Chapter 2: Gabbro

"So like… what's the probability of catastrophic hull failure, anyway?" Gabbro ventures.

Slate's tinny voice crackles through the signalscope. "Probably around… point-two-seven?"

"Oh, sweet. That's roughly a seventy percent chance we won't die."

"We can hear you, Gabbro," Chert says sourly, cutting into their feed. "And you're forgetting the return trip. With repeated warps, the success rate drops exponentially." Gabbro bites back a chuckle. Trust their resident astronomer to choose pedantry over reassurance.

"That's what makes it fun."

"Living in an enclosed space with you and Feldspar is going to be a joyous experience, I can already tell."

"That's why you have the option of breaking away," Slate says cheerfully. "It beats living on top of one another constantly. Just try not to drop the warp core into space, or fire it into the sun, or something."

That or something carries a lot of weight, given the myriad ways things can go wrong in space. But Gabbro keeps that thought to themself and finishes re-checking their safety harness. They're strapped firmly into their pilot's seat, cocooned in both their suit and the resinous shell of Traveler-4. It'll be a long wait for their turn to launch - they're the last one up, actually - which means plenty of time to avoid thinking about the danger ahead. No doubt Chert and Riebeck are busy catastrophizing while Feldspar gnaws their own fingers off in anticipation.

Rather than spend potentially their last hour on Timber Hearth agonizing, Gabbro lets their head fall back against the padding of their seat. They shut their eyes and think of all the poems they'll write, the first poems in a new solar system. Almost automatically, the words start coming to them.

A point of light, a mote of dust, adrift in-

"What are we waiting for?" demands Feldspar, scattering Gabbro's thoughts like sand in the wind.

"For The Attlerock to pass overhead," Hornfels says patiently. "And for a message from a certain moon-dweller…" Of course, Esker. Esker, who has been there from the beginning, watching the mission unfold from their lonely perch on The Attlerock.

"Howdy, spacefarers," Esker's voice, bursting with pride, fills the cockpit as the shadow of Timber Hearth's moon sweeps across the sky above the village. "Hoo-ee. This cycle has been a long time coming. Hard to believe it's actually here."

"Sorry you won't get to watch the launch," says Riebeck. While most launches happen within sight of the moon, the Traveler's orbit will keep them on the opposite side of the planet to allow for… complications.

"Don't you worry about that. I've got my little scout. But I also wanted to say thank you to the four of you. This mission is the culmination of every experiment, advancement, and sacrifice Outer Wilds Ventures has ever made. And we couldn't have picked a better crew." There's a chorus of agreement from Ground Control, and some sniffling that may or may not have been Riebeck. But Gabbro has stopped listening.

Sacrifice. Deep inside their spacesuit, around their neck, is a hearthoak acorn on a fiber cord. There are several insulating layers of marshtuber padding in the way, not to mention thick protective fabric, but if they close their eyes and place their bulky, gloved hand on their chest, they can imagine they feel it resting there, just over their heart.

·◊◊◊·

Things move quickly, once the sky is clear. There's a moment of muffled conversation between Hornfels and the rest of Ground Control, and then the all-clear, followed by the roar of engines as Riebeck's ship lifts off. Gabbro can't actually see it from their position, but the ground-shaking noise and the flash of orange-yellow fire is unmistakable. Then they catch a glimpse of a speck speeding across the sky. A few seconds later, it disappears in the haze of Timber Hearth's atmosphere.

The signalscope falls silent as everyone - Ground Control, the astronauts, Esker - wait with bated breath. Then, after several tense minutes, Riebeck comes through, loud and clear.

"Traveler-1 is in position. I'm in orbit, and the warp core is stable. I'm ready to receive Traveler-2."

There's a scattering of applause, and suddenly, something bordering on euphoria floods Gabbro's body, fizzing down their spine, filling their hearts with joy. Wow, this is really happening. We're really doing this.

"Feldspar, you're up next," Hornfels says, and there's no hiding the pure excitement in their voice now, the morning's drama apparently forgotten. "Safe travels."

Feldspar's engines drown them out before they can even finish. Gabbro fidgets in their pilot seat, eager to get up there and join them. It's like this every launch - curdling nerves and an excruciating wait and then the endless, wondrous embrace of space.

"Traveler-2 approaching Traveler-1." Feldspar's all business now that they're in their element. "Getting ready to dock. Hold onto your ass, Riebeck!" Well, almost.

Minutes tick by, punctuated by the occasional muffled clunk as Feldspar maneuvers their ship into position. It's a delicate procedure, matching velocity and letting the coupling mechanism do its job, but Feldspar can be careful, when they want to be.

"Traveler-2 docked!" Feldspar announces triumphantly, and this time the applause is loud enough to make Gabbro's signalscope receiver cut out. They grin and punch the air, sharing in this moment of glory. Soon enough, it'll be their turn.

