Grunk tilted his head. His translator collar, a sleek band of silver around his thick neck, buzzed to life after a moment. “Structural integrity: failing. Life support: offline. You: afraid.”
“Grunk. Put me down.”
Grunk.
“No.”
A rescue shuttle, its lights cutting through the perpetual twilight of the moon. You heard it before you saw it—the distant whine of thrusters, the crackle of a hailing frequency on your suit’s comms.
“It is not a suggestion.”