It's not often that we find a distress call these days. Especially with the hyperspace networks all set up and running. Most distress beacons come from sectors we're familiar with, not the asteroid belt of an uncharted system. Still, it's Federation policy to respond to beacons when we can, and even in deep space someone might need help.

My name is Peter Baran, Senior Warrant Officer on board the UDF Casmir, an Archangel-class repair and resupply cruiser. We were one of two Angels assigned to a flotilla currently hunting an Amber Fleet somewhere in the uncharted zones. The Crystalline Being is helping the navigational A.I navigate, but so far its been slow, and we haven't seen a single red ship anywhere. The Ospreys are getting restless. When we picked up the distress call the flotilla commander was sure it was a trap - some kind of weird Amber broadcast, no doubt. He sent us to make sure.

There was nothing in system when we first dropped out of h-space. Long-range scanners picked up a large amount of asteroids. Even our UV-band sensors, which are supposed to detect cloaked ships, received absolutely nothing in return. We were about to warp back when one of the ensigns pointed out something drifting in the asteroid field.

It wasn't like any ship I've ever seen - it was too angular, and too boxy. It was also too small - we easily were twice its length. The captain ordered a full scan of the vessel for signs of life. Nothing. And yet there were no signs of an Amber attack. The familiar red crystals that graced our holo-screens and our interwebs weren't here. Nothing. Not even a scorch mark from cannon fire. We tried hailing it but it didn't even have a proper comm system. It was a derelict - we had orders to scrap the thing and bring the metal back for analysis.

Chuck and I went in one of the shuttles. We were fairly certain that this was either a trap or some sort of joke, so we brought our rifles with us. These things can shoot a plasma bolt capable of melting anything it touches - and can do so at seven hundred shots per minute. Crystals won't stand a chance.

I had the first go, so Chuck followed me in his engineering suit. I had a laser saw, but we quickly found out that that wouldn't be necessary - the hull was already so full of holes that we could slide right in. Our suits were meant for this kind of search-and-rescue mission: decently armored, with the flexibility of civilian clothes. I did this kind of thing often during the Great Rebellion, as did many Angels. After cutting through the ruins of a Mantis ship, it gets routine when you have bodies flying all around you.

And there were - it was clear that this wasn't a Federation ship from the uniforms they wore (or didn't). It was especially obvious because they were unlike any sentient species we'd ever seen. Miniature horses. That's the closest I could describe them as. And there were a lot of them, all different colors, all atrophied and devastated from what seemed like an eternity in space.

How long had this beacon been on for? Even Chuck couldn't find out, and he was the resident computer genius.

We did a materials analysis on the structure of the ship, but it turns out it was made of some sort of aluminum alloy - completely useless in the new age of titanium-alpha. The computers were of no help either - the most advanced thing we found was barely any more powerful than my youngest sister's toys, and she's five. It seemed to be some sort of A.I core. Must've been a dumb A.I.

Chuck eventually decided to start scrapping some of the electronics when we discovered copper wiring in the equipment. While he did so I poked around the rest of the ship, looking for valuables. I had a nasty feeling in my mind that the captain wasn't exactly happy that the ship wasn't of any worth. I radioed Chuck to hurry up and cut through a partially broken door with a scratched-out symbol on it that looked suspiciously like the Lewis structure for oxygen gas.

The oxygen room was rather clean, I should admit. There was an atmosphere in here, albeit leaking like crazy. The oxygen generator (or so I presumed) wasn't of a make I knew of. It was like the rest of the ship - square and boxy, unlike the smooth and soft machines we were so used to. There was a horse corpse attached to a pipe feeding into the generator - it was sky blue, with faded hair the color of a rainbow and small, feathered wings that looked barely able to sustain flight. I said a silent prayer for the thing and started to examine the generator.

It twitched.

I looked at it again - it was just like the dilapidated corpses we'd passed over before. My helmet lights inadvertently fell on it, and its eyes (at least, I think they were eyes) squeezed together like a teenager rudely awoken from sleep.

I stepped back from the generator with mag-boots on, approaching the half-dead lifeform with a degree of caution. What the hell was this thing?

"Chuck," I said into my comm. "You're going to wanna see this."

The horse-creature slowly twitched some more. It was definitely moving. It began to cough - clouds of unbreathed oxygen came flooding out of its mouth. A few globs of what looked like half-eaten food were floating around it - it weakly started to bat at them with its stubby legs.

The tube from the oxygen machine was poking out from inside her throat - it had stuffed it down there to breathe. The thing was dying of oxygen deprivation!

When Chuck came in the bloody nozzle was shooting around the room expelling dry oxygen and I was holding my emergency air mask over it's parched blue face. It was breathing as if it never breathed in years - which looked like the case. Its eyes had the same euphoric gleam as a mother having her first child.

Chuck sliced off the only working piece of equipment on board while I radioed the ship to prep a room in the medical bay. No doubt the ensigns were already scrambling around with nanite injections while Dr. Pomeroy quietly rubbed his mechanical metal head.

We sort of half-carried, half floated the creature and the generator back to the shuttle. With the presence of gravity the generator weighed a ton - in comparison the half-dead horse was still as weightless as she was out there. Dr. Pomeroy was going to love this one. I put a few nanites in its leg while Chuck flew back - its euphoric look still fixed on its face. The oxygen inside the shuttle must've smelled divine.

Pom was waiting for us when we landed. He took one look at the poor thing and shouted in his robotic Engi voice for an immediate full nanite transfusion. It wouldn't be leaving the med bay anytime soon.