Rafian scanned her vitals. Hypothermic. Concussed. But alive.
“The inbound storm will reach the Scar in four hours,” she continued. “If you are planning another dive, I must log a formal objection.”
“It almost certainly is.”
“Rafian,” a voice crackled from the console behind him. It was soft, synthesized, and patient. “Your cortisol levels are elevated. You haven’t slept in thirty-one hours.”
He called himself a "salvage ecologist." Others called him a grave-robber. The truth, as always, lay somewhere in the frozen permafrost between.