He survived, but would forever carry the scars of his own brutal creation.
“I say, John Barrymore, are you quite all right?” Doc rumbled in concern, studying the trembling man. “You seem rather pale.”
“Catch round?” Jak demanded, checking the man’s clothing for any signs of blood.
“Worse,” J.B. mumbled, then leaned over the top rope of the woven basket and proceeded to lose everything he’d recently consumed. Jammed next to the man, the others did their best to ignore the event and give him some privacy. Luckily, he was standing downwind of them at the rear of the basket.
After a few minutes J.B. lifted his face, a string of spittle hanging from his slack lips. “Dark night,” he gasped. “What the hell is wrong with me, rad poisoning?”
“Nonsense,” Mildred chided, placing a palm on his forehead, then checking his pulse. “You’re not dying, John. It’s just airsickness. The adrenaline rush of battle must have held it off until you relaxed. This happens to a lot of people.”
“Not me,” Dean announced, deeply breathing in the clean salty air. “Hey, look over there! It’s a whale!”
“Shut up,” J.B. muttered weakly, then started retching again. As a kid he had envied the birds in flight, sailing effortlessly over the deserts and rad craters. Never again.
When he was eventually finished, Mildred fumbled in her med kit to extract a small battered tin canteen. “Here, try this.”
Hawking and spitting to clear his mouth, J.B. took the canteen and drank a healthy swig of the contents in the canteen. The Armorer waited nervously to see if his churning stomach would keep the fluid, then greedily drank some more.
“What was that?” J.B. asked, passing back the container. He felt much better, his stomach calm and steady as if they were back on firm ground.
“Some of my jump juice,” she replied, screwing the cap on tight. Half the precious contents were gone, but this was what she had made it for. “I figured that if it helps with the nausea we get taking a jump in a mat-trans chamber, it should work for air-sickness, too. Did it?”
“Some,” he muttered hesitantly, then stood a bit straighter and slid on his glasses. “Yeah, it did. Thanks, Millie.”
“Any time, John.” She smiled, closing the straps on her med kit. This mix promised to be her best batch yet. Boiled tobacco leaves, menthol cough drops, honey, mint leaves and whiskey. Maybe she had finally found the right combination to keep them from puking out their guts after a bad jump. Some were easy as a nap in bed, but others were pure hell with nightmares and physical sickness.
“We’ve attracted attention,” Ryan said, pointing with his H&K autoblaster.
Large birds with tremendous wingspans were starting to circle the cluster of balloons. The shadows of the clouds blocking the moon disguised their features until one flew close and Ryan saw it was a condor. Exactly the same as the giant muties that attacked them on Spider Island. Doc said they were normally that size, but Ryan didn’t believe it. The triple-damn things were too fast and strong. Intelligent killing machines.
“Here they come!” Krysty shouted, pumping a round at the winged giants.
But instead of heading for the companions, the flock of condors dived straight for the cluster of weather balloons, clawing and pecking at them. The resilient plastic netting resisted their attacks, and the balloons themselves, designed to survive the worst tropical weather, proved too tough.
Defending their territory, the enraged flock now circled the cluster of balloons, screaming a challenge. A small condor dived straight through the ropes, its talons extended to rip apart the soft human flesh. The companions opened fire in unison, the barrage of lead blowing holes through the wings and forcing it back. Only wounded, the mutie charged again while another appeared, walking along the ropes with its claws, and dropped into the rope basket.
As the first dived into the ropes, the bird caught a wingtip in the complex rigging. With a gesture, a knife slid from Jak’s sleeve into his waiting hand and he stabbed upward, slit open its belly, then blew off its head with the .357 Magnum blaster.
Caught reloading his blaster, Doc slapped the second bird with the long barrel of his weapon, shattering its hard beak, then, while the creature was momentarily stunned, he tossed it overboard.
Leaving a contrail of blood, the condor struggled to spread its wings and catch the wind, but the bird plummeted straight down onto the sharp rock spurs, where it burst apart in a gory spray of guts and feathers.
Cawing in rage, a condor sailed under the basket to land on the pallet, its claws clinging tightly to the plastic. Shoving the barrel of the Steyr through the open spaces in the flooring, Ryan fired the longblaster at point-blank range and the bird exploded in a spray of feathers. But the corpse stayed there, the claws locked tight in death.
Using three rounds, Mildred took out a condor flying by, Krysty got another, Dean missed twice, then J.B. triggered the shotgun and two more were ripped apart by the ferocious blast of stainless-steel fléchette rounds. Moving hastily away from the Pegasus, the remaining flock whirled about, screaming in rage. Then they started to fly away, returning beaten to their nests in the rocky crags of the congealed lava flow.
Curiously, there was a flash of light from a cliff at the very end of the peninsula, and a high-pitched whistle sounded from the oceanic rocks as something streaked toward the Pegasus on a skylark tail of fire. The invisible object slammed directly into a condor and violently detonated, the concussion rocking the rope basket with savage force.
“Firebird!” Ryan growled, firing his weapon blindly down into the dimly seen distance. It had to be Mitchum. He had to make the sec man duck for cover, or else they’d be blown out of the sky!
“More coming,” Jak said, coolly aiming his .357 Magnum blaster at the fiery exhaust of the rockets and carefully squeezing off shots. If they hit, there was no reaction.
Dropping her revolver, Krysty yanked out the Veri pistol, thanking the forces of the universe that she had reloaded. Holding the signal device in a two-handed grip, she held her breath and forced everything else from her mind but the approaching Firebird. The trajectory was impossible; the Firebird was arching up from the ground, the balloon rising and drifting away, plus the wind was blowing in gusts, not a steady breeze. There had never been worse conditions for a shot, and they had only a half-dozen flares.
Gently, she squeezed the trigger, and the colorful blue flare streaked toward an empty patch of sky. A split second later, the Firebird rose to meet the wad of burning magnesium and violently detonated.
A couple of .50 cal machine guns began to chatter from the darkness, then another Firebird launched. The fiery back-blast silhouetted the sec men and Hummers parked on the approaching cliff in stark clarity.
While the others maintained a steady fusillade at the war wags, Dean took Krysty’s empty weapon and passed her the second flare gun, loaded and ready. Sweat trickling down her face, Krysty shot at the second rocket and made a hit. But then three Firebirds rose from the cliff, with two more close behind.
J.B. triggered the Uzi on full-auto, throwing flame at the receding sec men. As her H&K blaster clicked empty, Mildred grabbed a reloaded Veri pistol from Dean and shot off a flare. The sizzling green round punched through the leading rocket, making it explode, the blast damaging the Firebird alongside and throwing the rocket wildly
