Flaming Gin Fizz

Mamadu rested back in his seat. It was comfortable, yielding to his weight, supporting the points where his skeleton touched with minimal body fat.

The lift off was aggressive. The window only several minutes long, and with the windspeed and cloud cover there had been fears they'd need to wait another year in jail.

The pilot had juggled it though. She spotted an iris of blue sky and triggered the launch manually, then surfed the exploding wave behind them, up, into the heavens. They soared, rocked, rolled, and both struggled for breath as the planet fought to hold onto them. Mamadu's last meal churned deep in his belly, but he strained and it stayed down.

Still in Earth's grip, they'd nudged and burned into an elliptical orbit, using everything available - a burst here, the fractional tug of the moon - until the eccentricity became so vast they could with a final prolonged burn explode away, as gravity's grip on them uncoiled.

She had marked the glimmering spot in her viewer and placed a window around it.

"Alright, looking good. As long as it stays in the box, we'll hit it." Loud clicks resonated as she flicked switches, then finally released her harness and turned to look back at him. "You want to share a water pouch? We've enough to get us there and back, but best not to waste it."

"Yes," he croaked, his tongue fat in his mouth, like rough paper. "Thank you."

"No problem, prisoner." She floated it to him - in any game, a perfect pass - but he failed to catch it and it bumped into his chest. He flailed a little, grabbing it just before it drifted out of reach.

"Enjoy. So... what did you do to get sent to haul back a hunk of exotic ice to chill our master's gin fizz and his bastard kids' soda?"

"I'm Bissau-Guinean."

Her long slow whistle was the only sound in the void, besides the machine's hum.

"A lifer, ehh. Didn't like what y'all did to his pop's old bauxite mines. Well, if we pull this one off, maybe you'll be spared. Some kind of trophy in his collection. First Bissau-Guinean in space? Or we'll just be put back in jail. Or killed."

"Why are you here?"

"I said the whole idea was a stupid waste of resources, that it would never work, and that he was a fat, saggy, balding piece of shit who should fuck off and die. I might have said some other things too."

"So he put you as pilot on the mission?"

"Ironic, no?" She stretched - almost feline, he thought - catching the water pouch, despite his poor pass by any game's standards. "I'm just wondering if I can save enough fuel to land this fucking thing on his yacht. Make a flaming gin fizz for the fucker."

"That would be quite the shot. But I don't drink," he said with a wry smile.

"Don't worry, the flame burns off the alcohol."

Laughter filled the void.