Chapter Text
"Grace?"
I tug on my tether, double-checking that it's securely fastened to the bar before unclipping the second carabiner and moving it forward. It's slow going, unhooking and rehooking these things one at a time, but it's worlds better than drifting off into space. "Yeah, pal?"
"What is sensor for, question?" Rocky's translator voice gets slightly distorted through its jury-rigged connection to my helmet comm, so I have to focus to understand what he's saying.
I pull myself along the hull of the ship until my tether hits its limit again. Almost there. "We've been over this, buddy. It's a stellar radiation sensor. It tells the ship how much heat it's absorbing from a particular direction, to help keep the temperature regulated."
"How many on ship, question?"
"A bunch." Finally the maintenance panel that I need is within reach. I maneuver myself around and clip in to the specialized attach point meant to keep me stationary while I work. "But I want them all to be working, as long as we're sitting this close to Tau Ceti. Don't want to cook us in there."
I'm pretty proud of my starship knowledge at this point. Warning light pops up in the cockpit? I thumb through the extensive manuals that detail every panel and wire and switch on the Hail Mary, read up on the malfunctioning part, dig a replacement out of storage, and suit up to go for a climb on the galaxy's most extreme jungle gym. It's almost like I'm getting the hang of this astronaut thing.
I'm a lot more invested in keeping the ship in prime working condition, now that I know I get to go home. I pop the panel open.
The comm crackles to life again. "How many extra parts left, question?"
There's another attach point for me to secure the small toolbox that I clipped to my belt before leaving the airlock. The thick gloves of the EVA suit make it tricky to keep everything in place. "I didn't really look. There were at least a few more in there."
"Bring broken sensor inside. Rocky will fix."
"Sure thing, pal." The malfunctioning part is easy to spot, a little solar-panel-looking thing about the size of my palm, sticking out from the hull at an angle. Carefully, I ease a pair of pliers into the maintenance hatch to unhook the wires running to it.
Another wire and a few screws later, the sensor pops free. I stow it in the toolbox for Rocky to mess with later. Now comes the tricky part.
"Does Grace need Rocky to read repair procedure from manual, question?"
He's definitely hovering, but I don't mind. I've complained enough to him about having to become a pilot, an engineer, and an EVA specialist on the fly. It's sweet that he wants to help. (I get to go home, because he wants to help.)
"Nope, I got it. I'll ask you if I need any reminders." I make sure there's a screw seated on the magnetic screwdriver, then take the replacement sensor out of the box. "I need quiet for a bit, okay, Rock? Gotta concentrate on this."
Over the helmet earpiece, I hear a tiny hum, one of his "thinking noises" that doesn't really translate to anything. "Okay," the computerized voice finally comes back.
The repair goes off without a hitch. I carefully attach the new part to the hull, hook the wires back up like I'm absolutely dominating a game of Operation, close everything back up, and run the diagnostic on my little wrist-mounted computer. Everything comes back green.
"Alright, all done," I announce, and Rocky trills happily into the comm. "Everything look good in there?"
"Rocky cannot look, but no longer hear warning signal." The overly-literal doofus. Never met an idiom he couldn't mangle. It's got to be on purpose at this point, to make me laugh, and then he does that little chittering giggle back. It's kind of adorable.
"Yes!" I pump my fist in triumph. "Not bad for a teacher, huh?"
"Yes yes yes. Grace come inside now, question?" The computerized voice doesn't do a good job of getting emotion across, but I swear I hear relief in the little chirps and whistles of his speech that the mic just barely picks up.
I finish stowing my tools and clip the box back onto my belt. "Captain Grace, requesting permission to come aboard."
"Permissions are granted!"
"It's just 'permission granted,' bud." I wonder if he can see me grinning from inside the ship.
The trip back inside is just as monotonous as it was in the other direction, inching from one handhold to the next, alternating my two tethers so I'm always attached. Rocky passes the time by quizzing me on the proper EVA procedure as exhaustively detailed in the manuals, and any irritation I might feel at his apparent lack of faith in me is easily smothered by the effusive praise I receive for getting every question right.
He's there when I step out of the airlock, fidgeting excitedly in his ball and chattering about exactly what repairs he's going to make to the sensor and how he can make me more spare parts just in case and maybe some new tools to make repairs quicker and easier and safer on my way back to Earth (hmm, nope, still not done smiling every time I remember that I get to go home). Once I've shed the bulky EVA suit and turned the centrifuge back on, he rolls after me into the lab, where I drop the broken part into the little transfer box that sits between our atmospheres.
He's halfway through attaching his ball to the mini-airlock that will let him into his tunnels when I turn back towards the cockpit. "Hey, while you work on that, I'm gonna run some more diagnostics. See if anything else needs fixing while I'm, you know." I tilt my chin up and square my shoulders with a joking half-smile. "Clearly on a spaceship-repair hot streak."
I'm expecting at least some response to my obvious fishing for another compliment, so when the translator stays silent, I glance over my shoulder.
He fidgets with his claws. "Rocky will come too."
"You sure? I thought you were excited to start working on--"
He's already resealed the airlock. "Can wait. Run ship tests now."
I shrug. "Sure, if that's what you want."
"Want." His ball careens toward me, swerving into the corridor a split second before I jump out of the way. He whistles a laugh at me. "Rocky watch tests, fix leaky human ship. Ship will go back to Earth, no problem."
"If you keep insulting Mary like that, she's going to tip you out the airlock," I call after him. "Leaky" has become his general-purpose term of derision for anything human that he feels deserves his scorn. The Mary was only designed and provisioned to last for a single four-year, one-way trip? Leaky. What's leaking, I don't know.
It sure isn't me, anymore.
We head to the cockpit together. I complain about having to help lift his stupid ball into the copilot's seat, he grouses about the useless light displays on the poorly-designed human flight controls, and we both tell Mary off when she offers her conflict resolution services.
If he's clingier than normal for the rest of the day, I don't pay it much mind.