by Jean Rabe
“Ranodons don’t survive long in captivity,” he reminds me. “At least, they never have before.”
I prickle. “Some archeobiologist I’d be if I didn’t know that!” I reply. Sometimes it seems like Ray forgets who the sober and well-organized one is in this family.
“All right. Obvious,” he says. “Sorry, Kitten.”
I take a deep breath, knowing he means well. “Neither one of us wants to kill her—either on purpose or by accident. She’s probably the last of her kind in these parts.”
“Not too many left in the Antes, either,” Armstrong adds. He kneels beside Zoe and reaches out as if to stroke the ranodon’s head. It snaps at him. Unflappable, my cousin pulls his hand back just far enough that it can’t reach. “Easy, girl!”
“Antean government protects what’s left of them,” Zoe says. “Or tries to. Lost a couple of adventurous tourists last week—a scientist trying to study the roosts a month before that.”
“Damn fools! Both them tourists, and the Antean government!” O’Brien interjects. “These brutes should have gone extinct long ago. No room in this day for prehistoric monsters!”
“But plenty of room for prehistoric superstition, it appears,” Armstrong jibes.
O’Brien glares at him.
“Lucky for you the ranodons haven’t gone extinct, either here or in the Antes,” I tell him. “Or the magazine and I wouldn’t be funding this little expedition.”
“Underfunding is more like it,” O’Brien grumbles.
“Shooting a ranodon, like the villagers did here—or like you tried to do—is a capital offense in the Antes,” Zoe says. “Either the government gets you, or . . .”
“Which is why we’re not even trying to study that nesting cluster,” I say, attempting to calm the rising tensions among my crew. “I can handle a little government trouble, but I don’t want Quetziqa Indians dipping their fingertips in my blood to paint their faces.”
O’Brien makes the sign of the cross. Even though we’re far from the Antean Mountains, the Quetziqa Indians are still greatly feared. The Antean government gives them wide berth—and wide latitude in the rule of traditional Quetziqa lands. Even the Russians don’t mess with the red-fingered tribesfolk.
Zoe hands the feeding of our feathered guest over to Armstrong and fetches some equipment from her locker. “Don’t worry, CC,” she tells me. “I’ll have her tagged and ready to track by the time you get back. Assuming that Ray can keep her quiet enough.”
“Hey,” Armstrong shoots back, “She’s no trickier than most women I’ve dealt with. See? I’ve already got her eating out of my hands.”
Zoe’s climbing rigs make ascending the tepui easier, but it’s still tricky going. The clockwork ascender fastened to my equipment harness makes me nearly weightless as I climb, but most of the pitons still have to be placed the old fashioned way: via hammer. The sheer cliffs are slick, both from the local humidity and from the soggy vines and mosses clinging to the rock face. When a gap appears in the escarpment, I fire a piton-anchored line across it using my miniature crossbow, and then slide over with a simple pulley rig. The crossbow fires grapnels as well, making ascent quicker when I can find a solid ledge above me to anchor the hooks.
Even with the assist from my Master Inventor’s gadgets, I still sweat buckets. So I take frequent breaks on the way up, both to catch my breath and to rehydrate. When I rest, I plan the safest route to where I hope to find the nest: a narrow ledge three-quarters of the way to the top. It takes me most of the afternoon to reach it. Vegetation hangs thick on either side of the ledge. It’s too dense to drive a piton through, but not solid enough to hold my weight. Even the crossbow is no help here. I can see the nest on the ledge though—a bushy thatch of dry vegetation amid the rocks. It beckons to me, like King Solomon’s Mines, but I can’t tell if there are any eggs, and—from here—I can’t reach it to find out.
Rappelling down from above seems my only option, but the cliff juts out at a right angle above me—a great lip of rock nearly four meters wide. Even with my years of mountaineering experience, it will take me hours to safely navigate that slick surface, if I can manage it at all. Fortunately, Zoe has provided a solution to this problem, too: the spider grapnel. I take the metal arachnid from my pack, wind it up—remembering to prime its anchor charge—and set it to work.
