The Barsoom Project

“Write it up,” Alex sighed. He sniffed at his collar. The Epsom salts were still moist upon it. Mixed in it was another fragrance. The scent of a delicate young woman, cruelly used; and something else, something feral.

Chapter Fifteen

HOLY SMOKE

Max’s Thunderbird was wounded. Its left wing fluttered weakly against the driving wind. The great eagle strove to pace itself: two strong beats, and then a rest. Gain altitude, and then pause into a gentle downward glide.

They flew through a clear layer between two cloud decks. The upper haze layer let the sun through as a brighter disk. It was thirty degrees above the horizon of the lower cloud deck, though the time must have been about noon.

They flew above a knobby white landscape, so dense that Max could see no trace of an earth below. Suddenly, and for the first time, he felt the primal fear of falling, that cling-to-Mommy, hairless-ape-in-the-treetops fear. His Thunderbird’s beak was open, and he could hear the ragged whistling of its breath even above the wind.

Trianna put her lips to his ear and whispered, “Look,” and pointed down.

Curiously, as his air sickness increased, hers had begun to fade. A mile below them there was a break in the clouds. They could find outlines of a mountain range, vast and foreboding, all jagged peaks sheathed in impenetrable ice.

The Thunderbird began to glide down, making its slow and gentle descent. A mist of blood streamed from the wounded right wing.

The Thunderbird was fighting for its life, for their lives. Max felt gratitude and admiration for the creatures, repaying their debt in so heroic a fashion. The only problem was that he could see no place to land. The mountain was all cliffs, all bare rock faces at varying angles.

There might be ledges, landing places, somewhere below; but diving blind through the clouds would be suicide. What would the wounded bird do?

Half-hidden by mist was a tiny ledge, too narrow, narrower than the bird’s spread wings.

Max’s chest ached with the tortured wheeze of its breathing. He felt its triumph of will as gilded wings spread wide. It swooped toward the ledge. The wings half-folded-he felt the drop in the pit of his stomach-and the bird’s feet slammed into rock. Three hopping steps brought it to a halt.

It looked back at them. In its eyes shone a mixture of pride, and anger, and gratitude. Max swung himself over and landed heavily on rock. “Off! Get off, Trianna. Let the beast rest!” He helped her descend. She was heavy… and he saw her surprise at the strength in his arms.

Francis Hebert descended without help and at once began trying to stretch his back out.

The other birds came down behind them, landing with half-folded wings on the same narrow, fog-shrouded ledge. Stiffly the Gamers unstrapped themselves from their mounts and tumbled to the ground.

Max’s toes curled hard against the ground, and his knees half-buckled, then became firm again. His stomach felt a little shaky, and he called an old trick into play: find a spot on the horizon, gaze at it until the dizziness passes…

He chose the distant, pale disk of the sun, yellow-white and wan in the mist. He had to squint a little… but this world’s sun, crippled by magic, was such that his eye could meet it squarely.

Even on this side of the magical barrier, Seelumkadchluk, there was something visibly wrong with Sol’s disk. A shadow, perhaps an enormous sunspot: an alien shape that didn’t quite belong… The clouds thinned for a moment, but Max held his gaze against the increased glare.

What in the world?

His eyes were squeezed tight against tears. “Does anyone have a pair of binoculars?”

Kevin Titus dismounted just behind Snow Goose. He reached into his backpack. He pulled out a leather case. He extracted a pair of binoculars with molded plastic handgrips, and gave them to Max a bit reluctantly. “Be careful with ‘em.”

“Actually, I was planning to heave ‘em off the…” Max aimed and focused, squinting hard. Even through the clouds, it was too damned bright, but… ”I will be dipped in shit.” There, in the center of a pale wavering disk, was the shadowed form of a great black bird. The shadow’s beaked profile turned… looked at him?

He handed the binoculars to his brother Orson. “What do you make of that?”

Orson focused the glasses. Presently he said, “I’d say we know where the Cabal is hiding the Raven, wouldn’t you?”

There was a general ripple of excitement as news of the discovery spread down the line, then Max handed the binoculars back. He felt pretty damned good. They had just solved a major piece of the puzzle.

Snow Goose was gazing into the sun. “I can’t believe it. How could the Cabal get enough power to do something like this?”

“What would it take?” Robin Bowles asked. He walked with an exaggerated, bow-legged gait. The ride must have left him sore.

“The Raven created the world! I can’t even imagine that much power. I just don’t know..

“The satellite?” Orson asked hopefully.