An Island in Space

Several seconds later, a two meter wide piece of metal rockets into oblivion, followed by a sudden rush of air. Fighting the tide of escaping atmosphere, we push into the innards of the ship moments before the hull seals itself.

A self-repairing hull. Such things are reserved for the most important flagships, not would we expected to find here. What attacker did our task force stumble upon in this cloud? We barely have time to ponder before a squad of unsuited men rushes us, firing their weapons. They scramble upon walls, ceilings and floors, taking cover behind light fixtures and scattered floating crates. Some scream violently, some cackle like demons, and some are silent in the face of bloodshed. They scare us equally. We fire back, scoring hits that instantly slay the unsuited men, while their grazing hits only scorch our armor. I hear howls of death before me, then behind me, and then it is over.

Two of us are dead, leaving the pilot and me. We nod to each other in grim determination, reminding each other of the ultimate goal: survival.

As we pass the dead shipmates, I see their faces. They are thin, wrinkled, and contorted in pain. I easily recognize the signs of starvation. Something happened to their foodstuffs, which should have lasted for years. Now, these elite crew members are as desperate for salvation as the two of us. The thought of facing six hundred of these chills me. Conceivably, we should only have to fight a small fraction of that, and so it should be...

The ringing of boots reaches my ears. It is distant, but loud as anything I have ever heard on Fomalhaut's crowded streets. I turn to the pilot. He mutters, a tear in his eye.

"Good luck."

Then we see the first of the horde. They scream for blood, and make no attempt to hide from our bullets. We cut down one, then two, then three, and then we lose count in the blood, which hangs in the weightless air like a thick mist. The gun to my left falls silent, and I choke back tears. I cannot see past the curtain of red before my eyes, and fire blindly, screaming into the gruesome gloom just as fiercely as my attackers. Their bodies, now painted red with their comrades' juices, burst through the sheet and fall on me, hacking with wrenches and knives and bedposts and their friends' arms.

I fall, and the gun escapes me. They grab me and bind me and take me away as I scream in a futile accompaniment to their exultation.

Why? Why does this crew take me prisoner, when they have not enough rations to feed their own? I stop howling, and realize where they are taking me.

I then scream louder and more painfully than I ever have before, convulsing in my tight bonds, kicking wildly at my captors who brush me off, grinning like the Devil.

The galley's walls are dripping with red, an oh so vibrant red that burns my eyes and scars my soul.

I can smell burning flesh, and all I can do is scream and hope to drown out the awful sounds reaching my ears.