A darkened bridge, the infamous face and panic and an ice-cold grip dragged him into the darkness.
He was spinning slowly in vacuum. He turned to face his ship mere moments after he died.
She had murdered him by teleporting him one hundred meters outside the hull into deep space.
Bob left behind no parents and ten thousand identical twin brothers. It is unlikely anyone would have grieved for him.
He was a model 110 clone, optimized for boredom and button-pressing, requisitioned on the same work-order that had commissioned the frieghter he tended, conditioned to know the operational procedures and parameters of this and similar vessels -- and little else.
Any of his twin brothers could have taken his place.
His crew-mate Bill, another model 110 from a different batch, was ejected shortly afterwards. The pillow was still in his mouth.
Goodbye, Bill and Bob. Rest in peace on a vector to Suburbia.
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