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‘I’m sorry, but you just can’t talk me into it.’
Stratt looks at him; takes in the set of his shoulders, the way his throat trembles as he swallows. She believes him. She can’t talk him into it.
‘Very well, Dr Grace,’ she says.
He relaxes visibly, shoulders descending a full inch from his ears. ‘Thank you,’ he croaks.
She nods. Not because she agrees with him, but because she must. She had always suspected that he’d say no. She’d hoped he wouldn’t, but hope only gets you so far.
And the fact of the matter is this – the doctors need him calm.
‘The coma’s much more likely to be effective if the patient is relaxed.’
It is Dr Lamai who brings it up when Stratt goes to her; Stratt hasn’t even mentioned Grace. But Lamai, like most of the people working on Project Hail Mary, is clever.
‘What if the patient is sedated first? Before the coma drugs are administered?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Unnecessary stress before the brain shuts down can lead to more chances of the coma being unsuccessful.’
Read: deadly.
Deadly is no good to Stratt. She needs Grace alive, at least until…until…
‘What about pills?’ she asks. They say poison is a woman’s art. ‘Something…subtle.’
Lamai shakes her head. ‘They wouldn’t be as compatible. We’d have to wait for them to wear off completely before we administered the coma drug, and then…’
‘Then we’d be back to where we started.’
‘Yes.’
Lamai’s lips are tight and grey. For once, Stratt is grateful to be dancing around the edges of a topic; no names, no finalities. It’s all hypothetical. For now.
Oh, she knows what she is asking – of Lamai, of Grace, of all of them. But she can only play the cards fate has dealt her, and just because she’s been given a shitty hand doesn’t mean she can quit the game.
‘Show me,’ Stratt says.
Lamai raises an eyebrow. ‘You?’
‘Yes.’
Her tone doesn’t brook any argument; she doesn’t add a please. Besides, whatever happens, it will be on her orders. She is not the kind of person to demand anything that she isn’t willing to do herself, if it’s within her power.
So, Lamai shows her. How to prep a needle, use a needle. Stratt practices ten, twenty times – on an orange, of all items, a soft, unhurtable thing. By the end, she’s a natural.
Stratt stands up from her desk. She has people outside, just in case, but it’s better this way. Better for him, though she knows he wouldn’t agree. She needs the coma to succeed. She needs him. Earth needs him.
As she gets to her feet, she uses the movement to disguise the way she works the safety tip off the needle hidden in her pocket.
Grace doesn’t get up. He sits watching her, waiting for instructions, perhaps a dismissal. No doubt he still feels guilty for letting her down, despite his relief, but mostly she thinks that he just trusts her. The fact he’d come here at all is testimony to that – a lot of other people would have worked it out before now, tried to run. Not that he would have got away if he had.
She snakes her hand around his shoulder. ‘Hold still,’ she says. ‘There’s something…’
He lets her get close; no questions, no confusion. They’ve been in each other’s space a lot over the last few months, hunched over screens, sharing microphones in crowded conference rooms. Once, towards the start of the project, he’d touched her face – for a moment, she’d thought he was trying to flirt with her, and the notion had been so absurd that she hadn’t even bothered to push him away – but in the end he had only removed a spider that had found its way into her hair. Not squashed it, but cupped it in his hand and gently, gently escorted it away.
Let him think that there’s something on his face, in his eye. Let him not notice.
He twists a little as she gets the needle into position, perhaps sensing the presence of something behind him. She moves quickly, puts her other hand to his chin, holding him in place. She’d kiss him if she thought it would work, but she suspects it would only upset him.
‘Just hold still,’ she murmurs. ‘I nearly have it.’
He’s growing suspicious, but the trust is stronger, holds him that moment longer. A moment is all she needs – she angles the needle to the place where his neck meets his shoulder and pushes down.
‘Ah!’ he gasps. ‘What…’
‘Just a wasp,’ she says, the lie falling onto her tongue with discomfiting ease. She drops the needle, which doesn’t make a sound as it hits the carpet, and smooths out the place where his clothes meet his skin. ‘I think it stung you. I’m sorry.’
I’m sorry.
She still has hold of his chin with her other hand, his beard rough against her fingertips. It should be strange, but it feels natural; Grace is tactile, as people go, and he simply stays where he is, looking up at her. She almost wishes that he’d fight. It would make more sense, for this to be harder than it is.
When the drug kicks in he does, at last, notice that something is wrong; a flash comes over his eyes, a deer-swift panic, and his muscles tense. But he doesn’t move away from her.
‘I’m…’ he murmurs. ‘I’m not feeling…’
His voice is already slurred. His hand comes up to her arm, grasping – seeking help from her, of all people.
‘It’s okay,’ she says, crouching down and taking his face in both her hands. ‘I have you.’
She can’t tell if he’s guessed; his eyes are already too glassy for her to read his expression. He blinks once, twice. Each blink seems to take an hour, his pupils losing their ability to focus until he’s looking through her, to a place she’ll never reach.
The third time he opens his eyes, she can only see the whites – and then he’s gone, slumping sideways, his hand dropping where it had clasped her arm, though it leaves a patch of warmth behind.
She drops her hands from his face to catch him – it isn’t hard, he’s still seated – and tilts him to rest against the chair’s back. His head lolls horribly, so she keeps one hand to it, reaching for her phone with the other.
‘It’s done,’ she says after dialing. ‘Come and get him.’
They’ll be in the room in seconds, but she stays with Grace anyway. She keeps one eye on the needle on the floor, to make sure she doesn’t accidentally tread on it later, but she doesn’t move towards it. Picking it up now would mean letting go of Grace’s head, and she won’t do that.
I have you, she had said. It hadn’t been a lie.