Aven lies in the furrow, listening to the rumble of the plough as it moves away. She smells dirt, aromatic and wet. The calls of the Liberators are muted here by the high, earthen walls around her, and she takes a deep, shuddering breath.
Walt is out there somewhere, among them, planting the ships for the Seraphim. “It’s just a gig,” he’d said. As though he’d forgotten what the planet killers had done.
Aven wanted to fight, but she was without wit or strength. She could lie here though, in the path of the blades. She could be another body.