Tritcheon Hash

Tritcheon Hash is a satirical ride throught the sci-fi genre. In a futuristic world, women get tired of men and abandon them to stew in their juices on a rapidly declining Earth. They colonize their own planet, Coney Island, and live in an all-female society...

"Disengage please, Sylvant Hash."

"Disengaged," Slvt. Tritcheon Hash answered.

"And fucked!" she added.

"I'm sorry?" The reply through the voice feeder was pretending it had missed that last thing. "Nothing," Tritch said, switching off the vox. "Nothing. Nothing."

Blame her impatience on the fact that she'd been sitting in a one-size-fits-all seat for the past six hours. She had spent most of that time trying to revive parts of her body that had fallen asleep. It was an impossible task, since the hemp straps held her securely in place just like the procedural manuals liked it. Straitjacketed without a break in a prototype jet called 'Stubbo' had given her ass-cramps. Impatient was an understatement.

Tritcheon Hash had reached impatient some time ago and was now taking her misplaced anger out on somebody else. Which is why she swore at the lab stooge on the feeder.

Earlier, an ounce of time after Tritch had strapped herself in with the helmet and all, the doors to the bay had opened revealing a perfect morning. She had watched the birds flying over the pond through her gazer. No cloud hung in the sky; nothing could have been more perfect for a whiz and whir to the beyond. Days like today didn't come along too often in this neck of the woods. The sink-and-mound topography was humid and overgrown with mangroves and eel grass that the planet planners (over-planners perhaps) had plopped into this section. This was the chief waterfowl production area on the planet, and for some insane reason the overflight test facility got licensed to do its dirty work here.

So every day, amidst the honkers and peepers of the swamp, a bucket or two would fly up and out, wagging its tail feathers in imitation of the real thing pecking away in the duckweed below. This place had beauty to cry for. The toads sang to you, the flamingos danced for you, and once in a while a bog cat would snag a fish, all in the middle of cattails and waterfronds decking the edge of the pond.

The bay. The body of water that would kill you if your ship decided to take a dip and you didn't expel from it fast enough to reach the safety of the rim. Seems dumb to plant a body of water just beyond the lip of the liftout pad, but in reality United Capstan (U.C.)-Stubbo's owners-was way beyond slick. The ships would survive the crash into water, even if the pilot wound up with a broken back and waterlogged lungs.

So today had started out perfect, with the sunlight gleaming off the water and the humidity low. Who could have known such a robust portent would be so misleading? No progress to speak of had been made since those glorious beginnings, except that Tritch had become increasingly cranky.

A gravelly, cynical voice deep inside her, originating probably in the fleshy portion of her backside or perhaps the bile-filled regions of her gut, nagged her, suggesting she dismount the hog and have somebody give her a call when they were ready. And then another voice-angelic, sitting sweetly on her shoulder, smelling of honeydew and Beaujolais-