Wolfees

Grace cleared his throat, reaching for his mug of coffee for something to soothe the tickle residing back there. His fingers grasped against ceramic, pulling it toward his mouth. Tipping the mug yielded nothing and Grace blinked, taken out of his work by the unexpected lack of hot, blessed coffee. 

“Why?” Grace whispered mournfully. 

“Grace ask question?” Rocky trilled. 

Rocky was working on his own thing, something tedious and small and made of out xenonite. He was still a little sickly from the exposure to Grace’s atmosphere and Grace liked that he was taking the time to rest. Both of them were in a way as Grace was working on his taumobea farms as his arm healed. 

“I’m out of coffee,” Grace answered. 

Rocky made an uninterested noise and went back to crafting. 

It was just as well that Grace took a break. His eyes hurt from staring under the microscope for so long. He was collecting additional data on the taumobea. He wanted to know their life cycle, how fast they doubled and the factors that inhibited their growth. He’d write a paper about it—not that anyone would read it, but academic habits die hard—when he was finished to store in Mary’s memory banks. 

He stood, rubbing a hand along his sternum. His arm burned, angry at Grace’s refusal to take painkillers. They made him stupid, and clumsy. Stupider and clumsier, as Rocky would say. But the pain was distracting in its own way. It sapped his energy and made him grouchy. His chest was tight also, and Grace winced as he walked, each breath he took fighting him. 

He reached Armando and handed the mug over. “Serve it up,” he said, then asked specifically for coffee when the robot didn’t respond. 

“I miss baristas,” Grace mumbled, remembering the tiny indie coffee shop around the corner to his apartment. He’d commit crimes for a cappuccino, but instant coffee would have to do. 

Rocky had followed him at a slower pace, settling next to Grace as he slumped against the wall and took a sip of too-hot coffee. It was perfect. He drank half in three big gulps. 

“Grace drink too fast, going to choke.” 

Grace just laughed, coughing when his breath caught in his throat. 

“Rocky just say!”

Grace wanted to argue, but the coughing wasn’t ending. He handed Armando the mug again, pressing the heel of his hand against his chest. Rocky bumped up against his legs, and Grace patted the top of his ball, feeling bad for worrying him.

“I’m okay, Rock,” Grace wheezed out. The coughing had died down but it still felt a little hard to breathe. 

“Rocky say say say!” Rocky pouted. 

“I know, I’m sorry,” Grace said, continuing to pat the top of Rocky’s ball. He was rapidly growing lightheaded. 

“Grace chest sound weird.”

Grace’s chest felt weird. It was tight and he was struggling to breathe in a way that was becoming disconcerting. He wondered if he was allergic to something on the ship then, in a panic, wondered if there was something leaking into the atmosphere. 

“Something wrong with Grace, statement. Coffee problem question?”

“I don’t think so. That didn’t just go down the wrong pipe.”

He pushed off the wall, stumbling on unsteady footing to the cockpit so he could check Mary’s stats. 

“Where Rocky and Grace go question?”

“I want to check the atmosphere.”

There was a pause as Rocky processed. “Mary sick question?”

Grace shook his head, “For both our sakes, let’s hope not.”

It took him longer than usual to get up the ladder to the control room, but eventually he ascended the last rung and slumped into the pilot’s chair. 

The screen lit up and Grace pulled up the atmosphere data. He flicked through the saturation numbers —nitrogen, oxygen, carbon dioxide—and it was all normal. He was breathing with his mouth open now, wheezing with every inhale. 

Rocky bumped his ball against Grace’s legs. Even without the translation software (they’d gotten too far away from the laptop now) Grace could tell he was saying his name over and over. 

“The air’s fine,” Grace said to Rocky. He gripped the arms of the chair and levered himself up. If it wasn’t the atmosphere it was probably him, which meant he needed to see the nannybot. 

Rocky followed close behind him, which was fair, because the wooziness was not abating, and Grace was having to use the wall to guide him forward to the ladder to go down to the lab and then to the dormitory. He was tired of gravity, but he very well couldn’t breed taumobea in zero g, and even if he could, being slightly hypoxic was not the time to try and un-centrifuge Mary. 

The march was oddly silent, just the clunk of Rocky’s ball as it rotated and Grace’s heavy breathing. He missed the translation software immensely. His vision was beginning to waver, dimming along the edges. He needed to move quickly, or he was afraid what Rocky would do if he couldn’t make it himself. 

He wouldn’t let Rocky sacrifice himself a second time. 

