Page 8 of Grumpy Alien Bodyguard

Gas’s voice echoes over the intercom, panicked. “Boss, there’s no life support in that torpedo! You’ll suffocate before you even reach their ship!”

“Yes, yes, I know,” I mutter, squeezing myself into the cramped space where the warhead used to be. My knees are pressed against my chest, my wings folded awkwardly. It’s not comfortable, but it’s not supposed to be. “Just launch me already!”

“This is insane!” Gas shouts, but I hear the hiss of the launch tube opening.

“Insane’s my middle name,” I snarl, my grin widening as the tube seals shut around me. The world goes dark, and I feel the faint vibration of the torpedo launching into the void.

The torpedo slams into the enemy hull with a deafening crash, the force of the impact rattling my teeth and nearly knocking me unconscious. I claw my way out of the mangled wreckage, my scales scraping against jagged metal as I emerge into the dimly lit corridor of the Reaper shuttle. The emergency force field snaps into place behind me, sealing the breach with a faint hum.

I barely have time to shake off the dizziness before a Reaper charges at me, his two-handed power blade humming with deadly energy. The blade arcs toward me, and I duck just in time, the weapon slicing through a metal support strut like it’s made of paper. Sparks rain down as the strut collapses, and I roll to my feet, my tail lashing behind me.

“Nice blade,” I growl, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Too bad you don’t know how to use it.”

The Reaper snarls, his bone spurs glinting in the low light as he swings again. I dodge to the side, the blade missing me by inches. He’s fast, but I’m faster. I duck under his next swing and close the distance, grabbing his wrists with a grip like a vice. His eyes widen as I twist the blade out of his hands, the weapon clattering to the floor.

“Let’s see how you like it,” I snarl, driving my forehead into his face. The crunch of bone echoes through the corridor as I headbutt him again and again, his spurs scraping against my scales but failing to pierce them. With a final, brutal strike, I send him sprawling to the ground.

I snatch up the power blade, its weight unfamiliar but manageable. The Reaper tries to rise, but I’m already on him, the blade slicing through his torso with a sickening hiss. He collapses in two pieces, his blood pooling on the floor.

I take a moment to catch my breath, the power blade humming in my hand. “One down,” I mutter, my voice low and dangerous.

But my triumph is short-lived. The sound of heavy footsteps echoes down the corridor, and I turn to see four more Reapers charging toward me, their bone spurs gleaming and their eyes filled with murderous intent.

“Oh, come on,” I groan, tightening my grip on the blade. “Can’t a guy catch a break?”

The first Reaper lunges at me, and I sidestep, bringing the blade down in a sweeping arc that takes off his arm at the elbow. He howls in pain, but I don’t have time to finish him off. The second Reaper is already on me, his spurs slashing toward my face. I duck, the blade slicing through the air above my head, and drive my elbow into his gut. He stumbles back, and I follow up with a kick that sends him crashing into the wall.

The third Reaper comes at me with a roar, his spurs extended like daggers. I parry his strike with the power blade, the force of the impact sending a jolt up my arm. I twist the blade, disarming him, and drive it into his chest. He collapses with a gurgle, his blood splattering across the floor.

The fourth Reaper hesitates, his eyes flicking between me and his fallen comrades. I grin, baring my teeth. “What’s the matter? Scared?”

He snarls and charges, but I’m ready. I meet him head-on, the power blade clashing against his spurs in a shower of sparks. We struggle for a moment, his strength nearly matching mine, but I’m not just strong—I’m relentless. With a roar, I shove him back and bring the blade down in a devastating strike that cleaves him from shoulder to hip.

I stand amidst the carnage, my chest heaving and the power blade dripping with blood. “Four down,” I mutter, my voice rough. “How many more of you are there?”

I sprint through the Reaper shuttle’s narrow corridors, my boots slamming into the deck with enough force to leave dents. The power blade hums in my hand, its edge glowing faintly with the blood of the Reapers I’ve already sliced through. The ship’s layout is a mess of mismatched panels and exposed wiring, clearly cobbled together from whatever scraps the Reapers could scavenge. Not exactly the pinnacle of engineering.

I round a corner and slam into a bulkhead as the ship lurches sideways. “Gas, what the hell are you doing?” I bark into my comms.

“Not me!” Gas’s voice crackles back. “They’re trying to shake you off! You’re, uh, kind of making a mess of their ship.”

“Good,” I growl, pushing off the wall and charging toward the bridge. The door looms ahead, reinforced with scrap metal welded haphazardly across its surface. I don’t bother trying to open it. I rear back and slam my shoulder into the door, the force of the impact sending it flying off its hinges.

Inside, the pilot spins in his seat, his bone spurs glinting as he reaches for a weapon. He’s too slow. I cross the room in two strides and drive the power blade through his chest, the weapon slicing through his armor like it’s made of paper. He slumps to the floor, his eyes wide in shock.

I wipe the blade on his tunic and take the pilot’s seat, my massive frame barely fitting. The controls are a jumble of mismatched buttons and levers, but I don’t need finesse. I grip the throttle and yank it back, the shuttle lurching as I bring it under control.

“I have control of the enemy vessel,” I say over the comms, my voice calm despite the adrenaline roaring in my veins.

There’s a moment of silence before Gas responds, his voice tinged with awe. “Sometimes I forget how scary you really are.”

“Save the flattery for later. Did you find a docking point?”

“Yeah, but it’s not ideal. It’s right next to where the Reapers have set up their command center. There’s not going to be any sneaking in.”

“They already know we’re here,” I say, guiding the shuttle toward the derelict station. The massive structure looms ahead, its rusted hull riddled with blinking lights and patched breaches.

The shuttle docks with a shudder, the airlock hissing as it seals. I grab a spare sidearm from the pilot’s seat and holster it, then step into the airlock. “Gas, stay on Sweet Charity and fix the weapons system. We might need them before this is over.”

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