One after another.
They came.
The shrill, scraping sound of the force-field as it cracked.
"They're not holding up!"
Teeth grate, dexterous fingers stretching across an expanse of buttons, levels, dials. To the left a screen warned power failure, the lights flickering all over the console and around shuddering with another screaming squeak. This one is louder.
More hits follow, coming from all sides. The craft swung wildly about, each time the scraping growing louder as the projectiles got larger.
Finally from behind, a swirling meteor, nearly thrice as large as the ship swung into his path. The direct blow to the back jets was enough, and with the crumpling of the force-field, the last defense, the ruined space vehicle was propelled out into space, it's silver frame looking like a smashed soda-can from the impact.
Inside the cock-pit the pilot was slumped over the console, a puddle of lighter pink blood trickling onto the gleaming array of buttons. The emergency flare was automatically sent out, the light lit up the inky black skies momentarily, leaving a distress signal to be traced. But the rocket was still in motion, of it's on accord drifting farther and farther away into the black.
Straining with the distance, the radio crackled to life one last time.
"Pilot 171Zeta 9, do you read? Repeat, Pilot 171Zeta 9, do.you.read?"
There was no response.