“Everyone sick. I alone to run ship. More strange things happen. Engines not work right. I am engine expert. I cannot figure out problem.”

“Your engines failed?”

“No. Not fail. Thrust normal. But speed… not increase. No can explain.”

“Huh.”

He clatters back and forth as he talks. “Then more strange: Reach halfway point earlier than should. Much earlier. I turn ship around. Thrust to slow down. But Tau get farther away. How? Still moving toward Tau but Tau moving away. Much confusion.”

“Uh-oh,” I say. A thought creeps into my head. A very disturbing thought.

“I speed up. Slow down. Much confuse. But get here. Even with all mistakes and confusion, I get here in three years. Half of time science Eridian say should be. So much confuse.”

“Oh… oh my…” I mumble.

“Much much much fuel remain. Much more than should have. No complain. But confuse.”

“Yeah…” I say. “Tell me this: Is time on Erid the same as time on your ship?”

He cocks his carapace. “Question make no sense. Of course time is same. Time is same everywhere.”

I put my head in my hands. “Oh boy.”

Eridians don’t know about relativistic physics.

They calculated their entire journey with Newtonian physics. They worked it all out by assuming they could just accelerate faster and faster and the speed of light wasn’t an issue.

They don’t know about time dilation. Rocky doesn’t realize that Erid experienced a whole bunch more time than he did on that trip. They don’t know about length dilation. The distance to Tau Ceti will actually increase as you slow down relative to it—even if you’re still going toward it.

An entire planet of intelligent people put together a ship based on incorrect scientific assumptions, and by some miracle, the sole survivor of the crew was clever enough at trial-and-error problem solving to actually get it to its destination.

And out of that major screw-up comes my salvation. They thought they’d need a whole lot more fuel. So Rocky has boatloads to spare.

“Okay, Rocky,” I say. “Get comfortable. I have a lot of science to explain.”

He knocked twice and leaned into my office. “Dr. Grace? Are you Dr. Grace?”

It wasn’t a large office, but you’re lucky to have any personal space at all on an aircraft carrier. Before it held the high honor of being my office, the room was a storage locker for bathroom supplies. The crew had three thousand butts that needed daily wiping. I got to keep the room as my office until the next time we were in port. Then they’d fill it up with more supplies.

I was approximately as critical as toilet paper.

I looked up from my laptop. The short, somewhat disheveled man at the door waved awkwardly.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m Grace. You are…?”

“Hatch. Steve Hatch. University of British Columbia. Nice to meet ya.”