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Eva Stratt had not coughed up any of the flowers, but she knew they were there.
She could feel them in every itch of her throat, in the urge to cough that she swallowed back down every time she talked to Grace.
It wasn’t much of a concern, really. She’d had worse colds before. As the one leading the Petrova Taskforce, she was well aware of Hanahaki disease and how it functioned. Its risk factors were at the top of the list of things they screened potential Project Hail Mary astronauts for – an ordinary emotionally volatile situation on Earth was already enough to trigger the onset of the illness in those susceptible to it, let alone the isolation of being eleven light years from home with no way to return. They couldn’t risk it.
So, she and her team had done all of the much needed research on this topic, and she knew enough to know she was going to be alright. The flowers fed on the yearning for what could be, the desire for a love one could not have. She simply had to shut down any such affection in herself, close her mind off from the kind of sentimentality that would give room for the plants to grow. She was already good at distancing herself to stop personal relations from interfering with doing what she needed to do, for Earth, for humanity. What was one more foolish wish for a world where Ryland Grace could be the name of someone she cared about instead of just an astrophage expert she worked with? She could put this aside, just like she had everything else that got in the way of saving the Sun.
Grace pulled her aside, one time. He said her voice sounded rough and asked if she was okay. She told him it was just a cold and it would pass, which was functionally the truth. It didn’t need to be anything more than that.
He didn’t need to know that the fact he was the only one to notice – or at least, the only one to bring it up – made her chest feel so tight.
He didn’t need to know how much effort her lie took; not saying the words themselves, but suppressing the ugly fit of coughs that threatened to escape afterwards.
He didn’t need to know about the stab of pain in her lungs when he believed that lie so easily.
He didn’t need to know any of that, because it was irrelevant. She was Director of the Project and he was its astrophage specialist, and that was enough. They didn’t need to be more than that to anyone.
Certainly not to each other.
DuBois and Shapiro were dead, Grace refused to go on the mission, and Eva couldn’t breathe.
She knelt on the floor of her office – door locked so nobody could see her, of course – forceful coughs ceaselessly wracking her body. All of it was a futile attempt to dislodge the knot right around her heart that radiated agonising pain with every breath.
Eva knew what needed to be done. What she needed to do to Grace. But while she could easily deal with the mere disappointment of their situation not allowing any personal closeness… Having to betray him was something entirely different.
Another wave of coughs shook her shoulders. The tightness in her chest she knew to be petals stuck in her airways would not budge.
Grace would wake up in space, so far from Earth, with the weight of saving the whole world on his shoulders. Saving a home he could never return to. And his last memory of it would be Eva betraying his trust.
Her chest seized again and a blinding pain shot through Eva’s body. She felt lightheaded. Why did her mouth taste of iron?
He will only ever think of you as his killer. He will never forgive you.
He will hate you.
Petals bunched up in the back of her throat, making her gag. She spat them out onto the floor and laughed bitterly when she saw their long, thin, yellow form within the bloody phlegm. Of course that’s what they would be, even the flowers reminding her of the inevitable.
Sunflowers for the man who would go on to save the Sun. Their golden hue the same as that of the wings on the astronauts’ suit, given to them as a badge of honour, and as an acknowledgement of the fact they would not be coming home.
How cruelly fitting.
After managing to reduce her panicked gasps for air to strained, wheezy but stable breaths, Eva sat with her back to the wall and weighed her options.
Staying this sick was out of the question. Not for her own sake – she would choke out the order to sedate Grace between coughing fits, grit her teeth and oversee the launch in agonising pain, if needed. But if word got out about the state she was in, it could call into question her ability to lead this mission. Her critics were already loud as it was, and she didn’t want to add fuel to the fire so close to the launch. Worst case scenario, if trust in her capabilities plummeted, she could be forcibly replaced by another leader to bring the mission to completion. And she knew others would not make the choice to send Grace on the Project so easily, held back by their ideals of morality even though none of that mattered anymore when the whole of humanity’s fate was at stake. No, they needed her on this mission.
