The keening cries of a long-dead star washed over the Centurion. The radiation was enough to warm the soul, but in the very same moment, it chilled the pilot to the bone. Pinpricks of agony clashed with numbed nerves, fighting a short, vicious battle over her continued existence. Without firing a shot, without dodging a single mine, without weathering a single volley of gunfire, this lone Corsair was fighting a valiant rearguard action.
"Caminad, ovejas mías."
To port, a pair of Correos, safely escorted through the hellish starscape of Omega 41, slid into the glowing Omega 5 jumphole. Blood-red cruise engines flared to life, driving the battered craft towards the rock it called home. Where most Corsair ships changed hands once in half a century, from father to son, mother to daughter, this Centurion had seen seven pilots in half as many decades, a testament to the sacrifices made by the men and women who occupied the cockpit.
A half-delayed twitch of the yoke saw the ship bank and slew, rolling past an approaching asteroid. "Lenta." For all of the Cryer-produced pharmaceuticals that made their way to el Imperio, there was only so much a human body could endure. Another twitch, this one more accurately timed, brought the Centurion into a lazy loop around a second chunk of planetoid, and onto a direct course towards León. "Mejor." The pilot muttered through chapped lips, tiny chips of rock bouncing from the scarred hull of her ship. It sounded like rain.
Rain. It was such a rare thing on Crete, something to be celebrated, to be enjoyed. It brought the harvests, the bounty of nature, sparse as it was. It made strong boys into strong men. It-...
"'La Lora', este es León. El muelle de atraque dos está despejado para su llegada." The pilot was broken from her reverie by the combination of a static-laden transmission and the harsh deceleration of her ship as it entered León's remote-command perimeter.
"Entendido, León. Gracias." Computerized docking controls took over, reaction thrusters firing to align the craft with the widening maw of the docking channel. By the time the Centurion had settled onto shaky, spindly landing legs, the ground crews were already en route, hosing the hull of the vessel down with radiation-suppressing foam and heat retardants. The pilot received the same treatment as she clamored down from the cockpit, industrial cleansers scouring paint from steel and leaving only soot and rust and dust behind. It was a dance the pilot had performed many times before, and she hardly noticed the chill creeping through her suit.
A nod from the lead man of the team ushered the pilot onwards and out, away from the retreating ground crew. Lead shielding and hostile environment suits would only protect them for so long, and so they kept their distance as best able. Flight boots scraped and scratched the abused deck as it transitioned from battered metal to stone and back, leading towards a deserted hab-block. She paid no heed to the tarnished sign hanging above the hall that read Aquí descansan los salvadores. Unlike the Freeports, or stations in Bretonia and Rheinland, even the smallest conveniences were missing here. No automatic doors, no automatic lighting. The hatchway groaned, requiring the woman's full weight to enter, and she soon found herself tumbling to the floor. The impact dislodged her helmet, and it rolled against the foot of her cot with a rattling clatter.
It wasn't even worth cursing her (mis)fortune. Better here than on Crete, starving in some cliffside cave. With a grunt of effort, the pilot shoved herself upwards, eventually gaining her footing, and stumbling to the head. Gloved hands gripped the small sink hastily mounted to the wall, a cracked mirror glued just above.
Staring back was a corpse, barely flickering with life. The last vestiges of the last embers of the fire. Dark circles were permanently etched beneath the woman's eyes, blood slowly seeping from a crack in her lower lip. She'd never thought herself particularly attractive, even when the son of an Elder had told her as much, but this... Ripping the gloves from skeletal hands, flakes of skin showered into the cold aluminum of the sink, along with the two of her nails. The shepherd hissed, plunging the stinging digits under a trickle of water. She knew better than to think the bleeding would stop.
Eventually, though, it slowed, and those same fingers found themselves running through a messy head of hair, taking with them clumps of the stuff, eliciting a quiet whimper. It soon joined the detritus clogging the drain, a pool of discolored water slowly leaking down and away. Near, on a tiny, cockeyed shelf sat an array of bottles and containers, each housing a different medicine, a different pill to stave off the immediate effects of radiation sickness. The pilot grimaced as she dispensed one of each into her palm, swallowing them dry. Even the water here tasted sour.
Sighing, the woman shuffled from one cell to the other, before kneeling at the foot of her unmade bed. Off-color blood oozed from her still-leaking fingers, staining the small, gold cross clutched between them. It was a gift from the last pilot of her Centurion, and it would become a gift to the next. "Padre celestial, escucha mi súplica. Protégeme de la mirada del Ojo por un día más, para que pueda llevar a mis hermanos y hermanas a un lugar seguro." Were this only a scant year ago, the woman wouldn't have recognized her own voice. Now, though, it was as familiar as the ulcers and sores scarring her slight frame.
"Amén."
Tiadora Vera was already dead. All that was left was the dying.