Chapter Text
Another cold day. Hardly worth commenting on, at this point. But it feels sharper every day, and Eva Stratt can’t tell if it’s just the astrophage or the age beyond even her increasing years settling into her trembling, aching bones. The sharp ocean winds bite through her clothes like icy dead dog’s teeth. Her gaze is fixed upon the sky, cloudless and blue, and the object hurtling through the atmosphere, just now visible.
NASA had given Stratt’s Vat (the name stuck) the information about the object and its trajectory, then left them to their own devices about interpreting and acting on this data. They didn’t really need the information, having “acquired” some telescopes and other space monitoring equipment in the post-launch fallout. Nice to know they still count on me to shoulder the burden, Stratt thinks bitterly, but her heart isn’t in it. She had a job to do. She’d stopped being angry before she’d even let herself begin to feel.
The timing of the object was part of the oddity. It was far too early for it to be the Beetles. Even if the crew hit Tau Ceti’s orbit and immediately sent them back, they still wouldn’t be back for a good five years. And premature launch was heavily safeguarded against in the ship itself, and the crew couldn’t have been awake five years early. Hopefully. She’d deal with that if it came to it. It was a drop in the bucket of dread she had slung over her shoulder. She’d done everything she could. If she had to pick up the pieces of ruin, so be it.
The other part, the part that made the timing so odd, was the trajectory. The object was headed straight for Point Nemo, the planned retrieval site for the Beetles, as well as most other returns to Earth. It was too perfect. Whatever it was, it was intentional.
The object pierces the sky with a sound like a thousand screaming thunderclaps. Even with Stratt’s Vat stationed close to fifteen kilometers away, and the sheer mass of the aircraft carrier, the force of the impact budges the ship ever so slightly. Not even close to enough to make Stratt lose her footing. She makes eye contact with the captain, gives a curt nod, and they swiftly approach.
The smell hits all of them first, the wind carrying it directly towards them. It’s like the stench of burning hair, but saltier, meatier. Stratt doesn’t recognize it when the first hints of the odor find her. It’s only when the ship is close enough to the floating object to see the mangled parachute floating around it, close enough to send the weaker men scrambling to vomit over the sides of the ship, that she understands. That’s the smell of burning flesh and blood.
“Haul it aboard!” Stratt calls out, and the ones who were done being sick snap into action. Soon the deck is filled with the clamor of chains and shouting, almost enough to drown out the smell. Not enough, however, to drown out Stratt’s thoughts. That’s a human vessel, certainly. It looks quite similar to anything else of the same usage in form, but not in material. Even past the burns from reentry, and the thick streaks of organic material, the hull is a patchwork of different metal colors and finishes. It’s a miracle it’s intact.
The smell gets stronger as the vessel is dragged, metal on tarmac, onto the deck. Stratt finds the smell easier to get used to than the cold.
The sea of people parts for her as she approaches. One of them, a NASA deserter, comes a bit closer to point out the access hatch.
“Open it,” she replies flatly.
The man wavers. “Are you sure? We have no idea what could be inside it-”
Stratt cuts him off. “It’s a human vessel, and it’s the end of the world. We’re opening it.”
None of them would be here if they weren’t loyal to her. Her word was law, the only ones applicable this far out.
Waving over a few of the biologists that remained in Stratt’s Vat, she instructs them over the newfound clamor to collect as many samples as they can from the hull. That is organic material, and any organic material from space is a possible threat.
Stratt retreats to give them room to work without circumnavigating her like opposing magnets. She allows herself a brief moment to reflect on how Grace would have loved this, or at least have something to say. He’d definitely have something to say. But for now, all that can be done is Stratt observing them.
At first, she’s grateful to be snapped out of it. But the intrusion into her thoughts is screaming. She rushes back over, busy again, as she must be. “What the hell is going on?!” she yells. She can’t make out any clear phrases in the din, until a voice cries out, “Somebody’s in there!”
That makes no sense. Humans haven’t sent anyone to space since the Hail Mary. Stratt has enough spies to know that. And this is not a part of the Hail Mary.
Stratt has to shove her way past the crowd of frozen onlookers, oblivious to her being there. She can see now that the hatch has been opened, and what had to be hundreds of gallons of thick, semi-congealed blood have poured out of it into a puddle on the deck. And there, revealed by the draining fluid, is a person.
No one acts, either put off by the sight or unwilling to touch the blood. Stratt’s barked orders force them out of the stupor. “That’s a person. We have to get them out of there.” There’s only a heartbeat of hesitation from only some of them. Then they’re scrambling around the pool of blood, trying to get leverage to climb inside. Stratt watches to make sure they’ve begun to release her from the straps in her seat before whipping around shouting more commands. To the biologists, “You! Get more samples of this, as much as you can. We’re going to have to clean this biohazard as soon as possible, so work fast.” To the medics, “You! Get the person’s vitals as soon as you can. You! Get something to put them on. And you! Gather every supply we have on board.” To Carl, who had rushed over at the commotion, then to Stratt at the news of a person being found, “Carl! Get me my coffees.” She raised her voice, “TO EVERYONE ELSE. GET A GODDAMN MOP.”