Page 28 of Uncovered By the Alien Commander

A trip to the pleasure houses is just what the healer ordered.

Chapter 13

Tyrxie

Preparation

The plasma grinder humsto life as I drag it across the square plate of arcweave metal. The scorching, shimmering blue haze causes sweat to bead over my body. It’s not just the heat making me perspire, but the desperate need to complete my work. Time is slipping through my fingers like this arcweave dust because today we dock at Omega Flux Station, and my last-minute project might be the difference between life and death.

In Job’s workshop, I glance over my shoulder, making sure no one is watching... lurking. Only the thick metal benches equipped with clamps, cutters, pressers, and other tools are present. The large room is cramped due to the myriad of toolshanging from the walls. And now a thick layer of silvery powder of arcweave dust covers some of them.

Heaps of raw materials litter the room. Boxes loaded with plates and beams of arcweave, others with old polysynth boards and tangled wires, evidence of the countless repairs and projects Job has carried out over the years. The distinct smell of sizzling hot plasma, twisted arcweave and fused circuits lingers in the air.

Satisfied I’m alone, I uncover my dangerous treasure. The Klendathian mask. Xandors mask. It glares at me through black, slanted, accusing eyes. Holding the heavy object sends chills down my spine as a sense of wrongness settles over me. For a split second, I consider returning it. The rest of Xandor’s repaired armor lies on a bench behind me. I could replace the mask, slip it back into the ensemble, and none would be the wiser.

But I need to escape.

Fear clenches my gut as I grit my teeth, hardening my resolve. I set the real mask aside, applying my plasma grinder to my project as I watch the impossible heat soften and warp the metal arcweave plate. Once I’m content that it’s malleable enough, I shape by applying more pressure, attempting to mold sweeping curves that resemble Xandors mask. The process is tricky, as I’m more accustomed to bolting thick plates to the hull for repairs, not shaping and sculpting.

For hours I work shaping and molding, in the deep sleeping hours of the ship, praying no one discovers what I’m doing. Frantic need compels me as I compare the two masks side by side, making more adjustments as needed, until my fake creation resembles the real one. I exhale, wiping the sweat from my brow, examining the counterfeit mask, testing its hefty weight in my hands.It feels solid, although the eyes look a little off...but it should be enough to fool Xandor, at least until I cansell the real mask and disappear like a faded shadow within the station.

The appearance of Xandor during the briefing was terrifying, not knowing if he was coming for me and his mask. Witnessing his fury at Triandale prompted me to escape the room, my mind racing with doubts and fears. If Kaanus drags me along to this scoomer deal before I can disappear, it’s almost certain Xandor will pursue us for his mask, and I can’t take that chance.Not when I’m so close to my freedom.

Approaching Xandor’s massive suit of thick, smooth arcweave plates, I brush my hand over the cool, hard metal. When he wears this, he seems more like a titanic avatar of war than a real person. Memories of him darting through the Mutalisk attacks like a hero from some legend send a flutter of excitement through me. But in this tale, I’m the monster, and he’s coming to slay me. Examining the belt area, I attach the fake mask to the dangling latches.

With haste, I exit Job’s workshop, stiffing a yawn as I search for a safe place to rest beneath the gangway. Now I can steal a few hours of slumber before my fate is decided tomorrow.

I awaken with a start, my fingers ache with the strain of clutching Xandors real mask in a white-knuckled grip. Glancing at my wrist console, I gasp in shock; it’s close to afternoon. It won’t be long until we dock at the station and I still need to gather some belongings. Pushing against the gangway grate, it slides over with a grinding scrape as I wince at the noise. Without hesitation, I leap out of the tunnel, rushing toward my bunk.

The crew quarters lie empty, a relief as I step over the piles of dirty clothes and Nutripaste packets. Retrieving a satchel from my container that’s nestled into the wall beside my bunk. Sweeping clothes into the bag as my heart pounds in my chest, as the surreal thought that I’ll never see this place ever again, settles in. As long as I can remember, I’ve lived aboard this ship, but now it no longer fits me. I’ve outgrown it, and it’s outgrown me.

I don’t belong here.

Deep within my satchel, I bury Xandor’s mask, hoping the folds of my clothes will conceal my crime. As a creeping sense of dread rattles my nerves.Am I doing the right thing? What if Omega Flux Station is worse than this ship?Uncertain, I rub my hidden locket, the smoothness a welcome balm, something familiar amongst this sea of unpredictability.

The entrance door slides open, interrupting my thoughts and I startle with increasing breaths. Triandale’s looping head appears through the opening before he enters, his great height almost too much for the gateway. I exhale at his presence, glad it’s not someone more dangerous.

Triandale regards me with a curious look. He looks ominous, armored in his black arcweave uniform and carrying his strange long-barreled rifle slung over his shoulder. He rarely carried his weapon until the Klendathians boarded. Now he’s never apart from it.

The backpack he carries catches my eye. “Planning your own trip, Triandale?” I ask, nodding at him. The sight reminds me of my escape plan.

Triandale bristles at my question, a flash of surprise widening his runny eyes. “This?” He pats his backpack. “Mere ammunition and spare weapons. You can never be too careful with these...trade deals,” he shakes his head with disdain, swaying the tentacles on his face.

Was I the only fool who didn’t know we smuggled drugs?

He draws nearer, his head curving closer. “How goes your... preparations?” Triandale’s drawl accompanies the tilt of his head, his eyes flicking to my satchel.

I study him, unease crawling along my skin. Triandale is the sole member of the crew who knows of my intentions, but still questions and inquiry threaten to cast light over my comforting shadows. “They... they go well,” I stammer, watching for any hint of danger. “Just packing the last of my things.”

Better to be vague.

He retracts his head, straightening, almost brushing the ceiling as a smile curls his mouth. “You don’t need to hide from me, little Tyrxie. I will not harm you. Now tell me...” he pauses to loop his head backwards, glancing at the entrance “About the savage’s masks?” he finishes after turning his gaze back.

The mere mention of the mask shakes my hands with anxious panic, my resolve already threadbare. “The... the masks? I have one... Xandor’s,” I say with a struggle, as if speaking the words solidifies my terrible guilt in the universe.

Triandale’s head curls closer to me again, his runny eyes narrowing. “Only one?” he responds, his usual slow pace now increased. “One may not be enough... To secure your future with prosperity.” He turns his back, stroking a lanky, thick-textured hand through his face tentacles. “If you could retrieve the other two. Well then, you could live like a high merchant queen,” he says, each word a dangerous, alluring promise delivered with agonizing slowness.

Safety is more important than riches.