“Shut the fuck up. Get your mitts off me, Yul, or I’ll rip them off. Wasn’t Greer who got his hands dirty down there.”
Regers’ vulture-like face, greasy hair with receding hairline, and thick-soled black boots were a sorry sight. Even then he only stood nose to nose with Yul, who was at best 5’10”. Regers’ wine-coloured cloak flared as Yul wrapped it around his neck and pulled. Regers rasped out monosyllables. He thrashed as he struggled in Yul’s mechanized grip, wincing as the iron fingers dug deeper into his arms and caused him to flinch. Regers struggled harder but Yul only held him tight. Faces inches apart, it was at that moment that Yul figured out what was the matter with Regers. Those pills. The chalky grey face, shaky hands, the sweat pouring down his brow and neck. He was jacked up on something. Addicted to some drug.
Greer picked himself up, wiped his bleeding scalp and growled threats. He looked ready to brain Regers with the end of a pipe wrench, but contained his fury. He took up his repair kit and the makeshift diagnostic sensor and mumbling curses, marched down the companionway.
Yul loosed his grip on Regers and shoved him out of the way. “Stay back and don’t do anything stupid.” Damn Mathias for not naming a leader amongst them. He had just pooled them all together like yard dogs and told them to work together and get the job done. A mistake. He caught up to Greer and helped him suit up in the midship’s utility hatch. “Forget Regers, he’s high.”
“No kidding. I doubt my going out there’ll help,” Greer said, holding up the replacement part, “but I’m game and I’m beyond solutions at this point.”
“Attaboy, Greer!” Regers sneered from down the hall. He smacked his lips after chewing the last of his synthetic, microwaved mutton.
Greer ignored the remark. He checked his magnetic boots, adjusted a few gauges on his suit. He stepped into the pressure hatch then Yul closed the gate, watching him through the glass. The outer hatch opened and Greer was exposed to space.
Taking decisive steps, Greer unravelled the umbilical cord from the command post at the hatch and plugged it into the life support system at his side. The cord, shielded with hypertensile alloys, served as an auxiliary air feed and fluid feed, a backup should his own systems fail.
Yul watched him through the port, as Greer’s magnetic heels clanked on the hull’s smooth surface and allowed him to walk safely. It gave Yul chills to watch Greer space-walking despite the safety mechanisms in place. A number of things could go wrong. Happened all the time when technicians went to repair malfunctioning systems outside the safety of the hull.
It seemed Greer was making some progress. He could hear the dull clunk on the ship’s outer shell. Greer squatted down to unscrew the housing and began removing the palm-sized sensor from the projection gun jutting out from near the rear fin.
“Plate is ripped clean off,” Greer reported. “Mentera fire, I’m assuming. The light-drive sensor is shredded. Small wonder. The projection cap looks clean. We could be lucky.”
“Let’s hope so,” muttered Yul.
He watched as Greer unscrewed the capsule. From what he understood, the projection was a robust piece of hardware and could handle a lot of shock, but any skew to its central core could incapacitate the light drive. The projection beam scanned the physical makeup of the ship and created a physical ‘disruptor’ that moved the ship’s metallic mass to the frequency domain, then propelled it through the light highways. Even that layman’s language did nothing to capture the atomic physics powering the light drive.
Yul’s earphone crackled. Frue. “You’d better get over here. We have a situation.”
“What now? Jesus!” cried Yul. “Keep an eye on Greer for me. He’s out there alone.”
“No kidding. There’s something you should know—”
“Not now.” Yul cut the channel and left the hatch pad, hastening down the passage to the bridge, clearly annoyed.
He entered the command area to hear Regers squawking and arguing with Hurd. “I told you not to fuck with the plants, and what do you do?”
“They were trying to get out,” complained Hurd. “Figured they needed some water. Scratching on the glass. Now look, they’re all agitated.”
Yul stare as if Hurd had gone mad. He saw that the moth was gone. Had Hurd killed it? Drowned it somehow? No, the plant must have eaten it. Right, a Venus flytrap. Good one, Yul. Maybe if the moth were in survival mode, it could have burrowed into the soil to hide. No insect parts, legs or wings littered the damp soil.
He saw further that eight of the thirty-some odd plants had already adapted, and had perked up considerably.
Adapted to the move and all the banging around. The instability had caused the plants to create other supports: two double-length buttresses like legs for every stalk, angling out at 45 degrees. All glowed a brown, greenish yellow. To support the stalks in an upright position, they had grown fleshier, fibrous tissue which formed ribs along their stalks almost like muscle.
Hurd sputtered out a defence. “It’s beyond me why Cyber Corp wants this plant shit anyway. I’m no botanist, or gardener.”
“That much is clear.” Yul dismissed Hurd with a wave. “Who cares or knows what these CEO’s are up to? As long as Mathias pays us, we’re golden.”
“We’d better—”
The klaxon rang.
“Oh, shit.” Frue paled. “That’s what I was telling you about earlier. A blip on the microchannel— faded away, thought it was a sensor malfunction. But looks like we do have company. A Mark IV on starboard reach.”
Yul swore. Regers wheeled on Frue. “I thought you scrambled our cloaking frequency, you idiot! Not even government cryptos could crack it.”
“They decoded it, what do you think?” Frue retorted. “Must have found a crack.
