I was getting the distinct feeling that I’d been scammed.
Not in the normal way, like when you order a burger and get a sad, flattened version of what’s on the menu picture. No, this was intergalactic-level fraud. I had been abducted, saddled with a debt that, as far as I could tell, was entirely made up, and then dumped into a maintenance job I had zero qualifications for.
And to make matters worse? I didn’t even get a cool job. No piloting a spaceship, no wielding high-tech weaponry—nope. I was just some glorified space janitor, fixing busted panels and avoiding electrical death on a daily basis.
J’Rax, my supervisor—or warden, depending on how you looked at it—had the same level of patience as a DMV employee on their third shift of the day. He barked orders, grumbled whenever I asked a question, and seemed convinced that I was one minor screw-up away from setting the entire ship on fire. I honestly couldn’t blame him.
Vrixibalt, on the other hand, had way too much interest in my existence. He hovered. Always. Every time I turned a corner, there he was, some new gadget in his hands, blinking lights flashing as he ran scans or recorded observations in his never-ending study of human absurdity.
“Your dexterity is remarkable! No prior training in multi-environment engineering, yet you instinctively handle repairs as if—”
I cut him off. “As if I’ve had to fix broken junk before? Yeah, wild concept, buddy. It’s called being an adult.”
Vrixibalt’s mandibles clicked excitedly. “Ah, but human adaptability is unparalleled! If you had been, say, a Vorxian or a Kiltari, you would have perished attempting your first repair!”
I scowled. “You say that like it’s impressive, but that just makes your species sound fragile.”
J’Rax snorted from a few feet away. “They are fragile. Vrixibalt sprained an appendage last week trying to pick up a data pad.”
The scientist twitched indignantly. “It was an ergonomic failure!”
“It was a three-pound tablet.”
“Irrelevant!”
I sighed, tightening the last bolt on the panel I’d been working on before standing up and dusting off my hands. “So, what’s next on the ‘Make John Earn Fake Space Money’ list?”
J’Rax pulled up a holographic display and frowned. “Next maintenance sector is... storage. Great. Hope you like lifting things.”
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I groaned. “Awesome. Because nothing screams ‘highly advanced alien civilization’ like manual labor.”
We made our way through the ship’s twisting corridors, passing aliens of all shapes and sizes. Some were clearly workers, others officers, and a few looked like they had no idea what their job even was. Honestly, I related to that last group on a personal level.
When we reached the storage bay, J’Rax punched in a command, and the massive doors rumbled open, revealing a space filled with crates, barrels, and way too many things marked with warning labels.
I hesitated at the entrance. “You sure none of this is, I don’t know, dangerous?”
J’Rax rolled his eyes. “Only if you’re stupid.”
Vrixibalt perked up. “Fascinating! Let us test whether human luck is a quantifiable phenomenon!”
I shot him a look. “No.”
J’Rax pointed toward a stack of crates. “Those need to be moved to the secondary storage unit. Don’t drop anything. Some of those containers are pressurized.”
“Great,” I muttered, stepping forward. The crates were heavy but manageable. If nothing else, at least I wasn’t dealing with sparking wires this time.
For the first few minutes, everything went smoothly. I lifted, carried, stacked. Vrixibalt took notes. J’Rax stood around pretending to supervise. But then, because the universe hates me, something had to go wrong.
One of the crates slipped from my grip, tilting at just the right angle to slam into another stack. It was like watching a slow-motion disaster—the impact caused a chain reaction, crates wobbling, shifting, and then—
BOOM.
A burst of gas erupted from one of the fallen containers, filling the room with a thick, shimmering cloud. Alarms blared. The lights flickered.
J’Rax cursed in his native language. “What the hell did you do?!”
I coughed, waving my hand to clear the mist. “I barely touched it!”
Vrixibalt, instead of panicking like a normal person, was delighted. “Ooooh! A containment failure! Remarkable! Let us observe the effects!”
I grabbed him by the collar. “How about we don’t?”
J’Rax shoved a mask into my hands and snapped at the ship’s comms. “Control, we’ve got a containment breach in Storage Bay 4. Lockdown protocol now!”
A mechanical voice crackled through the speakers. “Acknowledged. Sealing off affected area.”
The doors slammed shut.
I stared at J’Rax. “Uh. Did we just get trapped in here?”
J’Rax clenched his jaw. “Yes. Because someone couldn’t handle basic lifting duties.”
Vrixibalt clapped his hands. “This is an excellent opportunity for further study! How will prolonged exposure affect a human system? I hypothesize—”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I swear, if your hypothesis is ‘John suffers horribly,’ I’m going to introduce you to a human right hook.”
J’Rax groaned, already messing with the control panel to override the lockdown. “Let’s just fix this before command decides to space all of us for incompetence.”
I sighed, rubbing my temples as I prepared for yet another round of John Deals with Alien Stupidity.
Just another day in space.
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