Sisters Solo Ship Was in the Root Cellar

She peered through the broad slatted palm leaves. There was a smoking heap of flesh and bones and a spreading pool of blood where hannibal a ben had died. Coming toward them was one of sister's floating, translucent drones,. Its tiny firing port extended from its centre. She tapped at the inside of her wrist. Drone, century, she thought. The drone didn't pause, ster stand by and report. No answering. Her husband squeezed her hand to draw her attention. He yanked her flat with a firm hand and held her face so she'd read his lips. I saw her aim and fire.