We traveled like this for I don’t know how long. Eventually, my stomach went dry and I could no longer smell the vomit, my olfactory receptors having been chemically singed away by whatever preservatives they put in hotdogs with infinite shelf-lives. Thankfully, the acceleration had eased and breathing became less of a chore, with the pressure just enough to keep us all down on the glass without floating around.

A few peep holes were left in the film on the interior surface of my cell. My neighbor on one side was a becloaked individual with a face that looked as though most of it had been sanded away and then polished, not terribly unlike the deep-sea faceless cusk, Typhlonus nasus, only this person had beady little eyes. They seemed content to stare up at the top of their cell and hadn’t really looked my way. I turned to the other side and tried to find the prisoner from whom I’d received the previous non-verbal communiqué but they were obscured behind the puke curtain. Pickles sat against my stomach, uncomplaining, my fingers interlaced beneath.

In the tubes to either side of Patton were a pair of prisoners I could see. One wore a purple and orange cloak and looked like a monk who’d just returned from a monthlong bender and now appeared to be meditating... or crying. The other was a gigantic, nectarine-colored pro-wrestler. That was the only way to describe them.

“I’ve never seen the merchandise so defile itself.” It was Aptat, their voice piped into my chamber.

“Do none of these other people have stomachs?” I asked, because that is a thing. Platypuses have no stomachs, so maybe I’d ended up in prison with a bunch of their egg-laying, semiaquatic stellar relatives. And Patton.

“Oh, I don’t know. Some of them, probably. “Ke’xatt there beside you has the same basic digestive anatomy as an Earthbound ruminant.”⁴⁴

“You’re a shitty driver,” I said. “The mess is your fault.”

Aptat chuckled. “I have a reputation for delivering cargo in the same state as when I obtained it. Can’t say that for all stringhunters. You’re lucky I’m the one that nabbed you.”

“Stringhunters?”

“Your buyers will want you in good condition,” said Aptat, ignoring my question. “Stand away from the glass, please.”

The chamber was still tilted at an angle. “I can’t.” Almost immediately, the entire pod shifted, the gimbal bringing it flat to the ceiling with the chambers perpendicular to it, allowing everyone to stand again.

As soon as I was away from the side, a thick, pink liquid flowed down from the top, coating the inside surface. It was like being inside a blood vessel. I don’t like blood, and my stomach, already strained, convulsed weakly. The fluid moved quickly down the walls, leaving the glass clean behind it, then drained out the bottom. I glanced up to see Aptat looking down through a hole, their face still in a pleasant – relatively speaking – non-predatorial fish configuration.

“Put this on. I don’t need you further spreading any more of your juices about my ship.” They dropped a tiny black cube into the chamber and the portal above closed. The voice remained. “Remove your soiled clothing and place it through the door at the base.” Between my feet was the outline of a small, arm’s-width porthole.