Chapter 11 Jeopardy

“I can’t find any possible escape point, Captain.” Shellie Barone shoved her sidearm into its hip holster and seated herself on a cargo container. “Every door is sealed.”

“Byrd, Painter, anything we can use in these containers?”

“I found some blue crystals,” Ms. Byrd said. “I’m not sure but they smelled like ammonia.”

“Ammonia? Cleaning supplies? That’s archaic.”

“More likely for opto-electronic materials. But it’s a potential explosive if we can find a reactant.”

“What else?” 

“It’s a shame we can’t use gold for something. There’s a hundred small containers of gold ore right here,” Painter said, giving a hitchhiker’s thumb to several stacked boxes behind them. “Probably what they paint the ship with.”

“Anything we can use?” Jackson asked his small group. Heads shook slowly. He stood up and walked across the cargo room inside the Zlōger ship. An commercial aero plane could have fit inside with room to spare. Some metal racks lined the walls, and some neatly stood organized across the deck like the never-ending racks of library shelves.

All this stuff and nothing they could use? He refused to accept that conclusion. His crew just wasn’t thinking. They had relied too much on technology and rarely found themselves in a survival situation. He strode back to the others.

“Look for materials, tools, antique components, ordinary stuff. Think simple. Open every box if you have to. Zoe can make a list of everything you come across. Everyone take a few rows at a time. Go.”

Jackson found a sturdy neoprene-type box that he could use as a ladder, given he didn’t suspect Zlōgers used ladders. Nothing was legible, but all was well organized. His section had various sized and colored boxes filled with metal cubes, crystals, ores, shavings, and each box had a diagram on it:

And another:

And yet another:

All unique but with similar ball and stick designs.

It’d been years since his last chemistry class but these looked like molecule diagrams. Or perhaps they were simply alphabetical marks, words, letters, ideas. Alien alphabets could be near impossible to read or write, even if he’d learned to speak it.

“Which of you know chemistry?” he called out to the dim room in general.

“How well?” Zoe Stone answered.

“Come here and bring your data pad.” He climbed down. “You see those labels? Get up there and snap a picture, then tell me what you think it is.”

“Aye, sir.” She easily hopped onto the first block and adroitly made her way up about four meters. When she’d scanned about a dozen different pictures, she easily bounced down and tapped two icons on the electronic pad.

“I think they’re molecules, sir.” The computer ran its data files and each picture promptly reappeared, accompanied by a description.

“Here you go, Captain. These are compounds, these are molecules.” She handed him the list but pointed to the names as they were listed. “Sulfur, Sodium, Chlorine, Potassium, Iridium, oh, that’s what they gave us,” she stopped, climbing up one level to pull down a small container with Iridium. “I think we should have more for all our trouble.”

“This one is chlorine?” he asked. Zoe nodded and looked at the box with the appropriate label. “Isn’t it… a gas?”

“We use a solid form on Maria Mitchell. It’s bound to calcium, in our water purification system, just as a back-up when our ultraviolet sterilizer goes down. I always keep a little supply on board.”

Jackson’s brain focused on the brick, the little circles winding tighter and tighter as the seconds ticked by.

“I know there’s a bomb in here somewhere. Think.” Chlorine was explosive. Sulfur was gun powder. Sodium, well, with chlorine that was just table salt. Potassium was a vitamin and a fertilizer.

“Potassium?” he asked.

“We keep potassium on board, too, for use in the hydroponics bay and to balance salt intake by the crew.”

“I really need a cup of coffee,” Jackson muttered. “Byrd, Painter, Barone!” When all four crew members had joined him at the base of the elements stack, a laser light came on.

“We need to do this fast. I don’t know how much time we have left to get out of here. Barone, go get the blue crystals and take them to the cabin door.”

“Aye, sir!”

“Monkey Girl, climb back up there and get the one with the picture of chlorine. Be careful.” Zoe snickered and again scaled the tower to collect her part of the puzzle.

