Death Stations – and How to Avoid Them

The Morrigan had been docked at the starport for a week and a half. It was a forgettable little place at a backwater world, wedged between two mountains and four rival mining corporations, and its main attractions included a mildly radioactive hot spring, an aggressively average canteen, and a weather control system that mostly worked unless it got too humid, at which point it rained soup.

Morwen had asked them to detour here weeks ago, then disappeared on a mysterious ‘leave’ with strict instructions not to contact her unless the ship exploded – and only if it exploded twice.

In the meantime, Quinn had taken up residence by the port’s generator stacks, contemplating entropy and glaring at pigeons. Maltz had become obsessed with the local vending machines and was now reverse-engineering contraband snacks in the galley. Scarred-Snout, who considered leisure a moral weakness, had begun patrolling the landing zone like he expected a siege, or was deeply disappointed there wasn’t one. And Caitlin spent her mornings in the local canteen, abusing the refill policy on the terrible coffee and charming bored technicians out of their rations.

Which is where the Bwap found her.

Dalglee Hahsh entered the canteen like a minor civil servant in search of bureaucracy. He was a polite shade of blue-grey, damp-looking, and wore a moistening robe that squelched slightly when he walked. He approached Caitlin with the diplomatic caution of someone who’d once read about human women in a manual and hadn’t liked the chapter.

“Captain O’Neill?” he asked, “I have lunch vouchers.”

Caitlin narrowed her eyes. “Are you hitting on me, or just trying to lure me into something deeply regrettable?”

“Absolutely not,” said Dalglee, producing a small stack of printed vouchers and fanning them out like a blackjack dealer. “Lysani Laboratories is prepared to offer a meal incentive in exchange for a brief survey mission.”

Now, Caitlin had seen some shenanigans in her time. She’d played poker with Vargr pirate kings, bartered with Zhodani monks, and once sold a broken grav-scooter to a customs officer by calling it ‘experimental ground-sailing equipment.’ But there was something uniquely baffling about being bribed with cafeteria tokens by a damp accountant.

She took one of the vouchers and cautiously sniffed it. “This better be for the good soup.”

Dalglee launched into a carefully rehearsed explanation involving a 400-ton lab ship, a missed check-in window, and an assumption that it was all probably fine, just a downed transmitter or perhaps the crew had wandered off for an unscheduled cryogenic nap.

“If it’s nothing,” he finished, “Cr1,500 each. If it’s something, Cr12,000 and a nice offworld ticket. Plus the lunch, naturally. I’m also authorised to loan you a space-worthy air/raft. And vacc suits. Refurbished, of course. Perfectly serviceable, I’m told.”

Caitlin considered this. “So… we poke around a haunted science tub full of gods-know-what, possibly mutant guinea pigs and ghost computers, and if we survive, we get soup, a sandwich and a lift off-world?”

Dalglee gave what could only be described as an earnest squelch. “Correct.”

“Right so,” said Caitlin, draining her coffee cup and getting up. “I’m bored, the coffee’s a war crime, and Scarred-Snout keeps asking for siege drills. We'll do it. But I want extra croutons.”

***

Out of morbid curiosity, Caitlin had wandered over to inspect the offered air/raft. She took one look, snorted, and walked off. It looked like something salvaged from a scrapyard and politely forgotten. She didn’t dignify it with words. Just boarded the Morrigan and left the thing to continue decomposing in peace.

An hour later, the Morrigan slipped into orbit above the Calendula, a Calipso-class lab ship that looked like someone had tried to turn a rotating ring into a monument to lost grant funding.

On screen, the station turned slowly in the dark. A single human body drifted nearby, tumbling end over end like forgotten laundry. Male. Bare-chested. Back torn open in long, deliberate lines.

Caitlin stared at the grim scene. “Right, let’s assume everything’s gone sideways and one of them’s built a throne out of spinal columns.”

"I kind of want to blast it," growled Scarred-Snout, claws flexing.

Quinn’s voice came over comms, low and steady. “Cathbad is requesting permission to initiate full scan procedures.”

