The trih xeem broke against my dying vessel
and smashed a fine patina across the mystery
shields of this station. My crew battled the
aliens during the blast, and thesilence which
came after was sullen and deafening--the pure
silence of victory.
But the trackless whisper chattering through
the hollow space in these cursed walls buzzes
and threatens madness. The abominations
cracked and the shells of my crew and sucked the
husks, tossing them unseen and shattering the
spindle like a dried creche.
The shields are gone, not down, but gone, and
so are the engineers. It's coming back, I'm
sure: and my last mercy is immolation.
Great Mother crouched behind the Throne, I
make this wrong right.