Phone

Cypris picked up the phone hesitantly. It was still ringing when she pressed it to her ear. She almost lost her nerve. She very nearly didn’t answer it before it stopped. But she did; and she pressed the receiver into the crook of her neck so she could continue shuffling through the canteen cabinets, looking for something that didn’t bear more chemical resemblance to rubber than it did to food.

“Hello?” Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker asked the phone. 

Pause. A large number of shiny silvery packages slipped out of the cabinet and tumbled around Cypris’s ankles. She swore. 

“Not you, mom.” She said quickly. “No, I’m fine.”

The packages shuffled in protest while she stuffed them back into the disarrayed cabinet. 

“Yes, it was dangerous, but I know, more or less, what I’m supposed to be doing. I went through some training and things.” 

Cypris wasn’t exasperated or sarcastic, which meant she was trying to overplay her confidence. Her mother, who had known Cypris longer than anyone else had, knew more or less immediately what her progeny was trying to pull. 

“I wasn’t completely unprepared. I know what end of a rocket should be facing up.” 

Cypris was being sarcastic this time. She was using her mom-I’m-fine voice, too. “Yes. Sorry. Yeah, I know. Yes. Right, I’ll do that. I know you get worried, but I’m fine really. I’m alive, aren’t I? I could be stuck in space.” 

Maybe not the best choice of words. Cypris held the phone at arms length to avoid near-irreparable damage to her tympanic membrane. Nearly everyone in the canteen ignored her. Emily cocked her head and looked confused. 

“What’s she talking to? A banshee?” Emily asked, unable to stop staring. 

Conrad didn’t look over. “You’ll have to call your parents, too, you know.” 

Emily looked down at her plate of sludge. “Right.” 

Cypris put the phone back to her ear and shut the cabinet and started pacing. She paced when she was talking, and stopped when she was listening. 

“Are you doing alright? Yes, they’re feeding me. But really, are you alright? Mom, honestly, I’m okay. Yes, what I do is dangerous, but I get paid, I get fed, and I have an excellent crew that I have to keep out of trouble, but otherwise everything is perfect and rosy. I even get to fly into space! I couldn’t possibly be happier with what I’m doing, alright?”

Pause. 

“I love you, too, mom.” 

Pause. 

“Bye.” 

Cypris put away the phone. She sighed, grabbed a silver package at random, and went back to the table to eat with excruciating haste. Cypris didn’t manage to eat with excruciating haste however, because almost the same moment she sat down and tore the silver package open and gooped it onto a depressingly grey tray, the customs puppet came through the door, looking huffy. The puppet was carrying an armful of red tape that was accumulated during the partially authorized redirection. The red tape was wholly metaphorical, but Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker could see it anyway. She groaned and tried to disguise herself with Gustav Brand Microgravity Onionbitz. Apparently, however, Microgravity Onionbitz are not as effective at modifying skin color as Samuel Gordon’s “Signature” Vostok Sauce. Then again, there are very few things that are quite as effective for turning oneself orange as Samuel Gordon’s “Signature” Vostok Sauce. 

The puppet didn’t sit down, and it made her seem angrier than if she had. It was possible that the lividity working into her face was an act, but Cypris didn’t think so. 

“Do you have any idea how much paperwork I have to go through now?” 

“No.” Cypris said. 

“That was a rhetorical question.” The puppet snaps. “And to top it off, I’ve been involuntarily reallocated!” 

“She means she was fired.” Reyes said. Reyes had an excellent grasp of English and in particular, the peculiar habit English-speakers have of making things sound more complicated than they actually are through excessive use of synonyms. The puppet gave Reyes and unwavering ocular assessment: She stared at him. 

“That’s too bad.” Cypris said, and almost meant it. “Will you be able to find another job?” 

“Don’t be- Oh. You actually meant that. Yeah, I’ll be fine. Jonathan needed a secretary, so for now, I’m back to a desk job.” The puppet softened. Sightly. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” She said, offering a hand to Cypris, “Samantha McMann.”

“Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker.” Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker said, then, feeling the need to elaborate, said: “I have lexically overzealous parents, and an ex-husband.” 

“Good to meet you officially. I… Well, I’ll be going.” 

“I hope things work out.” Cypris offered helpfully. 

Samantha nodded, and left in a hurry. Cypris relaxed, and put her elbow into the tray of Onionbitz by mistake. 

Conrad looked at her. “That was weird. I thought she would tear your head off, and then everything was fine.” 

“It’s called tact, Mr. Munroe.” Emily said. “There are people who have it, and then there’s you.”

Conrad looked hurt. “That’s not very tactful.” 

Emily grinned. “No, but it’s honest.”

“Honesty is terrible.” Cypris said, then stood up, and started walking towards the door. 

“You’re just bitter!” Conrad shouted out her,  a moment after the door slammed shut.

“Bitter about what?” Kareem asked.

Conrad shrugged. “I like to keep her guessing. It distracts her from telling us to work on things.” 

Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker stepped back through the canteen door, and shouted something to the crew that fell more or less precisely along the lines of: “Get over here now! We’ve got work to do!” 

“It doesn’t always work.” Conrad explained while they extricated themselves from the pitifully stark table. “But everything’s worth a try at least once.” 

“That’s a terrible philosophy.” Reyes said.

“It’s worked for me so far.” Conrad replied. 

“I said hurry!” Cypris shouted at them.