We are in transit.
The six-hour transit is a masterclass in psychological torture.
Without the physical bedrock of Earth beneath us, the Formless’s attacks are no longer limited to acoustic pings and tectonic tremors. It attacks the ship itself.
At hour three, the temperature in the cabin drops twenty degrees in a fraction of a second. The harsh, red emergency lighting flickers, casting long, erratic shadows across the sterile walls. The air smells of ozone and crushed ice.
Hull integrity dropping, Morgan shouts, her fingers flying across the console. The molecular bonds in the titanium are degrading! The Formless is eating the ship!
I unbuckle my harness and sprint to the rear compartment. Asher is sitting up on the medical cot, his eyes squeezed shut, his small hands gripping the ed
