Clouds slid in over the desert. They concealed the moon one moment only to reveal it the next. During the brief interludes when the satellite was visible it threw light down onto the monorail, which gleamed like platinum and seemed to streak through the night. Most of the passengers had fallen asleep by then, not because they were especially tired, but because there was nothing else for them to do. There were exceptions, however, including the angens, which continued to plod along both sides of the track, the driver who sought to keep them moving, and the soldiers who sat slumped in their gun tubs.
Farther toward the rear, with his back supported by a crate, Rebo floated in the nowhere land that lies between full awareness and sleep. The gentle sway of the flatcar, the creak of wood, and an occasional click as the Zephyr passed over an expansion joint combined to take the runner back to his boyhood on Thara. He could feel the subtle roll of his father’s fishing boat as it surged forward, hear the gurgle of water as it slid along the hull, and smell the sharp tang of the sea.
He would have been about ten then, back when life was good, before the storm took half the local fishing fleet, the family boat, his father, and both of his brothers. His mother had never been the same after that, working as a maid during the day and crying herself to sleep at night. The other villagers assumed little Jak would become a fisherman when he grew up and serve on someone else’s boat, but his mother had other ideas. She saved every gunar she could to buy Jak a different future. Anything but the profession that had claimed her husband and two oldest sons.
There weren’t many opportunities in the village of Lorval, and as time passed, Jak’s mother began to feel a sense of hopelessness. But that changed one day when a stranger appeared at the inn where she worked. The stranger was a runner with a letter for those who lived in the big house up on the bluff, and he was a sight to see. Thomas Crowley stood six-six, had long gray hair and piercing green eyes. His skin had a strange pallor, as if it was rarely exposed to the sun, but the man seemed to radiate an inner strength. Rather than carouse with the regulars while he waited for his wealthy clients to compose a response to the letter he had brought, the runner preferred to read books via a small machine that he held cradled in his hands.
From the first moment that she saw him Torley Rebo knew Crowley was the man who could save her son from what she saw as certain death, and immediately went to work on him. For the next three days the runner received every attention that the maid could lavish on him, and could easily have taken her to bed, had that been his desire.
But unknown to Torley Rebo, or to anyone else for that matter, it had been many months since the runner had been interested in sex. He was ill, and not only had the nature of his disease robbed the off-worlder of his sex drive, it resulted in persistent abdominal pain and a dry, hacking cough.
Rebo remembered the morning when his mother had given him an unscheduled bath, dressed him in his very best clothes, and taken him to work with her. Then, having entered the inn via the hot steamy kitchen, Torley Rebo led her son up through a tight, winding staircase to the second floor. The runner occupied the best room the inn had to offer, and their shoes made a clacking sound as the two of them walked the length of the hall and paused in front of a heavily varnished door. That was when Torley patted her hair, checked to make sure that her son’s jacket was straight, and rapped on the worn wood.
Rebo heard a muffled cough, followed by a hoarse “Come in!” and wondered what his mother was up to. The door swung open, he was nudged inside, and soon found himself standing in front of a man with a long, serious face. A handgun, a glass of wine, and a small machine lay on the table next to him.
The boy hadn’t understood much of the ensuing conversation, only that it involved him in some important way, but remembered how profusely his mother thanked the tall man even as she handed him a purse full of coins. Then, turning to him, she had smiled. Strange really, considering the tears that ran down her cheeks, and the emotion in her voice. “This is Citizen Crowley, son. He’s a runner—and you are to be his apprentice! Isn’t that wonderful?”
The younger Rebo nodded dutifully, wondered what runners did, and felt a hard lump form in the pit of his stomach. Two days later he said good-bye to his mother, boarded a coach, and began his new life. He hadn’t been back to Thara since.
Now, as the train murmured along the track, the runner was going home. Or hoped that he was. Was his mother alive? Had the village changed? Only time would tell. Memories morphed into dreams, and Rebo slept.
