by Jean Rabe
“The flock would be a whole lot more valuable than pictures,” Zoe says icily.
“Don’t look at me!” O’Brien protests. “You know I’d never sell you out to the Russians! We’ve worked together for years! Off-and-on, I’ll admit, but you’re practically like family to me! Family’s got to stick together.”
Zoe and I glance at each other, both of us thinking about the long hours O’Brien spent in Elturu—drinking and gambling—while we were waiting for the ranodons to migrate.
“What about those gambling debts you ran up?” I ask.
“Sure, I like cards,” he says, “but ain’t a card game in the world worth losing friends . . . I mean, family over!” He looks Zoe right in the eye, and she softens.
“Maybe you wouldn’t betray us deliberately,” she admits, “but I’ve seen you do some pretty stupid things when you’re drunk.”
He starts to say something, but she’s run out of sympathy, so he turns to me. “Honest, Miss Kit,” he says, “I didn’t.”
I say nothing, trying to read the truth behind his words—wishing, just for a moment, that I had Pavlina Ivanova’s psychic gifts.
Finally, O’Brien rubs his head and adds sheepishly, “At least, I don’t think I did.”
“It doesn’t matter how she found us,” Armstrong interjects. “What matters is what we’re going to do about it.”
“It’s like the Pyrenees all over again,” Zoe moans.
“Ivanova’s not going to do to the ranodons what she did to the Neanderthals,” I vow.
Armstrong looks at me, hopeful. “Do you have a plan?”
“Not yet,” I reply. “But the ranodons will be bedding down for the night, soon, and there’s only one tepui along this course—and it’s only about a klik ahead. Ivanova’s at least an hour away. If we can reach it before she does, get to the ranodons first, maybe we can do something.”
“I ain’t messin’ with that Russian witch,” O’Brien says. “Sorry, Miss Kit, but—even though you’re practically family—you can’t pay me enough for that.”
“Kitten,” Armstrong says, “he’s right. Lina’s too dangerous. Maybe we should let this go.”
“No,” I say. “You didn’t see this flock up close . . .”
“I saw one of them up close,” Armstrong puts in. “And that was enough. They’re vicious beasts. The Russians and the ranodons deserve each other.”
“You can’t mean that. You know what kind of weapons they’d be in Russian hands. They don’t deserve that. No creature does.”
“Whatever you decide, CC, I’m with you,” Zoe says.
“Me, too,” Armstrong adds. “I just don’t want to charge in without a plan.”
“By the time we reach the top of that tepui,” I say, “we’ll have a plan.”
When we anchor at the base of the tepui, O’Brien, true to his word, stays with the boat. I don’t blame him; I’ve seen what kind of damage Ivanova can do to people’s bodies . . . and to their minds. Her days in Russia’s secret services served her, and the state, well. I doubt the MGB wanted to let her go, but—as I’ve discovered firsthand on several occasions—she can be very persuasive with both man and beast.
True to form, the ranodons roost on the nearby tepui. Zoe, Armstrong, and I don our packs and gear hastily, and begin to climb. We can hear the helioship clearly as we ascend, even over the scrabble of our feet and the pounding of our pitons. The Russians are almost on us now. We’re probably in range of their binoculars, and we can only hope they’re not looking for us—at least, not yet.
The tepui is tall, though not so tall as the one I ascended to the original nest. Fortunately, it’s not as slippery, either; we make good progress, even though we don’t have time to deploy Zoe’s elaborate clockwork climbing gear. As near as I can tell, the ranodons have picked a ledge near the very top for their roosting place. We’ve got a lot of climbing to do if we’re to beat Pavlina Ivanova to the roost.
The sun’s nearly kissing the jungle by the time we’re three-quarters of the way to the plateau top.The helioship is very close now, angling for the best approach. Looking through my binoculars, I can clearly see the hovercraft’s occupants. Ivanova is leading them, all right; I’d know her trim, fashionable silhouette anywhere. She’s brought three of her Neanderthal goons with her, but I’m glad she didn’t round up more. Nachtu, the head Neanderthal, is among them. I silently curse our deteriorating luck.
