Novgorod Outpost, LV 162, January 14, 2145 AD

"This tastes like shit." Anderson looked down on his soup with bitterness on his face. He had not yet gotten used to the food quality at this place, even though it had been three months since he was stationed at LV 162.

"Oh yeah, private? Why don't you come over here and show me how a real meal is done?", a voice called from the kitchen direction. Anderson turned around to the threat. The station cook stood at the kitchen door with a bitter look on his face. He was quite tall and heavily built, with a long scar running across his jaw. Anderson rose from his seat and made his way towards the other side of the room, with no confidence in his steps. Wasn't it hot in here? The smell of sweat threatened to choke him. A deep, low pitched cough came from his right side.

He only noticed now that everyone in the room was dead silent, some looking intrigued, and others disgusted by the thought of what was about to happen.

Measuring his opponent, he quickly saw the outcome of the coming fight. He would probably spend some time with Doctor Norton after this, he imagined. At least the food there was better than this pile of crap. Totally worth a broken nose or a cracked lip.

"I've had just enough of your complaining, private. I'm sure the others here feel it too. The only thing you have brought to this outpost is that sour face of yours and an extra mouth for me too feed.", the cook spit out. People at the nearest tables moved out of the way, feeling the energy building up between the two.

"Life is too damn short to endure this kind of bullshit. I've had enough of this dead rock", Anderson replied furiously. The response from the cook was a swift, hard hit to his face, putting him down on the floor. Anderson felt his lips crackle, and one tooth deserted it's post. He spit it out and threw himself at his enemy, tackling him to the ground. There was no cheering, no betting, just the heavy breathing of the two combatants.

A deep, demanding voice broke the silence.

"Attention!". Everyone stood up, almost as if one. Both of the combatants quickly untangled themselves and rose. From the corridor entered lieutenant Dent with his arms behind his back.

"At ease, soldiers." Everyone's shoulders relaxed and some shifted their positions to be more comfortable.

"Not you, Anderson and Tiller." The lieutenant looked young, probably in his late twenties, Anderson thought. There was not a wrinkle on his face.

The preconception of an inexperienced officer straight from the academy had however been shattered very soon after he took command. Large parts of the storage had been lost to a fire just before he had arrived. He quickly set up a plan for food rationing and the outpost had survived until a rescue team had arrived a year later. The man knew what he was doing, that much was clear. Anderson wondered what background the man had, considering his youth.

"So, this is what marines have become? You just don't give a shit anymore, do you? When life is hopeless, the true color of man appears. If I didn't know who you are, I'd thought you were simple brigands. Colonial Marines… what a joke.", the lieutenant growled. Both the faces at attention reddened but did not otherwise change their expressions. Lieutenant Dent stared at them, his face revealing nothing.

"All right, I'll lock your asses up for a couple of days. Dismissed." Everyone in the dining room resumed their lunch break.

"Private Anderson, Corporal Tiller, follow me." The lieutenant turned around and went for the exit.

"This is it. Be good adults and try not to peel each others eyes out until I release you, okay?".

"Yes, sir!"

Anderson was sure he saw a small smirk on the the lieutenant's lips before the door shut. The room suddenly went dark. No light? Great. Andersson thought he could distinguish a lone bed from the darkness.

"I'm sorry, Tiller, but you'll have to sleep on the floor", Andersson said.

The corporal spit on the floor. "No deal. Is there even a bed in here?"

"Yeah, it's over there", Anderson pointed to the other, empty, side of the room. "Over there".

"Lieutenant Dent to the command tower, lieutenant Dent to the command tower", a voice declared from the speakers.

Dent muttered, "Okay, I'm on my way". Never a dull moment on Novgorod outpost. The fact that it was a penal station had probably contributed to it. Many marines that were court martialed had the choice between being posted here, going to prison, or worse. Considering the alternatives, many chose going here. 20 years contract, and then you were allowed to return home. Even though this wasn't a boring outpost, it was very isolated and visitors were rare. The last people that came here was the rescue team.

"Sergeant, join me at the tower", Dent said to his speaker with a clear voice.

"Sir", came a distorted response. The sergeant was one of the few men Dent trusted fully. He had been at the outpost longer than Dent, and had partly restored the men's discipline. It had apparently been a nightmare just months before Dent arrived. The sergeant had also told the lieutenant about all the trouble makers at the station and how to keep them in check. He had however never told Dent why he had ended up there with the murderers, thieves, and deserters. Dent wasn't sure he wanted to know.

When Dent entered the command tower, the sergeant was already there. He looked old, probably close to retirement. Dent wasn't sure he had ever seen the man smile, with hard green eyes and a face deformed by years of hardship. The sergeant nodded, and kept his eyes at Dent.

"Sir, we have picked up an incoming ship on the radar. The Creator. Last known position was LV 178", an operator said.

He continued, "We have tried to hail it several times but receive no response."

The sergeant looked at Dent grimly. "No ship is due here in several months, something must be wrong".

"Yes, and we need to find out what it is. Where will it land, private?".

"Platform One, sir", the operator responded.

Dent turned to his sergeant. "Gather a strike team, our best, and meet me in the corridor outside platform One in five minutes."

"Yes, sir!", the sergeant said, already on his way.

"Let's hope the communication is the only thing wrong with that ship.", Dent muttered to himself. He had read about vessels that had gone missing in this part of space, whispers of an unknowable terror. The files about these incidents were classified, high above his level of clearance. The arrival of this ship was suspicious, and he hoped that this was a simple malfunction. Dent chuckled. Never a dull moment, he thought.