Enormous wings made a gentle whuf! whuf! whuf! sound as the two variants closed with the train. Although the darkness offered concealment, the cool night air forced the wings to exert themselves in order to maintain their altitude, and chilled their thin, nearly unprotected bodies. That, plus the fact that the two-car train was in motion, meant that the snatch would be difficult. But even as the air around him acted to slow Karth down, it also provided his wings with lift, a paradox he had once captured in a poem.
But this was no time to consider the gentler arts as the bandit closed the gap with the second flatcar and searched the blackness below for the beacon that was supposed to mark his target. The variant didn’t see it at first, and was just about to conclude that the black hats had been unable to tag the boy, when he saw a patch of green luminescence. The substance that produced the telltale glow had been sprayed onto the youth’s pack as he boarded the train. It was invisible to anyone not equipped with goggles like those the variants wore.
A quick glance to the variant’s right, and a gesture from Zota, was sufficient to confirm that his companion had seen the beacon as well. Their wings beat faster, and the bandits picked up speed as they dived through the darkness. Then, just as their leathery arm flaps flared, all hell broke loose.
Norr “sensed” that something bad was about to happen, shouted Rebo’s name, and came to her feet just as the variants took hold of Lee’s arms. The boy had been asleep. He yelled and struggled wildly as enormous wings beat the air and lifted his body clear of the car. Although the bandits had been able avoid the sail on the way down, the boom that it was attached to chose that particular moment to swing across the flatcar and struck Zota. The wing began to lose his grip, Lee started to fall, and saw Norr reach up to grab him. But Karth was strong enough to support the youngster long enough for the other bandit to reestablish his grip.
Then, wings beating to the same rhythm, the variants bore their kicking-screaming burden toward the south. They didn’t plan to fly far, just a mile or so, to the point where other members of their tribe waited with a group of desert-bred angens. But they were barely clear of the Zephyr when one of the machine guns opened up, and Rebo yelled at the gunner. “Cease fire, damn you! They have the boy!”
The noncom shouted an order, the machine gun fell silent, and chaos reigned as the newly aroused passengers waved weapons and peppered each other with questions. Not knowing what might lie up ahead, and fearful of an ambush, the driver pulled back on his reins. The angens came to a confused halt, squalled loudly, and nipped at each other. Rebo jumped from car two to car one, and from there to the platform that ran parallel to the rail. Norr followed behind him. The runner figured that maybe, just maybe, something would break his way.
The fingers that dug into the flesh of Lee’s upper arms were like iron, and in spite of all his struggles the boy had been unable to break their relentless grip. However, by turning his head just so, the youngster found that he could see exposed flesh. He sank his teeth into a leathery hand, heard one of the variants swear, and felt the wing let go. Zota tried to support the boy’s weight, couldn’t, and lost his grip as well.
It wasn’t until Lee began to fall that he realized how stupid he’d been. How high was he? Ten feet? A hundred? There was barely enough time to wonder before the youngster hit the top of a dune, had the breath knocked out of his lungs, and tumbled down the side of a sandy slope.
Karth was angry by then and hopeful that the boy would die as a result
of the fall. Then all they would have to carry was the little beggar’s head. A lighter burden by far, and given the way his hand hurt, a task that he would relish. But how to locate the little bastard in inky blackness below? No sooner had the variant posed the question to himself than the moon emerged from behind a bank of clouds, and Zota pointed toward the ground. “There! Do you see the glow? We’ve got him!”
Karth circled, spotted the target, and began his descent.
Rebo welcomed the additional light as the moon emerged from behind the clouds and paused to scan the night sky. “Look!” Norr shouted. “Can you see them? They’re silhouetted against the stars.”
The runner could see them, two variants, circling an area ahead. But where was Lee? There was no sign of the youth dangling between variants, which seemed to suggest that the bandits had dropped him. Rebo felt a surge of anger, brought the long-barreled Hogger up, and fired in one smooth motion.
