The double doors opened with a hiss.

The room beyond was ovular, a single long bench mounted to the walls wrapped around the entire room. Switches, buttons, flashing lights and words in the unreadable language covered every inch of its surface. A long glass topped table spanned the middle of the room, the light that burst out from it bathed everything in a pale blue haze. No matter how hard Thomas squinted, he could not locate the ship’s helm, or anything that he could recognise as a steering mechanism.

As he took his first step forward, he instinctively ducked. The two-pronged tip of a shock-spear passed over Thomas’s head by an inch. He grabbed the shaft firmly and sent fire down onto the frogtaur that was squatting in ambush to his right. The bolt struck his attacker in its fat bug like eye, a jet of orange blood spurted out as it fell limply backwards.

The man to the far left wasn’t as lucky, he did not dodge the spear thrust and its twin heads dug into his exposed neck. There was a metallic bang as his silver egg fell to the floor. The man’s body locked into the place as his muscles seized. The last thing he did was let out a groan of pain before a flash of light replaced his face with a dark red hole.

The group scattered as frogtaur guards and wasp helmsmen that hunkered behind the centre table rained a volley of red light towards them.

The man next in line to the one who just fell targeted the spearman, the metal plate on its chest caved in. The monster collapsed, coughing and wheezing as blood and oil dribbled from the hollow cavity.

A ray caught the man's ankle, ripping his foot from his leg. He fell kneeling to the ground, letting out a terrible cry. He shuffled along on his good leg for a pace, returning fire and landing the killing blow on the frogtaur that killed his comrade before passing out from the pain and blood-loss.

Thomas, Paul and the other two men returned a volley of their own as they advanced forward. One, two, three frogtaurs fell as the distance between them and the remaining helmsmen shortened.

Thomas and Paul went around the right side of the table as the other two men ran around the left, surrounding the wasps and leaving them no route for retreat.

The three helmsmen held an egg in one hand and a shock-spear in the other. Their uniforms were highly ordained compared to the rest of their kin, brilliant white with golden filigree that spiralled down each of their sleeves.

The middle wasp had a dozen medals pinned in row after row on its chest, the yellow of its carapace was pale and faded, as if its body was bleached by many long years in harsh sunlight. Thomas surmised it was their equivalent of an officer, perhaps the captain of this ship.

The helmsmen in front of Thomas and Paul let loose a shot and charged with its spear raised, channelling every ounce of its bravery into a final, savage assault. In its righteous fury, it failed to steady its aim, and the shot flew harmlessly over Paul’s head. With a calm slow inhale, Thomas lined up a shot with the middle of the crazed wasp’s chest and burnt a whole straight through it, its dark blue blood dribbled down its front as the creature stumbled drunkenly with its last steps. Paul stumbled back, startled as the dead wasp slumped into his arms.

The other two men took the initiative and advanced onto the remaining helmsmen. The shock-spear of the youngest slipped from its fingers as it panicked. Rapidly, it pointed its silver egg back and forth between the two champions of Orhill, too startled to make a decision and shoot either one.

The elder made a choice for it. Its insectile leg swept under its subordinate, and it came tumbling forward towards the two attackers. Thomas grabbed Paul by the collar of his shirt and pulled him downwards, barely avoiding the two bolts of red that the two men had misfired as they and the wasp got tangled with each other.

Before Thomas could stand and aid his comrades, the old captain pressed its advantage.

After one of the two finally landed a killing blow onto the disoriented wasp, its superior lobbed its spear into one of the men. The shock was brief, but the temporary locking of his muscles was still sufficient to send the man tumbling over, stunned. Before his partner could retaliate, the old captain was already by his side. Its free hand snapped forward and back like the tip of a whip. Thomas couldn’t track the motion. He only saw red dripping from the wasp’s fingers. The standing man dropped his egg, screaming, his hands pressed firm against his eyes as blood dripped down his cheeks. The man on the ground brought attention to himself as he tried to stand, a flash of red light sent him back down permanently. The captain steadied his armament onto the man he just blinded. One second, he was sobbing and begging for help, the next a thumb sized hole sizzled through his head, and he fell forward, silent. The old captain picked up the spear and turned on its heels, now facing the still floor bound Thomas and Paul.

