Yul took off his mask and his eyes teared up as if a batch of raw onions had just been cut. He caught a whiff of an exotic odour hovering in the air with a blend of burning peat and wet dog. All that from the brief moments the plants were in contact with the cabin air?
Stepping back to examine his handiwork, Yul witnessed a depressing scene. The leaves had wilted. They lay supine on the yellowish soil, as if dead.
“Doesn’t look too good, does it flowerboy?” Regers said with a chuckle.
Yul pursed his lip and had to agree. Even after they had taken pains to transplant them, they looked unlikely to maintain their upright posture. The artificial ship’s gravity was likely the cause. Too high. The moth seemed unaffected.
“Well, live or die, I christen you Kektus—and Greywing.”
The moth, almost in answer, stuck in proboscis and sucked instinctively on one of the yellow pods.
The others flashed Yul blank stares.
“Kektus... cactus? You know, Greywing, as in butterfly,” explained Yul.
Regers shook his head and turned away.
“Want me to lower the artificial grav index for the plants?” Frue asked, coddling a grin. “Stinks to high heaven in here. Might help the plants out. They’re looking pretty sad. They’re our main cash cows.”
Yul inclined his head. “Look.”
The leaves had started to perk up. Small, buttress-like legs had formed at the base of every stalk to tilt the plants up to a 30 degree angle.
“Well, what do you know,” Frue gasped, scratching at his carroty-red hair. He pointed in boyish surprise.
Yul’s brows rose. “They’re adjusting to the higher gravity, Frue. Even the moth’s wings seem stronger. Look at it hovering over that leaf.”
Regers ripped open one of the sustenance packs at the service counter and smoothed back his ugly mullet. He punched some buttons on a microwave to the side to heat it, only idly paying attention to the samples. Yul took a tentative pack of his own. He grimaced at the sawdust taste of carbonated mash all too familiar after this two-week-long journey. Mathias, for all his millions, had certainly cheaped out on food.
Hurd returned while Greer was cutting some of the plexiglas to make extra holders to house the pods. Entranced with the sight of the alien life, he accidentally cut his finger and emitted a loud groan.
Regers sucked on his thumb to mimic Greer’s pain.
Greer loosed a curse. “Why don’t you take off your ridiculous cape, Regers, and do some work around here? Or are you going to mock everybody? Who do you think you are, Captain Wunderbar?”
“Watch your mouth, Greer. Or you might find you’re wearing it next to your ass.”
Yul ignored the banter. Five men cooped up in a rabbit hutch too long was a recipe for disaster. Men of dubious compatibility and capabilities. Mercenaries who had been rounded up by Mathias at the last minute. Cabin fever, a spaceman’s worst enemy, could be their demise... and yet it had set in early. Yul didn’t know much about these men’s backgrounds, but he divined by certain hints that at least Regers and Hurd were ex-cons.
“One of us has to go out there and fix that rear ion-gun projection stabilizer,” he remarked. “The diagnostics’ function is blown out, likely when we had that incident with the Mentera.”
“Thanks to Frue here,” grumbled Regers.
“What the hell were the locust-aliens doing out here anyway? Sure,” Frue said, “our hyperdrive’s screwed now. Worse yet, if we fix it, it could flake out on us in the middle of a jump to light speed.”
“I’m not going out there,” Hurd warned. “I did enough on Xeses, that freak planet. Get Greer or Frue to do some dirty work. Not so hard to sit in a pilot’s chair, watching pretty pictures flash up on the screen.”
“And who’s been flying Albatross all this time?” snapped Frue. “Who’s been evading marauders?”
“We’re beyond the pale. It’s to be expected,” said Yul.
“All’s I know,” Regers said, “we’ve been up here for three days. On half impulse power. It’ll take us two hundred years to make it back to the nearest hub at Fevenar with the weak impulse drive and I don’t plan on playing circlejerk with you yobos.”
“As I said, get Greer to do it,” grunted Hurd. “He just stayed back and twiddled his thumbs watching the lander take off.”
“Screw you, Hurd!” cried Greer. “Don’t think for a second—”
“Do it.” Yul waved his cutting tool at Greer. “Either you or Hurd. We need Frue to watch the ship, and Regers’s obviously too much of a princess to do anything.”
“I don’t see you volunteering,” said Greer, baring a set of yellow-stained teeth.
“No, I’m not. Nor were you volunteering to go down to Xeses.”
Greer grumbled but made no efforts to squabble further. Perhaps he realized that to take on Yul was not in his best interests.
“We’re getting no read from the diagnostic,” Greer muttered. “I’m assuming the sensor is blown, as you said. I’ve rigged up something makeshift in the meantime.”
“Good,” said Yul. “A step forward at least, Greer.”
“Yes, goody for you,” jeered Regers. “Do something useful for a change.”
“How ’bout instead of whining like a silly bitch, you get out here and help?” Greer snatched up a length of air hose. “Rather than criticizing everyone who doesn’t live up to your exalted—”
Regers leaped over and gave Greer a vicious shove that sent his head smacking into the glass housing the plants. Yul cursed and moved in like a viper to hold the seething Regers back from pounding fists into Greer. “Easy, Regers! Don’t
