There are too many guns to count, and they are all pointed at him. Fuck. Ezekiel Surah takes a tumbling dive behind some metal crates just as the first shot goes off, sizzling as it burns a hole into the crate’s surface. He hopes there is nothing explosive, but he barely has the time to worry about it before another shot hits the crate, sending its reverberations rattling down his spine.

The floor is cool as he throws himself across it, narrowly missing another shot and meeting another stack of crates face-first. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he hauls the rest of himself behind his makeshift cover. Another sizzle. A flash of neon green that bubbles against the black, smooth stone floor where his legs had just been. These crates aren’t going to last long against whatever that was.

He is closer to his target now, but not by much, and he doubts there will be enough crates to get him across the hangar without being melted like a popsicle. But maybe… The metal surface of the crate is icy against his back as he plants his feet firmly on the ground and pushes. Nothing. It had been worth a shot, but he really is out of options now.

Sweat gathers beneath his gas mask despite the coldness of the air around him, the salt stinging as drops of it fall into his eyes and where he must have cut himself when he dove for cover. His fingers itch to remove the mask, twitching reflexively as another drop gets into his eye. He is going to kill Mataio. This ridiculous combination of sweat, blood, freezing temperatures, and an atmosphere toxic enough to kill a human with a single breath is driving him crazy. Although he can already feel the telltale tingle that is the MICRO bots in his system, knitting his broken skin back together. One of the few good things about being born on the oldest and largest of Humanity’s space ports.

He shakes himself out of thoughts of Hyperion. Now is not the time to go down that road. And as much as Ezekiel’s current discomfort makes him want to curse the man who accepted this job, he knows why Mataio accepted it. The reward amount flashes in his mind like an obnoxious neon sign, more zeros than he’s ever seen in his entire time as a Marauder—what the Greater Universe likes to call outlaws, bandits & guns-for-hire. The ones who work in the grey areas. No one offers that kind of money for a regular hijacking. He thinks about the giant battleship at the other end of the hangar. Not that this is anything like a regular hijacking. He shrugs mentally before the sound of his crate taking another hit brings him back to the situation at hand.

He presses on the comms device embedded in his skull just behind his ear. “Any idea how we get past this minefield? I’m running out of giant metal boxes to hide behind.”

There is a crackle in his ear as the device tries to establish a connection before Anika’s low voice sounds in his head. “No one asked you to go in by yourself. You were supposed to wait for my signal. We don’t have control of the weapons system yet, and these guys are slimy fuckers. They’ve hard to get a hold of. Literally.”

Ezekiel can practically see the look on Anika’s face as she attempts to grab what can only be described as a vaguely humanoid, semi-solid green ooze. Then he imagines himself trying to hold one and has to stop himself from throwing up in his mask. Gross. “Well, you were the one who volunteered yourself for that task, all because, and I quote: You wouldn’t be able to hold onto these buggers, even if your life depended on it.” He waves a hand, flinching when he hears noxious liquid strike the crate behind him. “Well, guess what? My life is depending on it right now, and you are clearly not holding on. So please, put those biceps to use or I’ll be dead in five astral minutes.” Another hit. The crate shudders beneath his shoulders. “If this hunk of metal even lasts that long.”

“You’re such a drama queen. Shit.” He hears a grunt, a sharp intake of breath, then more indecipherable cursing, which probably means that she’s in the middle of trying to wrangle one of the strange creatures that they are trying to steal from. “I’m doing my best here, so I swear to all the Stars, if you try to rush me one more time I’ll—”

Anika’s voice is drowned out by a chorus of stone scraping against stone and dull thuds that has Ezekiel pressing himself as close to the ground as he can get. He’s pretty sure those were the hangar doors, which can only mean one thing: reinforcements. There goes his chances of making it out of this alive. Mentally bidding that juicy reward goodbye, he braces himself for his inevitable end.

Nothing happens.

What?

