As The Indifference crawled through space toward Orbor-7, Zog couldn’t stop pacing the cramped cockpit. “We need a plan,” he muttered for the seventh time. “A real plan. Something to keep us from turning into humanoid soup.”
Blip rolled onto his back, lazily spinning a wrench in one paw. “Relax. We’ve got plenty of time to figure it out. Like, what? A month?”
“A month isn’t that long!” Zog snapped, his circuits buzzing with frustration. “And besides, you’re heat-resistant! I’m not! I need insulation. Cooling. Something.”
Blip perked up, his glowing eyes narrowing mischievously. “Oh, I’ve got just the thing.”
The utility room of The Indifference looked like a scrapyard that had been violently shaken and then politely asked to settle down. Spare parts, discarded panels, and unidentifiable bits of machinery were piled haphazardly in every corner. A faint smell of burnt wiring lingered in the air, and a mysterious pipe labelled “Do Not Touch—Seriously” emitted an occasional hiss.
“This is a disaster,” Zog muttered, stepping gingerly over a heap of rusted bolts. “We’re supposed to survive 200 degrees Celsius with… this?”
Blip, perched smugly on a crate, wagged his mechanical tail. “Oh, ye of little faith. We’ve got everything we need right here. All it takes is a little creativity.”
“And desperation,” IND-E added from a nearby speaker. “Mostly desperation.”
Zog sighed, picking up a battered panel covered in scorch marks. “Where do we even start?”
Blip pawed through a pile of scrap metal, pulling out what appeared to be fragments of the ship’s hull. “These panels are heat-resistant. Kind of. If we patch them together, they should keep you from roasting. Mostly.”
“Mostly?” Zog asked, narrowing his eyes.
Blip shrugged. “Look, it’s this, or we wrap you in tin foil and hope for the best.”
The process of assembling the outer layer was chaotic, to say the least. Blip worked quickly, cutting and welding pieces together with a precision Zog found both impressive and mildly terrifying. At one point, sparks flew dangerously close to a coolant pipe, prompting Zog to yelp and grab his trusty towel to shield his face.
“Relax,” Blip said, “If something explodes, it’ll probably be quick.”
Zog stared at the bulky beverage chiller Blip had dragged out of storage. “You want me to wear that?”
“It’s perfect,” Blip said, tapping the chiller with his paw. “We’ll connect these tubes to circulate coolant around your torso. You’ll be the coolest humanoid on Orbor-7. Literally.”
The setup needed to be more elegant. Blip rigged the cooling system using an assortment of mismatched tubing, clamps, and what looked like an old garden hose. The chiller hummed ominously as it sputtered to life, and Zog couldn’t shake the feeling that it might decide to explode out of sheer spite.
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“Don’t worry,” Blip said, patting the chiller. “I’ve got it under control.”
A loud hiss erupted from one of the tubes, sending a jet of freezing mist into the air.
“Define ‘control,’” Zog muttered, frantically wrapping his towel around the leak.
The helmet was the most challenging piece to construct. After rummaging through the storage crates, they settled on an upside-down mixing bowl with a cracked piece of cockpit glass taped to the front as a makeshift visor.
“This is… ridiculous,” Zog said, staring at his reflection in the helmet’s shiny surface.
“Ridiculous but functional,” Blip countered. “And let’s be honest, you weren’t winning any fashion awards before this.”
Zog strapped on the completed thermal suit, feeling like a walking collection of bad decisions. The patched-together panels clanked with every movement, and the tubing gurgled ominously as the chiller pumped coolant around his body. Now an essential part of the design, his towel was wrapped snugly around one arm, acting as an emergency patch for leaks.
“Alright,” he said nervously. “Turn it on.”
Blip hit the switch, and the suit sprang to life with a cacophony of whirs and hisses. For a moment, everything seemed fine—until one of the tubes burst, spraying coolant all over the room.
“Too much pressure!” Zog yelled, flailing his arms as Blip scrambled to shut it off.
“Relax!” Blip barked, dodging the spray. “This is just the first draft.”
“The first draft is trying to drown me in antifreeze!”
IND-E’s voice crackled through the chaos. “This is, without a doubt, the finest display of engineering I’ve ever witnessed. Truly inspirational.”
Blip’s thermal setup was significantly less complicated. Blip casually strapped a portable fan to his back and added a sunhat, which he tilted at an angle that conveyed confidence and mockery.
“You look ridiculous,” Zog said, glaring at him through his fogged-up visor.
“Ridiculous?” Blip replied, wagging his tail. “Says the guy wearing a beverage chiller and a salad bowl.”
----------------------------------------
The suits were finally operational after several hours—and more explosions than Zog cared to count. They weren’t pretty, but they worked. Mostly.
“Congratulations,” IND-E said as Zog and Blip stood awkwardly in their makeshift gear. “You’ve successfully turned yourselves into heat-resistant scrap heaps. I’m sure the sentient cacti will be very impressed.”
Zog adjusted the straps on his chiller, glaring at the speaker. “At least we won’t melt.”
“True,” IND-E replied. “Though you might want to prepare for the possibility of spontaneous combustion. Just a thought.”
The cockpit of The Indifference was vibrating violently, a symphony of rattling panels and groaning metal that sounded disturbingly like a whale in distress. Zog clung to his seat, his makeshift thermal suit creaking ominously with every shudder of the ship.
“This is fine,” Zog muttered, his voice high-pitched with anxiety. “This is totally fine.”
“It’s not fine!” Blip barked, sliding across the floor as the ship lurched sideways. “We’re about to crash into a giant oven disguised as a planet!”
“I wouldn’t call it a crash,” IND-E chimed in over the speakers, its tone maddeningly calm. “More of an aggressive introduction to gravity.”
Zog gripped the controls, his fingers hovering over a panel of unlabeled buttons. “Can’t you do something? You’re the ship!”
“I could,” IND-E replied lazily. “But you were very insistent on piloting this mission. Something about ‘taking responsibility’ or whatever.”
“That was five minutes ago!” Zog yelled. “And I didn’t mean this! Just—just tell me how to land!”
Blip rolled his eyes or at least made a credible approximation. “Did you even read the manual?”
“There was no manual!” Zog snapped, flipping switches at random. A panel to his left sparked violently, and a small fire started smouldering in the corner of the cockpit.
“Oh, good,” IND-E said dryly. “Fire. That’ll really help with the heat.”
Blip scrambled to his feet, batting at the flames with his paw. “This is why I told you not to pick Cactus World! What kind of person chooses a planet where the ground might melt your shoes?”
“It was the closest one!” Zog shot back, frantically pressing buttons in what he hoped was a logical sequence.
“Congratulations,” IND-E deadpanned. “You’ve successfully set the coffee maker to ‘scald.’”