The soldier’s hall was quieter than usual that evening. Hushed conversations rose and fell between the Kasrkin of Bloody Platoon, spread among the various tables and booths. Although they drank, ate, and smoked, it was without the boisterous enthusiasm that typified their common behavior.

  Marsh Silas sat between Haight and Hyram at one of the round tables in the center of the hall. Gabler, Commissar Fremantle, and Walmsley Major sat across from them. All the officers involved with the Valkyrie fire had cleaned up and donned fresh uniforms. They had finished their meals and were now contenting themselves with Amasec and lho-sticks. The only person who hadn’t touched his food, drink, or tabac, was Marsh.

  “Brother, please eat,” Hyram said, nudging him with his shoulder.

  “The RFSF sentry said someone pulled his helmet off from behind and struck him on the back of his head,” Marsh recounted. “The security picters in the entire prison system were scrambled by some kind of local jammer. All the on-duty armorers did not log anybody requesting or leaving with that kind of equipment and did not find one missing from the regimental depot’s arsenal.” He tapped the table next to his plate, annoyed. “Every possible way we could have pinpointed the culprit has been rendered useless. Just when we were about to get a leg over the spies…”

  “Excuse me, Knight-Lieutenant? Is the food not to your liking?”

  Marsh looked up. One of the serving girls, a young auxiliary clad in a khaki uniform with an olive drab apron, lowered her head shyly. She appeared ashamed but he comforted her with a grin.

  “Lauraine, good tidings to you,” Marsh said. “The food is fine, it’s just…much has happened and it seems I’ve forgotten my stomach. But tell me, are you well? I’ve not seen you for some days.”

  “I’m well, sir! I have taken up a new duty at Drasquez Tower as a logistics clerk. My days here at the hall are fewer now.”

  “Isn’t that splendid? It is commendable you are seeking ways to help your fellow man. I thank you for your able service.”

  “Oh, there’s no need to thank me, sir,” she replied, shaking her head nervously as she clutched her hands on her apron. “These are but humble posts; I am not a real soldier like you.”

  Marsh Silas smiled sweetly and grasped her hands. This made Lauraine look back up.

  “But you see, any post in which an individual may serve their fellow man is admirable,” Marsh said to her, earnestly. “Do not belittle yourself when so many value your efforts. You are not a loafer nor an idler; place upon yourself the worth with which we place upon you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the server replied. She blushed vibrantly, then hurried away. Marsh Silas, a little bemused, watched her go. Lauraine went over to some of the other serving staff. They whispered excitedly to one another, bounced on their feet, and calmed down before returning to their duties. When he turned back, he looked into the eyes of his companions. Gabler bounced an eyebrow, Walmsley Major winked, and Haight nodded teasingly. Fremantle betrayed no emotion and Hyram remained passive.

  “What?” Marsh Silas asked.

  “My, aren’t you unobservant?” Haight said. “The lady likes you.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” Gabler said teasingly. “What girl wouldn’t get weak in her knees upon speaking to a gen-u-ine Hero of the Imperium?”

  “She is below your station but you strike me as a man unbothered by such boundaries. Just remember to be careful,” Haight warned and pointed to a poster next to the door. Depicted upon the page was a Guardsman in full-armor holding his forefinger to his lips. On either side of him was a beautiful, well-dressed lady. Each appeared to be pressing him with impertinent, prying questions. In bold text on the bottom of the poster was the phrase, ‘Answer their temptations with silence!’

  “Enough of that,” Hyram said swiftly. “Brother, eat your meal before it gets colder.”

  “You could just call Lauraine back to heat it up,” Walmsley Major said into his cup.

  “I said that’s enough,” the executive officer issued sternly. He took a drink of Amasec and set the glass down hard. “Look, Silas, I understand your frustration. But we do have some boons regardless of our setbacks. We know that Romilly is good for his intel and we can count upon him. Correct, Major?”

  “Aye. I’ve moved him out of the department so his network may not be tampered with. I’ll admit, he might appear meek, but he is a cunning intelligence officer. Not even I am aware of his assets, nor will he share them with me.”

  “His location? It is secure?” Fremantle asked. “It will do us no good if we are constantly anxious as to his safety.”

