From my position strapped to Yosip's chest, I'm unable to see much of our surroundings. It's cold, that much I can state with certainty. And we're moving incredibly quickly.

Another flash of energy washes over us. Before it can pass, I manipulate the wave forms, hiding our presence. Yosip never notices, yet one more form of radiation from which he's blissfully protected.

The radiation is thicker than Eva's estimates lead us to believe, far past a lethal serving for our brave Supply-Master. The lack of atmosphere prevents me from hearing his joyous prayers, but I can feel the vibrations. Without the translation software to which I had grown so accustomed I am unable to understand anything he says, though I'm sure he is as thrilled to be once more jumping out of ships as I am to aid him.

Delicate ice crystals, rich in iron and proteins, crash against us as we pass through the debris fields. That piece has blue-gray hairs in it.

Yosip's one concession to his own mortality, a crudely reshaped facemask, is also coated in a layer of frost. The tiny engine he clasps in both metal hands keeps itself warm enough to prevent any buildup that would clog the mechanisms. I'm also cleaning up the energy wake it creates, allowing us to move nearly invisibly to anything other than visual detection.

He's aiming us at the most intricate of the enemy vessels. The beastly thing sports more organic growths than any other ship in the alien fleet, though none are less than lightly ornamented. As the most dangerous looking, Yosip believes it to be the command ship and thus most likely to hold important officers.

When they explained the plan, it had seemed exciting. We'd transfer to a small ore hopper, travel to the edge of the debris field and intercept a large fragment. The explosion, though artificially induced, had been interesting enough. Our pilot, a brash youth, took her own engine pod back towards friendly space to be picked up by one of her clan. She was proud to do her part in rescuing her people, no matter the personal cost.

An eighth of a day is a long time to fly in a more or less straight line. The next part of the plan is supposed to be exciting again, and I'm almost looking forward to being shot at.

Their scanners pass over us once more, failing to notice my manipulation of their beams. We must be getting close; the scans are happening far more frequently. Definitely getting close, Yosip just deactivated his engine.

Our velocity remains alarmingly fast. He lets go of the engine, pushing it forward to give it some of our momentum. The small jets that Bucket had installed before we left don't hold much fuel. Anything he can do to slow us down before we impact the hull will improve our chances of surviving contact.

The engine doesn't get far from my protective influence before the lead vessel notices it. Portions of it splash against Yosip and me. He wipes away the one drop that manages to find sensitive flesh, rumbling prayers into the silence.

The small chemical engines in his mechanical legs finally activate, slowing us immediately. Yosip takes a deep breath before removing his mask. He turns his head to one side and opens his mouth wide before expelling the scrambled eggs and sausage he'd had earlier that day.

Having completed his strange ritual, he redons the facemask. He rumbles something before patting me. He applies more force than necessary, which I attribute to his lack of familiarity with moving in vacuum. Without air resistance to slow him down, he miscalculates the proper strength to apply to the task. Ah, well. It's good to be included in his odd customs.

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The intensity of the ambient radiation increases at an ever-faster pace as we enter the final stage of the approach. Stray wisps of gas and sand-sized debris are all around us. I can finally see the target vessel, the sight of which causes me to miss my array of sensitive scanners. It looks like a dark blur against the darker blur of space.

We're jarred by the impact. Yosip lands feet first, mechanical legs silently absorbing most of the shock, but landing with enough force that I bounce from his chest. Only the crude straps tying us together keep me from drifting free into the void.

With his left arm he activates a control on his right. The right hand folds back, revealing a cutting torch. He applies it freely to the hull beneath his feet, and by its light I can see that the enormous green scales upon which he stands are scarred and pitted. This vessel has been in space for a long time.

The plasma torch burns through it, sending black char to billow around us. With his free hand he pulls off the burnt section to reveal the black metal beneath. Once more he puts the torch to useful effect. Globules of molten slag spray off in a controlled stream.

When atmosphere hisses past he rumbles something to himself before stomping onto the middle of his roughly circular cut. The plating breaks free and flies off, trailing mucus and shards of green scale. Yosip hops through the hole, and we land inside a dark corridor.

Red lights flash around us. The rapid loss of pressure in the hallway hasn't gone unnoticed. Yosip returns his right arm to its normal configuration as he heads in the only viable direction.

Despite the alarm we encounter no resistance on our way. Odd fleshy protuberances and half melted organic components jut from the walls in unexpected places, causing Yosip no end of difficulty. He is less than graceful under ideal conditions.

Grasping appendages that could almost be hands work mindlessly beside organic optical sensors and twitching clusters of assumedly sensitive antennae. The Supply-Master blunders through them with the grace of a wounded beast. We leave a trail of destruction behind us.

His mechanical limbs are incredibly sturdy, barely noticing the flimsier matter through which they crash and stomp. It's the vile fluids they leak upon destruction hampering his movements the most. The slick film causes him to slip around, sliding more than running down the hallway.

It's a relief when he finds a ladder. The shaft it occupies is blessedly free of impediments, and we make much better progress. The second deck is much like the first, and we ignore it completely. Yosip continues climbing until the ladder reaches its terminus.

At the very top of the ladder is a landing with a single door built into it, facing the ladder shaft. The door is smeared with organic slime. Heavy pustules grow from the wall around it like a small garden of fungi. One winks at me as I watch Yosip search for a mechanism with which to open the barrier.

"Riin bib a, Mos?"

No, don't ask me for advice. I don't even understand the question.

"Beh, ib sa ribinna," he grunts helpfully.

It isn't like I can answer him, nor do I wish to try.

Once more he activates the concealed cutting torch built into his right arm. I can only wonder what other devices he has secreted away within himself. Blue-gray smoke fills the small alcove as he works, but we need not tolerate it for long.

After mere moments he's created his own opening and shoulders the remains of the door aside. Portions of the destroyed barrier fall down the shaft. They raise a clangor as they collide with the rungs and walls.

"Ni, Yosip!" The voice is deeper than the Supply-Master's but seems to be speaking the same language. "Sar n'n irb? Ib sa rii birs a?"

Rather than answer, Yosip activates his cutting torch, still raised and ready. Whoever the speaker was, all I see of them is their charred corpse as it collapses at the Supply-Master's metal feet. The body practically glows with ionized particles, lighting the smoke around it with an eerie luminance.

Without any scanners I can access I can only guess, but I assume the corpse must be infested with cancers. The levels of radiation I'm redirecting from Yosip should be fatal, even for his mostly mechanical body. Yosip steps over the body and enters the room.