First Transmission by B. R. Louis

Author:B. R. Louis [Louis, B. R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CamCat Publishing

12

THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH

Reserve calorie logs were intended for consumption if the crew utilized all two centuries’ worth of fabricator components or developed a relentless fear of ordering. Preserved with a proprietary blend of sodium, food-safe asphalt remover, and micronized mold-addressed cease and desist letters, the logs could be stored almost indefinitely as insulation in the ship walls. They were meant both as a source of short-term sustenance, as they had a one-month supply, and as a form of punishment for not using the fabricator. Early reports cited the fabricator had sensitive feelings and, if unused, would enter a deep depression and refuse to work. That was later debunked as a power outage. But the punishment calorie logs had already been forged.

Paizley hunched over the newly minted crater inside the floor of the ship and hammered away at ongoing repairs. Hoomer sat across from Aimond and Zanartas at one of the remaining tables.

“Digging the new ready-for-battle look,” she remarked.

“Is it bad?” he asked. Down one eyebrow and slathered in a synthetic aloe from Dr. Cole, Aimond’s escape from the food-borne young milk-star was short of divine intervention.

“I’m sure it’ll make the other combatants . . . something,” Hoomer said.

“Fall on their own weapons while laughing hysterically?” Galileo added.

“Can you guys even laugh?” Hoomer asked Zanartas.

“We express humor by expelling air through both mouths simultaneously.”

“Sounds like a laugh to me.”

Zanartas inhaled then released a stereophonic blast of screeches, croaks, and burps. The noise collapsed the metal sheet of flooring into the crater Paizley had managed to reattach thus far.

“I immediately rescind everything I have ever said,” Hoomer backtracked, eyes fixed forward.

She pushed the remnants of her calorie log across the table to Zanartas.

“No thank you,” Zanartas declined. “Our glorious leaders state that hunger builds character and character builds wealth.”

“And wealth buys food, so eat.”

Elizar trudged into the galley, stepping over the hole without the least bit of curiosity. He snatched an entire plate of calorie logs, rations for over a week, and joined the table. Despite the unique combination of circumstances—melted galley on an alien world, before a life-or-death battle royale, while eating pain-inducing calorie logs—he managed to find just the right war story to match the bill.

“You ready, kid?” Elizar probed, assuming his ignored war story to act as sufficient hype.

“In the past twelve hours I lost an arm and almost melted in a sun made of milk,” Aimond said.

“Artificial milk substitute,” Galileo corrected.

“Thanks . . . Anyway, I figure I’m probably better off here, doing ship stuff. Paizley, you need a hand?”

Balanced in a delicate dance of friction and angles, Paizley’s stack of metal plates wobbled at the mere sight of them.

“Do you still have any you can offer?”

“I’d give you anything I had left,” Aimond expressed.

The collective groan harmonized enough to make Paizley’s tower topple.

“Horridly cheesy,” Galileo said.

“Kinda worse than the calorie log,” Hoomer added.

“You best have more fight in you than game,” Elizar hoped.

Aimond lifted and flopped his arms down in a brief defeat. “Really? All of you?” he complained.

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