The flight harness was fitted to Pip’s golden breastplate in less than ninety seconds.
Two streamlined light metal delivery canisters, containing fifty liters of the glowing emerald-gold reversion serum, were locked beneath Pip’s wing roots, connected to micro-atomizing rotary nozzles powered by the raptor’s own moving airflow.
Arthur Vance stood in the center of the muddy staging yard, his hand resting gently against Pip’s warm head.
“Low-height overflight, Pip,” Arthur instructed, his voice sent through the Soul-Sync link with crystal clarity. “Maintain thirty-five meters height along the main trench hall. Activate your True Yang heat corona at five hundred degrees—just hot enough to expand the fine mist droplets into a warm, breathable fog without denaturing the reversion proteins. Cover every stone retaining wall from Outpost Four to Gate Seven.”
Pip gave a sharp, high-pitched whistle of total understanding. He leaned his golden crown against Arthur’s uninjured right cheek, gave Arthur’s hair a quick, reassuring preen with his beak. Then leaped into the morning air.
WHOOOOOOSH!
Pip climbed into the sky, his eight-meter wingspan catching the freezing northern wind.
At thirty-five meters above the ground, right above the heads of the four hundred coughing soldiers and civilians, Pip banked his wings into a wide, sweeping arc.