  “It will be safe. The transfer orders will no doubt be known so it cannot be a direct change of post to a secure Navy site. To thwart suspicion of the spies, I’ve moved him to, well, Drasquez Tower. He will spend a few days there before I spirit him away. I doubt the enemy will attack there.”

  “Very good; we need him and his assets,” Hyram said. “And thanks to Marsh, Gabler, and her platoon—”

  “Oh, he didn’t do much,” 3rd Platoon’s commander joked. Marsh used his spoon to flick some of the grits on his plate at her. Gabler flicked some of her wedges back at him.

  “—we have some, we have even more reliable information to work with,” Hyram continued, elbowing Marsh Silas to make him stop. In a few days time, the leader of the Marked Men will be moving to another sector in a small convoy of stolen vehicles. From the data recovered, he is inspecting one of the regiment’s companies.”

  “Romilly kept this information within this circle,” Marsh added, tapping the edge of the table for emphasis. “So we know for sure the word isn’t getting out anytime soon. Bloody Platoon will hit the convoy, wrap him up, and deposit him in Fort Carmine. Then we’ll extract every bit of knowledge from his traitorous skull.”

  “It’ll be a tough assault,” Haight cautioned. “Even without the spies’ knowledge, his scouts will no doubt be watching the roads for convoys.”

  “Which is why we’ll be going in by air,” Marsh said. “And I’ll be bringing Isenhour with me.”

  The Hellshot was an incredible weapon. Unlike the long-las or the Hotshot Marksman Rifle, it was a projectile based anti-material system. Although heavier and longer than the Absolution, a comparable rifle used throughout the Astra Militarum, its ammunition offset those drawbacks. Firing the same shell as a standard Agrippina Pattern Mk. II Autocannon, the Hellshot could be relied upon to terminate any unarmored or lightly armored target, damage power armor, and knock out light vehicles.

  Isenhour sat calmly at the end of the troop bay across from Marsh Silas. The rear compartment was already open. Wind played with his dark locks, swirling them around his headset. Marsh Silas studied a readout on his Slate Monitron, embedded in his left armguard. Then, he held up one finger.

  Spitting his chewing tabac out of the Valkyrie, Isenhour made his way to the front of the compartment with his Hellshot. The crew chief on the left side stepped away from the door gun position. Mounting the barrel on the lip of the window, Isenhour flipped the cap off the scope. Below, the hilly landscape flattened out as they approached a river valley. Some were shallow creeks but other meandering rivers were wide and deep. Many bridges traversed these rivers as several road networks joined in this area.

  “Target in sight,” Foxley reported over the platoon network. Seconds later, a six-vehicle convoy appeared; a Chimera led the way, followed by a Goliath truck, an armored car, two Cargo-8’s, and another Goliath. The commander’s vehicle was the blocky light vehicle in the center. No doubt it was some other officer’s personally designed mode of transport. It was four wheeled with a turret in the center. Its only defense besides its meager armor plates was a light Autocannon.

  The aircraft decelerated to match the speed of the convoy. “Stabilizing,” Foxley said. Other Valkyries swept and circled around the convoy. Isenhour adjusted his sights and carefully aimed. Zeroing the engine block, he led the target and squeezed the trigger. A Hellshot’s deep report was so loud it could be heard over the Valkyrie’s engines. Steam billowed out of the armored car’s front and it shuddered to a stop. The vehicles behind it halted while the first two kept going for another fifty meters.

  “Target vehicle disabled,” Isenhour said coolly over the comms.

  “This is Red Six; you’re free to engage the other vehicles. Do not fire on the target.”

  One of the Valkyries swept low and destroyed the leading Goliath with a missile strike. Another, sweeping from the opposite direction, knocked out the rear vehicle. Door gunners raked the Cargo-8’s and reduced them to shreds with Heavy Bolters. Traitor Guardsmen scrambled from their vehicles but were killed as they sought the cover of roadside ditches.

  Isenhour shifted his sights to the Chimera. A man stood in the turret in an attempt to train the pintle-mounted Heavy Stubber high enough to return fire. One round from the Hellshot cleaved his upper body open. He sent all the remaining shells in the magazine into the vehicle, disabling its engines and cutting off power to the turret so it could not rotate.

