Outer World
Author: R. J. Erbacher
The vessel approached the large planet and Ot’O was steady and eager behind the controls. This was Ot’O’s world to discover, his accolade. The extensive voyage, aside from a few minor adjustments, had gone as planned. Advanced technology allowed space travel to be navigated with meticulous accuracy. But the interior atmosphere was a mystery. Long range analysis of the spheroid had been impossible.
Ot’O negotiated the debris field encompassing the planet, of which he now understood was probably the reason for the scanner’s bounce back. Once clear of that he began his descent.
The ship began to shudder from the aerodynamic friction of the upper layer. He ran a chemical diagnostic of the exterior environment, revealing a high concentration of nitrogen with a very low density. But the plummet became increasingly jarring and systems aboard began malfunctioning and shutting down. Ot’O struggled through it, overriding failures and transferring power. Then there was a severe jolt as a new intensity of pressure was impacted. The last reading he received was that this secondary level was thicker and consisted of mostly hydrogen. And then that instrumentation went dark as well. Though slowed, the vehicle continued to pitch down. He wondered if he would ever land on something solid. Attempts at rebooting apparatuses proved futile. There were only a few systems operating, thankfully one of them was life support.
After what seemed like an eternity the craft compacted into the soft silt of the substratum, coming to rest on its side. There was barely space to move around in the interior, the whorled designed was more for aerodynamics than appeasement. Ot’O began to see what he could salvage or repair. Until he could get propulsion back and regain the upper atmosphere, he couldn’t leave the ship and without sensors he couldn’t analyze anything. Ot’O went to work.
His time fell into a routine; labor until near exhaustion, take some rationed nourishment, then rest and start all over again. Ot’O tried to break it up into periods to keep track of how long he was at it but one session faded into the next.
Movement woke him. The vessel was rising. Something had elevated the ship off the surface and he was ascending. There was still no power so it wasn’t anything he had control of. When it finally levelled off Ot’O had the sensation that he was bobbing.
A bang slammed into the hull. It resounded like a meteor had struck the side. Then another, and another. Rhythmical, repeated; not random like a bombardment would be. Everything onboard that Ot’O had fixed went down again. Even the alarms, which were the last thing operating, went silent. There was just the relentless pounding, the vibration of the impacts disoriented him. There were momentary pauses, the ship shifting, then it started all over. Again and again. And then he heard the breach in the shell. Gases flooded in, intense light and he felt himself being ripped apart.
The otter, swimming fluently through the breakers, dove into the depths with a whimsical twist. This was the otter’s world, where he felt most at home, safe. He could maneuver effortlessly through the brine. He scanned the bottom, searching for a mussel or crab or urchin. He discovered an odd clam and scooped it up and enthusiastically rose to the surface. Floating on his back he positioned the prize on his stomach, pulled the sharp rock that he used from a fold of fur under his arm and began his assault on the shell. He pounded it with his makeshift hammer, then repositioned it, pounded it again, looking for a seam. This one was being particularly unyielding but he kept at it. Another otter would have given up and tossed it aside for an easier meal, but he was tenacious. Finally, he cracked through the outer casing and dug his claws into the inside pulling out purple viscera and stuffed it into his mouth. He was just about to eat the third helping when he realized it tasted strange, his tongue flicking out what was inside his cheeks. He had eaten good things and bad things but nothing was this off-putting. He dumped what was left of the offensive food off his chest, back into the sea, took his paw and wiped the offal from his whiskers and dove back down for something better tasting.
Walking along the shore, in his bare feet and rolled-up pants, the little boy hummed a song to himself. His mother a few feet away watched him in between peeks at her cell phone. Otto was looking for shells. This was Otto’s world. He loved shells. All shapes and sizes. He had a dozen glass mason jars of shells on his shelves at home. They were all pretty. His pockets were already stuffed with treasures. Suddenly he found one he had never seen before, and he had seen almost every style there was. Otto picked it up and it felt different than a regular shell, looked different too, spirally. There was a little purple goop clinging to one corner and he rinsed it off in the tiny waves that rolled onto the beach and examined it again. Otto was satisfied with his discovery.
“Come on Otto, time to go home,” his mother absently said to him.
He was excited about the new shell and shoved it into his pocket to add to his collection.