There is a hallway. Were it not for a dim, flickering emergency light casting long, stark shadows across the steel bulkhead, it would be utterly dark.
A small gold wedding ring floats here, glinting in the harsh light, spinning slowly on a breeze stirred up by a gas exchange in another far-off passage. Its owner had thought it lost, dropped between the deck plates, unreachable. It drifts for a time until it collides with a small ruby-red sphere, which sets in motion a chain of collisions across a thousand more little ruby-red spheres, until the entire passage comes alive in a dance of action and reaction.
A galaxy of tiny red suns, drifting in the dark.
A spray of blood, frozen in time.
The Last Legion wakes – September 10th.