Our bad fortune doesn’t stop there, either. Zoe is already exhausted from the climb. My mechanic is always game for an adventure but seldom gets out of the shop. She pulls herself onto a narrow ledge and leans back against the sheer rock, sweat pouring down her thin frame. “Go on!” she insists, gasping. “I’m just slowing you down. I’ll try to catch up.”
Armstrong and I nod and continue climbing. There’s no sense in arguing; she doesn’t have the strength, and we don’t have the time.
A sudden blast shakes the cliff face. Armstrong’s boot slips, but I grab his hand, saving him a fall back to Zoe’s ledge. My cousin looks suitably abashed.
“What in hell was that?” he asks.
We look down and see the Louisa burning. Thick black smoke rises from the wreckage of the boat, and debris lies scattered on the quaking surface of the river.
“Pavlina Ivanova does not like competition,” I reply.
“That bitch!” Armstrong snarls. “I hope O’Brien got out before the bomb hit.”
“Me, too.” It’s ironic that O’Brien’s loose lips might have gotten him killed. He’d have been better off selling us out for money. For a moment, I’m more angry at the captain than worried about his survival. I chide myself for the uncharitable thought.
Armstrong starts climbing again, more quickly now. I follow. “Think she meant to kill us, or just slow us down?” he asks.
“She certainly didn’t do O’Brien any good.” Unbidden, I remember the captain saying we were like family to him. “I don’t know,” I continue. “She could have seen we weren’t there, or maybe her psychic powers told her who was on the boat—and who wasn’t.”
“I don’t think she’s got that kind of range,” he replies. “At least, she didn’t last time we met. You know, this may sound crazy, but I always thought she liked—or at least respected you.”
“Not enough to avoid hijacking my research,” I reply. “Or blowing up my friends, apparently.”
The helioship makes two passes over the ruins of the Louisa, maybe looking for survivors. Either they don’t find O’Brien—if he’s still alive—or they do him the favor of not turning the helioship’s Gatling gun on him. Satisfied with the destruction, they start scanning the tepui, homing in on the ranodon’s roost. Fortunately, by then, Armstrong and I have already reached the last ledge before the top.
We pause, catching our breaths and unlimbering our guns before the final push. No spider-grapnels or anti-fall netting needed this time, just three meters up and over the top into a Russian hornet’s nest.
I check the handheld radiograph that Zoe whipped up. “The signal’s coming from the top of the plateau,” I whisper to my cousin.
“Unfortunately, it’s led the Russians right to the ranodons, too,” he says.
“Damn O’Brien and his drinking!” I cast my eyes back to the boat’s smoking remains, torn between worry for the man and frustration at his lack of discretion.
Armstrong leans back against the rock, looking up at the sky. “Look, about that, Kitty . . .” he says. “I don’t think it was O’Brien who tipped off Ivanova.”
“What?” I say, confused. “Who else could it have been? You’re not suggesting Zoe . . .”
He shakes his head. “I can’t let you go on thinking O’Brien might have done it, not with him maybe dead and all.”
“Ray, what are you saying?”
“I . . . I might have let something slip to one of the girls in town. I didn’t mean to . . . Just boasting, the way I do sometimes when I—”
“When you get drunk
and sleep around,” I whisper.
“Look, Kitten, I’m sorry.”
Despite the anger boiling in my gut, I know he means it. He’s family, after all—real family, the kind that means to do right by you, even if they don’t; the kind you always have to take back, no matter what they’ve done. Rationally, I know all that. But just at the moment, I really hate my cousin.
“How was I to know that the Russians’d get wind of it? But . . . I should have used better judgment. As usual.”
I don’t want to snap at him, not when the two of us are about to climb into death’s open jaws, so I don’t say anything.
“I guess you’re probably wishing I was on the boat right now—instead of O’Brien.” Again, his eyes flash toward the smoke and flames.
“No,” I say, putting my hand on his arm and taking a deep breath. “I’m glad you’re here with me. There’s no one I’d rather have at my side.”
“Except maybe Zoe.”
“Well,” I admit, “at least she doesn’t sleep around and blabber our trade secrets to the first Russian spy she takes a fancy to.”