“Painter, find us come containers – solid enough to hold chemicals but not so strong we can’t destroy them.”

“Aye, Captain,” he answered and jogged off.

“Byrd, come with me. We need to find a fuse.”

“I ran across some flat braided metal strips,” she said, her face lighting up. She dashed across the cargo bay and dodged a shelf. Before Jackson could take a step to follow her she was back with a meter-long, flat strip of dull grey, finely braided wires, about a centimeter wide. “I think it’s magnesium. You’ll find this in antique machinery for battery cables and the like. My old street car back home, my Voltage, it has these. But they’re copper with tin coating, not magnesium.”

“How can you tell?”

Kym Byrd smiled and raised her thin brows until they rose halfway up her forehead. She dropped to the floor and plowed through her tool box, plucking the object of her search from under a couple tools and presenting it to the captain. He took it from her, realizing it was a Flame-lighter.

She dropped a centimeter of single braid on the floor and took the Flame lighter to it, starting a miniature blaze. An exotic, pearlized white flame burst from the metal and smoked as it consumed the fuel.

“Magnesium! A fuse for our bomb.”

“Good job.” Jackson clapped her on the shoulder and they headed to the cargo door, booty in hand. “Nobody get this stuff too close together until we’ve all taken cover,” Jackson said. He pushed the blue ammonia crystals to the left and the chlorine tablets to the right. Painter handed him two plastic containers that would hold about a liter of each substance. With crystals in one, and the cubes in another, he pushed them as close to each other as he dared. Byrd had connected several meters of the magnesium braid together so they could be a safe distance before they even lit the fuse.

“Give me some fabric,” he said to all of them. Painter unzipped his coveralls and tugged on his dingy undershirt until the hem ripped off in his hands. Jackson curled the strip into a crumple and tangled it with one end of the magnesium. He picked up the Flamelighter.

“Everyone, take cover as far back as possible. I’ll be right there.”

“Captain—” Byrd said.

“That’s an order, go, all of you. Now.”

When the crew were out of sight, Jackson took careful measure of his crude explosive. He replayed the tale his father told him about a man assigned to clean the Officers’ Club who thought combining ammonia and chlorine bleach would make an excellent bathroom cleaner. The custodian didn’t live to tell about it, and the restroom was blown to smithereens. His dad’s lively telling made a lasting impression, fortunately.

He stepped to the farthest end of the braid, ignited the Firestarter, touched it to the braid, and watched the silver-white flame begin crawl away, a centimeter at a time, toward the two bottles of chemicals.

Jackson sprinted to the back of the cargo bay where his team waited for him. They all huddled behind heavy metal panels and covered their ears. And they waited. They waited an eternal minute. Jackson uncovered his ears, stood up, and saw that the braid had burned but the containers hadn’t blown up.

“Damn. Damn it, the damn thing didn’t work,” he groused. Jackson took a couple steps toward it when he saw a dull, red flame burst upon the fabric of Painter’s old shirt. “Shit!” He dove back at the moment of success. A gargantuan ball with a thousand shades of orange flames detonated in an angry rage, blistering the air, and destroying the doors, the frame, and several cargo containers near the doors as well. A searing heat filled the room but quickly subsided.

Jackson’s ears had such a loud humming tone he couldn’t hear what his staff were telling him. They stood and brushed away chunks of bulkhead, the burned pieces of containers, and black, unidentified particles, most likely charcoal given the way they smeared and disintegrated under their touch.

“What is that smell?” Barone asked, placing her hand over her mouth and nose. The others did the same.

“That’s the smell of sterilization,” Jackson kidded. “Try not to breathe. Come on,” he said, taking the lead and gingerly stepping over debris, divots, gaps and holes, ducking from dangling conduit and live wires, on the way out of the cargo bay. Painter and Byrd took their tool kits, Stone took the iridium, and Barone pulled her laser gun to stop any Zlōgers that might have been lurking or had heard the explosion and were running toward them.

