by Erik DeLeo
With his broken back, Reg didn’t know if he could make it much farther, let alone wherever Raul’s footprints led. But he wanted to know if the tracks kept going. Even though Raul had seemingly walked off into the distance, going who knew where, a slight breeze had kicked up, and Reg was worried the traces of Raul’s footprints would disappear.
Reg pressed onward.
He lost the tracks, but after making it some distance with no sign of Raul, he picked them up again. Reg scanned the horizon in a vain attempt to locate Raul. While the crash happened in an area that was sparsely pocked with impact craters, in the distance were ragged peaks. The old mining colony was located near lunar mountains, since that was where the main veins for the mining operation were.
Reg crawled along, paralleling Raul’s trail a little more, and stopped. He thought he spied something. He squinted his eyes and then pulled himself forward with renewed vigor.
There, next to Raul’s footprint, was another one. But much bigger.
13
Company
“What the…” Reg’s voice trailed off.
The impression in the dirt next to Raul’s footprint was massive. And that massive someone was wearing boots. Boots with a very distinctive tread.
Grogg.
Reg studied the boot print next to Raul’s footprint. He was trying to come to terms with what his eyes were telling him. And he soon came to a conclusion.
“This isn’t good,” muttered Reg through his mask. “Not good at all.”
The Grogg were a mean, war-like race. If there existed any well-adjusted Grogg, or even ones that were non-combative, Reg hadn’t met them. They were big and heavily muscled. Their disposition was bitterly angry, and that was on their best days.
But the Grogg weren’t angry at everything. There was one thing they loved—money. Which meant most of those mean, huge, ill-tempered creatures were mercenaries. Or pirates. Or maybe even mercenary pirates. Reg’s thoughts wandered.
What is a Grogg doing here? Why would a Grogg be here? Why did they take Raul?
Reg was nervous. Grogg rarely worked alone. So it was unlikely there was only one on MO-1038. And that was worrisome. A lone Grogg was more than a handful. With a broken back, a broken arm, and no weapons, Reg figured his chances of taking one out were less than zero. He had fought them before. They were truly nasty in battle. What they lacked in tact, they made up for in tenacity. Then another thought popped into Reg’s head.
The Grogg must have a ship!
If they had a ship, it could be his ticket off this rock. Reg scanned the horizon line again. It was getting darker, though it never got darker than a reddish-purple twilight. He didn’t know where Raul was, but he was out there somewhere. And it looked like the Grogg may be the culprits, guilty of snatching him away. Reg was the kind of person who didn’t mind taking another’s property, but bristled at the idea of someone doing it to him.
For half a sec, Reg thought he glimpsed a flash. He blinked hard. Had he seen something in the distance? He couldn’t be sure. He narrowed his eyes, trying to peer through the ever-darkening landscape. He stared at that spot for a good while. Nothing. Then, right as he looked away, he caught the flash again. He wasn’t seeing things. A thought shot through Reg’s mind.
I bet Raul is there.
It was followed quickly by a grim determination. In that moment, Reg decided he was leaving the crash site. Regardless of the odds. Even if the crawl killed him.
The prospect that there was another ship on this moon, and there was an outside chance he might actually get off this place, gave Reg focus. Which was helpful, because his legs were useless and his broken arm was painful, although the throbbing had begun to dull.
Reg made his way back to the shelter to settle back in. Once there, he pulled up his mask and took a long drink from the small thermos that came with the now battered atmospheric condenser kit. It worked well, although the water tasted almost as bad as the air smelled. He put the thermos down and noticed there were some bloody patches on his pants. At first he thought he had cut his leg on a rock, as his pants were in tatters.
Then he saw something move. He grabbed the bottom of his pants, and pulled them up. His legs were riddled with small, bloodless holes.
Baar wurms.
14
Host
“Gah!”
Reg had seen many things in his life, but he had never encountered anything as gross as this.
