Grown Men

in mated pairs for safety and entertainment, but Runt’s original partner had died on entry. She had vaporized inside the cheap delivery pods used by space freighters for dropping non-sentient cargo. Some blind date, huh? From lifemate to hot dust before he’d even laid eyes on her. Just his fucking luck. And just hers, apparently.
    Trouble was, no replacement wife (or explanation) had arrived. Runt hadn’t seen another sentient being in months. There were terraformers posted on other islands, of course, but in a year and a half he’d not met one.
    The geologists had scattered landmasses carefully across these roiling seas; HardCell Corporation discouraged any kind of contact or conversation that might lead to discontent or unionization. Planetoid HD10307-E was to be an agricultural combine harvesting high-yield produce and protein that would feed HardCell employees as far away as Algol.
    The cooler air inside his Spartan habitat made sorting easier. With work-numb arms, Runt hummed tunelessly to himself as he slid canisters and paks into the bare cook-space shelves. The pearly overhead lights made the candy-bright packaging shimmer in his dirty hands.
    Little by little, the heap of provisions on the habitat floor vanished into orderly rows in the cook-space. Runt vibrated with bone-deep relief at seeing his molded shelves full of nutrients again.
    The bee-moths! Shit.
    Twilight had become a double sunset while he was indoors. Bathed in the salmon glow, he jogged to the cracked container and rescued the shimmering caterpillars for safekeeping indoors.
    Until he rebuilt the hive, their tubes went in his sleep-space, the only one that hadn’t sustained storm damage. He’d have to rig a new hatchery first. Until then, best to be cautious. Feeling wise, he rewarded himself with a quick mouthful of dry tofu-bacon, chewing as he stepped back under the smoldering suns to tackle the gear. His sweat rinsed the dust off him. It took him an hour to sort and snack until his belly was full, the beach clear, and the transport container nearly scooped clean.
    A meter from the crate, the creamy heap of foam shreds shrank as wildlife swiped it to line nests. By morning it would be gone. Frankly, Runt appreciated the cleanup, and the biodegradable padding would only help the island’s ecosystem.
    Finally, only the architectural tarp remained inside the container, probably three meters long across its floor. Runt grabbed the handle at one end of the sack with a rough hand and dragged the dense silvery roll onto the sand.
    Chance’s pants, it was heavy! Starvation had withered some of his muscle.
    The smaller sun was coming down and night bugs were chittering in the brush. He decided to leave the fabric for daylight so he could check it for parasites. If rats or millipedes had hidden in its folds, he didn’t want them catching him barehanded.
    Runt had almost turned toward the habitat when the huge bundle jerked and curled like a monstrous metallic worm.
    “Fuck!”
    Runt’s shout sent a few surviving moths fluttering from the bluish palm trees. He fell to the ground and scrabbled back on his ass toward the heavy-duty submachete still planted nearby. Noisy, but the only accessible weapon.
    The resurfacing tarp moved again, a wriggle all along its length, something packed alongside the fabric.
    Alive .
    Something alive stuffed inside the sack.
    What the hell could be that big?
    Hogs, dogs, humans . . .
    I’m dead.
    His recruiter had warned him that, if he didn’t meet their terraform schedule, forcible termination was likely. Fuck. His numbers were shit and he was behind schedule.
    I’m a dead man.
    After a scant eighteen months, they’d finally sent his retirement plan in a corporate Trojan Horse, the cracked container packed with nibbles, and he’d fallen for it like a hungry idiot.
    HardCell means business.
    Runt realized HardCell had sent a new pair of terraformers stashed in foam to retire and replace him. Duh . Runt was undersized and had been trapped working solo.
    All that’s their food.
    Legs braced to pounce, Runt gripped the whirring submachete and circled the enormous squirming life-support duffel. He could see big angled bumps like limbs inside straining hard at the closure.
    The reflective packaging moved again and one of its occupants gave a bass groan. Transport anesthesia wearing off. With a tearing sound, the flex-wrap split, and one gigantic hairy arm clawed at the sand a moment as Runt’s assassin