Page 15 of Uncovered By the Alien Commander
His words hit me like a gut punch. Can’t hide, can’t fight back. Trapped in a waking nightmare, slumping to the ground, I speak out in desperation. “Can you protect me, Triandale until we reach the next station?” I plead, my voice little more than a whisper.
Triandale turns toward me finally, peering down at me, his sad runny eyes examining my face. “Your face is a star chart of sadness, Tyrxie. I know how you suffer and I know what it is you seek,” he says, each slow word sending panic coursing through me.
I’ve revealed too much!
“You intend to flee at the next stop, but what will you do? How will you survive?” Triandale’s head uncoils closer to me, his voice carrying a weight of concern.
He will not betray me to the Captain? Maybe I can trust Triandale?“I... I don’t know, I never thought about it. Maybe some maintenance work?” I offer, my voice wavering.
Triandale’s expression gives no hint of his thoughts as he replies, “Stations have their own maintenance crews, and they’ll not hire an untested novice. The only other viable option is to sell your body. Is that what you want?”
His words cut my fragile hopes into ribbons and my breath rate increases as the walls close in around me. “No...” my voice trails off. I’m trapped, and there’s no way to escape. The familiar sense of despair sweeps over me, threatening to consume me.
“There is another way, a dangerous one, but potentially very rewarding,” Triandale approaches with a lanky hand extended, his pace slow. “Did you notice the masks attached to the Klendathians?”
Taking his hand, he helps me to my feet as the first blossoming of hope blooms within me. “Yes,” I answer, my voice eager, craving any possibility of escape.
“Each one is worth more than this ship, to the right buyer,” Triandale states, his eyes narrowing with intensity. “If you got your hands on them, you’d be set up for life.”
A tumult of hope and fear churns in my stomach. “But how? I want to get away from them, not steal from them,” I protest. The solution dangles so close, yet is almost as dangerous as staying.
“You’re a smart, stealthy girl. You’ll find a way,” Triandale reassures his drooping tentacles, fluttering as he smiles.
I’ll find a way. I have no choice.
Chapter 7
Xandor
Tool for the job
The tiny human femaledashes away, leaving me wide eyed and shocked. Her straight, shoulder length black hair bounces with each tiny footstep, making almost no noise. “She’s even smaller than Rocks,” I whisper, glancing at the pistol I took from her. The weapon is minuscule in my hand as I inspect it before tucking it into my belt. It’s amusing she thought something as pathetic as this could stop me.
With a sigh, I march towards the mess hall, my mind full of questions and plagued by boredom. Only our first day on the Mutalisk’s Hammer and already I can’t wait to leave. The tight and restricting confines of the rooms and corridors are maddening, and the ship is so tiny I must have explored every room a dozen times by now. It was this boredom that promptedme to search for the mysterious remaining crew member, Tyrxie.But I never imagined I’d find a human.
Like a fun game of sorts, it didn’t take me long to figure out she uses the gaps beneath the gangways to travel unseen. A few grates loose here, some bolts missing there and fingerprints smudging dirt painted a picture that was easy to follow, except for the reason. That was until I saw her soft pale, bruised face, with the sad green eyes. The poor female is full of fear at the obvious mistreatment she is suffering.
My heavy boots echo through the corridor as I near the mess hall. Examining my hand, I notice a tiny slice along my skin where the feisty little human cut me. A touch more strength and she would have broken the skin. While I have sympathy for the girl, her volatile nature is also a danger, especially in a ship such as this. All it takes is one unstable person at the bridge controls to vent us all into space. Even my Klendathian strength wouldn’t save me.
The mess hall whizzes open to reveal Noroth and Logarn seated at the tiny metal tables and chairs eating from polymer bowls. The absence of the crew members is becoming apparent, because no matter what room we enter, it soon becomes just us. “You get the sense we’re not welcome?” I ask the pair.
Logarn remains silent as he eats his paste like food with a steady rhythm. Noroth grunts, “Not me. That female's eyes follow me,” he responds, as he turns over a spoon that’s much too small, full of gray mush with a look of contempt etched on his face.
“Who? Tyrxie?” I inquire, wondering if Noroth had also been hunting her.
“No, the Jungarian,” he answers, before shoveling a spoonful of paste into his mouth, his expression turning sour. “They feed us shite!” he splutters, slapping his hands on the table, almostrocking it sideways. “Going from the finest meat in the universe to this crap.”
“It can’t be that bad,” I protest as I take a spoonful of the runny, lumpy glop and shoving it into my mouth. A sour burst of soggy soil-like taste assaults my senses as I struggle not to splutter the way Noroth had. “Tastes like how the mold in my kitchen smells,” I shudder, tossing the spoon back into the bowl as if it’s a vipertail.
A moment of silence occurs except for the slurping sounds from Logarn. Noroth and I exchange a look before we both turn to stare at him, disbelief painted on our expressions. “How can you eat this stuff?”
Logarn’s eyes switch between us as he continues, undeterred. “Adequate nutrition,” he states his voice monotone, as he devours more of the horrible stuff.
“Adequate nutrition is the Scythian jelled rations, but this stuff,” I gesture to Logarns bowl. “Is an offense to the Gods.” I shake my head. Two weeks of this gruel.Why didn’t I bring more supplies?Although, If I my memory serves, the cargo hold contained crates full of borack meat. For five hundred thousand credits, the Captain might not miss a few...
The mess hall door slides open, interrupting my delicious plotting. A Glaseroids stands frozen, his eyes darting around with frantic motion, his goggles twitch below his antennae. “Giant mammaloids. Very bad. Yes?” He turns, with limbs flailing.
“Mod, is it?” I ask, shooting my hand to grasp his fragile exoskeleton shoulder before he can scurry off.