Behind a rock I hide, praying for a miracle. It’s one against eleven.
I see but cannot hear the ricochets, gray puffs erupting in vacuum. Soon it’ll be red puffs joining the gray.
Nothing to lose …
I pop up in near-zero gravity and fire as I rise, unerringly taking out one bug-eye after another. I’m hit and pirouette, and the spin helps me see. Crawlers die, sun-hot fires in their thoraxes. I’m a spinning pillar of white, shedding red beads like a spiral fountain. I shove a gloved finger into my wound and my jet pack flares, taking me home.