Copyright 1995 by M. H. Glenn.
BAM-BAM-BAM!
". . . ."
BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!
"Mrrrf?"
BAM-BAM-BAM! "OPEN UP, MIKE! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE! DON'T YOU GO MAKE ME GET THE KEY!!"
"Mrr-fkrrr. . . ."
BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!
BAM-BAM-
Click.
The door slowly swung open to reveal Marv's ugly face. "Mike! Just where the hell have you been?" He muscled his stocky frame past the door and into the room. "I've been callin' over here for--Good God, are YOU a mess! Just what in the devil have you gotten yourself into now?"
"Urrr. . . ."
"Dammit, are you drunk? Shit if you ain't. Well, get yourself cleaned up, 'cause we need you to get your ass on up to.... Ohhh, no! Don't you go climbin' back into that bed on ME!"
Scattering empty whiskey bottles with his combat boots, Marv stomped forward, grabbed me by the arm, and hauled me to my feet. "What YOU need is a little pick-me-up. C'mon, don't you go make me do all the work! Tha-at's right; left foot, right foot. Now why don't you just stand right there for a moment while I turn this on. . . ."
Squeeek! Whoooosh!
"RHAAAAAAAHRRRR!!!"
Marv turned and clumped his way out of my tiny bathroom. "Now, don't you go away, at least not till I find you serviceable clothes. . . . You DO have somethin' clean around here?"
"HSSSSSS!!!"
"And I love you too. Good God, this place is a pig sty. . . ."
I coughed, spluttered, then sighed and bowed my long neck, letting the icy water cascade across my metallic scales. I stared for a moment at my forepaws where they pressed against the shower wall, then down further to the ruined pair of boxer shorts that now hung in rags from my draconic hips.
Marvin. Marvelous Marv. Together he and I ran the maintenance office for this nuthouse, though he had seniority. Best guy I ever worked for, even if I sometimes wanted to kill him. Like right now. . . .
"You sober in there, yet?"
A pause while I got my act together, then I answered, this time in my human voice. ". . . .Yeah."
"You gonna go crawlin' back into that bed on me?"
". . . .No."
"Good." There was a thump, then a towel landed on my head. "You can come on out when you're presentable."
I eventually came stumbling out of the bathroom, to find Marv tossing bottles into the wastebasket. He glared at me. "Just what the hell is goin' on here, Mike? I come back from up north to find most of the hangar roof missing and six inches of water on the floor, the office empty, nobody knowin' what to do, and you on a four-day bender." As he stared into my numb face, though, his gaze softened. "Damn." He grabbed my arm and guided me into my desk chair.
"You look like someone just shot your best dog. What's up with you?"
I stared at him for long moments, my mouth opening, then closing. Finally I sighed and shook my head. "It doesn't concern you, Marv."
"Like hell it don't! My number-one man suddenly goes to hell in a handbasket, I make it my business! Now what the devil's wrong?"
Marvin, your "number-one man" is actually a multi-ton, winged, fire-breathing dragon who just had his mate's throat torn out by a rival. "Marv, please. I can't. Not right now."
Marv's face darkened. "Uh-huh. You in some kind of trouble?"
I shook my head and stared at my hands. "No. Nothing like that."
There was a long pause, during which I felt his eyes boring into me. "Well, I ain't got the time to dig it out of you just now, but don't you think this is over. Get your boots on and meet me downstairs: The CO wants to talk to you."
I nodded, still studying my hands as I heard him clump toward the door. "Hey, Mike?"
I looked up, to see him in the doorway, looking back.
"When you feel like talking, you know where I'm at."
I felt like crying. "Yeah. Thanks, Marv."
For long moments I stared at the closed door, then I slumped and nursed my throbbing head. God, I felt so tired. . . . So very tired. All I wanted to do was sleep. . . .
A wave of gut-wrenching sadness and blackest despair suddenly threatened to drown me. I turned and pulled open the center drawer in my tiny desk, then stared down at the two rag-wrapped bundles resting within. I picked up and unwrapped the first, to reveal a crumbling piece of blue-grey eggshell. Gently, I stroked my fingers across the shard's smooth surface. My child, whom I'll never know; what do I do now? I'm so damned tired, and I miss you, all of you, so very much. . . .