  Foxley maneuvered the Valkyrie over level ground and descended. Isenhour placed the cap back on the scope, engaged the safety, and withdrew the weapon. Repacking it in its carrier, he slung it over his back and activated his Hellpistol. Marsh Silas, Hyram, Fremantle, Jacinto, Cornelius, Drummer Boy, Honeycutt, and Walmsley Major were already standing up and waiting to go down the ramp. Standing at the back of the line, he bumped his fist against the platoon sergeant’s.

  “Clean shot,” Walmsley Major said over their micro-bead link.

  “Hardly heroic stuff,” Isenhour replied.

  “Go, go, go!” Marsh Silas ordered.

  They stormed off the ramp and formed a perimeter. Other squads formed up on their flanks. Valkyries took off while the Kasrkin fired at the few survivors taking cover in ditches and behind destroyed vehicles. Pressing hard and fast, the Imperials quickly overran the road. In less than a minute, they had secured the convoy.

  They circled the armored car. Marsh Silas went up to the door and rapped his knuckles against it. “You are surrounded and without hope of your nefarious overlords. Submit yourself into the hands of the Red Banner Regiment.”

  There was no response from inside. Marsh Silas looked over his shoulder and nodded. Isenhour walked over with Hyram while Walmsley Major and Fremantle secured the driver’s side. Hyram shifted the Bolt Pistol he carried—Carstensen’s Justice—to his other hand before throwing the latch. With a metallic squeal, the door opened. Marsh and Isenhour raised their weapons in tandem only to find an empty interior.

  Marsh Silas whirled around and stormed towards the cab. Walmsley Major was holding a smirking Traitor Guardsmen by the back of his neck. The platoon leader grabbed the prisoner and shoved him face-first onto the asphalt. Kicking him over, he pointed his Ripper Pistol in the captive’s face. “Where the fuck is he!? Is he in another vehicle!? Speak, damn ye!”

  “Safe,” the driver sneered. “Safe from all of you.”

  “Tell me where he is and you may enjoy a painless tenure in our dungeons,” Marsh hissed. “As to how short or long, I make no promises, but I will guarantee you will be alive for a while.”

  “Then take me away. I shall not speak no matter the threat you dangle before me,” said the blue-eyed driver. “You should thank me. If you were to face my leader…woe unto you, Silas Cross.”

  “Sir!” Drummer Boy ran over with his handset. “I’ve got Romilly on the line!” Marsh Silas took it from his hand and slid it underneath his helmet.

  “Red Six here…” His violet eyes widened slowly and brightened with fury. “...Throne, Throne! Fear not, we’re coming!” He handed the handset back then faced Hyram and Isenhour. “Drasquez Tower is under attack; some Traitor Guardsmen dropped by grav-chutes from Valkyries—bloody Valkyries—and landed on one of the Skyshield Landing Pads mounted on the building. They’re rounding up hostages. We don’t have long before they find Romilly. Foxley, can you take us to Drasquez Tower?”

  “You pulled my ass out of a burning bird; I’ll take you anywhere, orders be damned!”

  “Thank you, friend. Metcalfe, hold your men here and wait for engineers. The rest of you, get back on those transports!”

  “And what of me, oh Knight of Cadia?” the driver mocked. “Am I to be delivered to that dungeon?”

  Marsh and Hyram both lifted their sidearms at the same time. The driver held up his hands. “No, wait—” The two Kasrkin squeezed the triggers simultaneously. Marsh’s Ripper Pistol tore the heretic’s throat while Hyram’s bolt shell smashed part of the skull away.

  “Let’s go, Bloody Platoon!”

  ***

  Named for a fallen Cadian Shock Trooper, Drasquez Tower was a multifaceted domain for Imperial operations. With myriad intelligence, logistics, and communications departments, it served hundreds of regiments within the region. It was the tallest structure within Kasr Proelium and could be seen from anywhere in the city.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Isenhour was back in the door gunner’s position with his Hellshot. Marsh Silas stood over his shoulder, observing the spire as they closed in. Bristling with anti-aircraft batteries and blocks of turrets, it was a formidable fortress. Although mostly rockcrete, there were sections primarily composed of windows, but these were constructed with the same durable armaglass found in cathedrals. Multiple Skyshield Landing Pads jutted out from every side throughout the building.