As nimble as a real spider, the mechanism’s carbon-steel legs scuttle across the underside of the ledge and over the top. I hear the tick-tick-ticking as it probes for a solid spot on the upper surface, then the sharp “crack” of the black powder as the spider sinks its anchor deep into the rock. I test the line gingerly, despite my faith in Zoe’s inventions, making sure the anchor will hold my weight. It does. Just in case, I deploy some of Zoe’s elastic anti-fall netting. Then, trusting to luck and experience, I hoist myself up the spider-line.
It takes me another half hour to make my way above the nesting ledge, find a safe anchor, and then rappel down to my goal. A thrill shoots up my spine as my boots touch solid ground and I get a clear look at my prize. Inside the nest is a dozen eggs, each the color of speckled sand and half the size of a football.
For long moments, I can only stare; this is a site few humans have ever seen and fewer still lived to talk about. Only traditional Quetziqa initiates—and two recorded scientists—have ever observed an unplundered ranodon nest, and no nests have ever been observed east of the Antes. Do the ancient beasts migrate from here all the way to that distant range? With luck, the tracking tag Zoe’s putting on the mother will help us find out. We will be the first: the first people to know the secrets of ranodon migration, just as I am the first person east of the Antes to ever glimpse this sight.
I feel immensely honored and proud of the work my team has done to get me here. Zoe . . . Armstrong . . . even grouchy O’Brien. Everyone has performed their jobs above and beyond the call. We’ve gotten here on a wing and a prayer, without any Russian technology or backing. That’s a rarity nowadays.
Before I start measuring the nest and taking notes, something else catches my attention: the vista. Though sheltered by the surrounding vegetation, the ledge has a clear view of the silver ribbon of the Greenwater as it winds east toward mother Amazon. Far below, O’Brien’s flat-bottom steamer bobs gently on the placid waters. I can see the tiny figures of my crew moving about the Louisa’s deck: Armstrong and Zoe working with the netted mother; O’Brien pacing amidships like a nervous tiger.
Further downstream, storks, fish, and caimans prowl the shallows. Upstream, the canopy closes in around the tributary, forming a living green tunnel around the river. Packs of monkeys—capuchins, probably, though I can’t tell from this distance—cavort in the foliage, leaping from tree to tree. All of the creatures I see, except for the largest caimans, would be fine prey for a hungry ranodon and her brood.
A sudden stab of worry flashes through my mind: Has Mother Ranodon been away from the nest too long? Existing information on ranodon brooding habits is sketchy. Does she need to sit on her eggs to keep them warm? By holding the mother captive, is my expedition hastening the extinction of this magnificent species?
I reach for one of the twin pistols holstered at my hip. The plan was to fire a off a single shot after finishing my research. Upon hearing the shot, Armstrong will set the mother ranodon free. Of course, by that time, I’m supposed to be well out of the nest—and out of the reach of mother ranodon’s talons. But is it too early to fire that shot, or is it already too late?
I watch the sunshine glinting off the speckled shells. The daylight should be enough to keep them warm for a while longer, I reckon, but I’ll have to hurry to complete my work.
Quickly I unpack the Rolleiflex and begin taking pictures. When I’ve got what seems like a full set, I start measuring the eggs, being careful not to touch any. I wouldn’t want them contaminated by my scent, and I’ve gotten too close to the nest as it is. Hopefully, my furtive presence won’t make the mother angry enough to abandon her unbo
rn chicks.
The sun’s nearing the Amazonian treetops by the time I finish, and the air is rapidly cooling. Again, my fear for the eggs’ warmth rises in my mind. I decide to cut some vegetation and cover them—to try and hold in a little of the heat until their mother can return.
My machete makes short work of the greenery hanging nearby, and I carry a thick blanket of leaves back—in gloved hands—toward the nest. I hope it will be enough. And I hope the scent from my sweaty clothing won’t contaminate the foliage and spook the mother away.
I pause, just a few feet from the eggs, unsure of whether to continue, when a loud “Crack!” fills the air. I look toward the top of the tepui; the sound is like pebbles rattling down a cliff face. Another “Crack!” and another, but I see no rocks falling. Then I realize the source of the sound: the eggs!
