And they always, always came.
Ryan pulled out a battered flare gun and loaded a green cartridge—the signal for children found. “There is no angle. We’re getting that kid out before the planet eats him.”
Behind him, the three members of his squad didn't flinch. They never did.
The boy’s eyes were wide, but he reached up.
, the mechanic, was already knee-deep in the access panel, her multi-tool whining. “Ten minutes. Maybe five if I reroute coolant through the waste exchange.”
Ryan grinned—a small, fierce thing.
“Directly below us. And Mira? Make it fast.”
The hovercraft’s engine coughed black smoke into the amber twilight. Ryan wiped a smear of synthetic oil from his cheek, his fourth pair of goggles already cracked.
“Hey,” Ryan said, calm as sunrise. “I’m Ryan. This is Jax and Kael. We’re the rescue squad. You’re going to be fine.”
Ryan’s Rescue Squad wasn’t a team because of orders or ranks.
“New plan,” Ryan said. “Mira, you stay with the hovercraft. Get it airborne. Jax, Kael, with me. We move fast.”
When they found the boy—no older than seven, trembling on a crumbling pillar of dirt—Ryan dropped to his belly and reached down.
But as the hovercraft’s belly hatch opened and the boy laughed—actually laughed—at the rush of wind, Ryan knew the truth.