Andrew Mackay: Pink Symphony

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How long had it been? Twenty minutes? Twenty days? Months? Years?

No one knew.

No one was even aware of what had happened.

The least likely member of Space Opera Beta to ascertain what had happened was Jelly Anderson. Being a cat, she had no concept of space or time – you know, the things we value and live our lives by. The crew weren’t much help, either.

Tripp Healy, the assumed captain of Opera Beta, lay unconscious across the flight deck.

He was the first thing Jelly saw when she opened her eyes.

The ship wasn’t moving. Everything was eerily silent by all accounts. Whatever happened when she’d forced the ship through the pink light show on Enceladus was beyond comprehension.

It was either venture into Saturn’s moon or stick around to be rescued. With just seventy-two hours of oxygen? Sticking around would have prolonged the misery.

If rescue ever came, of course.

Even if rescue came it would have been five hundred days too late…

Jelly rolled around on the floor and stretched her legs out. She felt waves of muscular atrophy disappear within seconds. A quick lick around the mouth, and she was up and at ‘em.

She trundled toward the flight deck and ran her face along Tripp’s heel in an attempt to catch his attention.

He didn’t budge.

“Meow,” she cried and looked up at him. A couple of blinks squeezed a blob of liquid out from her right eye. It splashed to the floor next to the sole of her captain’s shoe.

The communications console buzzed to life. It had been humming ever since she woke up a few moments ago.

A familiar holograph appeared above her head. A book named Manuel, whizzing through its pages, acclimatizing itself to the result of having gone through a wormhole – or a portal – whatever that thing was on Enceladus, anyway.

“Meow.”

Manuel fluttered above her head and folded the outer edges of his pages toward her. “Greetings, Miss Anderson.”

“Meow.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Jelly yawned and revealed her fangs. For the briefest of moments it looked like she was screaming. She hopped onto the deck and nosed around the controls. Her infinity whiskers arrived at the yellow thruster lever that had saved their lives and blasted them through Saturn’s sixth largest moon.

“What are you doing, Miss Anderson?” Manuel shifted across the deck for a better view of Jelly pawing away at the plastic handle.

It didn’t move, still locked into thrust mode.

“Meow.”

Jelly hadn’t meant to use it. She wanted to draw Manuel’s attention to the action she’d performed to rescue the ship.

“Yes, very good,” Manuel said. “I’m afraid I don’t know where we are.”

“Meow,” Jelly turned to the expansive flight deck windshield expecting to see stars, or some evidence of where they were. Instead, she was greeted by a black vastness. They may as well have been shut inside a capsule for all the good the visuals were.

Just then, a haze of pink dust seemed to dance from the right of the screen, like a blotch of paint thrown across a black canvas.

The event perturbed Jelly. The effect looked creepy – as if an alien had spewed across the screen.

In an attempt to gain some protection, Jelly sniffed around Tripp’s face. His right cheek lay across the panel, exposing the majority of his face. His nose twitched, covered, in part, by his pink tears.

Jelly’s wet nose sniffled around his, causing his closed eyelids to flutter. Her action was enough to make him cough and splutter into a state of awareness.

“What the—?” he said, opening his eyes and spluttering back to consciousness. “What’s g-going on?”

“Good morning slash afternoon slash evening, Tripp,” Manuel said.

Tripp groaned and pressed his hands to the console. He pushed himself upright in the pilot’s seat and blinked, clearing the gunk away from his eyes. “What happened?”

Manuel took a moment to reveal not very much at all. “In short, we have absolutely no idea.”

“Why did you say morning slash afternoon?”

“In short, I have absolutely no idea what the time is, either.”

“Jelly?” Tripp turned to the cat looking up at him and ran his fingers over her head. “Hey, girl, are you okay?”

“Meow.”

“Thank God,” Tripp jumped out of his seat, intending to run over to the communications console. He lost his footing, stumbled forward and dropped to his knees like an infant. “Oh God, I don’t feel too well—”

Manuel interrupted, “It’s better you take time to orient yourself. Please don’t rush.”

Tripp spat a lump of phlegm to the floor. It was all he could do not to actually spew everywhere. It wasn’t until he glanced at the gelatinous substance that he realized it was pink.

“Huh?”

The inebriating effects of having traveled through Enceladus had an adverse influence on his stomach.

“My organs feel like pâté.”

“That’s quite common,” Manuel said. “It’s something of a miracle your body wasn’t flung around the flight deck when we went through whatever that pink thing was.”

“Enceladus?” Tripp staggered to his feet and wiped his face. “We went through Enceladus?”

“It would appear so.”

“My God,” Tripp thumped the communications console switch.

Jelly hopped after him and climbed onto the comms seat. Tripp stood back, accidentally knocking the side of the chair with his hip. It sent Jelly spinning around, looking look a dizzied, carnival fool.

“Whoops,” he caught the backrest and stopped the rotation. “Sorry, pet.”

“Meow.”

“Manuel?” Tripp waited for the screen to fire up. “Please tell me that Anderson and I aren’t the only ones left alive.”

“I’m afraid I cannot confirm anything. For some reason, I am unable to perform a geo-scan on Opera Beta. I can only see the contents of the flight deck which, considering we’re already here, is rather useless.”

“You don’t say,” Tripp spat, knowing anxiety was due any moment, “Why isn’t the comms deck working?”

“I don’t know, Tripp.”

“Come here, girl,” Tripp scooped Jelly into his arms and examined her face. “Let me see you.”

Jelly stared into Tripp’s eyes as he cradled her. She seemed at peace. Nothing out of the ordinary about her face, body or demeanor gave rise to concern.

“How are you, girl?”

“Meow,” Jelly exercised her infinity claws on Tripp’s sleeve.

“Ah, da-da,” he protested, unhooked one of the sharp ends from the material, “Move your paw, girl.”

Whizz, whizz . She moved all four claws and her new thumb around, demonstrating that she was perfectly fine. “Meow.”

Tripp smiled, satisfied that she was uninjured and in proper operating order. Which was more than could be said for Manuel.