“Tight as a banker’s purse, that one,” he says, some of the Armstrong gleam returning to his eyes. “She should loosen up a bit. At least once.”
“Maybe you can work on that . . . assuming Ivanova doesn’t kill us.”
He nods, grim and determined once more. “What’s your plan once we top the escarpment?”
“Try to scare the ranodons off before the Russians capture them.”
“How?”
“Shots in the air, maybe?”
“When we shot at momma bird, she kept coming,” he notes.
“That was before she had chicks. Let’s hope that, with the flock to protect, she’ll prefer flying to fighting.”
“How are we gonna handle Lina? Shoot her?”
“Disabling her ship would be a good start,” I reply. “And then shoot her if we have to.”
“And her apelike friends?”
“We hold her hostage against their good behavior. All of them are completely devoted to their mistress, especially Nachtu.”
Armstrong shakes his head. “Poor saps. Homo sapiens should know better.”
“Ivanova has a bad effect on some people,” I say, and both of us remember a certain incident in St. Petersburg.
My cousin almost blushes. “Holding Lina hostage won’t work if we shoot her.”
“Then we improvise.”
Armstrong grins. “As usual.”
“As usual. Just make sure you don’t look into her eyes.”
“I don’t think her psi-powers are sight based.”
“No, but your libido is,” I reply. “She’s got enough advantages without you admiring her figure.”
“The ship’s throttling down,” he says, listening. “They must have found the roost.” He chambers a round in his carbine.
I switch the safeties off my 45s, keeping the weapons loose in their holsters. “Time to go.” I quickly hoist myself up to the lip of the escarpment; my cousin follows right behind.
The top of the plateau is a flat, rocky expanse one hundred meters wide. The only cover is a few dozen boulders and a smattering of twisted scrub. Ivanova’s ship hangs in the air on the far side, about four meters above the surface—its buoyancy envelope slackened for hovering, its steam engines whirring quietly on low power.
Colonel Pavlina Ivanova clings to the last rung of a chain ladder dangling from the side of the helioship. She’s staring at something in a thicket nearby, concentrating her entire attention on a single point: the ranodons, which have bedded down for the night amid the greenery.
The flock, eleven plus the mother, are giving Ivanova their undivided attention. Their feathered reptilian bodies are tense, and murder lurks behind their yellow eyes, but each beast remains fixated on the Russian, rapt in her psychic power. Damn! In another moment, they’ll be hers. My mind flashes back to the Pyrenees, and how close I came to saving that band of Neanderthals, all of whom are now in the Russian’s thrall.
She’s brought all three of the ape-men with her. Each is dressed in a black Special Services uniform. They stand on the plateau in a rough triangle, guarding their boss. Two, including Nachtu, have their Thompson submachine guns trained on the pterosaurs—in case Ivanova’s hypnotic powers don’t work—but one is watching the colonel’s back. He spots us immediately and doesn’t wait for her order to open fire.
Armstrong dives right and I dive left, avoiding the deadly spray of bullets. Both of us take shelter behind boulders near the plateau’s edge. Armstrong returns fire, felling the first of the ape-men. A twinge of guilt rushes up my spine, and I hope—just for a moment—that my cousin hasn’t killed him. But before the thought can fully form, the other two turn and begin strafing the area.
“Nyet!” Ivanova commands. “Stop!” But, with her psi-powers focused on the ranodons, the Neanderthals aren’t listening. And the moment her attention wavers, the ranodons snap at her hungrily.
Overcoming my guilt, I fire back at the ape-men, along with my cousin. Nachtu keeps Armstrong pinned down with an erratic volley of shells. The other, perhaps having heard Ivanova after all, rushes toward my hiding place. I manage to wing him, and he drops his Thompson as he comes in. Like a charging rhino, he slams his considerable bulk into the shoulder-high boulder I’m crouching behind.
The rock shudders and skids, ramming into my body as the Neanderthal pushes both me and the boulder toward the edge of the cliff. I try to shoot him, but the moving rock totters between us, spoiling my aim. The Neanderthal’s powerful muscles force me back, and my feet can’t find the purchase to stop his advance.
