Early dawn. Pale blue light spills over the mountains, the sky smeared with reds and bruised violet.

  A few colonists stir, but the camp is mostly asleep. Wind carries the low creak of the perimeter wall. Birdsong fills the air.

  High above, a ship drifts in orbit.

  Dim light. Rusted bulkheads. A crewman squints at a flickering nav screen.

  “Is this the place?”

  Another nods.

  “Yeah. Coordinates match.”

  “No weapons shipment this run,” a third adds.

  The captain turns slowly, eyes narrowing.

  “Why not?”

  “Orders said this lot wouldn’t put up much of a fight.”

  The captain’s mouth curls into a thin grin.

  “Then let’s collect.”

  He settles into his chair.

  “Making money. Taking money.”

  A beat.

  “Punch it.”

  The pilot shoves the throttle forward.

  The ship dives through cloud cover—

  a sonic boom ripping the morning sky apart.

  ---

  In the Void, Sarah and Arthur are already awake.

  Sarah stretches, dressed in shorts and a loose T-shirt.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  “So everything’s lining up. I knew if something went wrong, we’d be able to help.”

  Arthur sits on the red couch, reading.

  “We’re not there yet. Byrand’s as lazy as he is cowardly.”

  Sarah scoffs.

  “How do people like that always end up in charge?”

  An alarm splits the air—sharp, metallic.

  Arthur vanishes.

  ---

  In the real world, Arthur bursts from his autohome as a hulking pirate ship drops beyond the wall.

  “Single vessel,” he mutters. “At least there aren’t two. We might even hold.”

  He sprints for the perimeter.

  “Southern wall! Defensive positions—now!”

  Byrand’s voice crackles over the PA.

  “Southern wall! All hands!”

  Arthur smirks grimly.

  “At least he can repeat orders.”

  “Be careful,” Sarah whispers.

  At the wall, colonists scramble into firing positions. The barricade shudders under rocket wash.

  Smoke. Gunfire. Boots pounding dirt.

  Chaos—barely held together by planning and luck.

  The pirates return fire. The wall holds.

  Arthur moves constantly—shouting commands, dragging the wounded clear.

  A pipe is in his hand.

  A pirate slips through a weak section where felled trees reinforce the wall. He ducks behind splintered wood and fires.

  Pain detonates through the pirate’s chest.

  A steel pipe juts from him.

  Arthur doesn’t think. He rips it free as another pirate charges. He swings—bone cracks. The man drops. Arthur takes his weapon.

  Arthur braces against the wall, breath razor-sharp.

  Another pirate rushes in. Arthur waits.

  Then another. The two hesitate, searching for a target.

  Pop. Pop.

  Both fall.

  Arthur grabs a knife from one of them.

  Pop.

  Something hits his back—hard. He slumps over the bodies.

  Footsteps. Close.

  The bushwhacking pirate moves in.

  Arthur is already moving.

  The knife flashes. Blood splashes.

  The sounds of war dull, then fade. Arthur is gone for a moment.

  Twenty minutes later, the last of the raiders retreat. Their ship claws back into the sky, breaking atmosphere with a distant roar.

  Arthur stands in silence. Blood drips from his hands, his shirt red, eyes distant.

  Then cheers erupt across the camp.

  ---

  Later that morning, Arthur stands in Byrand’s office, blood dried dark against his skin.

  “Seventeen wounded. No deaths,” Arthur says, disbelief threaded through his voice.

  “It’s a miracle.”

  Byrand grins, almost euphoric.

  “We won. They won’t be back.”

  Arthur exhales sharply and kicks a chair—it skids into the desk.

  “We have thirty-seven rounds left for eight guns. We need a plan. If they come back—”

  “They won’t,” Byrand interrupts.

  “Morale’s been low. Let them enjoy this.”

  Arthur leans forward, palms flat on the desk.

  “Morale isn’t the problem. Logistics are.”

  Byrand waves him off, already standing.

  “Celebration tonight.”

  Sarah’s voice hums cold in Arthur’s ear.

  “He’s the worst leader I’ve ever seen. No instinct. No foresight.”

  Arthur grabs Byrand, shoving him into the wall. He straightens, jaw tight.

  Arthur lets go of him.

  “Fine. But keep ration breaks under ten percent.”

  Byrand doesn’t answer.

  ---

  That night, firelight and music fill the camp.

  Colonists drink. Laugh. Eat freely.

  In another life, Arthur might’ve smiled. Instead, his eyes track every overflowing cup and disappearing crate.

  In the Void, he and Sarah quietly recalculate supplies—numbers ticking down toward inevitability.

  ---

  Arthur wakes the next morning to silence.

  No work crews. No movement at the wall.

  He storms into the command tent.

  Byrand lounges at the table, sipping coffee.

  “Where is everyone?”

  Byrand grins.

  “Sleeping in. Big night.”

  Arthur’s voice goes cold.

  “Are you insane? People could die. These people are depending on you.”

  Byrand stands, stretching.

  “They earned a rest. We’ll deal with it later.”

  Arthur stares at him—the glow of victory already gone from his eyes.

  Something harder settles in its place.

  Please consider following, commenting, or leaving a review.

  Thank you for reading.