The Full Monty plunged into real-space, engines whining down the octaves. The sound always reminded Hartwell of the archaic science-fiction films from humanity's past. He was, at present, reclined within a padded booth in the ship's diner, half-eaten cheeseburger and side of onion rings forgotten. He was oddly relieved at the events of the last half hour, which had passed in easy companionship. The aforementioned view had transpired to be a series of highly detailed images of Thanatos' three moons. The jewel, so to speak, in her collection was an image of the scintillating planetoid Euryphaessa 452. Caught in the vast gas giant's gravity well in stable orbit, the asteroid was well known for its crystalline protrusions. Designated as a site of cultural and scientific importance by the officious Zoltan, access was strictly regulated. Those photographs were likely in breach of fed law. Hartwell's admiration for the captain rose. Then she'd given him an ample glass of her private cask of whiskey while they watched the latter third of a xenobiological documentary narrated by Professor Xion Qu. The final entry had concerned a harrowingly familiar race of non-sapient arachnid analogues and had taken him right back to that sol-forsaken station …

A frantic voice, distant screams, and the visceral sound of tearing flesh amalgamated into a symphony of fear and despair so profound that it set the very heart and soul on edge. From the bridge of the Wicked Curveball, Captain Ambrose Hammersmith stood like an insurmountable human mountain, hands on hips in a way that accentuated his developed frame, and listened intently to a replay of the fragmented distress beacon. *Calling on all channels this is the … [indecipherable] … requesting immediate assistance* Then came the sound of clattering and the shrill sound of rending metal. *Oh god oh god oh god they're at the door* A series of shuddering sobs. *They're some sort of giant alien spiders. Oh god … tell my wife I-*

The speaker was cut short with a burbling sigh and the transmission continued for another brief moment. Abhorrent chittering and wet squelching sounds were this unknown man's final legacy. It was like some sick and twisted cliché.

Hammersmith calmy lit a pipe and was quickly surrounded in a swirling maelstrom of pungent smoke. He blew a contemplative ring and gestured for attention. The personnel, three men and a woman, all dressed in the garb of the Ophelian Marines, shuffled expertly to and snapped him a series of sharp salutes. "If a backwater station finds itself overran by giant alien spiders and no one is there to see or hear it, does it really happen?" This was met with four carefully guarded stares. "I said, DOES IT REALLY HAPPEN?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" The crew were well acquainted with their Captain's primitive grasp of pseudo-philosophical notions, and knew it best to just roll with it.

"Senior helmsman Brecht?"

A scrawny man with mussed black hair and alarmingly mauve eyebags turned from his display. "Mhm?"

"Take us in. And Brecht?"

"Mmm … "

"If you weren't such a damned fine pilot I'd wring your neck myself. DIIISMIIISSED!"

Klaus Brecht sighed inwardly. He was too good for this job.

From within the Curveball's breaching pod, the crack team of elite marines awaited launch. The two longest walls were lined with bulky harnesses, within which they were strapped, and the far wall consisted of the Curveball's extensive armoury. A man with a physique to match his captain's leered from within his Juggernaut pattern exosuit, its curved visor up, and chewed noisily on a toothpick. From somewhere within its domed helmet came the muffled sounds of archaic rock music from twentieth century Earth. "Sex and money are my major kicks, get me in a fight I like the dirty tricks," came the gruff lyrics. He grinned stupidly at the lithe woman opposite him, who rolled her eyes and gesticulated provocatively. The young man sat to her left nodded along to the riff and said, "pops loved the Straits. Used to play 'em all the time. Tunnel of Love was always my fave."

Another marine nodded enthusiastically. "Man, Knopfler could make any guitar sing like-"

The Led strips along the ceiling lit up in sequence and the pod went silent. They sat up straight, faces grim and resolute. Despite the banter, they were a tightly knit unit forged in the harshness of the galactic fringe. *All hands prepare for launch.* Thrumming with vibrations, the pod detached from the Curveball's hull and, with minute changes in velocity from bursts of nitrogen, propelled itself towards the station. The pod decelerated before impact and latched onto the station's hull. With a whine, the pod's cutting lasers began to crack the station open like an egg.

Deep inside the station's belly, Hartwell shivered and blew on his whitening fingers. From amongst bags of frozen peas and fishfingers, he knelt while the sounds of dying mean and women wove a choral dirge of death around him. He grappled with the realisation that, when it boiled down to it, he was a heartless coward. The things were everywhere, and ranged in size from no greater than someone's fist to the size of a small bear. And they were fast. Damned fast. When the guilt and the cold became too great, Hartwell cautiously opened the freezer and thrust himself into the open amidst a flurry ice flakes. He caught his reflection in a polished metal surface. "You need better hygiene practices my friend," he tittered, "dandruff is not becoming of a distinguished gent." That was when he realised that the adrenaline was making him delirious. Aw, to hell with it. This wasn't what he'd signed up for when he'd entered prize draw to visit a Corp startup. He opened his mouth and got as far as yelling "come and get it you arachnid fu-" before a warm hand clamped his mouth shut like a vice and a female voice with a strong French accent whispered, "what the hell are you doing, fool." Then the fear and confusion overwhelmed him and he slipped into oblivion.

The doors of the pod slid open just as the outer wall caved inwards with a thunderous crash. Inside was like a scene out of a cheap horror flick, the kind that seemed to be pumped endlessly from the Desdemona system. A pair of eviscerated corpses sat propped against the wall. Scientists by the look of them. In their dying moments they had found each other's hands, which were tightly interlaced with white-knuckled resolve. The marines moved silently passed, ever vigilant, peering into the gloom ahead. "Switching to thermal vison," said Butters, the Juggernaut pilot, and advanced into the corridor. His cohort followed soundlessly, bathed in the subtle glow from his power gauntlets.

Note from author: Aww man, I'm gonna do weekly uploads from now on but I was too keen to progress the narrative this time around heheh. Enjoy.