Spinning left on his right heel, he spotted the target; a pale-faced human with a pistol in hand. Before he had even the time to squeeze the trigger on his shotgun, the electronic voice buzzed again.

“Ammunition depleted; reload immediately.”

Grunting, he passed the firearm to left hand, reached down to the holster at his hip and drew pistol in his right.

The opponent fired, sending sparks flying off the wall.

“No viable defensive locations nearby; advised course of action—”

“That’s enough, T.O.S.” he muttered, squeezing the trigger once and sending three rounds into the attacker; one into the neck, one to the chin, and one to the brain.

The target slumped to the ground with a satisfying thump and the gunman frowned. “That was a group of four, making it nine so far today; you working properly, T.O.S.?”

“Affirmative; potentially friendly heat source located in the vicinity.”

“You’re the sensor,” he sighed. “Just keep feeding me the directions.”

For the last couple weeks, things had not been going smoothly for the cybernetic operator, Sergei Orwell. The Anori company had problems on its station of the same name; ones which required military intervention despite being outside of government jurisdiction.

So here he was, scrapping for his life on what, as far as he was concerned, was nothing more than a ship of corpses.

“Advised course of action – reload weaponry.”

Doing as the electronic voice commanded, he reached into one of the pouches on the front of his vest and pulled out a box of shells. Feeding in six new shells, he slung the weapon over his shoulder by its strap and slid out the magazine in his pistol.

Before reaching into his vest for bullets, he spied the pistol in the corpse’s hand.

Slipping out the magazine, he removed the remaining ammo and fed it into his own gun, then put the last few into his vest.

“Faint heat source detected: 6 o’clock; advised course of action – switch to AP ammunition.”

Reaching into his vest yet again, he failed to find any shells in the pouch. “Fuck….”

He heard the faint humming coming from down the hall and he spotted the faint glow of a blue light. Placing his pistol back in its holster, he took hold of his shotgun and aimed.

After it came into the flicker of a ‘working’ light, he breathed a mild sigh of relief. “It’s just a service droid, T.O.S., won’t need special ammunition for something this weak.”

Squeezing the trigger, his aim went up and the droid lost an arm.

“Damn it, the aim is off…” he though unhappily.

Firing again, he knocked off its head.

“God-damn it, of all the luck…”

Firing a third time, its chest plate was punctured and it collapsed to the corridor floor with a loud clang.

Before T.O.S. could offer the annoying reminder, Sergei fed in the last two shells he had on him and waited for directions.

Following them to the letter, he encountered another pale-faced enemy, who died in a similar fashion to the other.

“T.O.S., is the target near? Ammunition is running low.”

“Forty meters remaining, two heat sources located near proximity sensor – sensor in danger, in the event of—”

“Of a loss of the sensor will result in a loss of reconnaissance and only internal scanners can be used,” he whispered back, finishing the warning on his own.

Leaning his head around the corner to where he had placed the sensor a few days prior, he spotted the ‘heat sources’: two men in black fatigues, arguing over what to do with the contraption.

Understanding that he’d be too pressed with accuracy when using his almost empty shotgun, he set down the cumbersome weapon and drew his pistol instead.

Taking careful aim, he fired a burst of three shots, clipping one man in the leg and hip.

As he fell to the floor, the wounded enemy brought up his rifle and sent a spray of bullets in Sergei’s direction.

He swung around the corner in time to avoid the hail, but had a gash torn across his leg from a ricochet.

“Heart rate up – brain activity suggests an injury has been sustained; treat at first opportunity.”

“Damn it now’s not the time, T.O.S.”

Gritting his teeth at what he knew he’d regret later, he pulled the lone grenade off his vest and sent it rolling down the corridor.

It went off and he sighed when a piece of his sensor clamored against the wall, though the foot that was with it helped ease the loss.

Getting to his feet, he looked around the corner for an instant before sliding back to safety, narrowly avoiding another spray of bullets.

Realizing that his effort had only killed the injured opponent, he cursed his luck and waited for an opportunity to return fire.

After several minutes, seven bullets, and one shell, Sergei was the only one left alive in the halls once more.

“Proximity sensor lost; relying on host scanners. Assumed target twenty meters away.”

Feeding in ten new bullets into his pistol, he moved down the hall and to the room where T.O.S. had traced an S.O.S to. As he stepped up to the door, a gunshot rang through the air. Curious, Sergei made the door slide open in time to see a fresh body hit the floor, smoking gun still in hand.

“Report – subject self-terminated; checking for supplies,” he announced, moving over to the crewman’s body and inspected the weapon, only to find an absence of additional equipment. “Negative on supplies.”

“Current time is 17.43; report back to shuttle to re-supply.”

Nodding, Sergei readied his pistol as he backtracked to his personal base.