Wilson slid the helmet back into place; the suction grabbed it and the oxygen pump started with its usual hiss.

Wildon watched the co-commander as he prepped the survival suit. Abbot seemed to be recovering from the attack but who knows what alien germs would do to a human. Would his personality change? Could he have a massive allergic reaction at a crucial moment in the mission?

Abbot, prepping his own helmet for the trip outside the ship, looked up at Wilson.

“What?” Abbot asked, with his usual crooked half smile.

Wilson shook his head, breathed a puff of air to turn on the helmet mike. “Nothing,” he answered. “Let’s get going before the sandstorm hits.”

Abbot placed his helmet and turned on his mike. “Let’s get this done,” he said. “That monster ain’t gonna kill itself.”