Page 14 of Uncovered By the Alien Commander
“Gods, no. I’m not a savage,” the towering warlord protests, his voice muffled.So it’s my humiliation or pain he craves.“Is that why you fought like a venefex, thinking I would dishonor you?” I hear him removing his mask, but I keep my head buried, awaiting my fate.
“That’s what most seek,” I answer in a whisper. “You’ll be no different.”
“You shame me, tiny one. I would never,” the Klendathian declares, his tone stern. “Besides, I prefer my females big and meaty,” he continues with a laugh.
His nonchalant attitude takes me by surprise, but then why did he seek me out? There must be another treacherous angle here, yet to reveal itself. “My name’s Xandor. What are you, Tyrxie, a Jungarian?” he inquires, mirth in his tone.
If I was a Jungarian, maybe Hyanxa wouldn’t hate me?“Lost,” I reply, my thoughts distracted.
“You break my heart, little female,” the monster called Xandor claims. “Let’s see you.” His rough hand tilts my head towards him with gentleness, and as I peer into those dangerous golden eyes, they widen as he recoils, as if stuck by a comet. “You’re a human!”
“Hu...man?” The word feels strange to my tongue.Does he know of my people or is this part some cruel joke?But Xandor’s shocked expression appears genuine.
Trust no one, Tyrxie!
“Yes, from Earth,” Xandor confirms, his piercing gaze fixates on me as he tilts my head from side to side. Air hisses through his teeth, revealing two long, ominous fangs that glint in the dim light. “Your face is lumpier than it should be.” Withdrawing his hand from my cheek, he straightens. “Who did this to you?”
My wits creep back to me with each passing moment. Anger replacing my submissive confusion. This giant brute, feigning concern for me, is more treacherous than any other I’veencountered. Must he ply me with false hope and cruel, fake sympathy? “Bumped my head helping Job earlier,” I mumble, regurgitating the automatic familiar lie.
Xandor, the towering monster with the dangerous eyes, frowns as he looks at his wrist console. “Job, the Glaseroid?” he asks, distracted. Seizing my opportunity, I turn, dashing behind me with all the speed I can muster. “Wait!” he calls out after me, but I don’t stop. I will never stop until I’m safe in the next station, away from all this torment.
My lungs burn with effort as my legs struggle to keep up with the demand of my frantic fleeing. Heading towards the one person who may help protect me from the Klendathians, Security Officer Triandale, who harbors a hatred for them.
The absence of heavy footsteps following me fills me with relief as I slow my pace down.Did he not give chase?Such a strange encounter. He must plan to toy with me for the entire journey? But I will not give him the satisfaction.
Emerging into Mob’s lab, which serves as a gateway to the armaments and munitions store. I find the Glaseroid looming over a cluster of beakers filled with colorful liquids, clad in his long brown coat with countless pockets. With meticulous precision, he adds one hue to another, his antennae twitching with excitement. “Mob.... Is... Triandale...here?” I ask between rasping breaths.
Mob leaps, almost dropping his beakers. “Ahhh!” he exclaims in shock. Turning with his arm limbs flailing in a frenzy. “I almost explode ship! That what you intend? No?” His words rush out even faster than usual, as he nestles the beakers among the hundreds of jars filled with specimens and chemicals, many of which turn my stomach.
Gasping for air, I place my hands on my knees. “Is Triandale here?” I repeat.
“How should I know? He comes, goes? No?” Mob replies. His bug eyes dart, scanning my whole body. “Least he is silent. You appear injured? No?” He takes a rag from one pocket and applies an oily black substance from another. “Here. For face,” he offers.
Taking the cloth in my hand, unsure what to do, I dab my swollen, hot cheeks, wincing as a stinging pain dissipates into a smoothing numbness. “Thanks, Mod,” I mutter, offering him the rag.
Mod recoils his many arm limbs held up. “No, mammaloid exertions may contaminate everything.” He turns to pull out another jar from his metal shelves. “You keep your exertions at a safe distance. No?”
Navigating around his cluttered lab benches, approaching the next room, curiosity compels me to ask. “Mod, have you heard of Earth or humans?” I turn towards him.
Mod pauses, placing his limbs beneath his mouth hole. “Hmm, Captain mentioned this Earth? No?” he responds, his words reminding me that Kaanus stated the Klendathians were keen to go there, but why? “This word ‘humans,’ never heard before,” Mod adds, already engrossed in his jars once more.
Figures, the Klendathian Xandor most likely made it up to lull me into trusting him. Yet a nagging doubt lingers in the recesses of my mind. The expression of shock etched on his face felt genuine. And how would he know I was uncertain of my origins? I release a long breath, entering the next room. None of these questions matter now.
Only my escape does.
Triandale, the towering Gorglaxian, inspects fusion reactor warheads with a languid grace. His long, looping head curled around the munitions, peering from every angle. The storeroom is vast, stacked with shelves and crates chock-full of warheads and long arcweave rail gun bullets, canisters laden with reels of the stuff.
“Welcome, Tyrxie,” Triandale greets, in his usual slow tone, somehow sensing my presence before spotting me, sending my hairs to stand on edge. “Do you seek more bullets?” he asks, prompting me to touch where my gun should be, only to remember in a panic that the monstrous Xandor still has it.
I’m defenseless.
“No, I need another gun,” I state, pausing, unsure how much to reveal. “One that can stop a terrifying Klendathian,” I blurt out, my desperation obvious.
Triandale still doesn’t turn but halts, his curved head dropping. “I wish I had such a weapon. Then things would have worked out differently.” He shakes his head, his tentacles fluttering.
His words fill me with exasperation. “There must be a way. They can’t be immortal?”
Triandale scoffs, “They can be killed, not with these,” He gestures towards the shelves loaded with ballistic pistols and rifles, “not when they have their armor equipped.”