# Retrieval

Author: Whyte Yote
Tags: Fiction, Flash, Horror, jellyfish, naked mole rat, rainfurrest, vulture, whyteyote

At Rainfurrest 2014, one of the six panels I chaired was the Flash Fiction Jam, wherein the panelists up front (like caged animals!) take story suggestions from the audience and have one hour--ONE FREAKING HOUR--to manage 1000-1200 words hitting all those points.
You may think this would be no big deal, but we all three--whyteyotedandinblizleopard--took every second to get it all in. And then we had to read them, aloud, to be immortalized by buckhopper's recording equipment.
I think all three stories were pretty good, and a couple attendees thought mine was the best. But I enjoyed the writing, and hearing different takes on the same words under duress.
This panel was for the best fiction, but next con I think I'll go for the "worst fiction" panel...I heard those stories, and they were so hilariously bad--on purpose--that that I laughed so hard I cried.
So, enjoy the following.
Setting: Space
Theme: Lovecraftian Horror
Species: Vulture, naked mole rat, jellyfish
Complication: Technical Difficulties

"Thrusters online, sir," Hubert, my second, speaks to me via the convenient acoustics of the cramped cabin.&nbsp;&nbsp;His voice travels easily through air thick with tense anticipation.&nbsp;&nbsp;"We shan't use much fuel to arrive at the landing site."  
  
I steeple my talons underneath my beak.&nbsp;&nbsp;"Excellent.&nbsp;&nbsp;Have you programmed the coordinates into the computer?"  
  
"Sir."&nbsp;&nbsp;The naked mole rat needn't elaborate; his tone suffices.&nbsp;&nbsp;We have a close partnership, made closer by the inadequate environs of this confounded shuttlecraft.&nbsp;&nbsp;  
  
The cabin falls silent once again.&nbsp;&nbsp;Until we enter the planet's atmosphere to engage the body of His Highness Q'Nar, Emperor of Peladan, the ship will pilot itself.&nbsp;&nbsp;  
  
I can almost smell the body already.&nbsp;&nbsp;This should be a relatively simple pickup, no atmosphere suits required.&nbsp;&nbsp;One less messy step in a messy operation in a messy business.  
  
My name is Karmeliel, surname unnecessary, and I am a retriever.&nbsp;&nbsp;A bounty hunter of corpses, if you will.&nbsp;&nbsp;I scour the cosmos performing the tasks others are either too lazy, busy or afraid to perform.&nbsp;&nbsp;If your dear mother-in-law flies to the nearest moon to end her existence, I bring her back for the mourners.&nbsp;&nbsp;If your brother finds himself on the wrong end of a Space Mafia blaster pistol, I shovel the remnants into a decorative urn for the mantle back home.

&nbsp; I bring closure, in a way.&nbsp;&nbsp;Though how handing a bucket of posthumous ichor to a wailing black-clad woman-heaving bosoms overtopping her bodice-is closure escapes me.  
  
Hubert clears his throat.&nbsp;&nbsp;"Two-fifty k."&nbsp;&nbsp;Something beeps along one wall, but it isn't an alarm so I ignore it.&nbsp;&nbsp;Instead I look out at the void, breathing artificial air, and watch the planet approach.&nbsp;&nbsp;Out of tractor range but still on sensors, the Archibald waits for our return, stationary and safe behind its shields.&nbsp;&nbsp;The mole rat and I have but an array of heat tiles.&nbsp;&nbsp;  
  
These are the risks we take.  
  
Silence again, but for the clicking of relays behind the walls and the constant buzzing of electrons.&nbsp;&nbsp;Every so often Hubert will type this command or flip that toggle, all background noise that this point.&nbsp;&nbsp;  
  
My meditative state is interrupted by a ping I recognize as a proximity alarm.&nbsp;&nbsp;Before I can ask Hubert what is the matter, We are thrust violently from side to side.&nbsp;&nbsp;I find myself on the floor, bleeding next to the mole rat, who lies unconscious.&nbsp;&nbsp;  
  

&nbsp; "What in blazes..."&nbsp;&nbsp;After checking for Hubert's pulse and propping him against the nearest bulkhead, I sit at the navigator's station.&nbsp;&nbsp;My head throbs, and I can feel blood trickling over my feathers and staining my uniform.&nbsp;&nbsp;No matter.&nbsp;&nbsp;Multiple alarms have erupted now, competing with one another in a cacophony of bells and klaxons.&nbsp;&nbsp;Lights turn the cabin into a crazy rainbow of impending doom.&nbsp;&nbsp;"Hubert!" But he doesn't respond.  
  
I'll have to interpret the danger myself.&nbsp;&nbsp;Speed indicators zero, sensors dead, communication useless.&nbsp;&nbsp;Life support remains intact, for how long is anyone's guess.  
  
"Sir..." Hubert moans, and I am upon him at once, cradling his injured head.&nbsp;&nbsp;"Hull breach...in the cargo bay...need to seal it."  
  
