The razor-sharp edge punctured through the grotesque right Shanta arm.
HACK-HACK-SLASH!
“Nggggg,” he dropped the spent limb to the floor and slammed the toilet lid down on his newly-formed wrist. He planted his boots on the wall and tore himself away from his mutated arm, all the while keeping his weight pressed down on the lid.
“Gaaaaaah,” the arm tore away from his shoulder socket and writhed around in pain.
He slammed the lid down, trapping the vicious limb inside the bowl. The sound of talon-on-porcelain scratched and squealed from inside.
“Take th-that, you Shaa-aaanta s-scumbag.”
SLAMM-GROOWWLLSSCCHHH!
He hit the flush handle, slammed his palm on his right shoulder’s stump and kicked the cubicle door open.
Alex and Nutrene pulled themselves along the weightless metal gantry.
Alex spoke into his headgear microphone, “These outer-suits are kinda funky.”
Nutrene burst out laughing when she caught sight of his USARIC-issued helmet skin. The thick, wet protective membrane looked like his face was melting.
“You look like a waxwork that’s been left in the sun for five hours,” Nutrene said before realizing she must have looked the same.
“Touché, Nutrene.”
A rocketing sound occurred above their heads, forcing Saturn’s light away from them.
Alex lifted his head to inspect the source of the noise. A giant fireball the size of Enceladus moved towards Saturn at a snail-like pace.
“What’s going on up there?”
“Is that Enceladus?” Nutrene’s voice came through Alex’s headgear.
“It must be.”
“What’s she doing?”
“How should I know?”
Alex grabbed the bridge railing and yanked himself further along. The front of his boot drifted a couple of inches from the grille, “I don’t want to hang around to find out.”
Oxade’s voice chimed in with disdain, “When you two lovebirds are quite finished enjoying the view, do you think you could get on Beta and take what’s ours, please?”
“We are, we are. But we think you should see this,” A pang of nerves socked Nutrene in the stomach.
“What is it?”
“Do you have a feed of Saturn and Enceladus?”
“No, but I can get one. Why, what’s wrong?”
“The moon. Well, one of them, anyway. It’s a fireball, like a raging inferno,” Nutrene widened her eyes and took in the scale of the spectacle, “It’s fantastic.”
“Never mind that now. I’ve advised Beta team that you are en route. Go in, take the data download package from Poz, and get the hell out of there.”
“Oh, uh… yes, of course,” Nutrene just about managed to tear her eyes away from Enceladus and focus on Opera Beta’s outer airlock hatch.
“Nutrene? Come on,” Alex waved her over. “Let’s go.”
“I’m coming…” she took one, final glance at the giant inferno rocketing towards Saturn.
Neg watched Poz retrieve Beta’s data from the communications console via his arm extension.
“Seven minutes until data transfer is complete,” he advised to anyone listening.
Tripp watched the process take place with Jaycee. The pair were mesmerized by the technology on display.
“So, this is what the future looks like?” Jaycee whispered. “Manning/Synapse ditches the human look and goes with a tin of beans?”
Tor stumbled into the room looking for all the world like a shivering, bag of sweating nerves with post-traumatic stress disorder.
Tripp, Jaycee, Manuel, Poz, Neg, and Jaycee turned around to see who produced the wretched gurgling.
“Tor,” Tripp yelled, “Where have you been?”
“S-Something’s happening to me, I’m s-sick,” he grumbled through his mouthful of saliva, “M-My organs feel so c-c-cold…”
“Who’s this?” Poz asked, flippantly.
“Oh, this is Tor Klyce. Our sort of communications officer,” Tripp clapped eyes on the sweating man properly, “My God, Klyce. Pull yourself together.”
“I’ll b-be okay,” Tor’s doubled-over and almost vomited on the floor.
Poz knocked the swivel chair over to him, “Here, have a seat.”
“Th-thanks.”
Tor staggered across the control deck and turned around, thumping his behind onto the chair, “Owww.”
“What happened to you?” Jaycee reached into his belt, preparing himself to blow the man’s head off.
“I’ll be okay. I think I’ve caught some kind of space flu, or something,” Tor lied. He needed to keep his mutation a secret from the others, or else he was dead.
“Ah, that explains it,” Poz rolled his head around and blink his eyebulbs, “The flu? Whatever it is pervading the atmosphere on this ship has clearly gotten to him.”
“What do you mean?” Tripp spat. “Flu? Pervaded the atmosphere?”
“Captain Healy, your ship is infected with whatever this pink gas is. If it’s even a gas, of course.”
“Bleuurrgggghhh…” Tor pressed his only arm to his knee and spat a rope of pink drool to the ground.
Tripp noticed Tor didn’t have a right arm now that he’d uncovered the stump, “Holy hell, Tor. Where’s your arm?”
“I had to remove it. It malfunctioned.”
“Malfunctioned?”
“Where is it now?” Jaycee asked. “Don’t lie to me, Russian. Where did you leave it?”
“Why-why d-do you c-care?”
“When Baldron took my hand it fell to the floor and tried to attack him. It ran out of battery and flipped him the bird. You can’t leave Androgyne parts lying around—”
“—It’s o-okay, I took c-care of it.”
“Russian, huh?” Neg tucked the side of her head onto her cylinder ‘shoulder’ area and scanned Tor’s face.
“Wh-what are you looking at?” Tor wiped the drool from his lips and complained to Tor, “Why is she looking at me?”
“I dunno. It’s better than her making eyes at me for a change.”
Tor spat another mound of pink phlegm to the floor, “You do all realize that there’s a giant cat on the loose who’s—”
“—Oh. I know you,” Neg beamed and cut off Tor’s note of caution, “Viktor Rabinovich.”
The sick man sat back in his chair, dumbstruck, “How do you know my name?”
“Dummy,” Neg giggled in her childlike electronic voice, “Everyone knows you. You were assassinated five years ago. But, here you are, alive and well. Tut-tut. Bad man.”
“This is asinine,” Tor tried to jump out of his seat and accost the rude droid, but slumped back to his seat in pain.
“Four minutes remaining till the transfer is complete,” Poz’s head spun around to Neg and Tripp, “Okay, enough bum-fondling from you two, please. I gather we have visitors at the airlock.”
“That is correct,” Manuel bent his back cover toward the door, “Tripp? Would you like me to meet and greet our guests from Opera Charlie?”
“Yes, and take Jaycee with you.”
Jaycee needed someone to take out his frustration on, and so thumped Tor on the back, “Do I look like a doorman?”
Tripp looked him up and down. That Kevlar suit. His large frame, and booming voice.
“Actually, yes.”
“Fair enough.”
“Stop being insubordinate and go with Manuel. Remember who’s your Captain, here.”
“Fine,” He stomped toward the door in a huff and clenched his fist as he walked past Tor.
“N-No, d-don’t hit me! I’m sick—”
“—You got that right,” Jaycee lifted his fist and threatened to clobber the man.