I drop my 45s and grab for the cliff as he forces me over the edge. Pain shoots up my arms as the rocky ledge scrapes the skin from my fingers, but I catch hold. The brute smiles a crooked smile and keeps pushing, looking to drop the boulder on top of me.
I try to sidle sideways, feet dangling in thin air, but I know I’m not going to make it. The rock will either crush my fingers or carry me to the jungle floor below, or both.
“CC!” someone shouts from below, and I realize that Zoe is still making her way to the top—but she’s too far away to do me any good. I glance over my shoulder, thinking that maybe I can drop down to safety, but the ledge Armstrong and I ascended is too far to my right. The only thing that will stop my fall is the jungle floor—hundreds of feet below.
Desperately, I heave myself up onto the edge of the boulder as the Neanderthal pushes. Spiderlike, I cling to the rock as it protrudes over the cliff face, knowing that I’ve bought myself only few scant seconds of life.
The Neanderthal laughs and reels back for a final shove. But as he does, a shot echoes through the humid air. The brute staggers, blood gushing from his mouth, and falls heavily against the rock. It shudders, but does not go over the edge. Then the wounded Neanderthal is slipping past me, making one final grab for my leg as he pitches over the cliff.
I scramble atop the boulder and out of his reach; he doesn’t even scream as he falls to his death—one more lost member of his dying race. The boulder finally overbalances, and as it falls, I spring, crashing down atop the plateau.
I land in direct sight of the remaining Neanderthal—Nachtu. Unlike the one who just fell, he’s blocked from Armstrong’s fire by another boulder. Unfortunately, I’m right in the head ape-man’s line of fire. A look of delight crosses Nachtu’s brutish face as he swings his Thompson submachine gun toward me.
“Hey!” Armstrong calls, stepping from concealment and into the line of fire. Now he’s in peril, too, and he still doesn’t have a shot at Nachtu. For a moment, I fear my cousin has doomed us both. Then I notice that he’s not aiming at Nachtu; he’s actually drawing a bead on Ivanova, who’s still staring down the ranodons.
The blindly loyal ape-man throws himself into the line of fire just as Armstrong pulls the trigger. Nachtu falls, saving his evil mistress, as I scramble to my cousin’s side.
“Li
na!” Ray calls to the Russian. “Get back on your ship and fly out of here, before I’m forced to do something we’ll both regret.”
Colonel Pavlina Ivanova turns her steely gaze towards us and smiles. “I do not think you will do that, Mr. Armstrong,” she says.
“Why not?” Armstrong replies, his finger tightening on the carbine’s trigger.
“For one, because my new friends would not like it,” she replies. As she speaks, the ranodons squawk and flap agitatedly. “And for another . . .”
Ivanova’s blue-gray eyes seem to blaze with the light of the setting sun, and—for some reason I can’t fathom—I begin to feel dizzy. Beside me, Armstrong sways as well.
“. . . I do not believe that you actually want to shoot me.” Ivanova finishes with a smile. “I believe you would rather shoot . . . someone else.”
“I—” Armstrong begins. His aim remains fixed on Ivanova, but his eyes flash toward me, and in them there is murder.
“Ray!” I blurt, unable to move. “Don’t look at her! Remember what I said!”
“I—” he begins again, but he can’t seem to break Ivanova’s hold on his mind. Slowly, he starts to swing the gun from her, toward me.
“Ray, no!” I scream. The Russian’s spell over me breaks, and I lunge for him. At the last instant, he swings his gun away from me and fires.
Ivanova winces, but—luckily for her—my cousin hasn’t completely escaped her thrall. Instead, his bullet rips into the helioship’s gas bag. Unbalanced and with no one at the helm to right her, the ship veers to port and lurches toward the ground.
Anger flashes in Ivanova’s eyes; Armstrong relaxes as the Russian loses her psychic grip on him.
Before he can turn the carbine on her, though, she screams, “Get him!”
Instantly, the ranodons take flight, the air filling with teeth, talons, and feathery bat-like wings.
“Sorry, Cuz,” Armstrong says. And before I can react, he shoves me away from him, deep into a thicket. The ranodons swarm toward my cousin like a school of hungry piranha.
