Good mooooooorning!

“Good mooooooorning!” my fellow passenger sings over the intercom. I grit my teeth. It’s not that I hate mornings, it’s that I hate the wisher.

There are seven of us on this flight. The pilot, the captain, the hydroponics farmer, the psychologist, the engineer, and me, chief scientist. We’re part of a mission to test human’s reaction to long-haul flights in space. Mars is the goal, but in the meantime, the crew of the always-cramped Gourd and I are guinea pigs for long-term flight. We’ve been in orbit around earth for nearly 180 days.

And I am close to cracking.

Seven strangers boarded this vessel. I’d heard of Captain Murphy by reputation; she’s a reticent one. The rest are a hodgepodge of experts.

I try to return to my work. The hydroponics lab is sterile; close-quartered. Measuring radiation levels in our food supply is vitally important. There’s a problem with the potatoes, and I want to solve it. Some scientists look for problems. I’m not one of those. I solve problems.

 I try my best not to bump into the farmer, Reed. He’s bald, and chews gum at every hour of the day. At meals, I’ve seen him stick the piece behind his ear for later. It’s disgusting.

“Good niiiiiiight!” my fellow passenger sings. I groan, and Reed bites his lip. The joke was funny the first time, but has since worn thin. See, while orbiting Earth, we get a sunrise every 90 minutes. The first time it happened, Edwards, the psychologist, got a laugh by saying ‘good morning.’ Now, he does it every time. Not every 24 hours. Every hour and a half. ‘Good morning’ when the sun crests the Earth, and ‘good night’ when it sinks below her blue horizon.

I’m back in the swing of things, carefully cutting a leaf from its host plant. Precision is key. On Earth you can afford to make mistakes, but up here, there’s no running to Costco for more potatoes. Any mistake means smaller meals.

“Good mooooooorning!” I jump, mutilating the plant, cursing loudly.

“What?” Reed asks.

“Forget about hash browns for breakfast,” I say.

“We have more,” says Reed.

“For now,” I reply.

“Relax. It’s just a plant,” says Reed. He points upward at our invisible greeter. “Don’t you find it funny?”

“No. It drives me nuts,” I say.

“You have no sense of humor,” says Reed. “It’s charming.”

There’s no end to the torment. Edwards built a recording into the computer, so even when he’s asleep it will tell his jokes. I’ve asked the engineer to remove it, but Edwards outranks her, and me.

I throw down my sheers, which bounce off the floor and float up to the ceiling. “Let me take care of this,” I say, kicking off from the floor and floating to the bridge.

I can’t believe we call it the bridge. It’s a cockpit, where Captain Murphy and the pilot spend most of their time sitting. The ship is in free-fall; there’s no piloting that needs doing. I pass Edwards on the way. He smiles at me. I scowl. I hate his guts.

“Captain Murphy?” I say when I arrive in the cramped cockpit. She and the pilot are dozing in their chairs, lightly snoring. I can see the freckles on her nose. “Captain Murphy,” I repeat, nudging her arm. She wakes with a grunt, and nods at me, indicating I should speak my piece. “Captain Murphy, I’m here about… someone. Maybe we should speak in private.”

I cast a side look at the pilot. He’s a notorious gossip.

Captain Murphy taps the pilot on the shoulder, indicating she’ll take control. The pilot floats off, yawning. She looks at me, expecting. “Captain Murphy, I—”

“Good niiiiiiight!” the intercom squeals.

I bury my rage and start again. “Captain Murphy, I’ve had it with Edwards and this stupid ‘good morning’ nonsense. It’s driving me nuts. Please, turn it off.”

Murphy considers what I’ve said, staring resolutely out the window. Earth is a glittering ball of light below us. It’d be beautiful, if I wasn’t counting down the seconds until I have to hear Edward’s stupid greeting again. “It’s funny,” she says.

“You think it’s funny?” I say, unable to keep the anger out of my voice.

“Yes. It’s funny.” Murphy looks back at me. “You don’t think it’s funny?”

“Not anymore, no.

“Maybe you have no sense of humor.”

“I like humor! I like to laugh.”

“Then maybe you don’t get it.”

“I get it. It’s not funny.”

Murphy looks back at the planet. “I’m not turning it off, Pratt. If you don’t like it, wash up on some other experimental craft.”

I storm out of the bridge, passing the pilot who smiles wryly at me. He knows. There’s no real privacy on this vessel.

I go to my barracks, a cramped capsule where I sleep in a cocoon. The engineer is asleep, and I quietly scribble my log entry:

Day 178. This is supposed to be a 600 day mission. I can’t even make it a third of the way without tearing my hair out? If it wasn’t for Edwards—

“Good mooooooorning!”

FdsikfnhjifvDAjb! I slam the keyboard. The engineer mumbles something about trajectories and rolls over. I try to recapture my train of thought.

But I can’t. It’s gone. I need to be direct. At once, my anxiety rises. I hate conflict. I take a deep breath and float through the cramped vessel to the psychologist’s office.

“Come in,” Edwards says. He’s a thin, sickly man, with a cheeky smile on his wan face. “Have a float.” He laughs at his own joke.

“I have a problem,” I say, coasting into his spartan office. It’s a closet; barely enough room for both of us. I can smell his coffee breath.

Edwards leans in and wiggles his eyebrows. “A problem is simply an issue you haven’t solved yet.”

I grimace. “It’s not easy for me to talk about.”

“What is?” Edwards says.

“My problem,” I reply.

“No, I mean, ‘what is easy to talk about?’” says Edwards, grinning.

My ire is up. “That’s it, I’m sick of you. I’m sick of this whole experiment. Your stupid “Good mooooooorning” and your idiotic, “Good niiiiiiight,” I can’t take it anymore!” I grab him by the collar and yank him up to my height. “Turn it off, now!”

“Aaaand, time,” he says and clicks his watch. “178 days, 13 hours, 11 minutes, 34 seconds. You’re later than I expected.”

“I’m late! I’m late? What are you talking about?” I say.

“Unhand me and I’ll tell you,” Edwards says. I do as he asks. He floats to his computer and punches in a command. Out the window, the sun sets behind Earth. I brace myself for the recording.

“Good niiiiii—” he clicks it off.

“I was wondering how long I could keep that up,” says Edwards. “Thank goodness someone finally said something. I was going crazy listening to myself.”

“You… you don’t…” I say.

“Of course I don’t like it. It’s annoying as hell,” says Edwards. “This is an experimental ship, Pratt. We’re dealing with the problems of long space travel. Annoying coworkers you can’t escape are part of close quarters. You’re the first one to stand up to me.”

My mind reels. “You mean, you’ve been intentionally annoying?”

He shrugs. “Had to be. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a good test, would it? But now you’ve found me out, I can drop that particular charade. And thank goodness, I couldn’t keep it up much longer without looking for the airlock.”

The airlock. “So, what will you do now?”

He studies his fingers. “Think of some other way to needle you lot. I’ll try to stay on your good side, though. You passed the test.” He bites his nails. “You think I could get Captain Murphy to snap? Maybe if I start hiding tacks in her chair.”

“You’re a menace,” I say.

“Oh no,” said Edwards with a gleam in his eye. “I’m just getting started.”

“So you see, Captain, I had to throw Edwards out the airlock,” I explain. “Today it was me, but tomorrow, you. I didn’t want to, but it was the only way to have peace on the ship. Condemn me if you must, but deep down, you know I’m right.”

Murphy nods. “You’re a problem solver.”

“Always have been,” I say. No doubt prison awaits me below, but for the next 422 days, I’ll have some peace and quiet.

Until Reed starts smacking his gum again.