He remains motionless, not daring to hope, barely breathing, in case he sets something else off. But there is no follow-up to the cacophony, just a silence that only seems to grow heavier. When it becomes clear that nothing is going to turn him into a human puddle, he crawls forward, just enough to peek around the corner of his stack of crates. Smooth, blank walls stare back at him. The guns that had appeared the minute he stepped into the hangar are gone, sucked back into whatever dark recesses they’d come from.

Stars. Ezekiel collapses on the ground as he wills his heart to stop slamming itself against his rib cage. He really thought that had been the end there, just for a moment. Ezekiel didn’t think that having your life’s greatest and worst moments replayed in that fraction of a second before you died was a real thing. But it had definitely happened.

Ezekiel can still see the flash of metal and fire. He groans, rolling over as he presses the heels of his palm into his eyes. He can almost taste the acrid air, the bitter tang of melting metal, heat that sears his throat as he tries hard to not breathe in the flames. Regret. What a way to go. Drowning in it. Ezekiel lets his arms fall to his side. Near-death experiences really do make him melodramatic. And they’re still on the clock. He doesn’t know how long the weapons will be offline for, and he can’t risk wasting this opportunity.

He sits up and is about to get to his feet when a cold, wet, green thing wraps around his ankle. It looks like a tentacle, but he refuses to acknowledge that thought. The fact that they are dealing with slime creatures is bad enough; he does not want to think about… appendages. In any way, shape, or form. His eyes follow it back to its source just in time to see a whole group of the aforementioned slime creatures enter the hangar. He should have paid more attention when they were being briefed about the local life form because he cannot, for the life of him, remember what they’re supposed to be called. Whatever. That’s at the bottom of his list of priorities.

They look unsavoury enough. Insofar as bright green slime beings held together by some kind of exoskeleton armour can be anyway. Their armour is shell-like, a smooth, iridescent black that seems to shift between blue and green depending on the angle the light hits it, giving it an oily sheen. Snails! That’s what they look like. Before he can process that realisation, Ezekiel is yanked across the floor, an uncomfortably sticky, green appendage wrapped around his ankle. His head smacks against the ground, and he lets out a low grunt. This is not how the job was supposed to go.

This should have been a relatively routine job—get in, get the ship, get out—complicated only by the toxic nature of the planet’s atmosphere. A mild inconvenience, nothing more. Even the local life forms, while extremely technologically developed, were supposed to be relatively passive creatures, with their weapons technology making up the brunt of their defensive and offensive force.

The plan had been to get a hold of one, preferably one who had access to their security system, get them to turn off their defence system, then make their way off the planet with the giant warship. What they didn’t account for was the constant patrols, the ridiculously powerful weapons, the near-impenetrable armour, and the creatures’ sheer inability to be physically held due to their strange, viscous consistency.

Ezekiel makes a mental note to have a word with whoever has been keeping the intergalactic web updated on this information because it is just misleading at this point. If they make it out of there alive.

The appendage constricts as it hauls him up, leg first, until he is at eye level with the one who is clearly in charge. All the blood rushes to his head and he winces, barely managing a strained, “Hi,” that is promptly ignored. To make things even more disconcerting, the creatures don’t have facial features—they’re just amorphous green blobs set in a helmet-shaped shell.

The surface of the blob ripples and, for a brief moment, Ezekiel has the sudden thought that it is going to turn into a gaping maw and swallow him whole. Fortunately that doesn’t happen. Instead, the translator in his intracranial communications device crackles, and he hears a deep, watery voice in his head. “Who are you? And what are you doing on this planet?”

Ezekiel spares a glance for the other four slime beings, but their surfaces remain smooth and unmoving. He doesn’t even think they are looking in his direction. Not that he can tell anyway, their visual organs could be on their feet for all he knows.

“We’re explorers. Our ship ran out of fuel as we were passing by your system, and we were forced to drop out of light speed. We noticed structures on this planet but saw no signs of life, so we thought maybe it belonged to an older civilisation; we didn’t realise there were living beings here.” The practiced lie falls from his lips with ease, but it doesn’t look like they’re going to buy it that easily.

The surface of the being’s face ripples again. “You lie. You are armed. And your friends have tried to take some of us hostage.”

