Slippery Fish

Corre gripped the pod’s thruster. Her blue eyes fixed on a distant speck of light.

The pod shuddered as the spongy red walls around her constricted, its hull straining under the pressure. Corre gritted her teeth at a squeal of tortured metal.

“…come in, over?”

Corre snatched up the pod’s comm-link, holding the transmitter to her mouth.

“Papa-One-Exer, this is Slippery-Fish. Go ahead. Over.”

“Thought we’d lost you, over.”

“Negative. The comm-link was down. The morsha must have interfered with the signal.”

The pod was slowing down.

“In a spot of trouble here, over.” she said, trying to keep the panic from her voice.

There was a hiss as the pod split a seam.

“Roger. Where’s the exit, over?”

“Fifty meters.” She glanced at the console. “Losing pressure, repeat, losing pressure, over.”

“Roger. Support won’t reach you in time, over.”

Corre leaned back in her seat, slowly exhaling. “Stand-by.”

She tried engaging the thrusters, but the mission had been too taxing. The pod was running close to empty.

At another groan, Corre glanced behind her into the meaty darkness. The ship slowed to a crawl. Corre turned forward and grimaced. The windshield of the projectile-shaped pod was smeared with mucous, her visibility steadily decreasing.

Her exit dwindled.

“Come in, Slippery-Fish, over.”

Corre smoothed her face, took a deep breath, and lifted the transmitter to her lips.

“Go ahead, over.”

“Release the sensor. Too much drag. Over.”

She thumped the transmitter against her forehead, closing her eyes. Corre ‘Slippery Fish’ PexeMull - the best Carzadorian fat extractor in Fotale.

Her reputation was at stake.

“Copy, over.”

“I didn’t hear a willco, Corre, over.”

“That’s because I didn’t give you one. Over and out.”

Corre pushed back her shoulders, eyes narrowing at the distant flicker of sunlight. Twenty meters, now. Twenty meters between her and victory.

“Come in, Slippery-Fish.”

Corre stabbed the transmitter’s button.

“Stand-by,” she hissed.

“Release the sensor. That’s an order. Do you copy?”

“I copy,” she whispered. “But I sure as Grax don’t willco.”

Corre flipped open the plastic visor on the pod’s control panel. She activated the defence-rocket and watched it charge. The pod’s reserves were minimal, but hopefully just enough remained.

The indicator halted at fifty-seven percent. Corre attempted a smile. It would have to do. As if in response to her thought the pod trembled. A crack raced down the smeared windshield. Corre held her breath, expecting the glass to shatter, but it held. Creaking and squeaking, it held.

Corre activated the transmitter.

“Deploying the rocket, over.”

“You have nothing to prove, Corre. Release the sensor, over.”

“Not my style, over.”

“I’ll be sure to carve that on your tombstone.”

“Hope I made you proud, dad. Over.”

“Corre!”

“I love you, dad. Over and out.”

Corre replaced the transmitter with utter ceremony, lifted her chin, and activated the launcher.

The pod jerked forward, spurred by the expulsion of the rocket. Then it came to a halt, energy cells drained. Corre stroked the comm-link, wondering how long its battery would last.

She heard the distant boom of the explosion. A few seconds later the pod quivered, unable to shift more than a hair in the tight passage.

The morsha bellowed.

A violent quake struck the pod, the walls of the gargantuan creature’s rectum undulating as a spasm wracked the beast.

Corre cringed in expectation. A wall of excrement slammed into the back of the pod. Some of the vile substance streamed past the pod, but she was acutely aware that she’d just caused a massive blockage in the morsha’s digestive tract.

The morsha broke wind.

Corre’s pod shot forward. The faint pop as it escaped was overwhelmed by the morsha’s trumpet-like fart.

The pod described a gentle, brown arc in the crystal-blue sky of Fraobol. Corre’s teeth jarred as the pod slammed onto the ice. Her hands pressed against the walls of the pod as it spun on the slick, white surface, whirring around like a child’s toy.

It came to rest a few seconds later.

Corre staggered out and grimaced at the smell. She hurried to the back of the pod, sighing in relief at sight of the sensor still attached via a piece of high-tensile cable.

The morsha straightened from its poop-stoop and shook itself. The ice beneath Corre quaked. She fell to her knees, watching as the creature blocked out three of Fraobol’s suns. Then it shuffled away from her, sunlight glaring from the limpid, glittering scales on its back.

Grax be praised. She’d survived.

Corre retrieved the pod’s transmitter, glaring at the retreating morsha.

“How’s that for a landing, over?”

“Messy, over.”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, but you probably smell like you’ve been dead a week.”