I drop the thatch of vegetation from my arms and fish out the Rolleiflex again. The baby ranodons are hatching before my eyes! I am definitely the first scientist to ever observe this! I’m so excited that, for a moment, I forget that this could be a very bad thing. Ranodons and humans do not mix. They might be hostile to me from the instant they hatch. Will they be able to fly the minute they’re out of the shell?
No one knows, and—for a few seconds—I wish I were not the first scientist ever to witness a ranodon hatching.
Then the first shell splits open, and a feathered, reptilian head pokes out. It stares at me with big, golden eyes. I stare back, as its brothers and sisters hatch, each emerging from their eggs only seconds apart. And as the eldest ranodon and I stare at each other, entranced, I know that this brood will not attack me. I am safe—at least until I fire the shot to set their mother free. But by the time she arrives, I will be long gone.
Zoe checks her home-built directional radiographer. “They’re heading toward the Antes all right,” she announces, “just as you predicted, Kit. Tracking signal remains strong.”
“That’s my Kitty,” Armstrong boasts, slurring his words. “Always knows what she’s up to.”
I smile at my cousin, but I wish I could say the same of him. Armstrong is a good man, but this morning his eyes are cloudy and he smells of drink. Though I trust him with my life, I don’t trust him around booze or unescorted women. In the nine weeks we’ve waited for the ranodon brood to begin their migration, he and O’Brien have spent more time on “errands” in Elturu than they’ve spent at base camp. O’Brien usually returns in better shape than Cousin Ray, though that’s not saying much.
Fortunately, we’re back on the river and Armstrong is away from the drink and the dames—except for Zoe. Occasionally, I catch him eyeing her when he thinks I’m not looking. I realize that’s the aftereffects of the booze; sober, he’s like an older brother to her. When tipsy, though, anything with a bosom—short of a blood relation—starts looking good to my cousin.
“Man the Rolleiflex, would you?” I ask, hoping to keep his mind on our job.
The pictures we’ve sent by courier so far have been a sensation with the editors. Once they’re on the stands, they’ll take the world by storm—and maybe even help to restore some of my family’s lost fortune. But the editors want the whole story before they publish, and that story includes the ranodon migration.
Twice this week we’ve had false starts: the mother taking her flock out for long flights, heading west—toward the far distant mountains—only to turn back at midday. Why they’re doing this, we can only guess: building up their strength, perhaps? Scouting the territory ahead for food . . . or predators?
Each time we’ve followed, only to do an abrupt about-face and chase them back downstream. Captain O’Brien’s had a few choice words about that. I think he’s annoyed at having to keep the Louisa running in top shape for so long. We need his best, though, and the ship’s best, too. We’ll need everyone’s best, if we’re to seize the prize at the end of this expedition.
“I’ll give you two-to-one that they don’t even migrate this week!” O’Brien announces.
But despite the captain’s prediction, today’s flight seems to be the real thing. Migration at last! Midday comes and goes and afternoon fades toward evening, and, still, the flock of ranodons shows no signs of turning back. We follow upriver, Louisa giving us all the steam O’Brien can muster. As the orange orb of the sun kisses the treetops, mama and her brood settle down, roosting in niches high up the verdant sides of a crumbling riverside tepui.
“Maybe we can get some good shots when they take to the air again in the morning,” Zoe suggests.
“Which means being ready at sunrise,” I conclude.
Armstrong groans at the thought, but he’s up before the ranodons—along with the rest of us—the next morning, and completely sobered up as well; thankfully, my cousin seldom drinks while adventuring.
Zoe mans the Roleiflex with the telescopic lens, which she manufactured specially for it. I’m no judge of editorial whims, but by late morning I think she’s garnered enough shots to pay for this leg of the trip—and maybe even the false starts we had the last few days. O’Brien builds up enough pressure in the Louisa’s boiler to keep the ranodons in sight, despite the twists and turns of the Greenwater. As we steam upriver, the Amazonian canopy opens and closes above our heads, making the world a kaleidoscope of green tunnels and sweltering sunlight.
