The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the deep thrum of the engines and Runne's own ragged, panicked breaths.
The transport which banked sharply, a manoeuvre that sent Runne stumbling against the cold metal wall of the cargo bay.
The pilot, a middle-aged man whose name Runne didn't know, steadied him with a firm hand on his shoulder. "Whoa, whoa, kid! Calm down! We're moving."
"No!" Runne shouted, his voice cracking, his eyes wide with a terror that went beyond the storm. He grabbed the front of the pilot's flight suit, his knuckles white.
"You don't understand! Faster! We have to go faster!"
"I'm pushing it as hard as she'll go," the pilot said, his voice a strained attempt at calm. He guided Runne to one of the fold-down seats.
"Sit. Now, breathe. Just breathe and tell me what the hell you saw down there. A monster, you said?"
Runne collapsed onto the seat, his body trembling uncontrollably. He buried his face in his hands, trying to force the images out of his head.
The sickly green light, the piteous squeal, the twisting, visible spine of that... that thing.
'How do I explain it?' he thought, his mind racing. 'The way it moved... the sound it made... he's going to think I'm insane.'
"It was a Rift," Runne finally managed to say, looking up at the pilot. "A real one. Massive. It was just hanging there in this... this huge cave."
The pilot's face tightened. "A Rift? Kid, that's impossible. There hasn't been a live one on this continent in..."
"I know what I saw!" Runne insisted, leaning forward, his voice desperate. "It was pulling me in. I could feel it. And there was a voice... inside my head."
The pilot stared at him, his initial concern now warring with clear skepticism. "A voice."
"Yes! And a monster," Runne pushed on, the words tumbling out of him. "It was trying to get through the Rift. It was like a pig, but... wrong. Skinny, like it was starving, and its back was all... broken. It was stuck, squealing... oh god, the sound it made..." He trailed off, the memory threatening to overwhelm him.
He looked at the pilot, expecting to see disbelief, pity even. But the man was just staring at the floor of the cockpit, his face pale.
"The light," the pilot muttered, more to himself than to Runne. "I saw that green light from the sky. It lit up the whole damn ravine."
He finally looked at Runne, his expression changed. The skepticism was gone, replaced by a dawning horror. He believed him.
The pilot stared at Runne, his expression changed. The skepticism was gone, replaced by a dawning horror. He believed him.
Without another word, the pilot spun back to the cockpit controls, his movements now sharp and urgent. He keyed the comms panel.
"Wombat 7-3 to Base Command. I am declaring a Priority One alert, over."
The comms crackled back, the voice a confused drone.
"Say again, Wombat 7-3? Priority One? On what authority?"
"On the authority of a confirmed visual on a Class-Three energy event at the southern border!" the pilot yelled back, his voice tight with adrenaline.
"I have a witness aboard. We require immediate landing clearance and approach vector for Hangar One. I repeat, Hangar One."
A pause, longer this time. Runne could imagine the operator on the other end, stunned. Hangar One was reserved for the brass, for the high-level command transports and the Commanders personal fleet. A beat-up Wombat had no business being there.
"...Clearance granted, Wombat 7-3. Approach on vector zero-niner. Medical and security teams will be on standby."
"We don't need medics," the pilot muttered, cutting the channel. He shot a look back at Runne. "Hold on, kid. Things are about to get fast."
The transport surged forward, and through the viewport, Runne watched as the distant lights of the base resolved into a sprawling complex.
He could now clearly see the stark difference between the outer sectors where he lived which were all grey, functional blocks and grim perimeter walls and the central command sector. Here, the buildings were sleeker, the light brighter, the very air seeming cleaner and more orderly.
As they descended towards a massive, gleaming white hangar distinct from all the others, the pilot gave him one last piece of advice.
"Just tell them what you told me. Exactly as you remember it. Don't add anything, don't leave anything out. These people… they don't like surprises."
The Wombat's landing was rough, but as the ramp whined down, Runne saw they were not met by a standard MP escort. An officer with a lieutenant's insignia on his crisp uniform stood waiting, his expression a mask of barely concealed panic.
The air in Hangar One was sterile, quiet, and smelled of polished chrome, a world away from the diesel fumes of the outer hangars. Technicians in clean jumpsuits stopped their work on a sleek, predatory-looking gunship to stare at the commotion.
"That's the one?" a nearby technician whispered to another, his eyes wide.
"What's a dormant doing landing here?" another voice barked, before being silenced by a sharp glare from the waiting lieutenant.
"Private Veyne?" the lieutenant asked, his eyes flicking over Runne's worn uniform and pale, dirt-smudged face. "The Commander will see you now. Both of you. This way."
The walk to the command centre was a blur of polished corridors and hushed, important-looking personnel who stopped to stare at the out-of-place grunt being hurried through their exclusive domain.
Finally, they reached a set of reinforced blast doors. They hissed open, revealing the nerve centre of the Southern Dominion.
The room was a low hum of controlled chaos. Officers moved between holographic data streams, their voices clipped and professional. But as Runne was led into the centre of the room, a hush fell. At the far side of the room, standing before a massive tactical map, was a figure whose stillness commanded more authority than any shouted order.
Diaval Blackwood.
Leaning against a console nearby, her arms crossed and a thunderous expression on her face, was Martha.
Diaval's silver eyes locked onto Runne. "Report," he said, his voice quiet yet cutting through the silence of the room.