By Christina Butcher
The gynoid’s eyes rolled back in her head like pinballs in a machine, her skin glowing with shield components. She was beautiful, yet signified only death.
The astronauts watched from the space station as her cavernous mouth opened: tongue sagging, ships rocketing out.
“I don’t care what Mission Control wants, we’re going out there.” Catherine insisted.
“This is our only chance.”
She looked over her shoulder at Mark, his gaze transfixed on the invading, mechanical replica of a woman’s body.
Together, they exited the station, propelling themselves towards the silvery craft like pinpricks of light, tumbling into her, into the darkness.
Apart from the assumption of shared vocabulary – we SF writers do this – this well written excerpt lacks in substance – motive, implied background. When you mention a name in a story people expect more.