I stared at the fragment for long minutes, then set it aside as I turned to look at the other bundle. Slowly I unfolded the cloth to expose what lay inside. A long pause as I studied it, then I gripped the Beretta 92S and lifted it free, letting the light glint from its grim lines as I sat there, feeling its cool metal and deadly weight. Then I felt my face twist in disgust. With sharp, savage motions I popped the clip and cleared the weapon's chamber, then caught up the magazine and stripped out its single round.
. . . .Maybe later.
There was a short briefing by the commander, then a quick trip to Admin for my travel packet. Less than four hours later, I was headed for Miami and a highly unpleasant evening. The following morning I was once again at Miami Airport, getting stuffed into a L-1011 along with several hundred chattering tourists bound for the British West Indies.
I caught a glimpse of my destination just before the plane landed--a tiny sliver of an island that I would have sworn would sink under the aircraft's weight, surrounded by the standard-issue baby-blue tropical waters and white coral beaches. After the usual mad scramble for baggage, I was met in the custom's shed by two of my people. They were trying their best to look like tourists, but not succeeding very well.
A brief handshake. "Sergeant? Glad to have you here. The truck's out back."
Five minutes later, we were bouncing along the island's main drag in a curious open-topped jeep-like contraption. Along the way, I had the island's points of interest, mostly bars, pointed out to me. Another fifteen minutes and we were at the other end of the island, and at our hotel. After I received the key to my room, I turned to the dark, heavyset member of our trio. "Walker, where's Mac?"
Walker looked uncomfortable. "Um, dunno. He wasn't around when we went to pick you up, so we left without him."
I looked at Ortega, the question in my eyes. He shrugged. "Beats me. We hardly ever see him around."
"I see. Well. Where's Ops?"
Operations turned out to be squirreled into a tiny suite in the hotel's remotest wing. I walked through the entrance, and into an overturned anthill.
Ops was crammed with people, all talking at the same time. Various maps, charts, graphs, memos and what-have-you festooned the once-clean walls, and stacked commo gear chattered away maniacally in the corner.
I blinked, rocked back on my heels by the sheer noise. Then, before I could get my bearings, something resembling a mangy grizzly bear in a striped shirt suddenly bulldozed its way through the crowd and headed straight for me.
"Mike! Dammit, man, are you a sight for sore eyes!" The apparition grabbed my hand in a grip like a hydraulic press and pumped it. It was Austin, my senior Airframe and Powerplant mech, smelling of kerosene, old beer, and older sweat. "You got the stuff?"
I blinked again. "Well, um, it depends on what 'stuff' we're talking about. You mean the mail? It's in that big bag over. . . ."
I trailed off at the look of alarm that spread over his worn face. "No! No! The T5 harness! Did you bring it?" My blank look told him all he needed. "Dammit! I told Mac we needed that thing pronto! That Number-Three engine rig isn't gonna hold up much longer. . . . Didn't he call you before you left?"
"No," I answered slowly. "When did you tell Mac that you needed another T5?"
Austin ran dirty fingernails across his scraggly scalp. "Jeez. It must've been three, no, four days, now. You sure you don't have it?"
"No, Austin, but we'll get it, even if Mac has to swim for it. Now, have you seen Mac?" Austin scowled and shook his head disgustedly. I turned to some of the others. "Bennet! Anderson! Kemp! Any of you seen Mac?"
The three I'd named looked at me, then at each other for an awkward moment.
Finally Kemp spoke up. "I think he's down on the beach, somewhere."
"Down on the beach."
"Yeah. Collecting seashells. He does it every day."
"Collecting seashells," I repeated slowly, a cold anger beginning to form. "I see." I turned to my mech. "Austin. Since my representative isn't here to brief me, I'm afraid that you're going to have to help me get situated."
Austin shrugged. "Sure. Come down to the bar, and I'll buy you a drink."