The pair were overwhelmed by the speed at which the two men in front of them were dispatched.

Paul absconded from Thomas’s side, awkwardly scuttling away on his hands and feet as the wasp barrelled towards the pair. Thomas sent ray after ray of burning red at it as he jumped to his feet.

Despite its decrepit appearance, the captain danced around the shots, gently twisting its torso from one side to the other as they flew past. Where the blasts detonated on the long bench and walls, sparks and white smoke hissed out.

The wasp leapt onto the central table, blue light highlighting its silhouette from underneath as it sprang across the glass surface. Finally, the old captain leapt onto Thomas, keen to bring its spear down onto his neck. Thomas grabbed the spear before taking a few steps back, doing his best to keep his balance as the giant insect clung to him. His face was bathed in flickering light as lightning arched between the polearm’s tips, mere inches from his face.

Thomas dropped his egg and wrapped his now free hand firmly around the wasp’s wrist. His ears rang as the shot that was meant for his skull went up into the ceiling as he pulled its silver egg away from his forehead. The ringing was quickly drowned out by the thunderous beating of his heart inside his head.

With a violent jerk, Thomas ripped the spear from the wasp’s hand. It spun wildly through the air before skidding to a halt on the floor.

Thomas’s fist slammed one savage blow after another into the wasp’s head.

Its hand went for his neck. The wasp’s fingertips were as sharp knifes, easily pushing through the skin around his throat.

There was a deafening metallic cry as the room twisted under their feet. The three were sent flying like toys being shaken inside a box.

When the world’s motion came to a halt, Thomas found himself gripping onto the table with one hand and onto his throat with the other. He sighed with relief; it was only skin deep.

He turned to find Paul; the boy was holding onto the surrounding bench for dear life while doing his best not to spew.

“Was that the entire ship?” Thomas asked, already knowing that Paul somehow did it. He was fearful for what might have happened to the rest of the survivors back in the armoury.

Paul yelled back, “Just this room, the ship’s internals are flexible.”

Thomas babbled, starting and stopping himself mid-phrase as he searched for the correct question, “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“It was going to rip out your throat and I couldn’t find a clear shot that wouldn’t hit you too.”

Before Thomas could ask where the wasp went, his question was answered, hitting the floor with all his force as a burning ray skimmed past the left side of his head, vaporizing the tip of his ear. Looking up, he cursed in equal parts fear and anger as he saw the old captain hanging spiderlike from the ceiling. It crawled around with the same ease as a normal man walking as it planned the angle for its next shot.

“What do we do?” Paul asked, the steel nerves that carried the boy to the helm began to fail him and a fearful tremor returned to his hands.

Thomas snapped back, “Just get into cover and shoot the damn thing!”

He looked onwards in helpless horror as Paul fell to the ground, grasping his head and screaming in pain. The boy’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as he suddenly went dead silent, his flushed skin turned stark white.

Above his head, Thomas heard wheezy exhales. He couldn't understand their language, but he always knew when someone was laughing at him.

Thomas cradled his head in his arms, bracing for impact as the room violently thrashed and slammed him against the floor. Off to the side from where he was standing, the floor erupted in a flash as the wasp’s stray shot impacted.

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Thomas quickly glanced down as he felt something bump his foot. Paul’s silver egg had rolled into his shoe.

He kicked the armament towards the central table and wildly loosed one red bolt after another up towards the wasp. The old captain weaved around the rays of light as easily as it did while standing up right. A shower of red embers came hurtling downwards, a dozen hot cuts began to speckle his arms and legs.

Another bolt came down and struck him on his thigh, a strip of skin vanished into smoke, leaving exposed bleeding muscle in its place. Seizing upon the moment, Thomas yelled and threw himself forwards onto the floor, using the injury as an excuse to leap the final distance towards the table and grab onto Paul’s egg without the wasp above noticing.

Thomas knew he would only get one chance to pull this off. If it realised he had two instead of one, then he wouldn’t be able to catch it off guard.

