Breakthrough

Emily thought the narrative had gone on long enough without giving her something to do. (“Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker this, Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker that.” She complained to Conrad. “Backstory this, backstory that.” She complained to Reyes.) So she decided to repair the FTL Stuffpusher with some bubble gum that was adhered to the inside of her her coveralls, a coat hanger from hers and Conrad’s room, and Evie’s least-favorite set of pruning shears. She failed to fix the Stuffpusher with gum, a hanger, and some shears, though, because she never had the opportunity to try. As she was examining the casing, looking for the best place to attach the shears with gum and twisted-up hanger, she noticed that one of the cords had been pulled out from its socket. It was a small cord, pale blue with orange stripes, shrink wrapped, with a two prong attachment point. The socket was equally small, black, and recessed into the cluster of all the other sockets. The cord was the only thing hanging down. The socket was the only thing sitting empty. 

Emily stopped. And kneeled. And stared. She was not even finished untangling the hanger. She stared at the cord. She stared at the socket. She stared at them for a good long while. The while was as long as it was good, it was as good as it was long. Then she put them together. Something whirred inside the Stuffpusher. Something rippled. A paperclip dropped from its insides, pinged on the floor, and settled innocuously without another sound. Emily stared at that too, though not for as long. 

“Guys?” She shouted. “You want to see this!” 

No reply. For months she had used that particular call to attract attention when she wanted to show them something that she thought was interesting, but had no special bearing to the mission at hand. The crew simply stopped responding after Emily had pointed to the same cat poster as the last time she’d called them. 

“Hello! I fixed it!” 

No reply. Emily had used this call also, when trying to attract attention to patch jobs she had done and improvisations she had made that didn’t really help anyone, even in a nonessential way. 

“I fixed the damn Stuffpusher!” 

The engine room filled quickly. Cypris was still absent, pondering. 

“So?” Conrad asked. “What was wrong with it?” 

Emily stared at him, now, and realized that the answer was very embarrassing, considering she and Conrad had been trying to repair it for nearly a month, and hadn’t discovered the single obvious fault preventing its operation. 

“Um. Some stuff.” She said, shifting to block the bubblegum, half untwisted hanger, and least-favorite pruning shears. 

The crew nodded, so that must have been a good answer. They dispersed in high spirits. 

“Conrad.” Emily said quietly. “Can I speak with you for a moment?” 

He stopped just before the doorway. Music was already playing loudly. The crew was yelling and swearing and cheering and laughing. 

“Conrad.” Emily said quietly. “It wasn’t plugged in.” 

“But you fixed it. It works?” 

“Yes, but it wasn’t plugged in, and we didn’t notice that.”

Conrad’s face clouded for a moment. “Right. But it’s fixed?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then what’s the problem?” 

“We missed something really obvious and important. That’s the first question we’re supposed to ask: ‘Is it plugged in?’” 

“Sure. But we - you - fixed it, and they’re opening the nonalcoholic beverages now, and probably the last of the cheese sauce, and if we don’t go now we’ll miss it. We can tear up our diplomas later, and never speak of this ever. To anyone.” 

Emily nodded. She got to her feet. 

Conrad was already gone. One more voice joined the racket. It said at the top of its arrogant, sarcastic lungs: 

“It wasn’t plugged in!” 

Which more or less settled which side their love-hate relationship fell to. And, in accordance with Stevenson’s Principle, which states that love makes no sense whatsoever, it fell to much the wrong side, to the profound amusement of Henry, Reyes, and Kareem, who had managed, through luck and canny professionalism, to stay well clear of the ensuing drama. At least initially.