In the corridor, greenish grey smoke obscured the view in all directions, including the deck. All shoved their face into the crook of their elbow and squinted. Jackson coughed hard, struggling in the smoky air. It stung his eyes, burned his nose and throat, and his lungs refused to take in the poison.

Respirators would take too long to find, and wouldn’t fit anyway, Jackson was certain of that. He jogged several meters until the air was less colorful and he could stop coughing, taking in deep breaths of relatively clean air and hacking out the yellowish ammonia-chlorine gas.

“Captain,” Barone’s mucus covered voice called out. “This was a war weapon! They called it Mustard Gas!”

“This doesn’t have any sulfur in it. It’s not mustard gas,” he choked. “And I told you not to breathe. I meant it.” He leaned over and expelled as much of the toxins as possible with a deep, hacking cough. “Come on, it’s going to catch up with us.” He hurried up the corridor to find cleaner air and the docking port. He could only hope the Osprey was still attached, and that Maria Mitchell was still attached, as well.

He kept checking for Zlōgers but didn’t see any. He saw Barone doing the same thing at the rear of the party. The acrid air became less visible the closer they got to the hatch. He stopped and held up a hand for the party to stop. He closed his eyes and listened hard, but it seemed the ship was empty of Zlōgers. At least one would have come clacking along to explore the explosion at the cargo bay. Perhaps they had gone down to the planet by now.

The humans scrambled the last few meters until they found the same place they’d entered a couple hours earlier. The corridor had a distinct lighting pattern that shone on the double doors, ready to temporarily blind anyone who was coming aboard. Controls on the left side panel. No buttons.

“How do you open this thing?” Jackson growled. He banged a few times on a panel with orange light glow.

“Try that one,” Zoe suggested, indicating a round spot that glowed in green light.

“No, this one,” Jackson said, about to press a square spot that glowed blue. She shrugged and didn’t counter as he expected her to, so he pressed the square spot with his knuckle, imitating one of the Zlōgers’ claws.

Waaaank! Waaaank! Waaaank! screamed a siren above their heads at a deafening decibel. The lighting pattern on the door disappeared and the corridor went dark. The horrid sound, however, persisted.

Jackson slammed the green light but nothing changed. And as suddenly as it had gone on, the alarm went off, the lights illuminated, and the doors slid open to the airlock vestibule. On the other side, the Osprey.

Jeopardy Chapter 10

“This is our engine room,” Quixote said to his party of four. “Maria Mitchell is equipped with Ion Fusion Cascade propulsion. We are able to exponentially increase speed from about Mach 100 to traversing a light year in 200 hours.”

The Zlōgers soaked in the view with their chameleon eyes. The engine, relatively quiet as they approached the planet, hummed a perfect middle C. The reptilian commander could determine their speed with reasonable accuracy just by the resonance of the impulsion chamber.

“Your team going to bring our equipment to machine room for fixing?” Quixote glanced at Chief Bowen.

“We weren’t aware any of your equipment was broken. Isn’t it a hull breach? Painter and Byrd can fix that easily,” he said.

“We have a schedule to keep,” Quixote reminded them. “We are duplicating emergency supplies for the civilization on Beta Hydri Four. To stop and make a single component is highly disruptive. The EBM has to be cleaned of one material before we can create something from another material, and that takes time we don’t have. I’m sorry.”

“We have fatigue. We can stay aboard Maria Mitchell and resume tour when Captain Jackson returns?”

“I believe that will be acceptable. Mr. Bowen, would you show the group to a guest stateroom so they can rest?”

“Follow me,” he said with a wave of his hand. Quixote watched the blue legs slapping along behind Mr. Bowen, their tapping claws growing fainter as they vanished around the corner and the door shut behind them. Xe sighed and touched an intercom call button.

“Galley.”

“Bailey, dear, can you concoct a celery juice for me? I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Sure, Commander. Will the Zlōgers be eating with us?”

