The tracked transport shuddered as its iron cleats ground against a shelf of underwater dark rock. A cascade of fiery ash slid down the vehicle’s sloped armored flanks. It hissed against the glowing exhaust pipe hub. Beyond the periscope slits, the world was charred slate and toxic steam.
Rift Zone 09 offered no gentle welcomes.
Arthur Vance sat on the bolted steel bench, his back braced against the shaking inner wall. He wore a double-breasted canvas trench smock treated with lamp-wax to shed skin-burning grease. Across his chest lay the cross-body webbing of his medical field kit, housing amber glass vials, razor-sharp scalpels, and the six-chambered brass metal tube of his air-powered needle glove. Slung over his shoulder was the ARC-7 Mag-Carbine. Its hard was dark metal-steel receiver cold against his collarbone.
A rhythmic shaking pulsed against Arthur’s throat.
Tucked inside the sheepskin collar of his smock, Pip rested in a compact feathery ball. The young ember-born falcon radiated a steady warmth of thirty-nine degrees. A nearby fire bleeding through the wool that kept Arthur’s fingers supple. In the sub-zero frost of the ash wastes, stiffened knuckles meant botched stitches and dead patients. Pip’s radiant metabolism kept Arthur’s razor-sharp hands ready for care work.
