Page 19 of Uncovered By the Alien Commander
A moment more with the plasma grinder to smooth out the rough protruding edges of the filling foam. I’m now ready to complete the repair with a final plate of arcweave, as I extract a large thick board of metal, apply sealant and align it over my repairs. Unfastening the bolt gun Job loaned me, I squeeze the trigger, once again taken aback by the lack of ear-piercing sound and recoil.
The last plate is now bolted to the hull on one end. I repeat the process, driving numerous bolts along its edges. Sucking my teeth, I examine my work, knowing Job will claim he could do better, but the plate is solid and will hold. The ideal solution would be to replace the entire section with new plating, but Kaanus always refuses, asserting that we could spend the credits better.
Curious, I clamber toward the front of the ship to assess how far the damage to the hull extends. I need to be thorough as the crucial bridge and Elerium hyperdrive are housed on this end, even though the dents and scrapes here are minor in comparison. Scanning the area, I’m about to turn back, content the damage is superficial until my foot slides along the top of the viewport, sending my heart racing with surprised panic.
Swerving with frantic movement, I just avoid plunging from the front, to become a speck of dust lost and abandoned in the unfeeling icy void of space. As I throw myself prone to the hull, gasping for breath, puffs of condensation cover my helmet screen. “Voiding void this ship,” I shout, my words muffled by my suit, as my thumping heartbeat dissipates somewhat.
Peeking over the top of the viewport, I can make out the disorienting upside-down view of Quad and Triandale talking on the bridge. The hulking Quad has two hands beneath his chin, while his other two are scratching his bald head. Triandale’slanky frame looms over him, his head tentacles fluttering as he leans in close, speaking.
Nobody deserves trust.
Quad nods his head in affirmation, a broad smile crossing his face, as Triandale hands him a small polymer box, similar to the ones he keeps in his armaments store. The thought of Quad running loose around the ship with a weapon is unsettling. Quad appears pleased at the offering as he clutches it to his chest, which shakes with silent laughter, before he stomps out of the room with haste.
Triandale turns to follow but halts, as if frozen in place. He turns his curved, looping head toward me, prompting me to pull back in a frenzied panic.Did he see me?Not waiting to find out, I straighten and scramble towards the back end of the ship, sighing as I assess the myriad of torn gashes that need repaired.
At least I’m left alone out here.
Chapter 9
Tyrxie
Sleeper
Iactivate the dockinghatch door back in the cargo hold, the usual groan and hiss of the gears now muted by the void of space. The ramp, crusted with layers of sparkling ice, snaps and crunches back into position as steam hisses from the atmospheric pressure refilling the space. I breathe a sigh of relief, attempting to ignore my aching back, numb arms, and considerable sweat caused by the hours of grueling repairs.
Without wasting another moment, I strip off the awkward and heavy space walking suit that thuds to the ground. The chilly atmosphere strikes me like freezing cold water down my spine, sending my teeth chattering. Scanning the area, I notice Job doing his own repairs in the cargo hold. Flattening and filling in tears and slices strewn around the vast hold.
Approaching Job, I rub my arms, attempting to generate a touch of heat. “You finish. Yes?” he asks, but does not turn away from spraying metallic filler into an enormous cut.
“Yeah, I nearly died twice, but she’ll hold,” I reply, every word eliciting a puff of condensation.
“Still live good. Maybe faster next time. Yes?” Job suggests. As he speaks, little wisps of air escape his mouth, yet he does not appear affected by the cold.
I sigh as Job always reprimands me for my lack of speed. Even if I somehow made a repair with the click of my fingers, he’d still complain the job was too slow. “I was faster than you, Job,” I protest, gesturing to his pile of equipment scattered nearby.
Job tuts. “Quality over speed. Yes?” he retorts, taking up a noisy plasma grinder and running it along a protruding edge, showering us with blue searing sparks. “You speak to Captain, you tell him, ship ready. Yes?”
My heart skips a beat at the mere mention of Kaanus, never mind informing him half his trade goods are smashed and strewn around.
He’s too dangerous now.
But another reason forces me to speak, Triandale’s suggestion, a promise of a better future “Job, I can’t. I have a very important mission to do,” I declare, storming towards the cargo hold exit, not allowing him a chance to refute me.
“Must do everything myself. Yes?” he grumbles, almost inaudible amidst his plasma grinder’s roar.
With my pulse rising, I march down the corridor, thankful for the increased warmth in this area. It’s dangerous to be above the gangways, but timing is crucial and I must be quick. A better opportunity to steal a Klendathian mask may not present itself.
Mod may be tending to Xandor now, or at least will know his whereabouts. Then I’ll make my move on the unconscious titan. Reaching the triple divergent corridors, heavy footsteps echo tomy left, stealing my breath. I leap behind an alcove for cover, holding my breath, daring not to move as the thudding grows louder, bringing with it the soft whistling of the red-haired monster with the flattened face.
Squish face will find me!
Terror’s icy grip clutches my heart as time appears to slow with each passing moment. Until he marches past, heading toward the mess hall. Following close behind him is the smaller but still massive blonde-haired one with the dead eyes who never speaks.
Just to be sure, I wait for a moment until the sound of their boots and his nose whistling fades away into the distance.That was close!Exhaling, I resume my path towards Mod’s lab, hoping to get my answers. The nervous anticipation of what I’m about to do almost overwhelms my resolve.
Entering the lab, I notice the Glaseroid once again engrossed over his strange glowing chemicals. This time I tiptoe closer, trying not to make too much noise. “Mod,” I whisper, my voice but a breath, but he doesn’t respond or chooses not to. “Psst, Mod” I repeat, with more insistence this time.
Mod scoffs, his antennae, flailing “Experiment failed, unexpected irksome mammaloid violates hypothesis. No?” he turns toward me, still holding vials of iridescent liquid that remind me of the strange color of the Mutalisk.