Oz smirks and pulls a greasy zuta-metal object from his pocket. “The tear in the outer seam was simple to fix. This?” He waves it in the air. “The deflection canister failed and who the rekk knows when. It’s a wonder how the aliens didn’t follow us right down to our planet and blow us all to The Eternals.
Theron snorts. “Because Mayvina,” he enunciates, and gives me a pointed look, “purrs like a newborn sabrevipe and runs like an alpha rogstud.” He shoots me a smug grin. “They can’t ever keep up with the Mayvina. Even when my zuta-metal female is a bit ill and in need of repair. She never disappoints.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes. “When will everything be operational on the Mayvina?”
“Soon,” Theron assures me, his claws tapping on the table’s surface. “Soon, Commander.”
The seat opposite me on the far end of the large table that seats ten is empty. Draven leans up against the wall behind his seat, his eyes black and narrowed slits. Whereas the other morts’ eyes only change when angry or extremely emotional, Draven’s remain that way always. He assures me he is calm and of fit mind, but I see the madness that still lives within him. I’m not sure it will ever go away.
“What’s the status on the beasts in the area? Have the geostorms driven the sabrevipes away?” I ask Draven. I’d love for them to get the rekk out of dodge so the rogcows will roam back our way. They’re much finer eating.
He pulls away from the wall, eyes the open doorway, and then relaxes slightly. The self-inflicted scars along his bare arms are a constant reminder of the times he tried to scrape away the sores from his body when he was nearly dying from The Rades. They must bother him from time to time because unlike the rest of us, who wear full minnasuits that cover our arms, he’s cut off the sleeves of all of his minnasuits. His black hair is clipped short and patchy in some places from the awkward regrowth after the disease. No one ever says anything about the scars or how The Rades ruined his body and mind.
“Sabrevipes are plentiful,” he growls. “I did see some flying game just south a few mettalengths away from the facility.”
I arch a brow at him. “From the tower?”
His eyes dart to the doorway again, always making sure there is an escape route. “The tower, Commander,” he affirms, his voice unapologetic.
I clench my jaw and refrain from chiding him about spending so much time in the tower. The winds are brutal up there and you have to be completely covered from nog to toe in protective layers and a full mask. It’s lonely, windy, and boring. I believe my lieutenant commander enjoys the openness. He suffers from the feeling of being trapped and the tower is yet another escape for him. Problem is, it’s unsafe and open to predators. A sabrevipe can’t climb that high but he’s brought back the carcasses of venomous armworms that are known for nesting at those heights. Teeth incredibly sharp and they move quickly. Unlucky for them, Draven moves quicker.
“It’s unsafe to travel that far from the facility,” I remind him.
His black slit eyes bore into me. “Of course.”
I’m unnerved by the glint in his gaze. Draven is a wild one. Sometimes I fear he’ll simply disappear one solar. Just slip through the door and walk off into the great wide open.
Jareth, who sits across from Theron on the other side of Draven’s empty chair, scribbles on a scrap of paper. His pale white hands are littered with tiny cuts and his short, pitch-black hair is sticking out in at least four different directions. He pushes the paper over to Sayer beside him, and Sayer nods, a smirk on his face. Sayer takes the paper and pushes it between the pages of his book and closes it.
“I need Calix’s report,” I grumble. “Where the rekk is he?”
Before anyone can answer, a loud, pained roar echoes from down the corridor.
I rise to my feet just as Calix tears into the command center with the force of a brutal geostorm. His black eyes are slits and his ears are flattened against his skull. He bares his teeth, his double fangs glinting in the light, and breathes heavily. In this moment, he is crazed. I worry he’s contracted The Rades because the madness in his gaze matches that of Draven’s.
“What is the matter?” I demand.
“I’m going to tear his mortarekking nog off his shoulders!” he bellows as he sends a chair flying into the wall.
By process of elimination, I say, “Hadrian?”
Calix glowers at me as Avrell rises beside me. Draven is tense across the room. Protocol states that if someone has symptoms of The Rades, you incapacitate and quarantine immediately.