Damn, but I was gonna need that drink. Anything that could possibly be screwed up. . . . Austin gave me the whole sad story. Fuel problems. Storage. Security. Parts. And the man I'd stationed here to handle such things, out hunting seashells.
I sighed, rubbing my eyes. Now I knew why the CO wanted me here. "Okay, Austin. Our first priority is getting the parts you need. You have any contacts at the airport?"
He thought for a moment. "Well, I've gotten pretty chummy with the folks in Customs. Think they can point someone out to us?"
"I hope so." I looked down into my drink, then finished it off. "Well. Soon as we get the morning flight up, Austin, you and I are going to go down to the terminal and get sociable."
Mac finally showed up late that night, in swim trunks, sandals, and carrying a bag full of conch shells. I relieved him on the spot and sent him packing. He'd be off the island on the next flight out.
The next two weeks were furiously busy. A six-pack got us into the good graces of the Customs crew; they, in turn, guided us to an old British expatriate who ran a tiny, island-hopping airline out of the area.
A polite visit, followed by honest-to-God afternoon tea the next day, and we'd solved the storage problems. But transportation would require the blessings of the airline's financial officer, an aging, steely-eyed Prussian whom I met a day later. Fortunately, Friedrich turned out to be more than a little homesick. When I realized this and switched to German for the rest of our meeting, I ended with not only cargo space on his planes at a dollar a pound, but also an offer of at-cost flights up to Fort Lauderdale whenever I wanted.
As soon as Austin and I got back to the hotel, I grabbed the phone and called up to our shipping agent in Miami. A short time later I hung up and gave Austin a smug smile. By lunch the next day, he had his T5 harness. Fuel problems were solved with a few minutes conversation with a certain fat Jamaican who drove his own fuel truck. Ramp space, however, proved more difficult, eventually resulting in our taking over an old abandoned hangar riddled with termites and slated for the wrecking ball. I drafted the Operations crew for a couple afternoon's worth of fixing and cleaning it up. Finally, we had something that would hold together for the several months that we would need it.
Slowly, haltingly at first, The Machine started to work. Crew and maintenance schedules were coordinated, supplies were bench-stocked, fuel was pre-paid. Fewer and fewer problems cropped up, and I found myself with an ever-increasing amount of time on my hands.
That time weighed heavily on me, and I began to brood again. I started haunting the local bars, drinking just a little more each day. At night I flew.
. . . .Damned little scrap of a desert island; there's simply no room for a proper dragon. I circumnavigated the place on my first night, and other than an old abandoned radar station far out on the point, found little of interest.
With nothing better to do, I took over the old radar site, sharing it with an incredible number of tiny sand lizards that lived out in the surrounding scrub. They seemed to be equally astonished by the dragon suddenly thrust into their midst, and we spent many a night studying each other. After awhile, I began naming them.
Pretty soon, though, another problem started to crop up. Food. It takes a lot to keep a full-grown dragon going, and there was precious little to hunt on that little heap of sand. After awhile things became so bad that I began to think that I'd be forced to remain in human guise for the rest of the stay.
Fortunately for my sanity, around the end of the third week I discovered that the residents of a small Haitian village on the northwest side of the island were raising pigs, and I quickly began engaging in a little surreptitious night work. The damn things made an ungodly amount of noise, though, and were penned far too close to the settlement for safety, but damn it, I was hungry!
The first one I got away with. The second one, which I bagged two nights later, wasn't much of a problem, either. But number three managed to squirt free of my grasping talons and scoot off into the brush, squealing its bloody head off.
I hit the ground running, pounced, and managed to pin the frantically squirming creature beneath me as my talons tore out its life. Another moment's thrashing, then silence. I slowly stood up, panting and staring down at the mess I'd made. Then a slight noise had my head whipping around to see the terrified face of an old Haitian pig herder peering at me from the brush, the ancient double-barrel in his hands swinging UP. . . .
I flinched my eyes away as the weapon belched flame and a full load of buckshot whanged off my armored neck. I shook off the impact, then ROARED with rage, turning to rend the human. But he had already vanished back into the scrubby undergrowth, quickly losing me in the broken terrain. Frustrated, I lifted my head and tried to catch his scent, but the rising commotion from the nearby settlement told me that I'd already outstayed my welcome. Besides, I left my dinner back there. . . .
