Fleeting impressions, half seen through a wall composed of darkness and pain. Dim consciousness of being in a ship and landing. Of someone spooning broth at him. Of being carried in a stretcher with rain on the blankets. Of a stone-walled room. Of different faces. Of whispered conversations. Of another stretcher. Of another plane. Of time going by. Of other faces. Then the muted roar of a plane. And a pain in his arm. He sank back into darkness. He thought he was in the drone again. He opened his eyes. He saw Dunneldeen’s face. He must still be in the sea. But no, he was not cold, he was warm.
“He’s coming around,” said someone softly. “We’ll be able to operate soon.”
He opened his eyes and saw boots and kilts. A lot of boots and kilts standing beside what he was lying on.
A plane’s mot
