9. Tyrxie

Chapter 9

Tyrxie

Sleeper

I activate the docking hatch 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 to my 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.

“Good to see you too, Mod,” I greet him with a sarcastic tone and a surge of confidence that I rarely have. My adrenaline is pumping as I get closer to executing my plan. “You saved us with your toxin, thank you,” I nod at him.

Mod sets his vials down on the nearby metal bench. “I save myself. The rest a welcome consequence. No?” he retorts.

From Mod, this is equivalent to a heartfelt declaration of friendship that brings a smile to my lips. But the true intentions of the two Glaseroid brothers are always hard to discern. “Where is Xandor, the Klendathian?” I ask, hoping to keep the eagerness from my voice.

Mod turns back to his liquids, holding one up to a light source for better inspection. “In his guest quarters. No?” he answers, his voice laced with boredom and irritation.

One of Mod’s duties is to tend to the wounded, but his lack of a bedside manner, empathy or any basic decency proves he’s much more invested in his chemical experiments, deadly toxins and unknown ointments. “How’s he doing?” I inquire, my fate hanging on Mod’s every word.

“Stable, cracked ribs, concussion, severe bruising. But I treat. Klendathian physiognomy heals quick. No?” Mod replies, turning with a quickness that surprises. “Why ask, you ovulating? No?” his beady eyes scan my body.

Heat colors my face at his rude accusation. “No, Mod!” I reply in a rush, too quick. Taking a calming breath, I continue. “I have my reasons, but do you think he’s still unconscious?” My question might reveal too much, but the need to change the subject drives me.

Mod places his many arm limbs under his mouth slit. “Hmm, should be, but can’t be sure. No?” he answers, turning back to his bench.

My chance for freedom.

“Thanks, Mod.” I wave, gesturing goodbye as I exit his lab, but Mod doesn’t notice, already lost to his world of liquid chemicals and fusing elements together.

Navigating the corridor again with careful steps and keen ears, I make my way toward the guest quarters. This is always the most dangerous area of the ship, with the aggressive male strangers who often seek me out attempting to breed me. Even stepping foot here fills me with an anxiety that shakes my hands.

And now, the presence of three unstoppable giant males intensifies its danger, as they tower over all like they should belong in another dimension. Rubbing the handle of my knife does little to calm my nerves because these Klendathians are almost impervious. Xandor had even endured battling a Mutalisk, a feat I would have sworn is impossible.

Stealth is my only hope.

A loud thud jolts me out of my thoughts, followed by another and another. I tense up, expecting trouble, until I recognize the familiar voice that accompanies the heavy footsteps. It’s Quad, shouting random words and phrases as he makes his way towards me. He’s hard to miss, with his massive frame and four muscular arms, but he’s even harder to ignore with his constant stream of babble.

I don’t bother to run or hide from Quad. He may be a nuisance, but he’s always been protective, even when his childish antics get dangerous. Like the time he got a new suit of armor and challenged everyone on the ship to a fight, or the time I needed a boost to reach the top of the hull and he flung me into the air with such force that I sprained my ankle on landing. He didn’t mean any harm, he just didn’t know his own strength. Or much else, for that matter.

Despite that, he’s still dangerous.

“Bash! Bash!” Quad repeats, swinging his massive four arms around like meaty scythes of destruction. A perilous word on the lips of the hulking brute causing my surge of fear to come back with increased intensity, forcing me to squeeze into a corner, not wishing to be trampled.

“Oh hello, Tiny,” Quad says, halting, waving his four arms as a broad smile crosses his broad, deep-set face. “Why you here? You never here,” he bellows with such loudness, I almost flee to hide in a gangway, fearing he may awaken Xandor and half the universe.

Holding a finger to my lips, a call for silence. “I’m hiding, Quad,” I whisper, crouching for emphasis.

He frowns, his brow furrowing. “Oh,” Quad says quieter, but still much too loud. “You always hide,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Hiding is boring, bashing is best!” He roars, my pleas for quiet already forgotten. “Captain said I clean cargo, then we bash?” He asks, nodding his head eagerly.

I shudder at the thought, feeling a surge of dread. “I’m far too tiny for bashing,” I say, raising my hands in a placating gesture.

Quad hangs his head, disappointment etched on his features. “Okay,” he says, his voice low. Then, his face lights up in an instant, his sadness already a distant memory. “I bash the others!” he declares, resuming his stomping down the corridor.