“I am trying to get them off the ship as soon as possible, but whatever you served before, this time just put the garnish on the plate. It seemed to be their favorite.”

On xs way to the galley, Quixote stopped at the machine room to collect Mr. Chin for company. Zlōgers were the hot topic of conversation during their brief journey.

“They give me the heebie-jeebies,” Mr. Chin admitted.

“I can’t say that I’ve ever heard that term before.”

“They’re so squishy. Their eyes are always moving. I don’t know, they just give me the willies.”

“They are a bit taxing, but no doubt we are odd to them as well. I will be happy when the environment is back to just 20 percent humidity and a little warmer. I’m going to have to fetch a wrap or go to my sun room pretty soon.”

“It’s a lot like the rain forests on Earth in here, but no snakes or trees or screaming monkeys.”

“Draconia succumbed to desertification a several millennia ago. Our oxygen levels and humidity are below 20 percent planet wide.”

“Do you have any oceans? I… I’ve never been there.”

“A few saline lakes, but primarily our water sources come from springs out of the water tables. Water is for farmlands. We don’t waste it as is done on Earth, for fountains, swimming pools, swaths of grasses, bathing tubs, and the like. But then, Earth is 70 percent water.”

“I learned something today,” Mr. Chin stated. They came upon Bailey and Harchett fussing over food preparation in the galley. An open flame licked at a huge pot with a coffee colored stock simmering inside.

“Here, Commander. Hi Chin, what can I get you?”

“Whatever’s in that pot. It smells divine!”

“Divine is for dinner, but I just made a fresh batch of coffee.” A satisfactory option, Chin took his coffee, Quixote took his celery puree, and they sat near a window in the mess.

“It appears we should enter orbit soon,” Quixote said, nodding out the window at a green and white planet, still a million kilometers off.

“I can’t see the Zlōger ship from here.”

“The towline is close to the keel.”

“How do you think those Zlōgers became space faring? They don’t seem to have dexterity on those single claw-limbs.”

“I observed one of them grasping an instrument earlier. Its limb seem to mold, or, conform, as needed. The end of his appendage simply encompassed the casing like soft gum. They appear spineless and boneless. Ms. Rianya had a term for them but I don’t remember it; ‘cordless’ or something like that.”

“Commander, I was thinking of organizing a card game tomorrow, before we get to Beta Hydri. The morale the last couple days, well, no one is smiling.”

“It’s hard to be cheerful when we have a serious job ahead and are diverted for something trivial in comparison. I don’t think Captain Jackson would disapprove if it’s not disruptive.”

“Thank you, sir. Well, I should get back to the EBMs. I have a hundred barrels and am starting on solar panels in that unit. When the blankets are finished I’ll be moving on to tents.”

“Very good. Carry on, Mr. Chin.”

Quixote finished his drink and headed for the bridge. Upon arrival, he faced the captain’s chair with some disdain. For the umpteenth time, he reminded himself to have a chair sized peg installed. Until then, he would have to continue to stand.

“Any word from the captain?” xe asked.

“No, sir, the party is still on the Zlōger ship.”

“It’s been an hour. Mr. Watson, contact the captain and get a status report. Advise him of the timetable for entering orbit around this planet. I’m sure he’ll want to be on the bridge.”

“Aye, Commander.”

“Bowen to bridge. The Zlōgers would like to return to their ship so a new party may come aboard.”

“Accompany them to the airlock, Mr. Bowen.”

“Commander, I can’t raise the captain or the repair party,” Watson said.

“Keep trying. Mr. Lee, you’re on deck.”

Quixote tapped the claws of his hands against each other on his way to the engine room. Xe focused directly ahead while considering the Zlōgers interest in the ship’s systems. Although xe carried generous respect for Thomas Jackson, xe also held the captain’s penchant for compassion with some disdain. He was a most unusual human in that capacity.