By the time he finally reached the ladder, he was flagging. There was nothing better for it. Rocky wouldn’t like it, but it was the only way. “Don’t hurt yourself trying to keep up with me,” he said behind his shoulder and Rocky’s answering trill of his name was equal parts confusion and concern 

It would be just like going down a fireman’s pole. Except Grace wasn’t a fireman, and he was afraid of elevators, let alone free falling. He just wouldn’t think about it. He gripped the sides of the ladder and stepped off, putting the tips of his shoes along the sides, sliding down faster than he could climb. His palms ached at the friction and he didn’t have enough control to fully stop himself before the rungs ended a foot or so before the lab floor. 

He fell hard on his feet, the air shoved out of his lungs. He took a heaving gasp that did little to help and stumbled forward. One more ladder to go. 

Rocky was yelling behind him, too fast and frantic for the translation software, still in the lab where Grace had left it, to pick up. It was also possible they were words Grace hadn’t bothered to translate yet. He refused to code anything that felt like Rocky cursing him out, which he suspected was probable in this scenario. 

He grabbed the laptop and tucked it under one arm. He was barely breathing at this point, his chest so tight and full there was little Grace could force in or out. At the second ladder he tripped before he get situated and clanged down the shoot, hitting his shoulder and hip. It was going to be a hard landing.

“Grace!”

It was the last thing he heard before he hit the floor and the rest of his air went whooshing out with his awareness. 

He wasn’t out for long, unless the nannybot was slower than he remembered. There was a sting in one of his thighs and he was being moved rather urgently to the bed. 

Rocky had caught up with him, switching rapidly between concern and debasement. “Grace okay question? Grace stupid, not wait for Rocky. Grace too clumsy to climb ladder without help.”

“Rock,” he croaked. 

Rocky stopped for a second, and there was a melancholic noise the computer didn’t translate. “Grace no talk. Let nannybot look at chest.”

“I’m sorry.”

Rocky didn’t respond and Grace didn’t have a chance to continue before the nannybot fitted a mask over his nose. 

“Diagonsis: Asthma attack. Treatment: Epinephrine, administered. Albuterol to follow.”

So that was the sting in his leg. It made sense, sometimes epinephrine could force the lungs to let in more air. But Grace didn’t think he had asthma or at least couldn’t remember it. He’d gotten so many of his memories back, he wondered if this was one that was missing, or if it was new. How could someone contract asthma in space though?

“Diagonsis: Burns, healing. Treatment: Rest.”

The ammonia. It was possible for people to contract asthma after a respiratory infection, or a chemical exposure that damaged the lungs. Grace had taken in a whole lot of ammonia in rescuing Rocky. 

He looked to his alien companion. He was at the foot of the bed, and Grace got the sense that he was staring at him. He was rocking slowly, as if to self-soothe. 

“Grace shake.”

He was trembling all over. Probably the effects of the adrenaline and Albuterol. 

“Temporary,” Grace said as best he could around the mask. “It’s the medicine.”

Rocky tapped at the side of his ball, probably trying to get a better look at Grace. 

The medicine was doing its job. Grace could breathe again and his thoughts were not as clouded. He wanted to thank whoever thought to put Albuterol on the Hail Mary, then remembered it was probably Stratt, who never forgot a precaution. 

He let his eyes close briefly, basking in the sensation of the mist and the air he was finally getting into his lungs. He was still shaking, and he wished he had his quilt. He’d left it in the lab, where Rocky typically slept. He’d fetch it later, when he didn’t feel as liable to fall. 

Eventually, the mist began to slow. He was glad to be seeing this through to the other side. At least he knew the reason behind it now, and he was so thankful there wasn’t a failure in Mary’s life support. 

Asthma. He had asthma, which was common and treatable on earth. And yet, it meant this wasn’t the only time this would happen, probably. Asthma was weird. It could be a one-off, or it could be mild. But this was caused by a chemical exposure to ammonia, and Grace wasn’t that hopeful. He eyed Rocky, who was pacing as best he could in his ball. Grace was sick, was going to continue to be sick, just like Rocky’s crew. But he’d be fine, most likely. They had Albuterol on the ship and he was never too far from the nannybot. Still, he wasn’t looking forward to the conversation. 

“Grace sound better. Grace feel better, question?”

He nodded, pulling at the mask. The nannybot tried to follow his face as he moved it, but he swatted it back. “I’m doing better.”

Rocky made a happy noise then. “Nannybot amaze amaze amaze. Make Grace feel better. Grace done with mist question?”

He still felt a little wheezy, and the nannybot was not happy at his constant dodging of the Albuterol. “Not yet, but soon.”