The baar wurm, a small, short, and brown creature with razor-like points around its mouth that served as teeth, hung from the end of a set of needle pliers Reg had found near the wreckage. He flung it on the ground and proceeded to smash it into bits with a rock. There were three other pulped carcasses next to the most recent.
Baar wurms were a parasite, attracted to sound and heat. They could linger for ages under the ground in something akin to hibernation. The crash must have woken them. Reg’s body heat had attracted them. And now they were chewing his legs.
Normally getting eaten from the inside by baar wurms was an excrutiatingly painful experience. But Reg had no feeling in his legs, so he’d been spared that pleasure. The worst part was, since he was paralyzed from the waist down, Reg couldn’t feel where they were. He was using the pliers to dig after them. The wurms excreted a coagulant as they ate, but the pliers caused the wounds to start bleeding again. It was a messy endeavor, and Reg risked infection without a way to bandage the open wounds.
The most dangerous part of a baar wurm infestation was their attraction to heat. Baar wurms would burrow until they reached the host’s heart. At which point, they’d kill the host and return to ground until the next unsuspecting victim would show up. The second most dangerous part of a baar worm infestation was that in addition to excreting a coagulant, they also released a sleep toxin as they fed. Which meant if you didn’t get them out quickly enough, you’d fall asleep while they ate through your insides. And Reg most definitely didn’t want his insides eaten.
How many baar wurms were in his legs? Reg didn’t know, but he needed to get them out sooner rather than later. He tightened his jaw in grim determination as he stuck the narrow pliers back into his leg.
It took some time, but he found five more baar worms inside his legs. Reg yawned. Perspiration covered his brow, and he swore at the mess. Between the soil and the blood, his formerly white pants were now various shades of red.
The first signs of fatigue began to set in. Reg knew he was in danger. And he didn’t know how many baar wurms were in his body. If he fell asleep, he most likely wouldn’t wake up.
He worked faster. His lids grew heavy. He dug the pliers into his legs searching for worms. He yawned again, this time harder. He set the pliers down in order to pinch himself.
Maybe I could lie down and rest for just a second…
Reg slapped himself, and the pain cleared the cobwebs threatening to cloud his mind. He picked the pliers back up, but his eyelids soon grew heavy again.
It’s the toxin! Don’t fall asleep, you idiot!
But the toxin was winning. Soon, Reg couldn’t keep both eyes open at the once. He dropped the pliers. Reg began to nod off, but he caught himself. He shook his head and blinked hard.
He couldn’t focus. His body began to feel heavy.
He knew he was losing the battle.
He lay down.
The ground was warm.
He could feel the small rocks under his back.
He let out a sigh.
He thought about Raul.
His eyes closed.
He slept.
15
Dreams
“Don’t put that there!” yelled Reg, as Raul attempted to place a load of barrels in the wrong spot.
Raul was being annoying. Actually, Reg was annoyed with himself, but it was easier to take his emotions out on the robot. The new OS he had downloaded while at Kessa seemed quirky, and it had been harder to give commands to Raul as of late.
On the plus side, Raul seeme
d to be mostly functional. Between Reg getting electrocuted, being taken to a local med facility, and escaping before he had to pay for either his care or the extra night’s docking fee, he was just happy to be aboard the Zephyr. Even with the OS issues, Raul could still operate relatively well. And that meant Reg didn’t have to spend any more money. He was good at getting away. It was something he had always been proud of. He walked over to Raul and pointed where he wanted the barrels full of builder’s tar, a nano-material that could be used for roofing, roads, and other construction projects.
“There.” he said sternly.
This time Raul, hydraulics hissing, obeyed without any hiccups. The robot set the pallet of tar down, albeit a little too fast. The load began to sway precariously. Reg ran over to try to steady it, but it was too late. It began to topple. He threw his arms up over his head protectively and turned away, wincing, anticipating pain. He was hit hard by one of the barrels and knocked to the ground. Other barrels crashed onto the ground around him with a series of thuds.
