The rusted hull of the transport skiff rattled violently, vibrating straight through the thin soles of Elias's boots and up into his fractured ribs.
He crouched near the tailgate, wedged between two unwashed fodder soldiers. The men gripped their salvaged rifles with white knuckles, their eyes wide and unblinking in the rushing wind. The air whipping through the open cargo bed tasted of burnt fuel and sulfur. Elias kept his head down, resting his forearms over the heavy canvas medical bag in his lap, trying to protect his chest from the jostling of the anti-grav engine.
Dot's presence was a faint, dormant ember near his collarbone. She didn't speak. In an open transport packed with feral, adrenaline-fueled recruits, even a whisper in his mind risked breaking his concentration.
"Drop in thirty seconds!" Sylira's voice cracked over the wind.
