The tone surprised me. I would have thought him irritated by my presence. Perhaps he was, but no hint of it registered in his voice, and his eyes betrayed nothing. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, my breath still coming in gasps.

‘I am Tempestor Taton. I will lead this mission. For its duration you will follow my orders.’ It was not a request.

I nodded again, managing a rasping ‘Yes, sir.’

He tilted his head in acknowledgement, beckoning me into the Valkyrie’s transport bay. There were twelve seats within, but even at half capacity it was cramped, the air slick with sweat, the stench of unwashed bodies mingling with the stench of the swamp. The Scions sat in silence, though I noted one’s lips were twitching as he wordlessly intoned an unspoken hymn, a string of prayer beads clasped in his hand.

I passed, brushing against their legs in the tight confines, Mizar bobbing behind me. I made for the far end, closest to the cockpit, my fingers shaking as I secured the flight harness. There was no means to secure Mizar, so I cradled the skull in my lap, my arms wrapped around it like a protective mother, its mechanical appendages protruding into my thigh.

Slowly, the pounding in my chest abated, my breath returning to something close to normal. As I awaited the hum of the craft’s turbofans, I felt a smile form unbidden on my lips. This was it. This was the moment I would look back on. My first flight.

Minutes passed. Ten. Twenty perhaps. I felt my smile slowly subside, my foot tapping on the flooring, until one of the Scions stilled it with a glance. It was not quite a glare, but close enough to send a message.

Still, we waited. The other occupants seemed unconcerned, content conducting a silent vigil. I found their gaze unsettling, and my own drifted to the craft’s rear ramp, which still hung open and afforded a view of the grounds.

Through the waning mist I spotted Flight Commander Shard. She was advancing towards the craft. Or trying to. Her path was broadly directed at the Valkyrie, but she would periodically meander off course, as though her legs had separate operators with only limited means of communication. She almost tripped over her scabbarded sabre, blundering into a group of loitering ground crew. As they helped her to her feet, she snatched a lho-stick from the nearest and inhaled, before grabbing a steaming cup of recaff from another. She took a long swig, splashing the remnants in her face. I winced, but she did not react to the scalding liquid. Not until she attempted another draw on the lho-stick and realised it had been doused. The subsequent expletive was audible even from the confines of the Valkyrie.