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Like something worse than waking from a dream, Quayl’s thoughts were sucked through a pinhole back into reality. He didn’t know what had happened. He was on the floor, dazed, in his mid-thirties, and had successfully grown a red beard; his body remained slim and fit. He was wearing his uniform, not the ship’s crew uniform, but his Postman’s uniform. He remembered that was his job now.

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He was on a submarine ship, a nice one with an atrium filled with trees and leafy plants in case something bad happened. In an emergency, all crew members were to meet in the atrium, where there would be a bubble of endless oxygen. He was headed for Horusa to deliver his letters, both paper and digital, but now it was imperative to seek the atrium.

“C’mon, man! Get up!” A voice came to him, hazed and blurry. Quayl got up on his shaky knees and pressed his feet into the floor, which felt numb. Adrenaline kicked him into survival mode; his senses were too sharp, and his thoughts were simplified. His shoes sloshed in four inches of water, and its depth increased by the second as more rushed in from damage to the ship. The man with him was a security officer, and he pulled and carried Quayl toward the atrium with an arm around him.

Trees came into sight, and natural light filled the central garden, cast down from the glass dome ceiling and the blue endless oceanic cosmos beyond. The inches of saltwater behind him were held back by a waist-high wall, thanks to the trees’ influence and the oxygen they produced. His clothes dried, and loose drips flowed sideways to join the wall of water. He caught his exhausted breath as the officer took control of the situation.

“Are you alright, Mr. Quayl?” he asked. With a hard swallow in a dry mouth, Quayl answered,

“I’m fine.” The scene was chaotic, with passengers and crew gathered around in the atrium. People were panicked and fearful, asking questions that went unanswered, and Quayl certainly had his questions. He barely remembered the explosion near him that shook the ship and threw him into the opposite wall. His head hurt, and his daze finally cleared.

Intense terror filled him when another ship floated above them, behind the glass above the trees. It was red. Everyone shrieked in terror because when the iron in their blood spilled, it was attracted to the hulls of ships belonging to the Namina. The way their faster-than-light capabilities worked attracted it, likely something to do with electromagnetism.

A common belief was that they were a savage beast race that cleaved and ripped through the ocean violently, but they were a graceful race — organized, intelligent, and surgical in their attacks. Several Namina exited their sub, swam, and spread out, and with careful aim with their rifles, they sniped the crew and passengers in their heads through the dome ceiling, one by one. They dared not damage what they were after — the plants. Simply put, green human plants were better at repelling saltwater than theirs, and they needed it for an unknown reason. They wanted to take as much as they could.

Quayl backed himself up to the wall of water behind him and receded into it, out of sight of the snipers’ scopes. Large claws shot from the red submarine and dug into the bark of the strong trees. They were ripped from the atrium through the glass, and the bubble of the atrium grew smaller.

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Quayl was completely submerged and thought quickly. He turned back and headed down the hall to his quarters.

His room was afloat with letters and parcels that needed delivery. He grabbed his satchel bag, luckily it had not opened to spill its contents. Quickly searching the small room, he found what he was looking for: his little oak bonsai tree that he always kept at his side. It had a bubble of air around it, just enough to breathe regularly. He put his head inside it and gasped for air, trying to think of his next move.

In the hallway, searchlights were flashing about, looking for anyone and anything they could take. Another officer emerged, carrying an emergency oxygen plant he had found. He took a few shots at the Namina, but he was outnumbered and outgunned. Bolts of electricity pierced through him, pushed him down the hall, deeper into the ship, and his blood already floated toward the Namina’s hull.

The potted plant sat on the floor, half spilled of dirt next to the gun. He knew they’d come for the plant, and zap him down to get his bonsai. He was cornered in his quarters with little cover. The searchlights came closer, causing more security officers. The man’s efforts weren’t in vain; he had unwittingly given Quayl time to think.

He grabbed the officer’s gun. He didn’t feel very safe with it; he too would be electrocuted just as easily. Then he saw the window. It was just big enough for him to squeeze through. He shot at the window, blasting bullets through it until it was weak, and then he jumped up on the desk below it. With his foot, he kicked it and cracked it further. The Namina were closer than ever, still hesitant, and barked orders muffled by water in their strange tongue. One more thrust of his foot broke the glass out. It was safe enough to exit through. He went through with his bonsai and swam around the corner just out of sight of the Namina. He tried to put as much of the submarine between him and the Namina ship.

He waited until all of the butchers had left. He peeked around the corners of the rudders for signs that they may leave. It looked like he may be safe as the ship slowly backed off. He breathed a sigh of relief. He thought he could send out the ship’s distress signal and be found soon, he was sure there were survivors held up somewhere.

However, the Namina ship stopped, and four large arms extended from around its chassis. Lights and energy buzzed and glowed about them.

“Oh crap.” Quayl realized it was an electrical weapon. His fuzzy hair was filled with static; he felt the charge come in waves over his body, and his nerves went numb. He swam, swam as fast and as hard as he could, and he carried himself and his bonsai as far as possible from the blast zone. He didn’t look back as fear filled him, and his heart thumped audibly in the silence of his oak bonsai’s bubble.

Like a death timer with no indicator of its time, he swam out into the open ocean. How long has it been? 30 seconds? A minute? Two minutes? Bravely, he looked back, maybe it was over? He saw the Namina ship, but before he could continue, it released the blast. Blinding light filled his vision, which faded to show plasma and bolts of lightning. Then the light focused on the submarine. The ship glowed in metallic iridescence and disintegrated under immense electrical stress. After a few seconds, all that was left was a thin mud. Faintly, the remaining blood could be seen floating towards the hull of the Namina’s ship. Quayl floated in awe and horror.

The Namina ship turned about and engaged its faster-than-light engine. It shot itself out of sight instantly. Surely, the wreckage would be noticeable by any nearby ship’s sensors.

There was no use in swimming any further; his best hope was to stay where he was. The cloud of mud and tiny bits of scrap from the obliterated submarine floated and dissipated in a mild ocean current. Quayl would dehydrate or starve before anyone found him out in the open ocean lightyears from civilization. All he had were his clothes, his mail satchel, and the bonsai sustaining him with only a bubble of air.