Salvage Vessel Nimrod
2101
13:00 hours
“Yeah, there is definitely something out there,” Captain Delroy Jones says through the wad of tobacco under his bottom lip. “Looks like some kind of escape craft. Real roughed up too! Scored, real burned up. I doubt anybody’s alive in there.”
Suddenly, Captain Jones sits forward in the Captain’s chair.
“Wait a minute?!” Jones hollers. “Does it say ‘Dayshadow’ on the side of that vessel?”
Lieutenant Lisa Preston, a retired colonial marine, leans forward and adjusts the image on the forward viewer. She turns to the captain with a huge smile.
“That’s what it sure looks like, Captain!” Lisa says.
Excitement flashes through Jones and he claps both hands.
“This could be our lucky day, folks! If this is the escape craft Weyland Industries has been looking for…We just might strike it rich!”
Whoops and whistles fill the bridge as Jones’ crew express their excitement.
“Preston? See if we can’t get a cable on it and drag that sucker in.” Jones says with a sneer.
“Yes, Sir,” the lieutenant replies with a firm head nod.
Captain Jones rubs both hands together, anticipating the find of his lifetime. A find like this could be worth its weight in gold, credits, and women. He’ll take them all.
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The crew finally finishes hauling the battered escape vessel into the salvage ship’s hangar. Captain Jones shoves another bit of tobacco under his lip and strolls toward the forlorn piece of space trash. He patiently waits as his crew uses a blow torch to open the tiny vessel’s misshapen door.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
After a few minutes, the crew emerge from inside the ship lugging a dingy old-fashioned stasis pod. The four crew members, one woman and three men, gently lower the pod to the hangar floor. Captain Jones peers through the small viewport at the front of the pod; his eyes landing on the slumbering face of a woman.
Lieutenant Preston attaches a life sign meter to the outside of the pod and it emits a loud beep. Lisa grimaces and looks up at her expectant captain.
“She’s only sleeping, sir!” Preston relays.
Captain Jones spits out a wad of tobacco and tosses his cap on the floor.
“Goddamn it!” he cries. “After two years! Who the hell survives in an escape craft for more than two years? Oh well. Open it up!”
The crew do as instructed. As soon as the pod is open, and the woman is clearly visible, a collective gasp sounds throughout the hangar.
The woman inside is eerily beautiful, her eyes closed in heavy slumber. Both steepled hands rest above her abdomen. The bottom of the woman traveler's brown t-shirt is ripped down the middle, and her distended belly is fully exposed. Captain Jones stands to his full height and signals with alarm.
“Prep a fresh stasis pod! And get her in it ASAP! Last thing we need is her going into labor in the middle of deep space,” Jones yells.
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Three months later
Teresa is seated alone in a barely furnished sterile room. She rocks back and forth on a metal chair, holding a strange infant to her chest. Several Weyland Industries experts stare at Dr. Boyd through a two-way mirror. A woman scientist steps forward, a medical tablet pressed to her bosom.
“What do you think happened to her out there?!” the woman says in a soft voice. “Do you think she was experimenting on herself?”
“We’ll never know,” a male scientist says. He steps closer to the glass. “Someone did an A-Plus job of wiping the pod’s memory banks and all its backups. Whoever they were...They knew their way around a ship. And she’s not saying anything. Hasn’t spoken a word since they woke her up from cryo.”
Another female scientist steps closer to the mirror, staring fixedly at the infant Teresa is holding.
“All she does is cry and rock that…That thing. It’s so weird. What the hell is it? Is that a Judas?” the second woman says.
The scientists stare through the glass at Dr. Boyd—paying extra attention to the infant in her arms. The child is a sickly green color—almost jaundiced. Four large mandibles protrude from the side of the infant’s cheeks and its hair is made up of long prickly strands. Tiny clawed hands tenderly reach up and stroke its mother’s tear-streaked face.
The first woman scientist shudders and turns away from the window. She regards her colleagues with a hard expression.
“Let’s get out of here,” she says in a low whisper.
The scientists file out of the observation room. The door closes and a lock is thrown.
Teresa, as if sensing they are finally alone, strokes the face of her infant. She smiles as she takes in the faint flecks of brown interspersed in the depths of his vividly green eyes. Not daring to say a word, she brings the infant’s forehead to her lips. She plants the smallest of kisses on his mottled skin.