“Mr. Chin,” he called. “Do you have an Injector 33 available on the shelf at the moment? One of my 30s appears to need maintenance and I’ll need a sub while I repair it.” Quixote pulled the suspicious injector from its cradle and tried again. “Mr. Chin?” The man must have stepped away. Quixote set the injector down, then heard the familiar clacking of claws on the deck. Xe whirled around in time to see the largest Zlōger pointing a weapon to his chest.

  

þ

The Zlōger shuttle returned to Maria Mitchell with three new occupants, the pilot having made the round trip. Each carried a container of different substances and they all spread out in different directions as soon as the airlock closed and locked. Commander Gugnichacrik greeted the pilot before he’d gotten very far.

“Commander, we’ve brought aboard the materials and supplies. They are disbursing to the medical bay, bridge, and engine room.”

“Befriend one of them from the infirmary and have them assist in getting the crew locked into their quarters. Medicals are always reluctant to battle.”

“Yes, Commander.”

“I’ll go to the bridge and take over the helm. It was pure luck that their captain went with the repair team to our ship. It will be much easier to remove the machines if he is not on board to interfere.”

“Agreed.”

“What about that human with the weapon?” The Zlōger directed his swivel eyes at the floor where Mr. Bowen lay unconscious.

“Rotana knocked him down. The one in the machine room, and the reptile in the propulsion room are also knocked down.”

“How many others?”

“Medical crew, bridge crew, a few others. A deca or a few more. Rotana went to their armory and has issued human weapons to our boarding party.” 

“Very forward thinking. Dukvita was wrong about this species. They are not clever at all. This may be the easiest mission we’ve had in a quarter of a lifetime.”

“This is a small ship, only five decks. One is all quarters, so once they’re sealed, we can focus on the machine room.”

“We should not spend any more time. Commence.”

The new Zlōgers clacked away in one direction while Commander Gugnichacrik made his way toward the elevator. Rather than flapping leg after leg, however, he slid each leg like a slug, making less noise and quicker progress. The grooves in the decking offered a superior surface to cling upon, which also retained the clear slime they to ease their locomotion.

In the elevator, the commander didn’t know how to activate it. Each eye swiveled, scanning for clues inside the two by two meter box. The surfaces were smooth top to bottom. He lifted the translation box hanging from one arm and spoke to it.

“Ber-idj.” The electronic voice was sufficient to fool the computer and the alien’s confidence crept up another notch. The door slid open and the Zlōger slid out. Watson, Lee, and Rougeau all turned to see who’d come in.

“Which the pilot?”

“I’m the pilot,” Chen Lee answered, his black eyebrows scrunching inward.

“Keep flying. You and you come,” he told the other two.

“I’m not leaving my post,” Rougeau insisted. The commander raised the leg that held a side arm. A small drip of slime sped to the deck from his claw. Rougeau turned away from him to look at his helm; the Zlōger shot a streak of laser light covered in plasma, hitting Rougeau in the upper back. He shouted out briefly, then slumped over the dashboard.

“You keep flying. You come.” Watson’s eyes darted to Lee’s. Lee nodded almost imperceptibly. The officer stood, tapped a red button on his dashboard and slowly walked toward the commander.

“You get him, and come,” he said, pointing to Rougeau. Watson hefted Rougeau, a man taller and heavier than Watson, over his shoulder, then walked at gunpoint into the elevator with the Zlōger.

Jeopardy Chap 9

This chapter needs a lot of work, remember: very raw first draft. 

Captain Jackson, Engineers Kym Byrd and Ron Painter, Security Officer Shellie Barone, and Zoe Stone, acting as a yeoman to record their visit and the technology they offered to share, all climbed aboard the Osprey. It seemed odd to have to shuttle to their ship while their transport was attached to Maria Mitchell, but other than space walk along the tether he didn’t know of any other way.

