I miss my squadron. I miss the smell of hyperspace. I will never do a long-distance jump again. I am a projectile dead on arrival.
I vaguely remember something about destroying the Astral Bio-Planet’s heart with this payload of destructium but the particulars escape me.
I want to pull over and live in some colossal ridge of the planet’s flesh maze, eating from the walls, with defunct starship for cabin.
My targeting computer has Tetris.
The neon vector interface of my minimalist starfighter is my only companion in this desolate subdermal hell.
My vent flaps are clogged with tunnel drip, my nacelles are corroded by caustic vapor, my mind is terrified by ambient planet emotions.
My brain feels naked to the planet’s continental emotions, infected by volcanic hysteria, sick with paranoid weather systems.
Day 198. Wingspores have eaten a nest in the long-empty fuel chamber. My distress signal is neatly truncated by the acid gauno of hazebats.
The rich orange-purple-green gastromaze of the Bio-Planet once made me wretch, now I stare hypnotized as I recycle my piss
My starfighter resembles weaponized origami.
My dying brain bombards me with arbitrary flashglints of memory—vaporized debris of anonymous starduel foes, cyclopean turrets
They sent thousands of me into this world. One of us will survive and destroy the astral bio-heart and its cloud-heart system net.
The onboard computer is delirious with unfed algorithms. It accuses me of betraying my star alliance. It records millions of demerits.
I tear the plugs out underneath the dashboard until nothing glows. The smoke of my last cigarette fills the cockpit until I am opaque.