"Are you alright?"&nbsp;&nbsp;By which I mean, can he man the cockpit while I see what is trying to tear our shuttle apart.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Emperor will have to wait.&nbsp;&nbsp;He nods and I'm through the bulkhead in a flash.&nbsp;&nbsp;  
  
I stagger down the passageway, dizzied from my injury, and struggle to stuff myself into a secondhand spacesuit built for someone Hubert's size and shape.&nbsp;&nbsp;I lose several feathers in the process, but the fit is airtight and the flow of oxygen is good.&nbsp;&nbsp;  
  

&nbsp; "Hubert, do you copy?" I squawk over the two-way.  
  
"Copy, sir.&nbsp;&nbsp;Keep this channel open; I want to help out if I can from here."&nbsp;&nbsp;I haven't a clue how he could, but this is not the time or place to press the issue.&nbsp;&nbsp;  
  
"Will do."&nbsp;&nbsp;I listen to my own ragged breaths, my nostrils fogging up the mask right in front of my eyes.&nbsp;&nbsp;This helmet was clearly made for a muzzle rather than a beak, but I have little choice in the matter.&nbsp;&nbsp;  
  
The cargo-bay door opens with a whoosh, and I am sucked into the space as the airlock empties.&nbsp;&nbsp;This is the moment where my life should end, but I find my momentum aborted.&nbsp;&nbsp;I look out of my mask and see the cargo bay, albeit through an opaque pink filter.&nbsp;&nbsp;I am floating, yes, but I should be a dozen miles into space by now.&nbsp;&nbsp;I bring a glove to my field of vision and find it very difficult to move, and when I see my own fingers covered in strings like gossamer.&nbsp;&nbsp;  
  
"Hubert, do you have any readings?"  
  
"Scanning," the naked mole rat says curtly, back to his quick-witted self.&nbsp;&nbsp;"This has to be wrong."  
  

&nbsp; "What?"  
  
"The bay is devoid of air-it's hardly a few Kelvin above absolute zero-but there's a lifeform in there with you.&nbsp;&nbsp;You appear...to be inside it."&nbsp;&nbsp;  
  
I bring my other glove before my mask and it's covered in the same thin wispy strands.&nbsp;&nbsp;And pieces of my suit are coming away with them.&nbsp;&nbsp;  
  
"Any other readings?"  
  
"Only that it's alive.&nbsp;&nbsp;I sense no brain function but plenty of electrical activity."  
  
I suddenly wish I hadn't rolled out of my bunk this morning.&nbsp;&nbsp;  
  
"I can't move.&nbsp;&nbsp;How is this thing alive?"&nbsp;&nbsp;I try to keep the panic out of my voice but I'm failing miserably.&nbsp;&nbsp;Normally such a calm person, seeing parts of my suit flaking off has sent adrenaline coursing through my body.&nbsp;&nbsp;Is it acid?&nbsp;&nbsp;Is it abrasive?&nbsp;&nbsp;Is it even bloody ethereal?  
  
A hot pain at my ankle makes me bellow into the com.&nbsp;&nbsp;"Hubert!&nbsp;&nbsp;My suit is failing!&nbsp;&nbsp;My suit-"&nbsp;&nbsp;But the com goes dead, and I thrash about as much as this...this thing allows me, almost certainly to my detriment.&nbsp;&nbsp;  
  
I utter a string of curses no gentleman should ever utter and pant, my mask a wall of fog from my strangled humid breath.&nbsp;&nbsp;The pain in my ankle travels slowly, maddeningly, up my leg, like a gentle tingle as from a dose of capsaicin but with the opposite result.&nbsp;&nbsp;I try to bend double and manage to bring my leg into view.  
  

&nbsp; Except instead of a metallic boot I see my own talons dissolving into nothingness.&nbsp;&nbsp;  
  
I scream.&nbsp;&nbsp;I can do nothing but scream.  
  
The pain intensifies, and I can only tell when my flesh has taken leave of me when the pain stops because the nerves are no more.  
  
"Hubert!&nbsp;&nbsp;Hubert!&nbsp;&nbsp;Huuuuuuuu-"&nbsp;&nbsp;And suddenly Hubert is there, right in front of my eyes.&nbsp;&nbsp;For one horrifying moment, through the melting material of my viewmask, I see his tender flesh bubbling, his once-handsome face a rictus of agony, and then it's merely bone.&nbsp;&nbsp;And then it's gelatin.&nbsp;&nbsp;And then it's gone.  
  
And then the mask bends inward, opens like a melted piece of celluloid film, and I no longer have to worry about seeing anything anymore.  
  
But I know, somewhere in the remnants of my mind, I have at least several minutes before the welcome embrace of death by something I don't understand.  
  
I laugh, acid flooding my beak and turning my tongue to much, wondering who will retrieve me, or if there will be anything left to retrieve at all.

Source: https://sofurry.com/s/rn66QW6n