The Vanguard did not linger.
They stripped the Federation depot with the brutal efficiency of locusts. Fodder soldiers hauled heavy crates of plasma munitions, ration packs, and medical supplies out of the inner keep, loading them into the hovering transport skiffs until the repulsor engines whined under the immense weight.
Elias hauled his canvas medical bag up the ramp of the final skiff, his boots slipping slightly on the slick, oil-stained metal. His fractured ribs throbbed a steady, sickening rhythm, the adrenaline from the courtyard massacre finally bleeding out of his system. He found a spot near the rear bulkhead, wedging himself between a stack of stolen ration crates and a jittery, blood-spattered soldier clutching a salvaged rifle.
"Move out!" Sylira's voice cracked over the roar of the engines.
