Time: Two hours before Kael and Sira’s cigarette break
Location: Nishimura Mining Colony, Primary Engineering Lab
The loading gantries of Extraction Zone D clanged in rhythm as automated arms hoisted crates off the cargo hauler GNS Peccary. Each container gave a soft hiss as pressure equalized. Inside, rows of glossy, chitinous creatures—no bigger than sewer lids—shifted against their polymer cages.
The Scutes, imported from the tidal shelves of Yiji-GN, twitched under the bright work lamps. Their ridged shells caught condensation in uneven gleams, while their soft, translucent mouths pulsed in and out like damp petals.
Three engineers stood near the console, half-watching the unload, half-waiting for the next round of crates.
Stan Bolurk, team lead, scrolled through the manifest while his assistant lined trays and checked straps.
“Four hundred twelve,” Stan muttered. “That’s a superhaul. We’ll be pulling secretion until midnight.”
Chokri, polishing down the instruments, shrugged. “They’re calling it a ‘superharvest.’ No explanation. Just… six times the usual pull from the southern tides.”
Jonnax from logistics leaned closer to the cages, squinting at the creatures inside. “Don’t look right. The old ones—they were sluggish. These are twitching like live wires.”
Stan waved him off, hooking a siphon tool from the rack. “Transit stress. Keep your gloves snug and don’t let the spray touch your visor. The bigger haul means overtime anyway.”
Above them, a ceiling unit descended with a mechanical whine, latching onto a crate’s corner. The hatch split open, venting a sour rush of air. One Scute shifted toward the light.
“That smell,” Jonnax grimaced.
“Defense toxin,” Stan explained without looking up. “Nasty to the nose, harmless otherwise. Smells like rot.”
“Like rotting flesh,” Jonnax corrected.
Stan nodded.
“Shouldn’t they be hibernating? Short-Jump Cryo usually knocks them out cold,” Chokri asked.
Stan tapped one of the inverted Scutes with a metal prod until it righted itself, legs clicking rhythmically. “See? Once they’re on their belly they settle. Nothing strange.”
Chokri hauled the creature to a tray and locked it down with thick straps. The work was delicate but mechanical: extract the secretion, bottle it, move on. Normally the creatures were sluggish from transit. These weren’t.
Still, she worked steady. “This one’s fine,” she said.
“Didn’t you hear?” Jonnax leaned forward, lowering his voice like gossip. “The collection team saw something off. Huge ones, moving wrong. One of them actually lunged.”
Stan frowned. “Lunged?”
“Yeah. Those spines on the legs? Hooked right into one of the crew. Thing clung like a backpack. Thirty kilos of crab strapped to your ribs. Three out of eighteen ended up in infirmary. Rumor says they still haven’t been separated.”
Stan smirked, shaking his head. “I’ve handled Scutes for a decade. They’re pests, not predators.”
“Exactly,” Jonnax grinned. “Like getting mauled by a housecat.”
Chokri kept her eyes down on the tray, finishing the first extraction. The Scute’s claws twitched weakly against the restraints. Docile. Normal.
She unhooked it and dropped it into the bin for cleanup. By the time secretion was harvested, there wasn’t much reason to keep the creatures alive.
Stan leaned back, rubbing his neck. “Heard they’re handing nets to anyone willing to slog planetside now. Desperate for bodies.”
“Not me,” Jonnax muttered.
“Or me,” Stan agreed.
A heavy thump cracked through the lab. One of the sealed containers tumbled from its stack, slamming onto the floor. The lid split, and several Scutes began pushing against the fractured seam.
“Damn it,” Jonnax swore, grabbing a wrench like a club. “These things are riled up.”
Stan moved in, steady, to right the container. He bent close, squinting at one of the half-freed Scutes.
“Hold on—what the hell is that slug-thing on its back?”
