Page 65 of Uncovered By the Alien Commander
Triandale’s most likely dead, killed by Xandor...
Sadness, anger, loss, and relief all mingle together, creating a potent cocktail of emotions within me. Xandor claimed Triandale attacked him. There’s no doubt if Xandor lives, thenTriandale suffered his wrath. But Triandale chose revenge. He made his choice, a poor choice—we both did.
“Why?” Quad insists with an unblinking stare.
“He left to live with his Gorglaxian friends on Omega Flux Station,” I lie, hoping to save Quad the pain of the truth.
“But we his friends too.” Quad scratches his head. “I hope he comes back,” he adds, nodding his head, smiling.
I remain silent, not wanting to add another lie to the growing heap festering in the recesses of my mind. “Where were you going, Quad?” I inquire, wishing to change the subject.
Quad straightens in an instant. “Oh, to find the Captain,” he gestures behind him with his left arms. “Cargo hold empty now. I’m bored.”
The mention of the Captain causes a flutter of anxiety in my stomach. Void knows what state he’s in now. “I don’t think now is a good time to visit the Captain,” I say, nodding towards the crew quarters. “But Hyanxa needs help to unpack her stuff,” I suggest.
Quad nods with a serious expression. “I help her!” he exclaims, driven by an inane enthusiasm unique to him. He half-turns before stopping. “Oh, chest better now. Thanks Tiny!” He shouts before stomping back down the corridor the way he came.
“Farewell, Quad,” I call after him. Hoping the enigmatic Quad will be okay in the future.Not like he ever listens to me... or anyone, anyway.
Our talk of Triandale prompts me to head towards the armaments and munitions store, remembering Xandor returned my pistol. I decide it’s time to reload and blow off some steam at the shooting range.
I pass through Mod’s lab on the way to munitions store but find the Glaseroid gone. Giving me a sense of relief as no matter how carefully I’d tip-toe, Mod would always complain with bitterness about the noise.
Entering the armaments store, I’m stuck by the odd unease of Triandale’s absence. The towering Gorglaxian was almost always here, inspecting various weapons and ammunitions with his drooping head and watchful eyes. A rift of sadness rests where Triandale once stood. Staring at my pistol, I recall the day he gave me the weapon, how eager I’d been to test it. Almost enough to feel like a true member of the crew... almost.
I search the dusty shelves, pulling down cannisters that jingle with the small caliber bullets my weapon requires. Wasting no time, I reload my clip with practiced ease, like Triandale taught me. He taught me many things, the importance of squeezing the trigger instead of yanking it. To hold my breath and steady my hand just before firing. Now he’s gone, leaving nothing behind, only echoes in my mind.
Triandale kept little. He was like me, lost, never taking root.
I reach the end of the room to peer down the long narrow firing range as the comforting scent of burned gunpowder and oil tickles my senses. The person-shaped targets crafted from arcweave, dotted with countless dents and rivets reminiscent of the ship’s exterior, line the gallery. I activate the range’s controls, setting it to the most difficult level.
In an instant, the targets bob and weave throughout the space in a chaotic dance lacking any rhythm or pattern. They move with remarkable speed, yet my hands move with automatic efficiency, honed from endless practice. In a flash, I squeeze the trigger, tracing the targets one after the other, enjoying the satisfying clanging noise of my bullets striking home and the targets collapsing. However, I suppress a curse, witnessing my final shot miss by a hair’s breadth.
A blur whizzes past my shoulder, and I wince as the shining object thuds into the remaining target. A hefty knife, vibrating with force, lies embedded in the whirling board. I stifle a groan, already knowing the identity of the thrower.
“Hello Xandor,” I greet with little warmth, remaining focused on reloading my pistol. A pang of annoyance greets his arrival, annoyance that I didn’t hear his approach, annoyance that he can locate me with such ease.
“Hail Tyrxie,” Xandor booms, his voice carrying his usual amusement, like the universe is all one big game to him. “How did you know it was me? My stunning accuracy?” he chuckles.
I scoff, still avoiding looking at him, wary of the effect it might have on me. “It was your big-headed smugness, obscuring the lights,” I snap back with a lie, resetting the gallery targets via the controls.
“My head is not big!” he protests, stepping beside me and from the corner of my eye, I can see him measure his head with his hands. I suppress a giggle at the sight, intending to remain hard and aloof. “That is fine shooting. I can see how you killed four gang members now,” he remarks, stretching a long arm, retrieving his knife from the target. “Shame you missed the final one, though.”
He seeks to goad me, to break down my defenses.
If I glanced at him, I’m sure I’d see a smirk on his face. Yet I can’t resist bristling at his words, taking pride in my marksmanship, the only thing I excel at. “And you could do better?” I challenge, my eyes fixed on the dancing targets.
“Seems I’ve hit another mark,” Xandor mocks and I regret rising to his bait. “But yes, I never miss my target,” he asserts without a trace of doubt.
“Prove it,” I suggest, offering him my pistol.
Now it’s Xandor’s turn to scoff. “My finger wouldn’t even fit the trigger of that tiny gun.”
“Oh,” I reply, feigning disappointment, my tone dripping with mockery. “Use your own gun, then,” I offer, gesturing towards the targets.
Xandor chuckles “If I did that, this gallery would become a gloopy molten ruin.”
“How convenient for you,” I mock with a sigh, wondering why I’m letting Xandor waste my time with his nonsense.