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“Well?” Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker asked. 

“Reentry will be fun.” Conrad said. He pulled himself into the command pod and hooked up his suit to the life support system. 

There was a long pause, punctuated only by the sound of the Phoenix trying to find a way to kill its occupants.

“We’re dead.” Emily said. “He means we’re dead. The stupid parachute was bolted shut with Tremley Hexes wasn’t it?” 

Conrad nodded. He said something to Emily in a language that sounded like english, but contained no english words. Instead it contained words like TIG and WD-735 and, very frequently, chemtools.  Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker tried to ignore the mechanics when they started speaking in nomenclature, but it was difficult now that their lives hinged (quite possibly) on almost-english words and a childhood obsession with disassembly.

Kareem spoke up. He’d been staring through the torn-open door for the past hour. The sun was setting over earth; they would lose the light in another few minutes. “Do we have another option? We’ve got more than enough oxygen, but there’s no way to eat.”

“This spaceship sucks, Control.” Emily said, for at least the twelve-hundredth time. By this point, control had stopped bothering to respond. 

Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker smiled, and put away the captain’s handbook that had been strapped to her spacesuit for weeks; the same captain’s handbook she had been told to read in the academy, and never did. “There’s a rule in a book.” She said. “Our priority is our safety. If we redirect the flight, say to the abandoned station one hundred klicks lower, we have permission to do so and completely ignore the asteroid we’re grabbing.” 

“Cypris, you are aware we can hear you planning mutiny? The handbook doesn’t say anything about misappropriating A.C.R.O.N.Y.M. resources.” Jonathan Griggs was especially infuriating when he was correct. 

“I’m not misappropriating A.C.R.O.N.Y.M. resources.”

“According to rule 363.3 you are.” 

“But according to rule 23.13, more resources should have been allocated to safety precautions. You can send a proper rocket after we get home in this one, and you won’t go over regulated budget.”

The drone named Jonathan Griggs applied suitable amounts of abrasion to his teeth to quell the sarcasm welling near his speaker system. His profanity filters very nearly overheated and melted through the front of his faceplate. “That’s not correct.” 

“No, but according to rule 1029764.544 if a captain who is actively fearing for their lives, which I am, and isn’t in their right mind, which I’m not, and who has no respect for rules, which I don’t, if a captain fulfilling the aforementioned symptoms, sometimes known as Maverick’s Syndrome, is to, for a hypothetical example tell their pilot, adjust course 12 degrees, 4.532, then tell their engineer to begin the burn in, we’ll say, 12 minutes and 54 seconds exactly, if the captain did all that, he or possibly she wouldn’t be breaking the rules.”

“There isn’t a rule 1029764.544.” Griggs protested. 

“Oh. In that case, I suppose I am breaking the rules, and I’m sorry.” 

‘Not sorry!’ she mouthed to the crew. Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker was very glad that the audio being piped into the control room wouldn’t betray the grin spreading across her face.

“We can hear you lunatics grinning.” said control. “Do you really think you were the first crew to go rogue?” 

In the background and bustle of the control room, Conrad could swear he heard someone saying, “Well, actually…” but it might have only been his imagination. 

“Captain?” Reyes said, letting his pencil drift free. 

“Yes?” 

“We can still meet with the asteroid, even if we dock with the station.” 

“Will we have enough fuel?” 

Reyes paused. He plucked the pencil out from behind his ear and made a few marks on the clippad resting on his knee. Most people used computers for their calculation, but Reyes preferred working with pencil and paper. After a minute he grinned from ear to ear. “More than enough.”

“Even if this deathtrap leaks?” Conrad asks. 

“It’s a cheap burn.” Reyes said, we can use Earth for most of the acceleration. “We could be leaking fuel-“ He makes another scrawled line of calculations on the clippad. “Until we’ve reached the astroid, and still manage a return trip.”

“I want the numbers.” Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker said. Reyes handed over the clippad. She whistled, though she had absolutly no clue what she was looking at. There were a number of symbols she hadn’t even seen Reyes write before. Occasionally, Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker realized just how talented and skilled and brilliant her cremates were, and she realized how much less talented and skilled and brilliant she was by comparison. Slightly after her second revelation, Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker would have a third thought: Her cremates were very smart, and none of them were married. Marriage apparently, was only for idiots. And journalists, she sometimes added. 

During the brief time between when Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker wedding and her divorce, she argued constantly with Jacob over the merits of his profession. To Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker there didn’t seem to be anything remotely useful about journalism. Whenever Jacob wrote about something Cypris actually happened to care about, she’d already heard it from her neighbor, who was remarkably well informed. Jacob always pointed out that her neighbor heard news from journalists. Jacob won 96.1% of their arguments. 

“Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker?” Kareem said. 

Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker blinked and adjusted the oxygen flow to her suit. She had dozed off sometime after the redirection burn. 

“Cypris, look.” Kareem spun the ship so the door was facing the drifting station beside them. “We need your permission to send Conrad out with a grapple.” 

“He doesn’t feel like docking properly.” Conrad grumbled. 

“Would you?” Kareem said. “I’m sorry that I don’t trust the docking clamp on this rusted out murder machine. I’ll just go ahead and dock and hope nothing detonates and sends shrapnel through my head.” 

“You’re paranoid, just an FYI.” Conrad said, but he drifted out of the ship and used the MMU integrated into the back of his suit to drag a tether out from the side of the Phoenix and over to the station. The tether hung and tangled in the black between the ships. The sun had come up recently. The tether was shimmering and encrusted fuel crystals. 

“This ship sucks.” Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker and Emily Hamilton said simultaneously. 

Conrad reached the station and tethered the Phoenix. 

“Engage the winch.” He told Kareem. “We’re secure on this end.” 

The Phoenix began to slide gradually down the line and closer to the station. 

“There’s a drop pod here.” Conrad said. 

“Really?” 

“Two actually.” 

Everyone glanced at Cypris. 

“Don’t even think about it.” Control said. 

“Emily and I could rewire the flight computer. It’d fly beautifully.” 

“Stop being enticing. Reyes, can we ditch this tub and take one of the drop pods to the asteroid instead?” 

“It would be easier to fly the station.” 

“Control, we’ve solved our pressurization problem, and also our reentry one. Conrad, get back in the ship. Kareem, get ready to dock. Emily, I hope you like soldering.” 

“I love soldering.” 

“She’s not being sarcastic right now.” Conrad said.

“I know.” 

“Cypris, would you mind giving me the distance and velocity?” Kareem said. 

“100 meters, 12 meters per second relative velocity.” She reported. 

“Perfect.” Kareem said, just as Conrad floated back into the pod. Kareem adjusted course slightly. 

There was a hiss and pop while the reaction control system planned elaborate murders, and also helped turn the ship. There was another hiss and pop when the docking ports came together. Something scraped. The airlock opened, and the Astronauts went through. Cypris discovered that it was impossible to cross her fingers with the spacesuit on, but the airlock functioned properly nevertheless, and a moment later, she found herself skimming into a brightly lit corridor, that didn’t seem to be trying its very hardest to remove her organs. Emily swore at the ship, then went away through the station to find something to solder. Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker almost removed her helmet, but she realized that there wasn’t any air in the station; it had leaked away since the last crew had been here.

“Don’t doff your suits.” She told the others. “Not until I get the life support running.” 

“Already done.” Conrad said. “Give it a minute. It needs its time.” 

Oh no, Cypris thought. 

“Hello Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker” The station said. “I am Home. How may I help you Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker?” 

“Oh god. It talks.” Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker said. “Can we get back in the flying slaughterhouse?”