They say it is oftentimes the fall that kills you. It’s amazing how that phrase has carried over into the age of star piloting. While I’m gliding horizontally towards a starboard wall of Squire 7 as the station’s artificial gravity module fails mid ‘action dive’, I do not think that I am going to die because of the fall. In fact, I think I’m going to die because suddenly my recent evasive maneuver has been rendered entirely useless. Or even, contrarily, over useful. Thick, hot globules of plasma energy tear through the air around me from the other side of the long, chrome-plated corridor. I see my assailants at the end of it, some angry brand of pirate - which is in fairness the most common brand you find. Desperately, I look around for any form of cover I can convince to spontaneously move toward me and, failing that, anything I can try to air swim towards. I spot a rogue crate that seems to have been dislodged from a previous volley of white-hot plasma fire which I manage to redirect my course towards and promptly scramble behind. Of course they have mag-boots, of-dredging-course. I glance at the T-Brand Blastolver in my hand to get a gauge on just how much return fire I can make before it’s really time for a retreat. I’d only had this C-Grade weapon as a joke, and was planning to return it to Paddy at the range today. I’d almost forgotten what even spurred me to take it. Presently, it’s set to ‘Short Term Fix’ mode, and I second guess why I even check that since I was the one that put it there. The power cell located at the base of the cylinder seems to blink at me as I glare at it, universal language for ‘Low Power’. Perhaps that time was sooner than I thought.
“Blast.” I muttered to myself, ignoring the part of my brain that wants to laugh at the very lame, and entirely unintentional pun I had just made. If only the pirates had heard it. Perhaps we could parley and sort out our differences over a stand-up routine. Pushing these thoughts aside for now, I consider once more the incoming volley of shots. They’ve missed for now, and it’s definitely almost time for their reload schedule, so I take a look at my retreat angle and gauge my best course of action. I swear I had only been exchanging shots on the highest setting for about thirty seconds… Even the Blastolver should’ve been able to manage that. Argh- but of course. I had it sat on my kitchenette island gathering dust for a week after depleting it’s battery to prove that I could shoot the cap off a Nebula Beer from fifteen yards with a C-Grade shatstock.
Being the first on-scene for a pirate boarding sucks. It really, really sucks. Especially when the pirates seem to be stealth geniuses, and manage to dock their ship silently. I’d been on my way to the shooting range on Squire 7, and in a sick twist of fate, the pirates had decided that would be the perfect place to lay in wait and find a victim. Now though, fate must’ve flipped the coin for me, as the gravity suddenly returns to the station and my arse quickly becomes reacquainted with the floor.
‘Now’s a better time as any,’ I think. I count to four in my head, the best average time to risk whether or not my assailants are reloading, or suddenly exercising some form of incredible patience, and bolt. Luckily for me, it was the former, as I hear far over my shoulder a volley of swears shooting my way, rather than plasma bolts primed to roast my skin. I slip quickly around the corner, returning to my regular route towards the shooting range. This time, however, I’m not moving with the speed at which a turtle would whilst performing its victory lap against a hare, but rather with the spiteful hare who’s so pissed off they’d lost to a dredging turtle, they’d rather lap them five times in said victory lap.
As I’m running down the long hallway, I pass not a soul on my trek. I hope to the captain that it’s because it’s 4am station time, and not because I, in fact, wasn’t first contact with these pirates. Regardless, I shake even more invasive thoughts from my already overflowing mixing bowl of a brain, and slam the closest intruder alarm I can find. The button depresses, allowing me a hefty breath of relief. After about two seconds however, I realise that my victory gulp may have been taken a little early. I hit the button again, but there doesn’t seem to be a change to that fact as I do.“Dredge…” is all I can manage, as for the first time ever I am sad to hear the lack of intruder alarm, that is usually responsible for my interrupted nights sleeping. I read now the little yellow square of paper that lays against the floor beneath the button, perhaps dislodged by the recent departure of gravity in this sector. My heart sinks as I read it:

“Clives foned, thiz zectorz intruder alarmz R owt ov actshun 4 the time beein. Said e’would fx it after lunch.
-Alto”

I praise my practiced mind, able to comprehend the note… but even this was a bit much for Alto. I run the note through my head like a localisation intern tasked with translating the latest Bursk Holy text.
“Are… Out… Of… Action… Lunch? It’s four in the dredging mor-” I barely finished complaining vocally about the paper before I’m forced hot on my heels again. The heavy footfalls of leather on chrome become audible behind me, and the unmistakable cringe worthy squeak that accompanies the chorus of such stomps. It’s only a short way to the range from here, so press on I do, but not before I duck beneath yet another lump of plasma threatening to give me an impromptu barbers appointment.