Quietly, he prayed to God as hard as he could that it didn’t notice.

With a deep breath, he unleashed another volley, with every sidestep and dodge Thomas tracked where the wasp was stepping.

He found a pattern.

As the wasp became comfortable with Thomas’s onslaught, it readied a shot of its own. Thomas let out one final shot.

It stepped to the left, and Thomas punished it with a readied shot from Paul’s egg.

The wasp’s armament fell to the floor with a loud clang, yet it seemed quiet compared to its scream. The old captain twisted and turned in the air as it came tumbling downwards, blue sprayed from the smoking stump of its leg. Scalding hot white sparks poured from the crater on the ceiling like water, washing over the wasp’s head like heavy rain. The hard shell that coated its face and eyes blackened and peeled off.

A meaty thud signalled the end of the captain’s fall.

The once proud and fearsome old warrior was reduced to a blind, limp, terrified thing. It bleated like a scared lamb as it sent random bolts of fire towards where it thought Thomas was.

He had stepped safely to the side. With a single blast, he put the creature down.

Thomas took three steps before slamming his hands onto the long surrounding bench, pulling the last of his strength to keep himself from collapsing from exhaustion. He looked over towards Paul. The boy was still out cold, but he was thankfully breathing now and no longer looked as pale as a corpse.

The distant roar of an approaching cacophony echoed through the open doorway.

Guards were swarming towards the helm.

Thomas was injured, and keeping himself awake had him balancing on a knife’s edge. Even if his body and mind were still willing, Paul was in no condition to move. They were trapped, soon to join their comrades in union with their maker. Any survivors that were still holding out in the armoury would join them shortly after.

Thomas wondered what it was all for.

Maybe if Paul was still awake, he would have another magic trick to save the day. One of the dead wasps had a tube just like the one that shot the worm into Paul. Thomas shook the idea out of his head, even if it would work, there was no way he could get the worm out of Paul without killing him.

The thought of the word ‘kill’ lingered. His attention was drawn towards the remains of the old captain.

In a blink, Thomas was on the wasp’s corpse. His last arrow came in handy as he began prying open the cracks in the head’s ruined carapace. Mucus with a few streaks of blue blood ooze out has his fingers dug inside the still warm curd of the creature’s brain. His eyes nervously turned back and forth from the head to the door and back again, it felt like a storm of fire would tear him down at any moment.

He felt a wiggle, weak but still alive.

He pinched onto the worm and ripped it free. A chunk of brain-matter still encased it, but Thomas did not have time to be fussy. He took the slimy mass and shoved it down the metal tube, using the feather end of his arrow to ensure it had reached the very back. Thomas had no idea if this would work, but he had no choice.

Pressing the open end of the tube against his forehead, Thomas beg God for his stupid idea to work before flipping the latch.

There was a sharp pain as Thomas felt it twist through his skull. His body collapsed under himself.

The world went black, then white, then every colour flashed and burned into his mind’s eye.

He saw himself, convulsing on the floor of the helm. The guards sprinted through the twisting hallways, they would reach his position in thirteen, twelve, eleven seconds. Hidden eyes within the armoury showed him the survivors, they had lost the fortified hallway and had to barricade the door. Hundreds and thousands of voices screamed into his ears. Hallways, rooms and doors whined of damage to their skin and severed arteries and begged for immediate repairs. Boxes of thinking metal relayed inventory, the recent acquisitions, the loss of implements and slaves and the need to file reports.

From within the ship and outside, from others below across the whole world and the transport vessel that he was quickly approaching sent one inquiry after another. They named him honest flower. A title? No, a translated name. They had lost contact with him momentarily, they demanded that he told them what happened. Were the primitives dealt with? Had he regained control over the ship?

Thomas shunted the voices from his mind and did his best to focus. He reached out to the helm room’s door; it slid closed and locked itself. He saw the swarm of guards trying to open the door, the Wasps angrily demanding why they no longer had permission to open it.

The Frogtaur’s minds were open, a great cloud of silence compared to the sea of sights and sounds he was drowning in. Thomas felt his thoughts reaching like a hand into the quiet. With a twist, they turned against their old masters, one would hold them down while another burned a hole through their heads.

