We didn’t think anything of it at the time, but we saw several of the bodies of the crew, space pirates all, with what looked like necklaces of garlic around their necks. There was salt strewn on the floor in places, and it made a crunchy sound as we walked over it. Some had died clinging to crude wooden and metal crosses. Religious fanatics, I thought then – after all, isn’t it usually the worst sort of people who turn to religion when they suddenly see their end approaching and they fear some kind of reckoning coming their way?

Their raspy kisses brand our jam tart necks, their treacherous miasma clasps our herbal thighs. Motherlessly we surrender, too many fathers we have, we, your daughters of joy.