Boom.
Boom!
BANG!
Reg woke with a start. He couldn’t see. He was groggy and momentarily confused, thinking he was back on the Zephyr. He realized his face was covered by fabric. He tried pawing it away, but both his arms were held at his sides. He couldn’t move. The shelter had become a cocoon.
His equilibrium shifted, as he was lifted into the air, small tent and all. Large hands grabbed him. A few secs later, the fabric was pulled away from Reg’s face. He was eye-to-eye with a mean-looking Grogg.
Another Grogg, out of Reg’s view, grumbled something. The one holding Reg grunted back, right into Reg’s face without breaking his gaze. Reg’s stomach turned. His mask filtered the air, but not the smell. If he weren’t being held up in the air and he weren’t paralyzed, his knees would have gone weak. He had no idea what a Grogg’s diet consisted of, but at this point, he didn’t want to hazard a guess.
The Grogg not holding Reg walked into view. He seemed the happier of the two. The Grogg held out a device, and Reg felt a pinprick on his neck. He immediately felt more awake. Then the same Grogg roughly tied a piece of fabric around Reg’s head, covering his eyes. Just like that, Reg couldn’t see again. But at least his wits were back.
“Can you tie that around my nose, instead?” said Reg flatly. Neither Grogg responded. The one holding him said something to his partner, then effortlessly slung Reg over his brown, scaly back.
Reg guessed he and the pair of Grogg were making their way away from the wreckage, leaving behind Reg’s meager supplies. His stomach grumbled. Whether their bad breath was a result of diet or horrific Grogg oral hygiene, Reg wasn’t looking forward to what might be for dinner tonight, especially considering the chance that dinner was him. He wondered who would finish him off first—the Grogg or the baar wurms?
After ten mons, the Grogg march came to a halt. The Grogg carrying Reg shifted him slightly on his shoulder and repositioned his grip. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. A hollow metallic sound rung out with each step of the Grogg battleboots. From what Reg could gather, they were climbing up a short ladder.
Reg was set down, albeit a little more carefully. His broken arm throbbed, and his back hurt—he definitely missed the pain meds. And it was getting hot. The tent wrapped around Reg made it worse.
A dull thrumming sound started, and Reg could feel things move underneath him. The thrumming sounded an awful lot like anti-grav generators. Anti-grav generators were used aboard hovercraft, and they were an effective way to keep things quiet for creatures such as the Grogg.
The craft dipped again. More voices. It seemed a third person had come on board. Possibly another Grogg. Shortly after, the craft dipped once more. Reg could make out four distinct voices. That is, four Grogg voices.
Four Grogg?
Grogg worked in groups of three. Rumor had it that since the Grogg home world was destroyed, it was a way to ensure the race didn’t disappear like their planet did. Whatever the reason, Reg had never seen anything to dispute that fact. Until now.
With a lurch, the craft started forward. Riding on a hovercraft for the uninitiated could be a little unsettling. It felt similar to riding a boat in the water, but the cushion of air created by the repulsors gave a feeling of undulation as it rode along the ground. Many people said the float associated with hovercraft felt unstable.
After a shorter trip than Reg had anticipated, he felt the hovercraft begin to slow. Finally, it came to a complete stop, and the Grogg barked grunts back and forth at each other. They sounded irritable. Reg felt at least one of them step off the craft, as the floor pitched down for a moment. Meaty hands grabbed Reg and hoisted him in the air. The blindfold was taken off, and Reg squinted at the sudden reintroduction of light. His eyes quickly adjusted, and he was looking at the toothy grin of a Grogg.
Wait—they smile?
Reg didn’t have time to think about it, as things went dark after the Grogg punched him in the face.
16
Rest
His teeth chattered.