We branch onto the Naconda shortly before midday, when the Greenwater twists south, deeper into the jungle, and from the Naconda into an unnamed tributary heading almost directly west. Fortunately, the ranodons seem to be following the waterways; I wonder if it’s because of some ancient homing instinct, or if we’ve just gotten lucky.
At nightfall, they roost on another tepui, this one little more than a finger of rock jutting up out of the surrounding rainforest.
“Like frogs hopping from lily pad to lily pad,” Armstrong observes as we bed down for the night.
“Bloody ugly frogs,” O’Brien adds. “I’m surprised I ain’t got nightmares yet.”
“If you’re going to dream of something green,” Armstrong suggests, “make it all the lovely money we’ll get for the pictures of this expedition.”
O’Brien sighs contentedly. “Ah, now there’s something to sleep on!”
“I wonder . . .” Zoe muses as she stands in the Louisa’s bow during the afternoon of the next day’s pursuit. She has her goggles put up on her forehead and a pencil tucked, as usual, behind her right ear.
“Wonder what?” I ask.
“I wonder how many eons ranodonkind has been following this very route. What do you think, CC?”
“Perhaps after we discover exactly where they’re going, we can come back and dig for evidence,” I suggest.
“Good luck finding anything in all this tangled greenery,” Armstrong replies. “Maybe you could make a dent with steam shovels.”
Zoe rolls her eyes. “And ruin whatever Kit hoped to find in the process!”
“We’ll worry about that when, and if, the time comes,” I say. “Let’s finish this expedition and pay some bills first.”
“Amen to that,” O’Brien adds.
Armstrong jerks a thumb toward the captain. “Our friend ran up quite a debt on Elturu’s game tables while waiting for the migration.”
“Me?” O’Brien shoots back. “That’s nothing compared to the tab that you ran up at Miss Juanita’s bordel—”
“I’ve never paid for any such thing!” Armstrong contends hotly.
“Pipe down, everyone!” I shout. “I hear something!” I hold my hands up for quiet and look around. “Can anyone else hear that?”
Everyone stops and listens, but the sound remains a dim whine; I can barely pick it out over the boat’s sputtering engine.
“Idle her, will you?” Armstrong tells O’Brien. The captain throttles back the Louisa’s engines; the boat slows, and the puttering subsides into an occasional low hiss.
Now everyone can hear what I hear—a constant pulsing thrum, the distant engines of a helioship.
“I see
her!” O’Brien says, pointing.
The sleek craft glitters in the late afternoon sunlight, like a tiny bronze bird skimming the horizon. Its powerful twin rotors and single gas cell hold it effortlessly above the jungle. It’s not large as helioships go, just four or five meters long—but that’s big enough to hold plenty of trouble. The craft is far away but moving upriver swiftly, coming toward us . . . or perhaps toward something else.
Zoe swings the telescopic lens of the Rolleiflex in the direction of the distant craft. “Russian, I think, CC.”
“I’d guessed that from the sound,” I reply, knowing my mechanic probably had, too, even before she focused the camera on the intruder.
“You don’t think it could be. . .?” Zoe says, arching her eyebrows in worry.
“Ivanova,” I agree. “Who else?”
“Like a bad hangover, she returns to haunt us once more,” Armstrong says.
“You think she’s here for those blasted birds?” O’Brien asks.
“Of course she is,” I say, almost spitting the words. Pavlina Ivanova used to be one of Russia’s leading military psychics; now she’s one of their top procurement agents. “If it can be used as a weapon, she—and her government—want it. Ranodons would be perfect for their cryptobiologic breeding programs.”
“But how could she find out about our ranodons?” Zoe asks.
“She could have read the same newspaper accounts that brought us here in the first place,” Armstrong suggests.
O’Brien shakes his head. “The locals shot that male a long time ago, now. It’s ancient news.”
“Maybe news travels slowly in Russia,” Armstrong replies. “I hear they’re pretty stingy with information.”
“Maybe,” Zoe agrees. “But how is that witch able to home in on our flock?”
“Easy,” I reply. “She’s following your homing signal.”
Behind her lenses, Zoe’s eyes go wide. “How could she even know about that? Unless somebody told her.” Her stare turn cold and she fixes it on O’Brien. I turn an accusing gaze toward the captain as well.