Chert's up next. They barely say a word when Hornfels gives the all-clear for takeoff. They've been quiet during the whole launch, come to think of it. Gabbro cranes their neck to catch a glimpse of Traveler-3 as it hurtles through the atmosphere.

"Traveler-3 on approach. Preparing to dock." It's good to hear their voice, though they sound strained. Gabbro doesn't blame them - it's one thing to practice docking in Gossan's simulations, but quite another to do it in a real ship, in real space. With your very real friends in their very real ships counting on you. There's nothing Gabbro can do now but sit back and wait for the celebration.

It doesn't come.

Instead there's a dull scraping sound , and Chert lets out a huff of frustration. "It's not coupling! Why isn't it coupling?" More metallic scraping, and the frantic tak-tak of Chert's hands on the controls.

"Easy, bud. Your angle's probably off by a couple of degrees. Back off and try it again." Feldspar says steadily, as if they're talking them through building a model ship and not performing complicated maneuvers in low orbit. This, Gabbro has to admit, is what makes them a natural choice to lead the mission. In times of crisis, nothing beats their laser-sharp focus.

You've got this, they think, gazing up into the sky, as if they can help Chert with the power of thought alone. Oh how Hornfels would scoff at them, if they knew.

Seconds stretch into minutes. Gabbro's fingers drum on their instrument panel. Tak-tak-tak goes Chert's controls. Someone in Ground Control clears their throat. Then, a loud clunk, and a shaky sigh of relief from Chert. "Traveler-3 successfully docked."

In the applause that follows, Gabbro switches their signalscope to Chert's private frequency. It's a big no-no, especially during launch, but what's Hornfels going to do, ground them? Not a chance.

"Hey," they say softly. "Well done. I never doubted you for a second."

"Thanks," replies Chert, a little breathlessly. Then, almost shyly, "I'll see you soon."

·◊◊◊·

"Ready to launch, Gabbro?" If Gabbro didn't know Hornfels was simply following protocol, they'd burst out laughing. They've been ready for an hour. A year.

"Ready. By the way, I left a new poem in the Quantum Grove. So you can all think of me while I'm gone."

"Great, now Hal and Mica will go traipsing all over for months looking for it instead of working," Hornfels says drily. "Thanks for that. The Attlerock just passed overhead again, by the way, so it's your turn to shine. You're clear to launch."

And just like that, Gabbro is back where they belong; at the helm of an oversized, glorified barrel strapped to several incredibly powerful rockets. They soak in the feel of their engines spooling up beneath them, the resistance of the controls beneath their hands. They slam their vertical thrusters on full, the engines screaming, Timber Hearth's greedy hold on the ship pressing them into their seat. Tremors shake the cockpit. The vibrations set Gabbro's teeth abuzz. Then the blue haze falls away, and velvety black night enfolds them. They flick the thrusters off. Immediately, an otherworldly quiet falls upon the cockpit. Through the viewport, distant stars dance, and The Attlerock disappears around the gentle curve of the planet, just as The Traveler appears on the opposite side, catching the glint of sunlight as it approaches.

It's a thing of beauty, this orbital dance they've perfected, and Gabbro knows they should say something profound. They're a poet after all, and everyone expects it. But this - this. This perfect image, spread out before them. It's moments like these that make the harsh training and risk worth it.

And suddenly words feel inadequate.

"Gabbro?" Chert ventures. "Is everything alright?"

Gabbro swallows the lump in their throat. "Yeah, Chert. I'm… great. Stellar." They ease their rear thrusters into life, steering their ship towards the Traveler. "Traveler-4 approaching, and preparing to dock."

Gabbro can understand where Chert ran into difficulties; the ships are designed to couple in combinations of two, three and four, the docking mechanism forming a central point around which each ship is connected. The entry hatches face inward, so that once the inner space is pressurized, the astronauts will be able to come and go as they please.

In Gossan's simulations, all one had to do was match velocity, then inch close enough for the coupling mechanism to do the rest, delicately enough that the impact didn't knock the whole vessel askew. In orbit, one has to match velocity, then inch close enough for the coupling mechanism to do the rest, delicately enough that the impact doesn't knock the whole vessel askew, while falling at a near-constant rate toward one's home planet. That last qualifier does, in fact, change things.

Gabbro breathes slowly and deeply, one pair of eyes glued to their instrument panel and the other to their landing camera as the Traveler gets steadily larger on their screen. Inside their suit, sweat trickles between their shoulder blades. They grit their teeth and ignore it. Can't reach it anyway, and they need both hands on the controls.

"You're almost there." Chert's whispering, even though they're using Gabbro's private frequency. Gabbro would definitely tease them for it if they weren't otherwise occupied. "I can see you in my landing camera. You're aligned. Just a little closer."

