Zira awoke shivering. Gasping, she drew in a breath of cool air that ignited her tortured lungs. She coughed and spat out the acrid taste of smoke.

She remembered the fire that coursed through the prison ship’s ventilation system. The screams of the prisoners had become cheers of liberation when the stasis fields that kept them in their cells finally shorted out.

The euphoria of freedom died quickly, however. With the flames consuming the ship’s atmosphere and crawling, meter by meter, toward the fuel cells, the prisoners realized all too soon that they’d won their freedom on the last day of their lives.

With shaking arms, Zira raised herself to a sitting position. She looked at her body to assess the damage. Scorch marks darkened her uniform and blood oozed from a number of scratches, but nothing seemed to be broken. Her throat hurt and her eyes stung, but miraculously she’d survived the harrowing flight in the escape capsule largely unharmed.

A fireball blazed low on the flat horizon. She stared at the brilliant orange glow and wondered how many had made it out alive.

A moan interrupted her thoughts and she scrambled to her feet. Around her on the grassy hillside lay the breakaway shell of her escape capsule and what appeared to be the remains of two others.

The body of a human male lay half-encased in one of the capsules, his skin streaked with blood and blackened by burns. Dead. She shivered and wondered if he’d been one of the ones she’d passed in her frantic run for the escape capsules.

The moaning came again from the cracked third pod. The outer safety shell hadn’t shattered on impact and the occupant was trapped inside, like a weakened hatchling in a too-thick eggshell.

Zira bent close to the casing. Forcing her voice above a whisper, she said, “Push the emergency release latch, by your left arm.” The effort tore at her throat and she coughed again.

The escape capsule wobbled and rolled a few feet. Zira stumbled out of its way. A second later, the brittle remains of the casing burst apart. With a roar of frustration, the occupant forced his way out of the pod and rolled onto the cool grass, panting from his exertion.

Zira froze, one hand tight against her lips to staunch another cough. She recognized the prisoner. He was the Thal Warrior. He’d occupied the cell next to hers, and for a dozen nights since her arrest, she’d listened to him chanting a meditative verse in his native language. The words had soothed her, and his deep, melodic voice had made her think of pleasures she’d long forgotten.

Now they were both free. At least until a rescue ship arrived to recapture the survivors. They’d search for the wreckage of escape capsules first.