Meanwhile, things were continuing to improve on the human side. One of our more enterprising pilots had managed to get the folks over at the local Club Med resort to let us in for dinner every night. It cost twenty bucks a meal, but the sheer volume of food, and the free booze, was more than enough to quell any carping from the ranks.
Finally I decided to go take a look, and quickly realized that my food problems were solved. Not nearly as exciting as pouncing on a steer, but still, it was entertaining to watch the expressions of the surrounding diners as I polished off my sixth helping of steak tartare, washed down with the second bottle of wine. . . . This sorely-needed fuel didn't translate over to my draconic side nearly as well as I hoped, but it at least took a bit of the edge off.
It was on my second or third visit to the resort that I encountered Pasqual. She was running the little receptionist's counter that night, and I found her eyeing me as I paid her for my meal.
She smiled as she realized I'd caught her. "You are one of the military people?"
I hesitated, then smiled back. "Does it show that much?"
She cocked her head in an interesting manner and laughed quietly. "We do not get many fit, tanned young men with short haircuts here, mostly old people, or rich people's children. You have such a wonderful voice! So deep! Do you sing?"
I felt my smile grow wistful. "No, I'm afraid not." Not anymore.
"Oh! We must change that! Perhaps we could talk later? I dine in the room off to the right of the serving line. Perhaps you could join me?"
I finally placed her slight accent. French. In spite of myself, I found my curiosity piqued by the unusually forward female. "I don't see why not. See you a little later?"
"Oh, good!" She handed me my receipt. "Have a good meal."
I almost didn't show up at her table, but after several minutes of her company, I was glad I did. There is precious little that I can tell people about myself. The parts that aren't classified would get me quickly relegated to the nearest sanitarium, or zoo. So I talked about flying, as I always do, and was both surprised and pleased to find an eager audience.
Before I knew it, I realized that we were just about the only ones left in the room. She looked around and laughed. "I think I should return to my job. Could I ask you to come again tomorrow night?"
I looked into her face, and decided I liked her. I gave her my promise, then watched her as she left, studying her long, lean form, which moved with an almost serpentine grace. I came the next night. On the third night, I stayed over.
I awoke the next morning in her quarters, with my face wet and Pasqual looking down at me with concern. With a sinking feeling, I realized I'd been having nightmares again. . . .
Pasqual broke into my thoughts by squeezing my shoulder gently. "Who is she?"
I closed my eyes for a moment, then reopened them and sighed. "Was."
She winced at something she saw in my face, then laid her head on my arm. "Oh. Oh, Michael, I am so very sorry. . . ."
"Yeah." I slowly sat up in bed, rubbing my face with both hands. "So am I." I grimaced at myself and reached for my clothes. "I have to get back to work."
I heard a small sigh from behind me. ". . . .Will I see you tonight?"
I shrugged my shoulders as I dressed, avoiding her eyes. "Maybe. The work's been piling up lately . . . I don't know."
We said nothing more, and I left. I didn't go back; it was too soon. Maybe all eternity would be too soon. . . .
A few nights later I was winging my way to my little radar site cum aerie, Pasqual on my mind and a terrible loneliness in my heart. I sighed for the umpteenth time; a human named Richard Bach once said that a person gets used to being alone, but break it just for a day and you have to get used to it again, all over from the beginning. He was right. But damn it, it was too soon after my little couatl. . . .
My mind churning, I didn't recognize the scent of human presence until I'd landed in the site's dusty clearing. Instantly I hurled myself back aloft, but too late--a complicated pattern of thin, actinic lines of light suddenly decorated the dusty ground about me, and I smashed against something hard.
I fell back with a grunt of astonishment. What the HELL??? I lunged forward, slamming against an unseen barrier yet again. For several wild moments panic threatened to overwhelm me as I clawed ineffectually at . . . whatever it was, but slowly, doggedly, reason fought its way to the fore.