Karth heard Zota grunt, followed by the flat report of a large-caliber weapon. There was nothing the wing could do as his companion lost motor control, rolled over onto his back, and spiraled into the ground.
The second bullet, which arrived a few moments later, passed through the bandit’s left wing but didn’t hit any of his delicate bones. One of the Zephyr’s machine guns opened up at that point, filling the air with projectiles, making it impossible to land near Zota.
That meant the variant was forced to dive down into the protection of the dunes and follow a zigzag course out of the area. There would be no second payment, only the screams of Zota’s bereaved mate and a symbolic death pyre high on a mountain crag. But the train? That was a different story. The train went where the track went, and like it or not, the Zephyr would have to go over Hyber Pass. And that was where it would be destroyed.
After Rebo and Norr had recovered Lee from where he had fallen, the next few days passed slowly for those on the train. Although the passengers were aware of the dangers inherent in the trip between Gos and Tra, the attack made their worst fears real and put everyone on edge. Laughter was seldom heard, people hugged their weapons like lovers, and the desert gradually surrendered to hardpan as mountains loomed ahead.
Strangely, from Norr’s perspective at least, some of her fellow passengers seemed to blame Lee for the impending battle. Some had even gone so far as to suggest that, had the first variants been permitted to escape with their prize, the train might have been allowed to transit Hyber Pass untouched, a theory that was patently absurd.
Still, that was the situation that forced one of the two adults to remain awake at all times lest one of their traveling companions grab the boy and pitch him off the train in a misguided attempt to placate the wings.
As for their part, two or three of the airborne variants were always visible during daylight hours, riding the thermals well beyond rifle range, waiting for the angens to drag the Zephyr up into the heights. Rebo kept an eye on the airborne bandits for a while before turning his binoculars to the south and scanning the pass itself. Thanks to the long, gradual approach that led up to the crossing, it had been used for thousands of years before the monorail had been constructed and continued to be important millennia later.
The remains of an ancient fortress guarded the left side of the shining rail. Only one section of its crenellated walls remained standing, while what appeared to be a newer structure sat to the right, its once brightly painted dome having faded to a powder blue. A dark zigzag crack cut down across the gently curved surface to meet the boxy walls on which the roof rested. The barriers built to protect the structure had crumbled, or been blown apart, and lay in weathered heaps. None of which was especially remarkable, except for a momentary flash of bright green, which disappeared as the flatcar jumped an expansion joint and the binoculars came off their target. Rebo was about to bring his glasses back and reacquire the image when he heard a shout. “Look! The wings are coming!”
The runner swiveled to his left, spotted a grouping of dark specks, and swore softly. There were at least three dozen of the airborne bandits, more than enough to overwhelm the train, especially if other variants were already hidden toward the top of the pass.
Then came the distant pop! pop! pop! of what sounded like black powder muskets followed by what might have been shouting. Rebo turned back toward the pass, located the patch of green that he’d noticed before, and realized that it was just one of half a dozen brightly colored flags. Puffs of smoke could seen as the people on top of the pass fired a volley down into the rocks below. Fire sleeted back upward a few moments later, but was largely ineffective, and stopped when a dozen variants emerged from hiding to take to the air. More shots were fired, one of the wings seemed to pause in midair, then spiraled toward the ground below.
“Look!” Norr said from a position next to the runner’s elbow. “The wings turned back!”
Rebo turned once again and saw that the sensitive was correct. With their ambush ruined, and confronted with unexpectedly strong opposition, the variants had called it a day. The train was a scene of wild jubilation as fear gave way to joy, the passengers waved their unfired weapons, hugged each other, and shouted insults at the distant wings.
Though pleased with the recent turn of events, the runner remained cautious as the angens labored up the long slope, and entered the broad U-shaped pass. It had been his experience that when someone fires on a mutual enemy it doesn’t necessarily mean that they will become a friend.
