The interstellar zombie pirate space opera

Strange an' bewilderin' - but like clockwork. That be how th' corporation works. We be havin' fleets o' ships, sailin' th' void. `Tis a long an' tiresome task, a single voyage takin' about one fourths o' our entire lifespan, which be nay th' same as th' average life expectancy in this field. Th' problem be nay that th' ships fail, they seldom eredo. Th' problem be nay asteroids, or dark matter, or giant worms, or any other such obscure problems that early space fiction writers dreamed o'. Th' problem be age old, as eternal as mankind itself - th' mercenaries an' swashbucklers ou' fer a quick buck.
'Tis a scary thin' t' watch. An entire fleet o' spaceships, flyin' th' banner jus' before dockin' and suckin out a planet. The'r modus operandi be simple. Infect swabbies wi' a strain o' bacteria that turns ye into an incredibly faithful follower - one in a horde. A single vessel wi' a crew o' jus' four be enough t' infect an' corrupt an entire fleet. Th' first plague be th' crewmaties they's self, after they discovered setting sail betwixt stars. They breed like rabits, an' spread from star system t' star system. Th' next plague be one o' trade, close on th' heels of em colonists. Supplies, minerals, ores, rocks, an' th' biggest nexus o' them all, th' food an' drink market.
We be all infestations really. So th' bio-engineered bacteria be nay a big surprise. First thar be th' fear, o' turnin' into a zombie space swashbuckler someday. Our children grow up wi' th' fear o' th' Black Fleet.

An' what a force they be. Th' swashbucklers o' th' void. They swarm star systems an' leave 't empty, suckin' ou' everythin', buildin' bigger ships, then jumpin' across th' deeps. We waited fer our fate.

Our`s be a wee colony. On th' moon o' a planet that be a gas giant. One o' th' many moons in fact. Moon-dwellers be havin' long been looked down upon by them who lived on th' planets. We dilute th' stigma o' livin' on a mere moon, by considerin' th' gas giant as a sun. Th' gas giant be a tempermental bein', constantly changin' colours, a psychedelic swirl wi' a heart o' diamond, that we carefully mine. We be a wee, but rich settlement. However, fer most such establishments, our defences be particularly good. We had imported cannons from th' Chrodu star system, we had an army o' modified chimpanzees, an' we had th' distinction o' bein' one o' th' first systems t' clone th' dinosaurs. 't be one o' th' benefits o' livin' close t' a nebula swarmin' wi' amino acids. Dasn't know th' details, but our scientists managed t' do 't. Most be pets, some be helpers, but th' best saurians be in our army. Dumb, incredibly tough, an' vicious t' a fault. We felt safe, we felt we could handle th' Black Fleet when 't came. We be also pretty far away from th' centre o' th' Galaxy, so we thought we did nay be havin' much t' worry about.
When 't happened, we be caught on th' wrong leg. Entirely. 't happened in one night, an' th' very force we depended on be our undoin'. At first we spotted them, at least twenty parsecs away. Jus' beyond th' limit o' our defences. Thar be nothin' we could do but watch. A large fleet o' about forty ships. Big, great disfigured hulks, wi' th' marks o' too much wormhole travel on them. They be thar fer a long time - at least eight moons or so. Crazy times them be, we kept a constant watch, swingin' between th' extreme ends o' anxiety an' in our confidence. We created a large bunch o' saurians in th' time, preparin' fer th' attack. Then, one fine tide, they be gone. We be bewildered. We thought that be th' end o' 't.
We be wrong. A wee command module, wi' what we now suspect be a single swabbie, infiltrated our defences. Th' saurians be fed through a tube system that runs across all th' unit housings. Th' food supplies originate from a factory that synthesizes th' meat that they eat. Th' lone swashbuckler infiltrated th' factory, killin' about eight guards in th' process. We nerereally bothered about our soldiers, an' how they be fed, so th' defences on th' factory that fed them be rather low. Then th' strain be fed t' th' supply.
Overnight, a new saurian zombie swashbuckler horde be created. We be facin' a situation that nay other colony had erefaced before. The takeo'er be smooth, an' easy. Most o' us be held hostage by our own soldiers. A wee o' us, wi' what resources we could manage thanks t' th' measly flakes o' diamond we had extracted from th' gas giant, escaped. Thar be wee places t' go t'. We sailed' t' th' closest moon we could, a wee used holiday destination an' resort moon in our system. While we hid thar, we thought o' a plan t' counter-act th' force.
Rum helps. We played around in our misery, thinkin' o' th' impossible but brilliant strategy that would get our sweet wee mine aft t' us. A young scientist by th' name o' David, turned ou' t' be havin' th' brainstorm. He asked us a philosophical question an' got ou' a topic that had nay been discussed fer aeons. He be one o' them swabbies wi' a strange taste in books. Really long ago, when men be restricted t' th' homeport planet, they used t' be havin' this idee o' hell. He told us, that hell be a place 'ere yer worst fears came true, 'ere ever' soul be a demon, an' 'ere ye burned fer eternity. He reasoned, that if thar really be a hell, then th' residents must still be makin' th' best o' what they had. In hell, hell be nay a bad place. Better be havin' an afterlife o' eternal sufferin' against nay afterlife at all. He convinced us, we be nay sure entirely how, t' submit t' th' gentleman o' fortune zombie horde. T' join in an' get our ration o' gorg. So that be our brilliant solution. Th' reason fer this broadcast? We be comin' fer ye, we be fearless an' immortal, an' we be goin' t' rape an pillage yer entire scallywaggin' planet.