BIRDS OF PREY Vulture to ground team gamma. . . picking up a signal 300 meters to your left. Veering to intercept. Looks like. . . looks like a Hunter, no smoke. Over. The comm crackled and hissed with a hundred similar transmissions, as the searchers fanned out across the shifting sands of the southern Badlands. Tristan glanced up at the crystal-clear sky, and shifted his grip on his handhold slightly. He leaned back against the side of the truck, letting the spitting comms fade into the background as the transport swerved to follow the directions from the air support. Vulture... a pretty apt call sign. The aerial recovery team tended towards that kind of sarcasm, almost seeming to revel in their positions as scavengers of the dead and dying. Just the kind of useless drudge job the MILICIA loves. This was his first time on recovery duty, heading out to “rescue” the downed Northern pilots for interrogation and the dead Southerners for heroic burial. The radio crackled again, and Marta leaned out of the driver’s window to holler at the troops hanging on to the sides of the transport. “Vulture says it’s just beyond that ridge. . . half-buried under the sand. She thinks it hit a sinkhole. You’re off now — take shovels!” With that said she slowed, and the team bailed off, Tristan barely managing to stifle a yelp as he hit the ground with his shoulder first. A couple of the team laughed as he struggled to his feet below the weight of his gear. “Take it easy, kid!” Tris turned as Benny strode up to him. “You’ll get the hang of the drop soon enough. It just takes some practice.” The larger man was beginning to show signs of gray in his hair, but the strength in his arm as he slapped Tris on the back made the rookie stumble and almost tip over again. “Come on, rook. Time to teach you what can opening is all about.” Benny took off at a quick trot, catching up with swiftly moving group with ease. Tris reshouldered his pack, and broke into a run. The Hunter was indeed half-buried in the sand, its legs plugging the sinkhole that had opened up to trap it. The sand swirled down around its bottom half, slowly trickling into the MacAllen tunnels below. The team was already setting up, the huge shears and saws fitted with their power-packs. Tris shivered slightly when he dropped his pack and took a good look at the still, silent metal corpse. It lay, bent at a strange and unnatural angle, one arm all but severed, wires — veins and arteries — falling casually across the heated rock. A crunch of metal echoed throughout the area, and Tristan ran to add his weight to the straining and groaning machinery. The cockpit began to wrench open, but the jaws of life stopped, with a scream of tortured gears. Benny shouted with rage, and Tris made a mental note of some of the more interesting terms as he scrambled up the outcropping to clear the fallen stones off of the Hunter’s canopy. The debris fell easily, and Tris dropped back down onto the rock as the team popped the cockpit open. He glanced down at the Gear once the canopy fell clear, and the bile rose in his throat. The pilot lay within the wreckage, her body as twisted and broken as her Gear. She was. . . had been. . . young, not more than 25 cycles. Blood streaked her face, her helmet in shards. Her arms were. . . wrong, somehow, bent in more places than should have been possible. Her eyes — they must have been blue, once — stared up at him blankly, stared through him. She looked, a little, like his sister. Tristan staggered backwards, his chest heaving and throat closing. Stumbling blindly past the crew, he caught his foot on a cable and toppled to the ground. Curling into a ball, he retched and heaved, praying for someone to erase the sight that seemed etched on his eyes. He heard a voice, faintly, in the distance. Benny. “Figures. Why do we end up with all the soft ones?"