A resistance warship flies into battle against the Conglomerate, a mecha-company conquering planets for minerals and slave labor. When the ship crashes above the plains, the five people on board battle for survival across their world, pursued by th...
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The Recruit coughs, acrid smoke searing his throat, eyes watering in the heat. His whole body feels battered, restraint straps holding him back against the seat, deep bruises already shining purple and black where the straps dig into his shoulders and abdomen. The retching coughs continue as he tries to make out shapes in the remains of the cockpit.
The Mechanic is at his side then, helping him unbuckle his harness. "Are you injured?" he asks and The Recruit shakes his head. The Mechanic is covered in grime, a nasty looking gash on his forearm, but looks otherwise unhurt.
"The Pilot?" The Recruit manages in a croaky parody of his voice. The Mechanic looks towards the control dashboard. They have to move a section of the ship out of the way to get to the pilot's chair, the metal crumpled by earth to look like spiderwebbing from a massive creature.
The Pilot is slumped over the controls, eyes glassy and half open, one arm pinned against the hull by the controls she was struggling with. The Mechanic is at her side hastily and confirms she is still breathing and semi-conscious. She groans as the two men try to pry the controls away from her arm. The metal has punched into her, silver against her skin, white bone showing amid the crimson drippling into her lap. The Recruit vomits to the side, a thin stream of bile at the sight. The Mechanic braces himself against the console and the Pilot meets his eyes. "Ready?" he asks her.
"No," she replies and pulls her arm away from the metal as he pushes the control panels out of her arm. A spray of crimson paints the remains of the console with a sickly wet sound and the Pilot bites hard enough on her lip to draw blood. She gives a gasp, a quick sucking in of breath that makes a skeleton's silhouette of her cheeks.
"Jacket," The Mechanic demands of the Recruit. The boy wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand and then peels the jacket away from his bruised shoulders with a wince of pain. The Pilot tears away the arms of her own shirt and winds them tightly around her arm. The Mechanic straps the jacket sleeve over the wound and then creates a sling around her body, pinning her arm to her chest. He helps her wobbling to her feet, and she sways, mildly concussed from the impact. "Support her," the Mechanic tells the Recruit and the three of them set off into the corridor, the cockpit a flaming wreck behind them.
The Captain is a sprawled starfish in the corridor outside the cockpit. There are deep black rings around his eyes, evidence of massive brain trauma, a concussion that will debilitate. The Pilot stumbles towards him, the Recruit unsure but helping to steady her. He remembers her rage before the fall, the fury at the Captain, and fears she will do something he should not witness on his first sortie with the Resistance.
The Pilot pushes the Recruit away and kneels at the Captain's side and presses her good hand down hard into the man's leg. It is then that the Mechanic sees the metal strut that detached from the wall in the crash, puncturing through the thigh, shattering bone. The Pilot is pressing down hard to stop the gushing of the femoral artery, dark, viscous blood splattering her good arm in gory gloves. "Help me," she says, looking over her shoulder at them, blood trailing from the cut where the Captain sliced her during the fall. The Recruit does not understand why this woman wants to help the man who shot her but with the Captain insensate, she is the commanding officer.