Also… if her body could betray her like this, so could her mind, in this compromised state. Deep down, Eva was afraid she would look into Grace’s eyes, her chest would feel heavy with that ache that was part the illness but part just pure heartbreak, and she wouldn’t be able to make the call. She’d back out from the single most important choice she’d ever have to make, dooming the Project to failure and the people of Earth to a slow and painful death, all because of a personal weakness. And that thought was the most terrifying of them all.
Therefore, the two possibilities known to alleviate Hanahaki symptoms remained.
One: confess and find out the subject of your affection does love you. Impossible in her case when the illness stemmed from her knowing the consequences of a truly terrible decision she inevitably had to make. Grace would hate her if she went through with this, which she needed to. No room for negotiation here.
Two: surgical removal of the flowers. Risks upon risks – the dangers inherent to any such procedure, as well as the amnesia induced by this specific operation weren’t to be taken lightly. But, considering the alternatives, it seemed to be the only way forward.
She picked up her phone and dialed a number with a trembling hand.
“Get the world’s leading experts on Hanahaki disease surgery here by tomorrow,” she said instead of a greeting when Dr. Lamai, the Taskforce’s medical expert picked up the phone. Speaking felt like razor blades against her raw vocal cords.
The other end of the line was silent for a moment.
“…Director?” the doctor finally spoke after the pause. “Is everything alri—“
“That is an order,” Eva interrupted, ignoring the question. She wasn’t sure if it was her voice sounding off or the strange request that prompted it. Probably both. “And strictly confidential. Hanahaki surgeons, here by tomorrow, and not one word of this to a single person. Thank you.”
She hung up before Dr. Lamai could respond or ask further. Leaning against the wall she sighed deeply, the act still taking far more energy than it should and the end of her exhale morphing into a few painful coughs.
Then, she stood up, slowly walked to her desk, and sat down to write the last thing she would ever write as someone who knew the man named Ryland Grace.
The doctors had arrived, and Eva was doing her best to focus on her meeting with them. It was just so hard when every breath took tremendous effort. Even when she wasn’t in an acute coughing fit, her body was still reacting to the foreign bodies inside her airways, constricting them and producing a quiet but still audible wheeze on every inhale. It hurt, and such a basic act requiring so much energy filled her body with an exhaustion previously unimaginable.
“…possibilities. Director Stratt?”
Eva jumped a little hearing her name. Realising she’d zoned out, she shook her head to try to shift her focus to reality instead of the burning feeling of her body begging for oxygen. The three surgeons, whose names she had forgotten already, looked at her expectantly, presumably waiting for an answer to a question she did not process.
Sorry, she croaked out, then cleared her throat when the mucus and petals didn’t let her speak.
“I’m sorry,” she tried again. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
The East Asian woman sitting closest to her gave a sad, sympathetic smile.
“I was asking to confirm if you are sure about the operation. You haven’t yet confessed, which is the standard first course of action for Hanahaki cases. This is because, with the demands of your role as Director, taking the time and emotional energy required for such a conversation wasn’t possible, right?”
“Correct.”
It was only a partial truth, as even if she and Grace could both afford to have a heart-to-heart it would change nothing in the end. Eva wasn’t sure if the doctor’s following moment of silence was her picking up on that omission of truth – it wasn’t like she could talk about her plan to make Grace the third crew member against his will, of course – or if she was carefully trying to choose how to say what she wanted to say next.
“I hold nothing but respect for your work on the Project,” the surgeon finally spoke and her two colleagues nodded too. “However, I must ask if you’ve considered stepping down. Of course, a change in leadership so close to the launch would no doubt be challenging, but…“
She paused. Probably considering how to politely tell the currently single most powerful person in the world that she’s too much of a mess to do her job.