Thomas’s order spread throughout the ship, panic and messages for rescue rushed to leave, only to be bounced back.

Then silence.

The survivors in the armoury were confused by the chaos outside and the sudden quiet. A few were curious, but Junior barred them from opening the door.

Thomas sent his attention outside.

He was like a tadpole in a great black star speckled sea. The ocean floor below was the world, a blue field that curved away from him at the horizon. Spirals of white clouds danced along its surface. To his left, the sun shined like a gigantic white bonfire. To his right was the transport ship, a great golden pillar, taller than a mountain. He swam closer to it; it grew larger and larger till it filled his entire vision. A mouth on its side opened wide, and he peeked into it. Several more ships like the one he was steering were sat lined up in a neat row, scaffolding encased each structure. Ape worm beasts and frogtaurs milled about, obscured in bulky grey suits that covered them head to toe. They readied the pillar to accept him inside.

As Thomas wondered what he could do to destroy what laid before him, a small voice in his ear pestered him.

Weapon controls.

Thomas told it to do its worst, and his vision turned Red.

Thomas was falling. Several large holes criss-crossed the golden pillar, one flash of red followed another as it began to twist and buckle, collapsing in onto itself. The ship was rapidly descending back to earth. He couldn’t slow it down.

As he began to panic, the helm and armoury rapidly filled with green foam. The substance rapidly hardened, holding anyone who was still alive firmly in place. Something whispered to him about impact absorption and protection of crew during disasters. Thomas was comforted.

Tiredness began to weigh upon him like a heavy blanket. He was powerless to stop himself from drifting off into unconsciousness. Distant voices panicking about the destruction of the transport ship and the time it would take for the empire to send an investigation team filled his ears before fading away.

As everything went quiet and dark, Thomas thought about his home, his quiet smelly little shack.

His last thoughts were of Orhill.

⁂

It wasn’t the ache of his joints, his strained muscles or the throbbing pain in his right ear. Instead, it was the nausea of an empty stomach that brought Thomas back to consciousness. It could only have been a day since he last ate, two at most. But his body insisted that it must have been years.

Decades even.

An entire lifetime being brutally starved.

He began to gently evaluate himself. Wiggling his fingers and toes, flexing his muscles and slowly bending his arms and legs. Noting the pain, ease or difficulty to see if anything had broken during the impact. Excluding the injuries he acquired during the storming of the helm, Thomas had passed with flying colours.

Pressing his hands against the floor, he pushed himself upright. The shell of green foam that had encased him crumbled away into damp dust. With his vision no longer obscured, he gave himself a quick visual assessment. The bruises were still present, the cuts and gashes along his body had scabbed over and stopped bleeding, then has he nervously glanced down towards his thigh he found the open wound filled with more of the foam. Picking it away, it revealed a new thin layer of skin that covered the patch of exposed muscle. Thomas sighed with relief, glad that he wouldn’t get to see how infected it would've gotten.

The helm was a crumbled shell of scrap metal. Every surface had buckled and tore from the impact. What remained of the surrounding bench was torn from the wall and laid embedded into the ruined floor, the central table was a jagged pile of shattered shards of glass and steal.

The ship was dead, nothing sparked, hummed or hissed.

The only source of light was a single beam of afternoon sun that poured through a man-sized gash in the side of the room. Through it, the cool blue sky of autumn greeted him.

With the grace of a drunk, Thomas stumbled over to Paul’s foam casket. He tore off one chunk after another till the exhausted and dishevelled youth was revealed.

“Oi, Tommy,” whispered Paul, breaking the silence. “Did we win?”

Thomas huffed before filling his lungs with much-needed air, “The things on the ship are dead and their only way of sending a message back home has probably fallen out of the sky by now. If everyone back in the armoury survived, then I am willing to call this a success.”

“Good,” replied Paul. “Once we make sure the others are okay, I am going to go back to bed. You can wake me up later after everything stops hurting as much.”

Thomas chuckled as he helped Paul to his feet. Leaning onto each other for support, the pair shuffled through the improvised exit and into the light.