A long moment to catch my breath and get my bearings, then I was probing frantically at whatever enclosed me. Something was there, yet not--curving up over my head to enclose me in a dome-like structure, anchoring at the bottom in a complex pattern scratched into the dirt.
It was some sort of bizarre trap, and the strange, glowing lines were evidently the key. I tried to touch them, but the edge of the dome blocked me. I studied the lines; every time my eyes attempted to trace their pattern they seemed to blur and shift sickeningly, but I kept at it, finally managing to get a sense of some sort of giant . . . pentagram? The pentacle seemed to become a little easier to look at after I'd grasped its shape. The light, the patterns, they wormed their way into portions of my draconic mind I'd never used before, and I began to see things within it all. Lines of--juncture, I suppose . . . planes of interlocking forces. It was almost like some enormous circuitry diagram. The more I looked into it, the more I began to comprehend its strange logic, and the more I saw of the structure of what held me.
But it didn't do me any good; the arcane structure was set so it couldn't be taken down from the inside, and someone was approaching.
It was almost a disappointment, what finally came laboring up the rise. The thin old woman wore an equally thin grey dress of indeterminate shape that hung on her like rags on a scarecrow. Her dark, weather-beaten hands gripped that bulky, ugly kind of cane that Medicaid recipients get stuck with. She leaned upon it heavily as she struggled her way up the last few feet of slope to my prison.
Finally the ancient woman looked up. I stared into her worn face, into dark, burning eyes that stabbed at me like knives. All doubts as to the identity of my captor vanished in that instant.
For long minutes she stared at me as I crouched within my prison of nothingness. Then she spoke--harsh, demanding words in a language I did not understand. Haitian? Possibly. I didn't react, and she repeated her demand, only louder. When I remained motionless, she lifted the tip of her battered cane and did something to my cage.
The lines flared in response, and pain suddenly tore into me like a thousand enraged hornets. I flinched, then yowled like a scalded cat. It felt as if the scales were being torn from my body. Abruptly the pain stopped. Again she made her demand, and I snarled back.
The old Haitian woman was lifting her cane again when something seemed to occur to her. Her eyes narrowed and she asked another question, but more quietly. I growled in response.
She nodded, apparently satisfied, then busied herself with the tip of her cane, scraping more lines into the chalky dirt, adding to the pentagram. Minutes dragged past and I watched, helplessly, as the cane's tip scratched, drew, altered, each line filling with that same eye-hurting brilliance. Abruptly, the cane lifted and the point stabbed at me like a spear.
Again pain assailed me, but this time centered in my throat. I gagged, spittle drooling from my jaws as I strangled around the lump of agony suddenly lodged in my throat.
Slowly, grudgingly, the pain subsided into a dull discomfort. I coughed, then shook my head dazedly as I heard the crone once again ask her damnable question. My back arched as the lash was applied once more, and I spun to face her. That odd ache in the back of my throat surged. "GO TO--!" I jerked my head back with a gasp. I hesitated, then tried again. "Go to Hell!"
I could speak? Something my tormentor had done to the pentacle? The old woman blinked, seemingly almost as confused as myself. "English?" she muttered to herself with a heavy accent, but her words were perfectly clear. "Why English?"
I stared at her warily, and began to wonder at the limits of what this dried-out scrap of old meat was capable of. She seemed to shake herself out of something then, and looked at me again with those burning eyes. "I will have your name, demon."
I stared at her. All this merely for my name? Then she would not have it. She must have read my decision, somehow, because in the next instant another wave of searing pain slammed into me. "Your NAME, demon! What is your NAME?"
One moment it felt as if I were being flayed alive; the next as if I was boiling in oil. It went on and on. . . . Finally I couldn't take any more and I again raised my head to look into the witch's eyes. "My name is Hasai, meat, and I am a DRAGON!"
The pain cut off instantly to leave me panting in the dust as the witch stared at me, a look of almost-wonder coming to her face. "A dragon. A dragon? I had thought your kind to be no more." She stared at me silently for several long minutes, seeming to ponder something. Then she shrugged. "It does not matter. Put on the collar."
I blinked. The what? The witch responded to my obvious confusion by gesturing sharply at the ground at my feet. "The collar! Put it on. Now."