Caitlin sighed, fingers brushing her moon bear charm. “Yeah... fine. Tell the old grump he can poke around the station all he likes. It’s the smart move, I suppose. Just so long as he doesn’t start flirting with the ship's computer.”

“I heard that,” said Cathbad, already activating the deep penetration scanners and life scanner suite with the solemnity of a man divining the future from static.

For the next ten hours, the Morrigan did what any sensible ship would do in the face of unexplained radio silence, drifting corpses, and orbital gloom. It scanned. Slowly. Thoroughly. Like a customs officer with a hangover and too much authority.

Caitlin made toast. Maltz organised a betting pool on how many corpses they’d spot. Scarred-Snout cleaned his claws and asked, with studied disinterest, whether he’d be allowed to “liberate” scientific materials. Quinn glared at the pressure cooker until it behaved.

The Morrigan’s intercom crackled to life with the sort of smug self-importance only a ship’s AI could muster.

“Crew of the Morrigan, I have completed my analysis. Your presence is required in the galley for a briefing on the Calendula. I shall be presenting my findings with full dramatic accompaniment. Tea will be served.”

The galley lights dimmed. A flickering holoprojection appeared above the table, an eerily accurate model of the lab ship, slowly rotating like a corpse on a spit.

“Gather round, ye starlit rogues, and hearken well to shipbound woes,” intoned Cathbad, his voice rising like mist before a funeral. “A ring adrift, once bright with mind, now sings with screams and rots with time. Its halls once held the search for truth - now echo only shredded youth…”

“Cathbad,” said Caitlin, not even looking up from her mug. “Do the summary, not the bloody saga.”

“So be it. Summary mode engaged.”

A holographic playback flared to life. Camera sweeps showed simulated interior corridors, scorched walls, claw marks, and one very enthusiastic rat mauling a supply crate.

The hologram shifted. Red heat signatures pulsed across quadrants. Chemical readings scrolled upward like an autopsy report.

"The Calendula remains structurally intact. Power systems are nominal. Rotational stability holding. However, life aboard has... degenerated."

"Four crew remain alive. Their conditions are best described as chemically lobotomised. Combat drug exposure has led to psychosis, aggression, and photophobia. They nest in quadrants, tunnel between sectors, and attack anything that moves."

More images flickered. Barricades of scorched lab benches. Torn uniforms. Makeshift weapons fashioned with cruel ingenuity.

"Twelve corpses reside in freezer storage. All show evidence of post-mortem consumption. There are also numerous escaped lab animals. Some canines. Some primates. Augmented. Unfriendly."

A final shot appeared. Someone moved in the dark. Bare feet. Spiked club. A maintenance key on a belt loop.

“One subject remains mobile. Likely the astrogator. Pattern suggests territorial patrol. Unknown whether he remembers anything beyond paranoia and blood.”

There was a long silence as the hologram dimmed, leaving only the faint hum of the galley lights and Cathbad’s theatrical final line:

“In summary: a haunted tomb of scientific hubris, full of angry shadows and half-eaten dreams.”

Caitlin sipped her coffee. “You’ve been practicing that one.”

“Three drafts,” Cathbad replied, smug. “Would you like the version with rhyme now?”

“I think you know the answer already.”

Cathbad gave a long, sulky pause. “I had a perfectly good stanza about the cannibal freezer but never mind. Shall I prepare boarding protocols?”

Caitlin thought for a long moment. Then she shook her head.

“No.”

Scarred-Snout looked up. “No?”

“No,” she repeated. “Not today. I’m not being turned into a cautionary tale for some corporate training video. Let’s go tell the damp lad it’s full of screaming test subjects and deeply unappetising leftovers.”

Maltz raised a paw. “Do we still get the vouchers?”

“We did a full scan of the thing,” Caitlin snapped. “That counts as a visit. If that doesn’t qualify us for soup, I swear I will fling a feckin’ torpedo at their station and bill them for it.”

The Morrigan swung away from the cursed ring like a cat avoiding a bath, engines humming with quiet relief.

Down below, Dalglee Hahsh waited, clutching his vouchers and hoping this would all blow over quietly.

It wouldn’t.

But that, thankfully, wasn’t their problem.