The air inside the forward command dugout grew stifling as the six augmented corporate hired blades filed in, taking up positions along the timber supports. Their composite chest plates creaked with every breath. The cold blue indicators on their suppressed carbines cast sharp shadows against the sandbagged walls.
Outside, the sulfuric drizzle drummed steadily against the corrugated iron roof, mixing with the deep, intermittent thumping of distant trench mortars.
Gideon Thorne removed his gloves. The leather was supple calfskin, treated to resist chemical rusting. He folded them neatly with one hand and laid them across the corner of the scarred pine table, his rimless AR monocle never ceasing its quiet, high-pitched hum.
“Let’s dispense with the frontier theatrics, Cadet Vance,” Thorne said, his voice as smooth and measured as an executive summary. “I have read your dossier. An poor orphan from Sector 4. Delinquent tuition, lapsed kennel fees. A family estate that consists of an abandoned boiler warehouse. Yet here you stand in Trench Sector 09, fielding an avian sample exhibiting an energy thickness that exceeds the baseline for standard commoner raptors by twelve hundred percent.”
Proctor Finch stepped up beside Thorne. He grabbed his ivory portfolio against his belly like a shield. His collar was damp with nervous sweat.
