Ignatio Delgado ducked behind a bulkhead next to a set of cargo containers, the red paint peeling off their ribbed metal surfaces, just as a burst of plasma hit. The dull metal he hid behind glowed-hot tiny molten gobs dripping then spitting as they hit the cold deck near his feet.

The spiny quilled mohawks on their skulls twitched. The sound of plasma shots hit the other side of the container and reverberated through the hold.-Prologue