Vrath cried out in pain, instinctively recoiled. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Zeerid seized one of Vrath’s wrists, rolled him over, threw his legs on either side of Vrath’s shoulder, extended Vrath’s arm, then extended his own body to lever the arm at the elbow.

Vrath screamed as the hyperextension turned into an audible break. The arm went loose in Zeerid’s grasp, the joint shattered.

He released Vrath’s elbow, rolled, and bounded to his feet. Vrath, his face twisted in pain, crawled for where the E-9 had disappeared under a crate. Zeerid cut him off, picked him off the floor, and shoved him hard toward the bulkhead. Vrath careered into the metal wall, off kilter. He tried to catch himself with his broken arm but it just hung limp from the joint and he caught the side of his head flush. His eyes rolled and he went down in a heap.

Zeerid jumped atop him, punched him square in the eye, thinking he was only stunned, but the man stayed limp beneath him. Blood dripped from Zeerid’s head onto Vrath’s face.

Gasping, Zeerid checked Vrath’s pulse. Still alive.

All at once the adrenaline that had fueled him during the combat drained out of him. His entire body ached. His breath came ragged and he had no strength. Stabs of pain in his face and head echoed each beat of his heart. The entire fight had taken maybe forty seconds. He felt as if he’d been beaten for hours.

He stared down at Vrath, wondering what to do with him. He searched the man’s pants, jacket, coat. He found several IDs and other personal items. He also found flex binders. He flipped Vrath over and pulled his arms behind him.

He felt the bones in the broken arm grind together and Vrath groaned.

“Sorry,” Zeerid said. There was nothing he could do about the arm.

Once he had the man’s arms secured, he slung him over his shoulders and carried him on shaky legs through the ship to the cockpit. A Dragonfly had no brig and there was no way Zeerid was letting Vrath out of his sight.

By the time he reached the cockpit, the ship had cleared the spaceport and angled upward for the atmosphere. Zeerid studied the instrumentation. His face was swelling and his eye was damaged from Vrath’s fingers so he had to squint. He took off his shirt and used it to apply pressure to his head wound. He didn’t want to bleed all over the controls.

A weapons belt with a GH-22 blaster and several knives lay on the pilot’s seat. Vrath’s weapons, presumably. Zeerid belted them on and sat.

He’d never flown a Dragonfly-class drop ship before, but he could fly any kniffing thing that tramped the stars. He’d need to get past the Imperial blockade and get into a hyperspace lane.