+++ Mother Make it Better +++

Doric Ganska swept the beam of his lamp-pack down the corridor, lancing through clouds of dust that filled the hall. His intel had said that a great treasure of archaeotech sat behind the bulkhead door. He had saved for months, scavenging wires and unspoiled tins of starch to trade for a blasting charge. All that time, he had dreamed of what lay inside. Maybe it was weapons - pristine las-blasters or motorised kill-saws the guard issued their officers. More likely it was rations; clean, untainted water that would fetch a crime-lord’s ransom. He could sell up, take what he needed and trade the rest for a ticket out, across the wastes to the spire of gold - glorious Hive Primus.

He tentatively stepped into the room, noting the girder which bisected the roof and supported the bowing ceiling. Though it looked precarious, he judged it to be safe. He took a few more steps, dust clouding to his ankles, and ducked beneath it. He saw the trip-catch rigged up to the beam; he didn’t see the ankle-wire strung in the dust. The catch blew.

Something had cracked. His head rang from the impact, and the pain in his chest suggested that at least one rib had snapped. He fought the panic inside him and focussed on the immediate. His lamp-pack was out, but he could feel that plasteel girder laying atop him, pinning him to the ground. He couldn’t feel much beneath his punctured chest. He heaved, to no avail. Somewhere out of sight his geiger began to crackle. He groaned. He had no idea what state his rad suit would be in, but the last thing he needed once he managed to shift this weight would be rad-sickness.

He could barely make out his surroundings. The only light in the room was a dim green glow. He imagined he could hear small, gentle footprints - the sound of somebody - or something - walking very quietly. The growing light and incessant static click of his geiger confirmed it. He struggled as the glow got brighter, the steps came closer. Lit by that awful glow, the most unusual thing appeared before his face. It was a ragged cloth doll, the sort of thing a child might play with. It’s eerie green lit face swung around, as if looking him over.

He started painfully as a voice spoke, barely a hand’s breadth from his ear.

“Poor boy, all hurt! Never you mind; Mother will make it better”

The rest was agony and that awful, blistering glow.