“Because I’m the best basher now!” Quad announces, his voice growing more distant as he moves away. I worry what plan the eccentric giant has in mind, but I push it to the back of my thoughts. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, glad that he’s gone. I have my own plans in motion, one I hope Quad’s loudness hasn’t ruined.

I can only try to protect myself.

With careful steps, I arrive before the master suite nestled deep within the guest quarters. Xandor appears to be their leader and carries himself with a natural confidence that I can’t help but envy. No doubt, this must be his room. The thought sends ripples of terror through me, like little tendrils of ice creeping over my skin, biting deep and stealing my breath. I reach for my locket, rubbing it for courage.

I can do this!

Crouching into the door, it swooshes open with a loud hiss, making me wince. It sounds as loud as Quads bellowing to my heightened senses. I place careful steps, one foot caressing the floor at a time as I hold my breath, not daring to make a sound. Good, the room is dark, except for a dull pale glow emitting from the ceiling giving me just enough light to see but also to hide.

The master suite is the largest quarters on board the Mutalisk’s Hammer, even bigger than the Captains. Metallic walls and floor contrast with the white polymer furniture. I’ve often been here to clean after guests depart, so I know the layout well. It’s towards the end of the room that I’ll find out if Xandor is here and if he’s sleeping. I cast my nervous eyes around, feeling a creeping worry. He might not be staying here, since no clothes or personnel items are lying around.

Then I spot him, the surprise rooting me to the ground. The terrifying, heroic, monstrous Xandor. His broad chest rises and falls, releasing great audible breaths of air due to his sheer largeness. Tiptoeing closer, I stifle a gasp at his massive form sprawled out almost naked on the bed, stirring feelings of excitement and fear within me.

Lust is dangerous.

But I can’t look away. His red-colored body is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Where Quad is muscle and fat, Xandor is all lean hard muscle. His long limbs, broad shoulders, and chest ripple with chiseled strength. They frame a tapering waist contoured with perfect peaks of abdominal muscles, creating chasms of dangerous curiosity in me.

A gasp squeaks from my lips, prompting me to cover my mouth as I notice his thick member poking out of his loincloth, daring me to notice it. Resting with boldness against his leg, the length of it takes my breath away, the shock forcing me to glance away. I’ve seen cocks swinging from the more troublesome guests before. Jungarian, Argorian and Barlyxian, each stranger than the last.

Yet as my eyes flick back, Xandors looks the most inviting, the most compatible, with its smooth skin covering the many ridges and contours that dot the entire generous length. It converges to a thick tip that glistens in the low light framed with pebbling along its edges. Startled, I realize I’m staring at his member once again.

My weakness is distracting me.

Tearing my eyes away from the lewd scene, I notice Xandors face... His handsome face, I’ve decided, is strange and alien like mine, except for his pointed ears, protruding fangs, red skin and the fact he’s an immense giant. Like an ancient distant cousin species, reminding me that maybe he does know my origins?

He appears so peaceful, breathing with soft snores tinged with a rasping sound, a stark contrast to the brutal force of nature he personifies. But Xandor fought with such ferociousness to save us... Could I have misjudged him? Has he been genuine all along? His full lips beckon like an alluring invitation. If I melted into him, would he hold me, protect me, or even more? The thought sends tingles cascading throughout my entire body, reigniting a craving for a dream long since repressed. My hand trembles, yearning to touch his face, to feel his lips.

Stupid silly bitch, get the mask and get your freedom!

I recoil as if bitten by a venomous creature. Entertaining such childish fantasies is a recipe for disaster. Disappointment and shame explode within me, shattering the seductive and treacherous illusions which threaten to ensnare me.

Turning my attention back to my surroundings, my heart sinks. I cannot see his armor. Perhaps Job has it for repairs, along with the mask? Creeping towards the polymer cupboards, I slide out drawers with the utmost care and softness. Each empty container is another stab of anxiety and doubt. Xandor could wake up at any moment!

Finally, pulling open the last drawer, reveals the large warrior mask, its slanted black eyes piercing me with an accusing glare that steals my breath. Relief soon replaces fear as my hands wrap around the hard silver metal that weighs heavy and cold in my hands. But a sense of wrongness gnaws at the corners of my mind. I’ve never stolen from anyone before, and Xander is one of the least deserving of such treatment.

With determined resolve, I harden my heart. No, this must be done. Clutching the frightening mask, I turn to exit the room. Each step, careful and light, driven by a desperate need to distance myself from the shame and consequences of my actions.

I need to look out for myself.