  “Silas, it’s too dangerous!” Haight said over the comms. Marsh Silas once again keyed the entire platoon into the network so communications flowed freely with their internal beads. “Cadian High Command has already put an Aeronautica squadron on standby to destroy the tower. They would rather kill the hostages and the attackers than indulge in a negotiation or lose precious information!”

  “I beg you to stall them. Romilly and all those hostages need our help. I will not ignore the cries of those who desire to live,” Marsh Silas said stoically. “Give me all the information I need and time, above all else, time.”

  There was silence on the other end. Isenhour glanced up at Marsh Silas, who put his hand on the scout sniper’s shoulder plate. He was not pensive nor angry, but there was a gritty determination evident in his face.

  “How much time?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “You shall have it. There are twenty hostages and thirty-six hostiles. Aerial observations indicate they are on the floor adjacent to the Skyshield; they’ve barricaded the entrances from above and below. But they have missiles and they’ve disabled the anti-air defenses. It’s only a matter of time until they reboot it and target you.”

  A ping in the link caught Marsh’s attention and he keyed it over.

  “Red Six, it’s Romilly.” The Naval Intelligence officer’s voice was hushed. “I’ve managed to avoid capture. A young auxiliary found me; she says she knows you. She has vowed to defend me. But we’re close to this level’s anti-air center. If we can seize it, I can stop them from reactivating it.”

  “Too risky, you are too precious to lose, ” Marsh Silas said.

  “Respectfully, Knight-Lieutenant, I am not beholding to the Astra Militarum’s orders. I may not know you deeply, but I understand you well enough: if you were in my place, you would not stand idly by while lives are in jeopardy. By the Emperor, I will act.”

  “Little bastard’s going to try for it,” Isenhour remarked. “Reminds me of you when you finally found your sack.”

  “And he’s going to get his shot off at this rate. We need to draw fire away from them without endangering the hostages. Can you strike any—”

  “Bloody hell, o’ course I can!”

  Isenhour shifted his crosshairs over the glass; it was formidable stuff but it was not going to stop a shell of this caliber. Foxley stabilized the aircraft. Through his scope, the scout sniper observed the Traitor Guardsmen, many still wearing their grav-cutes, as they hurried out to the Skyshield pad. He eyed a fearsome-looking chap with a dark coat with a flagstaff mounted on the back. Its banner bore the blue mark Bloody Platoon had witnessed in the past months. Isenhour identified him from the enemy unit rosters Kasrin studied: this was an Enforcer, one of the brutal morale officers of the Traitor Guard.

  He squeezed the trigger. Thousands of cracks formed through the pane of blue armaglass. The shape of the Enforcer fell from view. Those Traitor Guardsmen around him dove for cover. Bright flashes appeared inside; Romilly and that auxiliary were fighting back!

  “Shoulder-mounted missile systems on the Skyshield,” Foxley shouted. “Take’em the fuck out before they wreck my bird!”

  Isenhour shifted the Hellshot. One of the enemy teams approached the edge of the pad and prepared to launch. The loader procured a shell and slid into the back of the tube. Targeting the operator, Isenhour fired and the round struck just above the waist. So great was the force of the impact it sheared the upper body off. As the torso slumped onto the pad, the legs tumbled off the edge into the kasr below.

  The loader had just turned his head away, waiting for the gunner to fire. Realizing his compatriot was dead, he scrambled for the missile system. Isenhour shot again and struck the traitor’s right knee, exploding it. Thrown off balance, the traitor careened towards the edge and fell off.

  More missile teams assembled on the pad but the door gunners of other Valkyries swept them off. Isenhour eliminated another team and even took down two more assailants through the glass as they tried to assault the control center. Glass shattered throughout the level as rounds and lasbolts burst through.

  “We took the chamber, Red Six” Romilly yelled. “We sealed the door, but they’re trying to break in!”

  “Foxley, take us in!” Marsh yelled.

  “Here we go, boys! Cast them to the streets below; their blood will make for pretty decorations!” Foxley screamed excitedly. Isenhour did not bother to pack the Hellshot this time. The Valkyrie spun around and the ramp lowered. He followed Marsh Silas and the others across the pad, shooting as they went. Traitor Guardsmen attempted to barricade the doors but Jacinto raised both hands and unleashed two fire bolts which incapacitated two of the defenders.

