8. Tyrxie

Chapter 8

Tyrxie

Walk

“ Y ou go outside. You repair hull. Yes?” Job insists for the hundredth time, even though I’m already laden with the bulky and unconformable space walking suit.

The thought of venturing into the void is terrifying, sending my heart to pound in my chest like a malfunctioning hyperdrive. The previous day was nothing but a series of mind-numbing horrific events, and my fragile nerves were nearing their limits. “Job, you’re the engineer. I don’t think I can fix a damaged hull while in space!” I argue, waving my arms in the heavy, cumbersome suit.

“My antennae get stuck in suit. Yes?” Job rotates his head appendages in frustration, a gesture all too familiar in our repetitive debates. “It easy. Take this. Yes?” he presses a bulky, short black gun into my hands.

“But we have specific Glaseroid space walking suits,” I protest, grasping at any excuse to avoid being thrown into the icy embrace of space.

“No, no, no. You go. Yes?” Job’s spindly arm limbs flail as he attaches a crate full of thick arcweave plates to a lock on my suit that I wasn’t even aware existed. “You ready. Make haste. Yes?” His last words prompt my stomach to churn and my hands to tremble.

This ship is going to get me killed.

Turning, I stump toward the open docking hatch, the looming vacuum of space majestic and terrifying in equal measure. Each step is slow and frustrating at the sensation of being encased in this awkward and heavy space suit. Taking care to avoid the dents and rendered metal on the floor remnants of the petrifying monstrosity called a Mutalisk.

The memory causes me to shudder. Despite my fear, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the battle as one terrifying monster struggled against another immense one... But Xandor fought to protect us? His eyes glowed yellow, leaking smoke from his strange, frightening mask. Like some spirit processed him, moving with an agility which defied comprehension, dodging and weaving through the writhing horrors.

The battle was a horrendous spectacle, but witnessing him stand firm and defiant in the face of such terror stirred something within me, something shameful I thought I long repressed. Xandor almost died, his body bruised and battered, but Mod’s toxin stopped the Mutalisk, saving him, saving us all.

They can’t be trusted, no one can.

The grotesque, immense figure of chitinous death recoiled as pieces of it sloshed off and seemed to dissolve. Much to the anger of Mod, who was eager to collect samples, only to find a steaming pile of vapor, a broken Xandor clinging to life and a cargo hold smashed and torn to pieces.

A sigh escapes my lips muffled by the oppressive air tight helmet, nearing the atmospheric docking shield that shimmers with a faint blue. The terrifying thought of stepping beyond its boundaries, exposing me to the harshness of space, causes my pulse to rise. Until I’m yanked backwards with a jarring force, almost pulling me from my feet.

“What the void?” I shout in frustration as my words come out muffled, confined by the suit. Glaring backwards, I notice the thick cords tethered to the case of arcweave plates pulled taut by Job’s efforts. He stands waving his skittering limbs, gesturing towards the docking hatch as if it’s easy to drag this box that weighs a ton.

Gritting my teeth, I lean forward and take a laborious step forward, moving like I’m in partial stasis. My muscles strain and balk as the heat in my face rises and sweat buds over my body. After a few agonizing steps, I pause for a breath to see Job, shaking his flat narrow head with disappointment. “Why don’t you help? Because of your antenna?” I call out, my tone mocking.

To my surprise, the spindly Job tries to push the crate, his thin exoskeleton straining with effort, so I resume on my own efforts, the loaded box moving a little easier now. “Quad help? Yes?” Job suggests, shouting over, his voice laden with effort.

The image of the over eager Quad hurling the crate like a bullet spinning into space with me attached fills me with anxiety. “No, we can do it,” I interject, wasting no time. Panting and grunting with each step, the sound of the crate grinding over twisted metal follows behind me. The blue haze of the atmospheric shield buzzes and shimmers as I pass through it. The sensation on the other side is surreal, as all sound outside my suit ceases to exist, and my body, that felt heavy with effort, is now weightless.

Still attached to the crate, I turn, yanking and pulling on the tough, winding cords. Blood rushes through my ears, deafening in the silent void, as Job pushes from the other end, his body turning an odd darker color with the effort. The box slides and grinds closer to the docking hatch shield, filling me with apprehension as one misstep here means the ladened container will send me floating lost in space—a fate worse than death.

The force field shimmers as the box creeps through, causing my hands to tremble. Already the weightlessness prompts me to adjust my effort, needing just enough force to bring the crate to me with little momentum. Nearing the shield, Job leaps backwards, his arms flailing as if he’s approaching an exposed Elerium exhaust vent. Although this might be more dangerous.

The box floats out past the shield, as I activate my locking system on my suit, clamping me to the hull. My breath is erratic as I watch the container hurtle towards me with a speed that appears slow, but the size and bulk are intimidating. Setting my feet, I steel myself. I can do this; I can do this. Despite the weightlessness, the crate crashes into me, knocking the wind from me, its mass obscuring my vision.

For a terrifying moment, my foot unclasps from the hull, as my heart sinks at the thought of being thrown into space. Until I’ve absorbed enough momentum from the crate, allowing my foot to clamp back onto the hull with a satisfying and miraculous thud. Ushering the crate to rest on the hull with frantic hands, I lean on the container, attempting to regain control of my erratic, rasping breaths.

This ship is too dangerous.

Gathering my wits, the eerie silence permeates my consciousness. Despite the isolation and vulnerability of the void, I can’t help but feel awe staring out into the vast emptiness. Stars twinkle and dance amongst the swirling galaxies and sparkling auroras, weaving a tapestry of terrifying majestic beauty that stirs my soul.

But what’s most freeing is the absence of others. Out here, my senses are heightened with a clarity and focus I’ve never enjoyed before. No looking over my shoulder, studying every expression, every word, every inflection for a hint of an attack, no planning escape routes and exit strategies. This is where I belong, embracing nothingness.

Because I am nothing.

Tearing my eyes away from the mesmerizing infinite expanse, I clamber along the hull, clutching the now weightless crate alongside me. It doesn’t take long to see the damage from the Mutalisk’s attack. Countless dents and gorges adorn the reinforced arcweave armor, some more serious than others.

My heart sinks at the realization this will take a lot of time and effort to repair, but only the deeper wounds need mended, as the others can wait until we dock at the next station. Then I’ll be gone and none of this will be my problem anymore. Approaching the first tear, the metal bends inward a few feet long and half a foot wide, exposing the deeper layers beneath that have just about held.

From my belt, I extract my plasma grinder, activating it before I run it along the ripped metal. The absence of the sizzling roar of the tool is surreal, as it smooths and flattens the jagged edges. Sparks of molten blue shoot out into the void, freezing and extinguishing almost instantaneously in the icy vacuum of space.

Soon the rough edges have become smooth and clean, prompting me to pull plates of arcweave from the loaded crate. I select small thick plates, stuffing them into the gaps, attempting to fill as much of the hole as possible with the mismatched sizes. Nodding with satisfaction, I grab my metallic filling foam, spraying generous amounts between the remaining small gaps. It hardens and expands, sealing the hole and fusing the arcweave plates together.

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’s lanky 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.