I looked down, and there was what seemed to be a length of old chain. I picked it up; it was a collar, just big enough to fit over my head at my present size, and made of what looked like links of black iron. But . . . but there was something wrong with it. Dull, barely visible lines of sullen crimson permeated the dark links. Using the scraps of insight I'd gleaned from the pentagram, I peered at the collar more closely. There was . . . something . . . in the links. Something sickening. Something . . . hungry. . . .
With a shudder of revulsion I flung it to the ground. The witch immediately reacted with another wave of agony. "Put it on, dragon! Or suffer!"
I gnashed my teeth beneath the torment. "N-no! That--that thing would destroy me!" I looked at her through watering eyes. "Why do you hate me so much that you would force such a thing on me?"
That actually seemed to strike home for some reason, and she responded viciously, sending surge after surge of pain through my frame. "Put it on, dragon! NOW!!"
I bent my head beneath the barrage and hung on grimly. No. If I did, all that which is me would cease to exist, devoured by the horror that abided in those dark links. My body, though, would live on . . . as a mindless puppet. I didn't know how I knew this, but I knew. I could feel the thing waiting for me, and I would die by inches before I would submit. . . .
What? I opened streaming eyes, and through a miasma of pain saw several of my little sand lizards at my forepaws, gazing up at me curiously. A moment to collect my thoughts, and then something hit me. How had they gotten in? They weren't in here when the trap was sprung. . . .
With a terrible effort I moved a forepaw, dragging my talons toward the little ones. Spot simply skittered over my paw and looked up at me again, confusion showing dimly in his eyes. Tiger, she simply sauntered out of the way and glared at me. Stripes, though, he took off running, heading straight for the lines that made up my prison. . . .
And crossing them.
As if they didn't exist.
Yessss. . . .
Slowly I raised my head against the onslaught and looked deep into the witch's eyes, baring all my teeth in a carnivore's grin. I took a step toward her.
Then another.
The next step, and I would hit the barrier. I closed my eyes and ignored the pain for the few seconds it took for me to concentrate--I'd never shifted from full-size before, and the witch's spells abruptly vanished, drowned by a far more familiar pain. At last I lifted my head, human, and grinned at the slack-jawed witch, who had frozen for a moment in stunned amazement. I took yet another step toward suddenly extinguished lines. . . .
And another. . . .
I was through.
I felt my body twisting, flowing, then my forepaws hit the ground with a thump as I rapidly swelled to full size, still grinning at the witch. The lines blazed again, but behind me now. With a flick of my tail I raked across them, breaking them, and the entire structure shattered in a silent explosion of light.
But the witch had already recovered, and was busily scraping more lines into the dirt about her, and muttering. I heard the name Hasai several times in her mumbled incantation, then the new lines flared crimson and something launched itself at me.
I felt that something blow past and through me like a hot wind, harmlessly, then I pounced. The old woman stumbled backwards as the first swipe of my talons reduced her defenses to churned earth, then the second scooped her up into a cage of her own.
For a moment she struggled in my grip with a strength that surprised me. Then she subsided, panting, and glared up at me defiantly with those burning eyes.
Waiting.
I settled back onto my haunches and studied what I held. The echoes of what she had dealt me still shuddered through my body, and every cell screamed at me to rend her, slowly, for her crimes. I began to close my hand, my talons slicing inwards--then I stopped.
Everything in me that was Dragon set up an immediate howl. Fool! You would once again show mercy, when such madness has already cost you so very dearly? Kill her! Kill her NOW! Still I hesitated, the needle points of my talons digging into her withered flesh in several places. The scent of fresh blood teased my nostrils, and those dark eyes burned into my own. With fear, but defiance as well. I tried to speak, but it came out as a coughing growl; that spell had also failed.
Are you INSANE? You lost your mate! You lost your FAMILY! What will you lose this time? Fool! FOOL!!! With a snarl, I let her drop. The witch fell heavily and lay there, stunned for a moment. When she finally began to work her way back to her feet, it was to see me turning away, my tail lashing with the rage and self-loathing that washed through me.