Four Zlōgers had arrived on Maria Mitchell shortly before the team departed. Quixote greeted them with customary diplomacy and a bit of suspicion. Xe felt it was unnatural to be utterly benign, even if Draconians were the definition of the word. The bluish green creatures reminded him of a similar class of reptiles on his own world, something akin to chameleons. Their eyes swiveled independent of each other to get a 360-degree view of their surroundings.

 They handed Quixote a translation device, which Quixote hung around his neck with a lanyard.

“We want see engine, metal machine.”

“I was asked to show you our astrometric lab, first, if you will come this way,” the reptile said as simply as he could for the translator device. Heading the party to Deck Two, Security Chief Bowen kept them from straggling behind. Quixote could hear the single claws of two dozen legs clack-clacking on the deck plating.

“In this room, we map the skies and record all the celestial bodies that we can.” Dr. Gregory, sitting at the console before the giant flat screen, looked up but didn’t speak to the guests. “We’re currently tracking a large asteroid that we expect to impact the fourth planet of this star, Beta Hydri, in the next week.”

“You will record data from explosion?”

“There is a large population on the planet. We will try to avert the space body before it impacts the planet, and then depending on our success, will be going to assist with the after effects as soon as we get you on your way.” The blues waggled their blobby head-bodies.

“We like see metal machine,” the leader of the small group reiterated. Quixote didn’t quite know what he meant by ‘metal machine’. Xe cocked xs head to one side as if that might help, but reading them was harder than reading humans. He probably just didn’t know them well enough. They were not warm blooded; their body temps appeared to his infrared visual receptors as 22 C – the same as the environment inside Maria Mitchell.

“Metal machine?”

“Jackson told to us your ship has a machine that makes things, alloys and polymers.”

“I think they mean the EBM,” Gregory interrupted without looking up from his console.

“Our manufacturing unit! The EBM. It’s an electron beam melting additive production apparatus.” Quixote purposeful language instilled confusion in their eyes, which darted in several directions. “The EBM. Come this way, please.” The party moved on to the starboard side of Deck Two. The clacks resumed, almost drowning out shrills and shrieks and calls as they spoke through their gills.

Quixote had been informed that on Earth, at least, or among humans, speaking so that some in a party were excluded was incredibly rude. Engineering called, but Jackson had asked xe specifically to keep an eye on the Zlōgers. At least the EBM tour would occupy a significant block of time while demonstrating its function. (I'm not sure why this paragraph is here... it may need to be deleted). 

“Hello, Commander,” Mr. Chin greeted when they entered the generous room. His eyes widened when the four aliens followed behind the saurian.

“Good morning. Our guests from the distressed ship, Zlōgers, are interested in seeing a demonstration of our EBM. What are you working on today?”

“The captain asked me to start producing emergency supplies for BH4. Oxygen masks, blankets, canteens; he gave me a long list.”

“For the entire population?”

“I don’t assume so, Commander. More like townships – not personal canteens, but 100-liter barrels, tent filters, not individual masks. Take a look,” the junior engineer offered, leading the party to a bank of large machines all whirring, extruding, rolling the assorted finished items into bins. Quixote turned xs attention to the bulgy, golden eyes fervidly rotating in eight different directions. It was somewhat disturbing, even to Quixote, who had seen dozens of species in his 70 something year life.

“This is where we load the material,” Chin pointed out. This machine we reserve for alloys and recycled metals, copper, titanium, cobalt, nickel, depending on the component we’re making. This machine here and the one next to it we load recycled polymers. Lots of recycled textiles, assorted waste products, plastic, and with these we can make clothing, blankets, EVA suits, dishes, whatever the quartermaster requisitions.”

“The machines, remarkable.”

“Now this one,” Chin indicated with almost personal pride, “is my powder bed fusion unit. Top quality, precision production.” His object of affection was a desktop model, not a room sized floor model. The Zlōgers took additional interest in the small machine.

“This one makes engines?”

“No,” Quixote said. “It makes very fine, precision components such as fuel injectors, micro filters, medical components.” All the eyeballs focused on the machine.

