Deithe crept forward in the darkness, one hand against the wall. The light was growing brighter with every slow inch, encouraging hope. The hand slid around a corner and came up flat against something warm and smooth. He glanced at his hand, but the darkness in the alcove was too deep. It was probably one of the corridor lights, gone dark only a few minutes ago.
Deithe pulled his hand out of the alcove and continued his cautious march up the hall. The lights had never gone out unexpectedly before, and they were never all off at once. He found the wall of the corridor again.
The equipment shouldn't fail! It was designed to be triply redundant and had a power supply that would last a thousand years - and the station was only 49 years old.
He heard a soft sound in front of him, as of somebody shuffling. He paused. The dark pressed in on him, the silence roaring in his ears.
There was the shuffling sound again.
Deithe lifted his feet one at a time and walked, no longer daring to run his hand on the textured fabric. He tasted the other's sweat in the air, and turned to block the stranger's way. It wasn't a taste he knew - and he knew everybody on the station. As the stranger came within arm's reach, Deithe braced all four legs.
He was an engineer, not a fighter, but he was one of the few who could turn the lights back on - and one of the very few accustomed to working in low-light conditions. Most of the other staff were huddled in groups, terrified.
