The concrete floor of Bunker Three was slick with bright red blood and frothy pink pleural fluid.
Lying on its left side on an overturned canvas tarp was Major Orson’s tightened friend. A four-year-old, lab-cloned Silver-Rank Pureblood Griffin named Aurelius. The majestic beast, measuring four meters from golden beak to feathered tail, was thrashing feebly in the grip of six guard post orderlies. Its golden eagle feathers were matted with dark blood. Its feline hindquarters shivered with the violent tremor of acute hypoxia.
With every ragged breath, a sickening sucking sound whistled from a two-inch puncture wound between its fourth and fifth left ribs. There, a jagged bone quill had pierced the chest wall during the early artillery bombardment.
Major Orson was on his knees beside the griffin’s head, sobbing hysterically as he clutched the beast’s feathered neck.
“Aurelius! Breathe, boy, breathe!” Orson cried, his high-born composure fully shattered. “His contract cost my family three million credits! The academy gene-clinic spent two years stabilizing his telomeres! If he dies, I’m ruined!”
Two guard post medics were standing over the griffin with high-pressure spray bandages, wildly trying to plaster sticky foam over the puncture wound.
“Get away from that chest!” Arthur’s voice boomed across the bunker like a thunderclap.