  Marsh and Isenhour stormed by the next two, gunning them down as they ran. Paperwork flew, cogitators sparked as lasbolts struck them, glass partitions shattered, and scorch marks seared across the rockcrete walls. Hostages screamed and dove under desks. Marsh Silas threw himself over the nearest hostage, taking several lasbolts to his rear plate. Isenhour shielded a few from fire; lasbolts staggered him but he lanced them down with his Hellpistol.

  One of the heretics had hidden behind a desk near the glass. He rose with a hand grenade. Drummer Boy, closest to him, vaulted over the desk and kicked the traitors hard enough to send the ambusher out the broken window behind him. Moments later, the grenade detonated along with him.

  The platoon command squad protected the hostages long enough for another squad to arrive. Wulff led her Kasrkin in like a gust of wind. They swept through the open area between the cogitate banks and clerk desks, absorbing lasbolts and autogun slugs. Overrunning the holdout behind a number of piled desks, they secured the floor all the way to the next entrance on their right. Enemy fire poured out and the Kasrkin took cover.

  Isenhour followed Marsh to the side of the entrance. Wulff was on the other side and attempting to shoot around the corner. Heavy Stubber rounds poured from the opposite room. As the gun team kept the Kasrkin at bay, the last Traitor Guardsmen were wresting the door to Romilly’s bastion open.

  “We need to get a frag on them!” Wulff shouted.

  “No, we can’t risk harming Romilly and anyone else trapped inside!” Marsh yelled. Other Kasrkin were arriving swiftly and Marsh pointed at Master Corporal Wyndham, armed with the M35H variant of the Magnacore plasma gun used by Cadian forces. Unlike the standard version, this was a heavy plasma gun which was fed by a backpack-mounted generator similar to their Mk. 2 Hellguns. Although not a true plasma cannon, it was far more lethal than the mainline weapon. “After the impact, target the Heavy Stubber team!”

  One of Wulff’s men handed her his stun grenade. Rounds intensified on her side so she tossed the device to Isenhour. He yanked the pin and lobbed it into the room. There was a deafening bang and the firing stopped. Wyndham turned the corner and squeezed the trigger. A large, white-blue bolt struck the enemy Heavy Stubber team, destroying their weapon and reducing them to bloody hunks. The heretics destroying the door, though still affected by the stun grenade, managed to break through!

  Isenhour stormed after them. Four enemy survivors surged towards Romilly. The chief was moving to run him through with a sword. Behind him, one of his lackeys turned to the right side with his shogun. Running to save Romilly was that auxiliary, Lauraine!

  The scout sniper feathered the trigger. A single red lasbolt struck the swordsman through the head. A blur shot by Isenhour as Marsh dove in front of Lauraine, catching the shotgun blast from the second man. Isenhour held the trigger down and killed the two last Traitor Guardsmen before they shot at Romilly and Marsh.

  Kasrkin flooded the room. Checking behind the cogitator stations and desks, Isenhour found no more assailants. He ran over to Romilly and checked him for wounds.

  “Hostage secure!” Isenhour yelled through the door.

  “All hostages accounted for, no casualties!” another yelled back. Shaken, Romilly stood up and held onto Isenhour as they walked to the center of the chamber.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said.

  “Thank me not, twas’ the Knight-Lieutenant’s boldness which brought us here,” Isenhour said. Marsh was kneeling in front of Lauraine, wincing as he held his side.

  “Worry not,” he said, “it did not penetrate. Lo, it might have broken a rib. Or two.”

  “Please sir, let me help you!”

  “You’ve done enough, Lauraine. You saved this man,” Marsh motioned to Romilly. “And you have been of great service to the people in this tower and my platoon. Without your presence, our efforts in this sector may have been badly thwarted.”

  Lauraine shyly nodded and helped the platoon leader to his feet. Marsh took the handset from Drummer Boy. “Foxley, this is Red Six. All hostages secure. Are you able to evacuate?”

  “Negative, Red Six. We burned through most of our fuel. My apologies.”

  “Roger, no need to say sorry. Get your birds back to their nests and soothe their ruffled feathers. We’ll make our way down.” Marsh Silas turned to his platoon. “Excellent work, Kasrkin. Escort the hostages through the tower. We’ll let the priesthood sanctify the chambers and search the bodies after..”