“I have a big quota, Commander, and I’d like to ramp up now. It gets pretty noisy.” Chin nodded toward the Zlōgers.

“I think they can take it,” Quixote told him. Leaving the machine room would mean they’d just spend more time in the engine room.

“Well, see here, uh, fellas,” Chin stammered. “We program what we want it to do. We upload a schematic, or, we can scan the item with this laser, and the machine does the rest.” Before the group the image of one of those 100-liter barrels floated. Chin tapped some icons and the holographic image rotated in several different directions. He started the polymer machine, checked the material feeder, then went on to another project while another water barrel formed before their eyes within minutes. When the machine stopped, a fan kicked on to cool the product, and a half a minute later the barrel rose up on a platform and was tipped off into a big bin with a dozen others.

“If you’d like to see the engine room, just follow me. But I would like to invite you to the mess hall for refreshments, yes?”

“We will like to eat your food,” came the translation.

þ

“There’s just nothing wrong over here, Captain,” Ms. Byrd repeated. “I can’t find a hull breach to save my life. We’ve confirmed polonium residue, there must be something. That purplish one said it’s in this cargo chamber.”

“Let's get him back here and have him point it out specifically. Barone!” Jackson shouted for his security officer. “Find that short, purple Zlōger and have him come back with his equipment.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Stone, come in,” he called using the com button on his cuff. Since their last fiasco with lost buttons, Ms. Byrd had affixed every button with a permaclip to attach to uniforms. It certainly made it much easier to contact someone, and less easy to lose the things. Why anyone hadn’t constructed them that way in the first place he couldn’t fathom.

“Stone here.”

“Status?”

“I’ve downloaded about a gigaquad of information on their ship and propulsion, astrometric charts, their home world, and languages.”

“Isolate their telemetry for the last thirty days and hustle back here on the double. We’re leaving.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Barone returned with the Zlōger that had led them to the breach. He was an incredible shade of indigo, with lavender mottling, as if he were in a shallow lake and the sun reflected surface ripples through the water onto his skin. When Jackson caught himself marveling he shook the image from his head.

“We can’t locate any breach in the hull,” he told the Zlōger.

“Breach small crack at floor.”

“The integrity is intact,” Kym said.

“I show you radiation detector,” he said, and scuttled across to aim a device at what would be the deepest and farthest corner of their ship. His tentacle was surprisingly elastic, molding around the outside of the handheld metallic box like putty. The single claw hooked over the top.

The meter showed some characters, Jackson guessed they were zeros, that changed as the meter got closer to the chosen spot. Kym picked up a Geiger meter and also pushed it into the supposed area of damage. It showed zeros. She looked at the Zlōger expectantly waiting for an explanation. Stone came in and joined them.

“Your equipment not work right,” the alien declared. He blinked his huge eyes.

“Mr. Painter, bring your lasers and repair whatever this guy says is breached.

The humans clustered around Ron Painter as he began to repair what the Zlōger said was there but none of them could see or detect. Jackson sat down on the deck, raised a knee, set his elbow there and propped up his head with his palm. The cargo bay didn’t offer a lot of lighting but he could still make out objects and the dusky silhouettes of his crew and the Zlōger.

“Do you want more help from us?” the Zlōger asked.

“No, we don’t need any help. In fact, we’re all finished here.” Jackson shot Painter a hard look to stop his lasering and wrap it up.

“Please stay,” the purple one said. A turquoise Zlōger stood at the door on its eight tentacles, the shorter two holding each other at the claw. Its finger sized appendages that helped food into its mouth wavered slightly.

Jackson’s heart escalated into his throat. He scrambled for the door, the team following. The purple alien joined the greenish one at the door with amazing speed on their eight long legs. They both stepped into the corridor and the heavy cargo bay doors slammed together.

Jackson smashed his fist against the doors knowing full well it was fruitless. He turned and faced the crew.

“Don’t say it.”