I now. We had to get somewhere, and quickly. But where?
"The pyloric tube between this sac and Fiona's starboard stomach-cluster would be best," Lori said.
"Sounds cozy," I said, thinking that it sounded horrible. But before we could get going, we had the kid to contend with. He said he was coming along for the ride, but was adamant about finding his car.
"I don't want my Chevy burped up like a pizza," he told us.
"Where we're going," I said, "it could wind up as whale food."
"Not my car, buddy."
I silently agreed with him. That vehicle could give anyone an ulcer. The kid borrowed John's torch and walked off into the gloom. Lori said that there was something she wanted to look for, and left too. The rest of us took the opportunity to get out of wet clothes. The digestive fluid was beginning to eat through them and irritate the skin. Susan wailed that her new suit was ruined. I told her to shove all our laundry in the Sonikleen right away.
Lori returned first, carrying a piece of gear that consisted of two tanks worn on the back, connected to a length of hose with a spraygunon the end. She explained that one tank contained aluminum hyroxide, the other an antispasmodic chemical.
"It numbs Fiona up so she doesn't get the dry heaves," she said.
About ten minutes later the kid's strange vehicle pulled alongside us in the aisle. Abused vehicles lay all around, the result of Sam's forcing his way out of the pack. I hoped Pen-dergast's insurance was paid up. I convinced the kid that the best bet would be to drive his car into the trailer. The observatory equipment only made up a quarter-load and was stashed in our special "eggcrate" section for fragile goods. We had plenty of room. Sam slid out the ramp and let him in. I went back to look the trailer over, check for damage. The stargazer stuff seemed in good shape for all the rocking it had taken, but then Sam and I specialize in hauling delicate equipment, especially scientific gear. I improvised some chock-blocks for the Chevy out of spare bracing bars from the eggcrate nook, then looped tether lines through the Chevy's shiny chromium ―
"Hey! What d'you call these things?"
"Bumpers." ― bumpers, and tied the lines off as taut as I could. It would have to do.
After Sam sealed up the trailer, we were ready. I started up and pulled away, heading for the part of the sac that was devoid of vehicles. There the floor got slippery again and started a gentle slope downward. Lori warned me to go slowly, and I took heed. The ceiling lowered and the walls got closer, the passage narrowing finally into a tunnel. The walls seeped clear fluid in glistening sheets, rolling and billowing like a flag in a soft breeze. The passage started to wind, then became serpentine. We slithered along until we encountered an obstacle, a white disk of tissue sealing off the passage like a drumhead. It was a valve. Lori told me to ease up to it and give it a nudge, which I did. After some prodding, the valve dilated and we went through. From there we wound our way back along the tube, passing more valves which plugged other passages branching to the side. We continued on the main route for a few more minutes until Lori told me to stop. She got into her spray gear and stepped out. When the door opened, an acrid, vomity stench found its way in. Everyone gagged. The walls here were more active, rippling excitedly in little waves that traversed the tube from rear to front. Lori sprayed the walls down with white goop, and in a minute or two things calmed down. She got back in. There was enough good air in the compressors to get most of the vomit-smell out, but enough lingered to make the wait uncomfortable. But we waited. "How long should we stay down here?" John asked. "Until the fight's over, whenever that is," I replied. "But if the ship is seized… well, it's anybody's guess." "We'll win," Lori said confidently. "We always do." "Why do the pirates want to take over another mega?" "Theirs is probably getting old. Megas are scarce. Who knows? They may just hate humans."
"Very likely," John said sardonically. "Humans are the beings you love to hate. Suzie, could you move over a bit?"
It was very cramped inside the cab. Everyone shifted positions in the back seat for optimum comfort. Darla and Winnie were in the aft cabin.
John began, "Strange to find pirates on―" The rig suddenly shivered, then nosed forward and began to slide. I braked, but it did no good. We slid forward for a few meters before the tube leveled again. The walls were heaving inward now, constricting around the rig and squeezing.
"Fiona's spasming," Lori said, looking worried. "The attack must be disturbing her. I'd better spray again."
"Wait," I told her as the tube buckled and whipped around, the contractions squirting us farther forward. We waited for it to stop. "Okay, now."
We watched Lori spray the tunnel around us liberally. The rig got shoved forward again and I had to give Lori a blast on the horn to warn her. She turned, lost her footing and slipped, but crawled out of the way in time. She continued spraying until she ran out of stuff, then mounted the boarding rungs to get back in. Just as she got her head through the hatch, Fiona spasmed again and the rig jerked forward. The edge of the hatchway caught Lori smartly against the side of the head. Roland reached and caught her before she fell out. He hauled her in and the hatch slammed shut by itself. The tube twitched and jittered all around us, the floor dropping out from under again, and we slid along the pyloric tube like the undigested bit of food that we were. This time we didn't stop. I didn't want to reverse the transmission, thinking that the rasp of the rollers would only irritate Fiona more. The walls continued their inexorable urging, closing over the rig like wet folds of cloth, leaving smears of fluid across the ports.
"Hang on, everybody! Get strapped in as best you can. Get Lori strapped into the bunk."
A temporary lull allowed them to get Lori bedded down and secured, then the spasming began again. Roland got thrown forward and whumped up against my seat.
"Hang on to something!" I barked. "I don't want any more casualties." Then I laughed to myself. To be Fiona-merte was our destiny right then, and I couldn't see a way out of it.
It was an endless fateful journey. We got bounced, buffeted, and thrown around. The organ walls bore down relentlessly, slobbering over the hull of the rig. We rolled counterclockwise, went over forty-five degrees, then came back to vertical and keeled over the other way all the way to ninety and stayed there.
"Sam!" I yelled. "Anything we can do?"
"I was just thinking that this is probably the most ridiculous situation you've ever gotten yourself into."
"What?"
"I said, I was just thinking to myself―"
"I heard, I heard! You're a godsend, did you know that?"
"What?"
We passed through a valve, and I totally lost my bearings. We could have been upside down for all I knew. Somebody's leg flopped over my shoulder and I chinned it away. Somebody screamed. Visibility was zero, the headbeams reflecting off greenish-white tissue and half-blinding me. I wanted to turn them off but was afraid to take my hands from the control bars, useless as they were. Powerful contractions began, forcing us ahead in a kind of hellish birth process. The pitching and swaying lessened as Fiona settled down to the task of pushing us on to our destiny within the world of her bowels. After a few minutes ― it seemed longer ― we squirted through another valve and suddenly, mercifully, it was over. We hit water and were totally submerged. The rig bottomed on something soft, cab-first, then the trailer. I heard the antijackknifing servos groan, straightening the trailer out. Then we started moving forward again, more gently this time, carried by an inexorable flow of water.