  As Romilly sat down on a desk next to Lauraine, Isenhour and Marsh watched Bloody Platoon and the procession of freed Cadians depart. Each one stopped to give thanks to the platoon leader and the scout sergeant. Isenhour just smiled and nodded at each one while he pulled more chewing tabac from a tin can and stuffed it behind his lip.

  “Is this how it feels like to be you?” he asked Marsh Silas.

  “Like what?”

  “A hero.”

  “You know I’m anything but,” Marsh Silas sighed, then elbowed him. “The credit goes to Bloody Platoon, our comrades, and you.”

  “I only ride with you because I know there will be action,” Isenhour snorted. But he knew he could not mask his feelings. The sparkling in Marsh’s eyes indicated he was quite aware of just how satisfied the scout sergeant felt at rescuing all these poor souls. So, Isenhour just spit a little and shrugged. “Tell that Valkyrie pilot to mind my Hellshot. If it’s damaged in any way by his lousy flying, I’ll whip him next.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re very tough,” Hyram mocked as he lit a lho-stick. The floor cleared, leaving only Marsh, Isenhour, Drummer Boy, Hyram, Romilly, and Lauraine. “Come now, it is our turn.”

  “Looks like Naval Intelligence thinks otherwise,” Isenhour said and pointed at Romilly.

  He had removed himself to a cogitator bank in a corner. Several Marked Men lay dead around it. Romilly hastily typed on the keyboard and his eyes scanned back and forth across the green screen. The three Kasrkin approached him, weapons shouldered.

  “It’s time to go, Warrant Officer.”

  “Wait a moment. While we were hiding, we noticed the traitors going through these terminals. Auxiliary, what are the purposes of these cogitators?”

  “The one you stand at is an operational database. To your left, supply records.” Romilly filtered through more forms on his current screen before shifting to the record database. He cycled multiple windows of information.

  “Sir, Avalanche Six is requesting a SITREP,” Drummer Boy said as they waited.

  “Tell him Bloody Platoon is performing an intelligence sweep,” Marsh said over his shoulder.

  “The Traitor Guardsmen were after my head, it seems. Why they chose to attack me here, I know not. Twas’ a fool’s gambit,” Romilly said. “But it appears they had secondary objectives. Look here, they were attempting to download data on local forces, including Navis Maritmum ships operating on the coast. But at this one, it appears they were looking for something specific. They lack the necessary authentication codes to delete these records but this module…” He extracted it from a port in the cogitator bank. “...can override the need for such authenticators. This is Kasrkin equipment.”

  “So they sought information but attempted to destroy some, too. Why?” asked Marsh.

  “Sir, there’s been a missile launch!” Drummer Boy yelled.

  “What!?” Hyram and Marsh yelled together. The Voxman held up his handset.

  “The Aeronautica Imperialis strike aircraft—they say they were given an order to fire on our floor of the tower! We have less than a minute before contact!”

  “A missile like that can destroy more than four floors!” Hyram said, then activated his micro-bead. “Avalanche Seven to all Red stations: move fast, move fast!”

  “We won’t have time to make it down before it strikes,” Isenhour said, and started searching for options.

  “Haight, this is Red Six!” Marsh yelled over his micro-bead. “Why was there a missile launch? What do you mean you don’t know!?”

  Isenhour looked at the dead defenders. Each one wore a grav-cute on their backs. In their haste to seize the tower, they hadn’t removed them. He ripped one off and attached it to the mounts on Marsh’s armor. The platoon leader turned around, confused.

  “We can use the grav-chutes to base jump from the landing pad!” Isenhour explained. He, Hyram, and Drummer Boy hastily donned the equipment.

  “What about them?” Hyram asked, pointing at Romilly and Lauraine. “They don’t have armor or harnesses.”

  “Twenty seconds to impact!” Drummer Boy cried. Marsh Silas picked Lauraine up, causing her to squeak.

  “We’ll carry them out,” he grunted. “Won’t we, scout sergeant?”

  Isenhour scooped Romilly into his arms. The four Kasrkin bounded from the office, back onto the Skyshield Landing Pad, and leaped from the edge. Together, they fell towards the kasr streets below. Above, there was a catastrophic explosion. Isenhour looked back to see a huge cloud of fire and rockcrete dust pillowing out from the windows. His gaze lingered only for a moment before he activated the grav-chute’s thrusters.