When pigs fly
by David
The satellite was old. It just barely fit in the empty part of the cargo hold. Radiometry indicated an age of 1.2 billion years, give or take 100 million or so. No telling how much it would be worth, especially if he could get it working. Darren squinted at the symbols etched into its surface. The script was recognizable, but the syntax! He slammed his fist against the deck plates. The instructions read like they were written in Betelgish and translated into Centauran-A by someone who only read Vegan! He opened an access hatch, blew nonexistent dust off of some weird-looking integrated circuits (?), scratched his head, and put the hatch back on. Beneath another hatch were rows of buttons with strange shapes printed on them. They were no script he recognized. Nothing ventured nothing gained — mentally flipping a coin, he pressed the button whose icon looked like copulating pigs.
A grinding and shrieking emanated from the interior of the satellite. Bits of corroded metal sifted down onto the deck. Hastily he pressed the button again and the sound stopped. A moment later, a previously invisible door slowly ground open, stuck halfway, then fell off with a clang. He smelled dust, and something else. A staccato tapping sounded from the interior, and a small blue-furred critter shot out of the satellite. The pseudo-pig hit the deck running and disappeared into the dark recesses of the crowded hold.
“Sacred waste products” Darren exclaimed, leaping to his feet and running after the suoid. There were a thousand places in the hold where something that small could hide. He ran back and forth among stacked crates, moved boxes, shone lights, even called to it, to no avail. Finally, he went to his tiny refectory, dialed some stew from the Chefmaster, and put a bowl full in the middle of the hold.
The blue pig trotted right out, even let him scratch its back while it ate. After, it burped, curled up beside him and went to sleep. When it started snoring, Darren walked back to the satellite. The next button in line bore an icon that seemed to have wings and horns, lots of them. Darren reached for it, hesitated.
The end