Felix Pascal landed his one-person starship on the edge of the rainforest, unclipped himself from the seat, and rolled out onto the metal platform that loomed above the canopy. The platelets hovered up to his face, slim and silver, young and timeless.
“You have seventeen injuries,” one platelet chirped happily.
“Would you like medical assistance?” another asked. This was not really a question, but a polite way of saying Felix would soon be taken into the infirmary. He reached up from the wet metal floor, grabbing one by its thickened ridge, pulling himself up. The platelet turned in the air and struggled to free itself from his grip, knowing its supercooled body would cause yet more injuries to his already fractured hand. Felix didn’t care. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did.
“You will develop frostbite,” a third platelet said. As the words came from its speakermouth, the little thing slammed into Felix, nearly breaking another rib with the force it employed to make him let go. Felix coughed blood onto the grating as he fell. The platelets turned like a school of piranhas, sucking up what they could.
“You are deficient in iron.”
“Supplements are recommended. Shall we provide?”
“We will take you to the medical bay.”
“No,” Felix growled. He passed out.

Later, Felix writhed in the hospital bed, dreaming of the platelets slamming into his head and chest. He dreamt of smashing one open, of tendrils thick and rubbery slithered out like guts from its braincase. He imagined the faces of his crew stitched into the hidden circuitry, repurposed in the endless loop that was utilitarian space. He shuddered awake in a cold sweat, shouting and thrashing and looking conspiratorially for a murder machine.
A white platelet with a thick blue metal trim outlined in gold, its body decorated to distinguish its medical expertise, floated glibly into the room, its pathetic arms outstretched from the four cardinal directions. It waved at him with these black metal bones, bowing. From this distance, in the regulated atmosphere of the hospital, Felix could see the energy aura from its hypercooled levitation plate. He longed to smash his face into it, to end this nightmare. He stretched, and felt the icy embrace of the quilt on his extremities.

“Your symptoms are unusual,” the platelet admitted. Felix raised a bushy eyebrow; felt for a moment that a human might be controlling the thing. They were never usually this honest.
“Your body temperature is unusually cold. You sustained no injuries from touching the hypercooled plates.”
“I only touched them for a moment,” Felix added.
“Your body was frozen solid against the landing pad,” the platelet explained. It showed Felix footage. His skin, pale and blue, was welded to the metal landing pad with a thin layer of ice.
“That’s your hypercoolers!” he insisted. It wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. Ever since being brought back from near-death by his crew after being mauled by a Vashto; those hideous things which writhed beneath this planet’s surface, captain Felix Pascal had been a walking icicle.