Me too,” I say honestly. I scratch idly at the floor I designed. “But it’s not so bad. Rocky is alive. The world is saved.”
“Yes,” the alien says. It’s hunched into a sort of ball.
I’ve reassured it, but I still feel like I’ve made a mistake somewhere. The alien’s emotions are as complex as its biology.
“Rocky,” I begin, and I lose my nerve, before girding myself and ploughing on. It’s the right thing to do, to say, and it’s a truth that should make the alien feel better. “Rocky loves you.”
The alien makes a soft wheezing sound, which is also sort of wet. Standard for it, I suppose.
“I know,” the alien says, wiping at the liquid dripping from its top appendage. “I love Rocky too. So much.”
As do I, I think. Meaning all of this – the discomfort, the outbursts, the freakish thing beside me – is part and parcel of our relationship. I will learn to accept it. I will find a way to repair Rocky, even if I have to invent and build the tools to do so.
“This is good,” I say, tilting my carapace towards the alien, hoping it comes across as a display of amicability. “We are like – partners, then. In loving Rocky.”
The alien stops sniffling. “Uh. Uh, yes. Yes, question?”
“Yes,” I confirm, wondering if the alien is losing its cognition due to its injury. “This will be our mission. Like Rocky and Grace saving Erid.”
The alien wheezes again, but with fewer liquids and more air.
“Yes! That is – that is amaze!”
I huff through my vents at the colloquialism. The alien sounds ridiculous. But not in a totally stupid way. It is trying, after all.
“That is decided,” I say. “Now back to your broken joint.”
The alien tries to withdraw the offending limb, but I secure it in my claw.
“Ow,” the alien says, unconvincingly.
I huff again. Whatever cosmic force is testing my patience and commitment to my mate is cackling wildly, I’m sure of it.
“Robot,” I announce, “provide pain medicine. Now.”
The robot says something in a sing-song voice but does not produce any medicine.
The alien is making noise again. It covers its mouth-hole briefly when I tilt towards it.
“I have medicine in small – small form. Will take. Robot keep strong medicine for emergency.”
“Oh,” I say. I forgot the alien has to ration nearly everything. “Where is it? I will get.”
The alien’s top appendage rises in temperature. I hope to all that is mighty that it’s not getting sick or feverish or something.
“Thank – thank. It is in cupboard, under shelf.”
It points, and I amble over to retrieve a small box, which sounds like it’s full of loose gravel. I bring it back to the alien, who clumsily opens the box and picks out two tiny white capsules. It swallows them into its mouth-hole before I can ask what the administration procedure will be, and I skitter backwards, keening.
“What wrong?” The alien sounds panicky, scrambling up.
“Not wrong,” I say eventually, shaking off the chill that had crept all over me. “I’m sorry. I know your culture has different customs regarding eating. Rocky has explained.” I shiver again. “Ugh. Sorry.”
The alien wheezes in that weird way again. It doesn’t look frightened anymore, at least, and grabs its keyboard again.
“It okay. Rocky not mind. I forget it rude to others.”
“I will tolerate,” I say reluctantly, and the alien wheezes. I tap my claw curiously against the floor to study the sound. There are vocalisations involved. I am surprised to discover it may be laughter.
“Back!” I hear suddenly, and I traipse out of the infirmary. There are several bumps and taps and beeps, and then the whoosh of the airlock. The door whirs open and Rocky dashes inside, a bronze xenonite-alloy device hoisted high in their claw. “Adrian and Grace, I am back!”
“Hi Rocky!” the alien chirps, sounding much happier. I allow Rocky to brush a claw over my side as they pass, relishing the casual touch. It’s a greeting and gratitude for observing the alien all in one, I know, but I appreciate it nonetheless.
“Hi Grace, hello!” Rocky says excitedly, clambering up on the cot and curling half their limbs around the alien’s body. “You are okay, question? You are not in pain, question?”
“No,” the alien says, splitting its mouth hole at me. I’ve learned this is a good thing, even if it’s bizarre. “Adrian help. Get me pain medicine.”
Rocky trills a high, delighted tone, and I have the humility to feel a bit guilty about that. Rocky must have been worried I wouldn’t interact with the alien at all.
“Adrian is the best,” Rocky says, wiggling their claws at me, and I huff, embarrassed.
“Important you remember,” I mutter, tapping vaguely at the floor.
“Always remember.” Rocky knocks their carapace gently into the alien, then jumps off the cot and approaches me. “Adrian is kind and caring. Adrian is patient.”
I rumble a bit, a vibration through my core. I like it when Rocky reminds me of the old days. During our adolescence they would take every opportunity to make me purr from compliments.
“Thank you for observing,” Rocky says quietly. “I am sorry for shouting earlier. I am sorry –,”
Rocky sinks their carapace lower than my own. “I am sorry if you were scared.”
I do love them. It makes staying grouchy very, very hard.
I bat at their limbs until they stand up properly again. “Not scared. Worried.”
“I am sorry.”
“Better now,” I admit, stroking at their marriage mark, a mirror to mine. “You are okay, I am okay. Alie – Grace,” I correct swiftly, tipping in the direction of the long-limbed leaker. “Grace also okay. Whole –,” I breathe steadily. The mission. “Whole family okay.”
Rocky’s carapace practically levitates. The alien, Grace, gets moist. It is very predictable.
“Yes!” Rocky yells, bumping me and furniture and climbing up to nearly flatten Grace with their wheeling limbs. “Whole family, our whole family is safe!”
Grace curves his upper limbs around Rocky, and then Rocky beckons me closer, which means I have to do a lot of redirecting traffic to ensure neither of us ends up crushing Grace’s bad claw or Grace himself by accident. That would certainly ruin the general elation.
“Thank,” Grace says, his soft claw patting me tenderly. “Thank, thank, thank.”
I pat it back. My parents are going to go ballistic when they learn they have a new species added to our lineage records.
Oh well. They’ll get used to it. I know I will.