“It isn’t advised to work with such an advanced form of the illness in general, let alone in a high-pressure role like yours,” she finally settled on. “Perhaps you could better focus on healing with that weight off your shoulders. As for the operation, though the physical effects and recovery time would be negligible with our minimally invasive thoracoscopy technology, the amnesia side effect still occurs in about ninety-five percent of patients.“
Good, Eva almost said. It’s better if I don’t remember who I’m killing. She swallowed down a cough at the thought.
“I have accounted for that,” she replied instead. Behind her, on the desk, lay her letter of explanation to herself, and also any documents related to Grace’s part of the project that she could need as a reminder if any important facts are lost as collateral damage alongside her memories of him. “Thank you for going over my options. I’ve already considered them, and I choose surgical removal of the flowers.”
The three surgeons looked at each other, concern apparent in their gaze, but their silent conversation seemed to end on the note that the word of the Head of the Petrova Taskforce was final, no matter how much they disagreed.
“I see,” said another surgeon, a British man with a deep voice. “In that case, please remove your sweatshirt so we can start an IV in preparation for the surgery. An operating room will be ready for the procedure soon.”
Eva complied, and despite the pain she let out a small sigh of relief. It was going to be over soon.
The next day, Stratt stared at the strange piece of paper that had appeared on her desk. It was a handwritten note, on the back side of a printed document detailing something about tests related to astrophage. The ink was a bit smudged – it was clearly written in a rush.
To Director Stratt of the future,
You do not remember having written this, and you do not remember the reason you had to forget. This is how it should be. That reason was hindering your ability to act in the best interest of humanity, much like the astrophage dim the vital rays of the Sun; and so just as those pests it needed to be eliminated, whatever the cost. Do not ask anybody or try to find out the reason otherwise.
You have a meeting today with Dr. Ryland Grace, who you also don't remember. He is the leading astrophage expert of the Petrova Taskforce and will be the third crew member of Project Hail Mary – the meeting is to convince him to willingly accept this role, or to instruct the medical team to forcibly induce his coma early if needed for his compliance with the plan.
Do not hesitate to make that call if necessary. You cannot allow one man's cowardice or your own weakness to stand in the way of the only hope of mankind.
— Eva Stratt
Stratt frowned. As the letter said, she had no recollection of having penned the words, and yet they were undoubtedly in her own handwriting. Every line and stroke held her characteristic angular style. She could even pinpoint the exact pen on her desk that was used from the colour and thickness of the writing, but no matter how much she stared at it no memories of having held it in her own hand resurfaced. The loss of control over her own mind of all things terrified her.
It felt wrong to blindly put her trust in a piece of paper while her mind was drawing a complete blank. In fact, wrong was an incredible understatement when Stratt was being asked – by her past self, apparently – to essentially commit murder, based on nothing but faith in a few paragraphs scribbled on the back of a report in ballpoint pen ink while recalling absolutely none of the thought process that led to this decision.
But… doing anything else would mean disregarding the clear and explicit instructions spelled out for her. If there was a person on Earth whose judgement she trusted, it was her own – with the responsibility that came with her position, one couldn’t afford to doubt or second-guess themselves. So when Eva Stratt from however-long-ago said all of these things as if they were fact and claimed there was nobody better for the mission than a man who needed to be forced to go, she had no choice but to believe herself.
The emphasis on the last paragraph was the only thing she didn’t understand. Not the words themselves, but that they needed to be said at all. If this was truly needed to find a solution, then why would she ever hesitate?
Therefore, Stratt called Dr. Grace to her office, and informed the medical team of what they would need to do if the conversation had the expected outcome. Of the only choice that made sense to make.
Honestly, even the implication she would hesitate to make a decision that proved to be necessary was insulting.
When the Hail Mary launched on the planned date against all odds, Stratt watched the ship disappear into the sky with a smile. She did not remember Dr. Grace, but she knew she’d trusted him once before, and that was enough.
She knew whoever he was, he would figure it out.