Galvanized, Gabbro taps the thrusters one last time, the barest breath of power that sends Traveler-4 straight into the grasp of the coupling mechanism. There's an odd, echoing clunk as the ship docks. And it's done, each of the Traveler's parts locked together in a firm embrace.

"Traveler-4, docked." They stretch their arms above their head, easing away the tension. They're glad no-one can see the way their hands are shaking.

"Well done, Gabbro." That's Hornfels, over the applause from the others.

"Ah, it was hatchling's play." Then, on their private frequency, "So, hated that. Let's never do it again."

Chert laughs, and it's the best thing Gabbro's heard all day. "Good luck with that."

·◊◊◊·

Ground Control had argued for cycles about whether it was a good idea to warp the Traveler from orbit. On second thought, argued is a poor choice of words for the battle that spilled out into the rest of the village. Sides were taken. Friendships were tested. Sapwine was spilt. Gabbro had opted to keep out of it, partly because the endless debate was exhausting, and partly because both sides had a point.

In one camp - Hornfels, Slate and Rutile's camp - Nomai technology still lay somewhere in the vast unknowable category of things Hearthians don't fully understand yet. They knew what the warp core did, and how to power it, but aside from some low-powered, short-distance experiments, they hadn't actually used it yet. So experimental data was scarce, especially when it came to questions like "will it blow up?" and "will it take our whole planet with it?"

In the other camp - Gossan, Esker, Gneiss and Tektite - if the warp should Go Wrong, and the astronauts find themselves stranded in space without a functional ship, it would be easier to mount a rescue if they were already in the vicinity. Besides, there were at least a few bodies of water on Timber Hearth they could aim for, if it came to that.

In the end, Rutile had called for a vote, and the potential fates of the four astronauts had won out over the concerns of planetary annihilation. Which was terrifying, but also rather hearts-warming.

·◊◊◊·

Now that the docking is complete, Gabbro can relax. As much as they can while strapped into their pilot's seat, about to warp into deep space, anyway. They think longingly of the rolled-up hammock stashed in the cargo net above them. Over the signalscope, Hornfels and Riebeck keep up a steady back-and-forth.

"Is the core stable?"

"Stable core, check."

"And the solar crystals connected?"

"Solar crystals, check."

"And did you enter the coordinates correctly?"

"Coordinates, check and double-check."

"Is everyone secured in their seats? That includes you, Feldspar." There is a chorus of checks from the other astronauts, and a strange calm descends. This is it. No turning back, even if they wanted to.

"Alright." Hornfels' sigh is barely audible, but Gabbro catches it all the same. But they don't have time to wonder what that means because Stars above, this is it, we're going to warp! "When you're ready, power on the warp core."

"Yesss!" Feldspar would be bouncing off the bulkhead if they weren't strapped in. "We were hatched ready! Hit it, Riebeck!"

Nothing happens at first. No, not nothing - there's a sound, barely at the edges of Gabbro's perception. What starts as a barely audible whine rises in pitch and intensity as the atmosphere in the cabin changes, and takes on a curious weight. The Traveler shudders as the sound gets louder, and their skin prickles with the feeling of a hundred tiny thistles. There's a low, metallic groan from the direction of the docking hub.

"Um, is the ship meant to make that sound?" Riebeck asks nervously.

Hornfels says something in response, but they're drowned out by the whine as it rises to a crescendo. Blinding white light streams into the cabin, consuming the bulkhead, the instrument panel, everything. Gabbro clamps their teeth together and squeezes their eyes shut. The universe reduces to nothing but the shaking of the ship, the rattle of their belongings in the cargo net. And Riebeck's voice, which has risen by a couple of octaves. "This was a terrible ide-"

·◊◊◊·

"-aaaa!"

The deafening noise dies away, leaving four shaken Hearthians gasping in their seats. Gabbro opens one eye and is relieved to be able to see again. The blinding white… whatever it was… is gone. And the light is strange. Dimmer, perhaps. Flatter. They reach up to turn on their cockpit lamp, which obligingly flicks on. But it makes little difference. There are no shadowed corners of the cockpit for it to reach, because everything is bathed in the same, eerie glow. It takes Gabbro a moment to realize that's because of course the light is different. This is a different sun.

"I don't believe it." The words slip out before they can stop themself. "We're not dead!"

"...and those were the first Hearthian words spoken in this solar system," sighs Chert.

"WOO! Take that, physics! Kiss my-"

"Feldspar!"

"Um, friends?" Riebeck's slightly hoarse voice cuts through the celebratory noises filling the signalscope feed. "What is that?"

Eight pairs of eyes stare out of their respective viewports.

Ah.

"That," says Gabbro, their hearts pounding, "is a Problem."