The ring around his ankle tightens even more, and Ezekiel has to grit his teeth to stop himself from letting out a pained noise. That doesn’t stop him from bulldozing ahead, though. “Of course we’re armed. We have to defend ourselves. We were taken by surprise as well. Like I said, we weren’t expecting company.”

Faster than he can think, he is flung across the floor. There is the sharp crunch of bone when his shoulder makes contact with the ground, and pain shoots through his arm and ribs. The appendage that was holding him sharpens to a point and moves to hover above his throat. He swallows, trying to back away, but the point presses dangerously into the side of his neck, right over his pulse point.

“You lie! We can feel the vibrations in your body.” That makes sense, a tiny part of Ezekiel’s mind registers vaguely. It explains how they are communicating at least since they don’t seem to be making any sounds. Thank the Stars for his in-built translator. Not that he’s in the mood to be thanking the Stars at the moment, seeing as he is, once again, moments—or rather millimetres—from death. So maybe the Stars can suck it.

He injects a smile into his voice that he hopes is placating. “Okay, okay. How about you give me some space to breathe without getting stabbed to death, and I’ll tell you why we’re really here.”

The beings turn to each other, communicating silently before the appendage is retracted. Not all the way, but just enough for Ezekiel to sit up with difficulty, his likely-dislocated shoulder twinging with every movement.

“Look,” he says. He runs his good hand through his hair, brushing over his communication device. “Before you try and kill me, let me explain. We’re looking for a ship.” He pauses, waiting for them to proclaim a lie, but they don't. Taking that as a good sign, he barrels on. “It really is quite important that we get our hands on one. Our, uh, livelihoods depend on it.”

“Who the hell are you talking to? Who is trying to kill you?” Anika’s voice bursts into his head. “Shit. Have you been caught?”

Ezekiel has to keep himself from rolling his eyes because, if he had been caught (which he has), she should know that he won’t be able to answer. Ignoring her, he addresses the slime creature again. “Was that enough of an answer for you?”

The creatures are silent for a moment, and Ezekiel can’t tell if he’s managed to trick them or if they’re silently deliberating the best way to dispose of him. Honestly, all they would need to do is remove his mask. Not that Ezekiel is about to offer up that option. Contrary to everything that’s happened, he would actually like to stay alive.

It doesn’t stop him from considering fighting his way out of this though. The ceremonial blade he usually carries with him presses heavily against the back of his thighs, where he usually keeps it sheathed. But there are five of them and one of him, and he is down an arm while they have the advantage of multiple appendages each. The odds don’t look very good. Plus, he doesn’t know what blades will do against these viscous creatures. They might pass right through them for all he knows.

Just as the silence is about to become uncomfortable, the one in charge speaks up, its sharpened appendage glinting green under the overhead lights as it hovers closer. “You tell the truth. And yet we do not believe you. It is strange.” Before Ezekiel can even blink, the point is at his throat once more. “And you have been too much trouble. We should just dispose of you.”

Ezekiel pales. This really isn't how he thought it would god. These creatures are not supposed to be so hostile. Granted, they are trespassing with the intent to steal and they did take some of them hostage. But they haven’t hurt anyone. Yet. He looks around, trying to see if maybe he can make it to an exit before being skewered alive. But the only exit is right behind the creatures, and there is no way he can make it through them. He says a silent prayer to the Stars. If there was ever a moment for his team to get involved, it would be now.

He is not above begging, though, and opens his mouth, ready to argue, even plead for his life if he has to, when he sees a shadow dart past the entrance to the hangar. It is a small thing and moving a lot faster than these creatures seem capable of noticing. Not with the attention of the whole group fixed entirely on Ezekiel anyway. Ezekiel, who is now slowly inching his fingers towards the back of his thigh.

The sharp edge of the appendage presses closer, and he swallows, moving as slowly as possible to put just that much more space between it and his carotid. “Please,” he whispers, injecting as much fear as possible into the word, his eyes never leaving the smooth surface of the creature’s ‘face’.