But any doubts the runner had vanished as a horn was heard, drums rattled, and hundreds of friendly-looking people came to greet them. There were men, women, and children. And all, with the exception of the Shah’s lancers, were dressed in red. They waved gaily, shouted greetings to the people on the train, and were clearly in a jubilant mood. Lee, his eyes huge, tugged at Rebo’s sleeve. “Do you see how the people are dressed? They belong to the red hat sect!”
The runner eyed the crowd, confirmed that nearly all of them wore red clothing, and frowned. “You’re sure?”
“Yes!” Lee answered excitedly. “I’m sure!”
“But why?” Norr put in. “Why would so many people walk all the way up here?”
There was no answer as the driver shouted an order, the angens came to a stop, and a man crossed the short causeway that extended out from the ancient fortress. He was tall, thin, and wore a pair of thick glasses. “Greetings. My name is Brother Larkas. Welcome to what was once the temple of TasTas. We are about to break a five-day fast, and you are welcome to join us.”
“Thank you,” Norr said, stepping forward to meet the monk. “I’m sure I speak for all of my fellow passengers when I say that it’s wonderful to see you. May I ask what brings you and your adherents all the way up to the top of the pass?”
“Of course,” the monk answered agreeably. “We are here to celebrate the moment when the great teacher Nom Maa paused here to rest. When the Divine Wind founded the temple he promised to return on the 262nd day of the year. So, having no way to know which year the great one had in mind, we return each year to greet him. Then, once the ceremonies are complete, we return to Tra.”
Rebo looked at Norr, and she looked at Lee, who spoke before either one of the adults could intervene. The words were in Tilisi. “Greetings, elder brother. I believe it was Nom Maa who said that ‘life is a journey during which each traveler must seek to learn, taking knowledge where he or she may find it, even from the silence of the stones.’ ”
The runner didn’t know what the youngster had said, only that the red hat monk looked thunderstruck, and that a vast hush had fallen over the crowd. “Who are you?” Larkas demanded, all color having drained from his face.
“What did he say?” Rebo demanded.
“He wants to know who I am,” Lee replied matter-of-factly. Then, careful to speak standard rather than Tilisi, the boy answered. “They call me Dor.”
The monk’s eyebrows rose, as if he had expected a different answer, and he looked at Rebo. “Is this young man your son?”
The runner nodded.
“Good,” the red hat replied. “Please follow me.”
Rebo looked at Norr. She shrugged noncommittally and took Lee’s hand. The crowd parted to let the threesome pass, and the train’s passengers watched in mute astonishment as the man, woman, and little boy followed Larkas across the causeway. From there it was a short walk up a zigzag path to the base of the temple and a slab of highly polished granite. The monument was surrounded by a border made out of slightly wilted flowers, and it appeared as if the stone’s surface had been cleaned and polished. “There!” the monk said triumphantly, as he pointed at the marker. “What does that say?”
The inscription was in standard, which meant that Rebo could read it, and proceeded to do so. “Life is a journey during which each traveler must seek to learn, taking knowledge where he or she may find it, even from the silence of the stones.”
“So?” the runner inquired. “What’s the big deal?”
“It’s the same quote I used by way of a greeting,” Lee replied, his voice uncertain. “Nom Maa was father to many sayings. It’s a coincidence—nothing more.”
It seemed that Larkas thought differently however, because the monk turned to address the crowd, and his voice carried a long way in the mountain air. “It’s him!” The holy man proclaimed. “The Divine Wind has returned!”
There was a moment of silence as the throng processed what the monk had said. That was followed by a loud hiss as the entire crowd drew a deep breath and let loose shrieks of joy. Rebo heard shouts of “God be praised!” and was helpless to intervene as the multitude surged forward to surround Lee. There was a moment of chaos as people attempted to touch the boy, followed by a loud report as the runner fired a shot into the air, and Larkas joined the fray. The monk could be something of a bully when he needed to be, and a series of brusk commands, along with a flurry of well-aimed blows brought the mob under control.
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