Reg opened his eyes and realized he was lying on a cot—and shivering. Bags of ice covered his body. He was in a medium-sized room with metal walls. It seemed as though it was a medical station, similar to the kind you’d find on the military front lines or forward bases. There was a machine off to the right with wires coming out of it. Or rather, wires were hooked up to Reg and going to the machine.
The ice was cold enough that it hurt Reg’s skin. He tried to get up and move the bags, but a medbot wheeled into view and held him down firmly.
“You must not move. Rest is required.” said the medbot in monotone.
Reg collapsed back onto the cot without putting up much of a fight. He was more tired than he was cold, and he realized his arm hurt less.
“You had heatstroke and were in severe shock.” continued the medbot.
“Well, now I’m freezing.”
“Your core temperature is still elevated.”
“Can you remove the ice?”
“My protocols dictate that is not possible at this time.”
It didn’t feel like his core temperature was elevated, but Reg didn’t have the strength to argue. He noticed a container next to the cot filled with some kind of clear liquid. Suspended in the liquid were a lot of baar wurms.
“Did you get all the wurms?” asked Reg weakly.
“Yes. We removed them before your demise in 12 standard hors.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Reg. “How much longer with the ice?”
“Your core temperature will be back in the designated safe zone within 3 mons.”
“Praise. The. Gods.” said Reg, as his teeth clacked together.
Reg wasn’t the religious type. But he didn’t mind stealing their expressions. With the life he had lived, he didn’t believe in one miraculous force that held everything together. He didn’t follow the Gelos Pantheon, either—those monks were crazy. The galaxy was too messy with too much war and too much suffering for Reg to believe in otherworldly benevolent creatures or an all-knowing entity.
“So, umm, I still can’t feel my legs.”
“Your spine has undergone severe trauma. We made an incision in your back to repair a broken vertebrae, and a nerve stabilization compound was injected to help your spinal cord.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t help me know if I’m going to walk again.”
“With the healing accelerators we injected into your body, you should start to get feeling in your legs within one Standard Rotation.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I thought I was a dead man.”
“You certainly would have been dead.”
The medbot continued about its duties, gliding back and forth across the floor, monitoring various machines, some hooked up to Reg. Right on the dot, the ice bags were removed, and he was covered in a thermal blanket. When his stomach let out a loud growl/gurgle, he realized he was starving.
“Is there anything to eat? Becau
se seriously, I’m pretty much going to devour my own arm here shortly.”
“That would not be advisable,” responded the medbot, as humorlessly as one would expect a medbot to respond. “We shall get you the proper nutritional requirements soon.”
Reg didn’t know who “we” was, but if “we” had food, he was all for it. Not more than a mon later, there was a beep at the only apparent entrance to the room. The door slid open, and in walked one of the Grogg who had taken him from the crash location. At least Reg thought it was, since the Grogg all looked the same to him. The Grogg was carrying a large supply container.
Then something strange happened—or rather, someone strange. There was a second creature behind the first Grogg. Whomever it was completely took up the empty space of the doorway. A moment later, a Grogg that dwarfed any other entered, ducking his rather large head to avoid hitting it on the top the top of the entranceway.
Reg felt his eyes grow wide. “Holy…”
Giant Grogg entered the room and barked an order at his subordinate. He lifted his hand, a massive index finger extended, indicating where the supply container should go.
“Put box there,” rumbled the Grogg.
Reg lay there dumbfounded. Grogg could understand other languages but, supposedly, couldn’t speak in anything other than their own tongue. Giant Grogg was speaking in Standard, the common adopted language between races. And he was doing it without a translator. The creature seemed to sense Reg’s surprise. Giant Grogg turned and looked right at Reg, his gaze boring right through him.
“Hungry?” asked the behemoth.
“Uhhhh…”
“Hmm. Not yes. Not no,” replied Giant Grogg. He shouted an order to the other Grogg, who proceeded to open the container. Reg craned his neck to see what was inside. Then he started laughing.