One of the ground crew spoke to her. I could not hear his question, but her response startled him. He stepped back, brow furrowed, but she beckoned to him with both hands, her mouth twisting into a sneer.

He slapped her across the face.

Instinct kicking in, along with a gallantry I did not know I possessed, I surged upright, or attempted to, but the flight harness pinned me to my seat, its strap nearly garrotting me in the process. Shard, meanwhile, was staggered by the blow, but righted herself, glaring at her attacker.

She said something. He shook his head, raising his hands in protest, but she insisted, presenting her cheek and tapping her lapel, where her rank was prominently displayed.

He sighed and struck her again. Harder this time, the blow almost lifting her from her feet. She would have fallen had she not caught hold of his uniform, hauling herself upright, until they were face to face.

She nodded, patting his shoulder in thanks, before turning and lurching towards the craft, her path a little straighter, the pale flesh of her cheek stained red by the slap and steaming recaff. She stumbled from my field of vision, but a moment later I heard the cockpit open, accompanied by a barrage of curse words and threats, until the navigator had the good sense to close the vox-channel.

As the rear ramp rose, I glanced to the Scion opposite. For but a heartbeat his stoicism slipped, and something between incredulity and resignation flashed across his eyes. When he caught my gaze the expression vanished, supplanted by the steely resolve of his comrades.

Still, as the craft shuddered awkwardly into the sky, I couldn’t ignore that the pious Scion clutched his prayer beads even tighter.

I know not how long we flew. There were no viewports, no updates or conversations, no means to mark the passage of time. Still, despite my reservations, Shard seemed capable of operating the Valkyrie. Certainly, she manoeuvred it better than she had her own legs. Our journey was smooth, perhaps soporific in different circumstances. But the flight harness dug into my chest, and Mizar kept fidgeting, its appendages clawing at my legs.

I found my gaze lingering on my fellow passengers, though this did little to put me at ease. I kept glancing to their battered armour and dressed wounds. It had been but a few hours since the crash, yet the squad was heading back out despite grievous injuries. What could be that important?

More to the point, why could nobody else be dispatched?