67: Deva
Deva
The Aethon didn’t move. Metal pinged as the engine cooled.
Lander whimpered. One of the Heralds had cauterised the stubs where he used to have fingers, filling the air with the stench of burning flesh. It turned Deva’s stomach, but she held it together, forced herself to stay strong.
Container 17-b was close enough that Deva could watch as Sadira lifted out a dull metal box, half the length of her arm. The other Heralds hovered around her, and they talked in whispered voices. Every so often they’d fall silent, listening to clunks from outside. But they were muffled, hard to make out.
Deva shifted, seeking a more comfortable position. The poorly-welded ridge dug into the side of her thumb. She winced, felt her skin slice open on the rough edge of metal.
The pain woke her
