Chapter 7

The corvette was in an interesting state when Lambert returned. He’d been expecting Carl to be chewing the ears off the curious aliens, the machine relaying its concerns to him, but the ship was quiet,

Lambert’s eyebrow raised as he appraised the general calm surrounding the ship. Maybe the aliens had finally grown bored of the human vessel.

Even Mezul seemed confused, poking her beak through the cargo bay hatch and looking round for its brethren, her snout snapping towards the stairs as they heard a voice.

“-And this one is from 2098, one of the last stamps before they were fully phased out of human postage...”

Carl’s voice echoed through the ship, Lambert and Mezul sharing a look as they moved up to the gunnery station, Lambert peeking through the portal to a strange sight.

His human companion had managed to round up all of their guests, Lambert recognising Ruvaara and Balyn near the forefront of the group, the two turning to give Mezul a greeting in their chittering, strange language.

“See you’ve been busy showing off your antiques,” Lambert mused, shooting Carl a grin. His friend stood like a lecturer before the class, the aliens his audience as he held out a black, leather book with square pockets built into the plastic sleeves.

“It’s better than them turnin’ our ship inside out,” Carl replied, closing his book much to the disappointment of the aliens. “And it ain’t just me, Alice thinks their English is so much damn better than before. Check it. Hey Ruvaara, what’s my job?”

“Carl fire point defence!” Ruvaara chirped. “And what do you do?”

“Ruvaara fire frickin’ laser beams!”

“Don’t teach them how to curse, Carl,” Lambert chided. “When we get back to the fleet they’ll know we’ve been messing around.”

“Speakin’ of, Alice tells me we’ve set a new headin’. I guess you managed to get these aliens movin’ to the rendezvous?”

“We’re on the way.” He told him about the parts of the ship he toured with Mezul, noting that despite being crammed in together, the aliens were orderly and were always busy doing something, maintaining a strict timetable.

“You can say that again,” Carl said. “Check out the landin’ pad over there.” He jerked a thumb at one of the cameras on the gunner console. The view panned across the wide hangar, the half a dozen

Sala’ci ships secured to the other pads while alien engineers tended to them.

Lambert almost did a double take. Besides Mezul’s ship, there had only been one other alien vessel present when they’d first entered, but all the pads were now occupied by a craft in varying stages of completion. The aliens were assembling brand new ships, the skeletal frames slowly taking shape as the Balokarids welded parts of the hull together. The aliens didn’t waste time replacing their losses.

“Here, here!” Mezul said, noting what he was looking at and gesturing to the large hangar doors. “Sala’ci ships all. All hangar.”

“You’re making ships in every hangar?” Lambert guessed. “It’s barely been a day and they’re already rebuilding.”

“They got some impressive production power alright,” Carl noted. “Even Fed shipyards take weeks to assemble a fighter if they’re workin’ round the clock.”

From behind the humans, Mezul leaned on their shoulders to get a look at the feed, the alien’s hands almost encompassing their shoulders. “Mezul, your people work fast,” Lambert said, nodding as he watched. “How many hangars do you have on this ship anyway?”

“Hangar...” Mezul clicked her beak in thought. “Hangar four and four ... eight?”

“You taught it to count?” Carl asked, quirking an eyebrow at the alien.

“She’s got a knack for numbers. Eight will always equal eight, no matter what planet you’re from.”

“Wait wait wait.” Carl raised his hands. “Did you just say she?”

“Yeah. Found out on the way to the bridge. From what I know, female Balokarids have wings, and the males don’t.”

Carl turned to look back at the rest of the aliens milling about in the room. “No shit? Never had a group of women in my station before today. Where are all the guys at?”

“I saw a couple of them in their mess hall, but I didn’t get a chance to get close. The wings aren’t for show, the airforce is a completely feminine pursuit in Balokarid society, but I’m not a hundred percent sure they can actually fly.”

“Make sense if they can. They got that ... what’s the phrase?

Female intuition. You think they’re a matriarchal species?”

“I’m not sure,” Lambert replied, scratching his chin. “Hopefully someone on the Gallipoli specialises in language and can help us out.” He checked his watch. “I’m gonna go get some shut eye, wake me if something happens.”

He left for the crew quarters; a simple bunk area divided into four rooms. They weren’t too flashy, just a bed and a lamp for each room, but they allowed the standard four-man crew some privacy and their own place to relax.

As he opened the door to his bunk, he felt a presence behind him. Mezul was following, probably thinking he was on his way to the cockpit. “I’m going to get some rest,” he told her, shooing her away. “Go hang out with Carl or something.”

She could tell he wanted to be left alone, turning around and wandering away as he shut himself inside the bunk. He caught a few hours of sleep, but it wasn’t very restful – his body was just too excited at what was happening, he was one of the first humans to interact with new, alien life! How could he get his regulation eight at a time like this?