I paused to reduce that length of chain to a puddle of glowing slag, the thing residing within it dying a well-deserved death. I looked back into the witch's puzzled eyes for a moment, then launched myself skyward, my backwash sending a wave of grit over her as the little clearing dwindled behind me, at last fading into the dark.
The next couple of days passed in a drunken stupor as I tried without success to drown the memories that had returned full force since the affair at the radar site. Thankfully, the Machine was going at full speed by now, and easily took up the slack until I finally began to shake myself out of it. I stayed human until I couldn't stand it anymore, keeping my dragon-self hidden. Waiting for the witch woman to find me and attempt to enslave me once again. It was intolerable.
So I found her first.
I hunched forward over the wheel of the microvan and pressed down harder on the accelerator. The tiny motor whined in protest as the windshield centered on a certain worn gray dress and thick cane. She was up ahead of me, toiling her way along the deserted roadside beneath the baking sun, her back to the traffic.
The pedal sank a little closer to the floor. An unfortunate accident. So sorry. These sorts of things happen, especially when one is not used to driving on the left side of the road. You really should put some sidewalks in around here. . . .
With an oath I jerked the wheel aside and slammed down on the brakes. The tiny van shuddered and fishtailed as its wheels locked and I fought for control, finally slowing to a halt next to the witch. She flinched aside as gravel and grit sprayed her yet again, then spun to glare at the driver. Our eyes met for several long seconds.
She blanched.
I felt the corners of my mouth turning up into a humorless smile. Then I turned and kicked open the passenger-side door. "Get in."
She hesitated, and my smile grew wider. Her eyes studied that carnivore's grin, then she slowly walked to the door and climbed in. Instantly I floored the accelerator, spinning the drive wheels and slamming her back into the seat. The little blue van careened down the road, heading for the radar site.
Twenty minutes later we bounced and jounced our way up the nearly washed-out road leading into the site, where I finally crunched to a stop. I turned to the silent form riding next to me. "Get out."
She did so and I followed suit, pocketing the van's keys. She stood there, watching me as I walked away from her and trudged out into the dusty clearing, looking at the bits and pieces of the pentagram still remaining, scratched into the dirt. It was much clearer now, now that the grooves were no longer filled with that actinic radiance, and I slowly paced out its lines and curves.
Movement by my right foot distracted me. It was one of my little sand lizards, with his forefeet propped up on the edge of my shoe and peering up at me. I smiled and reached down, and he hopped up onto the back of my hand. I lifted him up to my level and looked into his bright little eyes. "Spot. How did you know me?" I chuckled and began to run a finger down his back. His eyes closed and he quivered ecstatically. "Guess I just can't fool some people, can I?"
The witch watched all of this silently, her hands twisting on the length of her cane. Slowly, the tip drifted toward the ground.
"Don't even think about it."
The tip paused, then lifted.
I continued to stroke my tiny friend as I finished pacing my way around the pentagram, then I walked back to the witch. Spot took one look at her and vanished up my shirt sleeve. Her eyes still burned as they met mine, and our gazes locked again for several long moments.
At last she spoke. "Why am I here?"
"To answer some questions," I replied quietly. "Why did you try to snare me?"
Her chin came up, and the fire in her eyes burned brighter. "My reasons are my own. They are none of your affair."
"Then you will die here, and your reasons will die with you."
She stiffened at that, and I watched the muscles bunch beneath the dark skin as she ground her teeth. "I had need of power."
"Power?" I snorted. "You actually held a dragon against his will, and you have need of power?"
"Power in this world, dragon!" she gritted out. "Power in this world! Power over men!"
I felt my eyes narrow as I studied her, remembering how the lines had winked out when I shifted to human form. Pieces of the puzzle snapped into place.
"Yes. . . .Your power cannot affect the physical world directly, can it? You must summon and control a being who can."
She stared at me. Slowly, she nodded. "Yes."
"So you set a snare for what you thought was a demon, and caught a dragon instead."
"Yes."
"You have yet to tell me why you needed this power."
"To make war."
I blinked. "What?"
"To make war!" she snapped, the words suddenly coming in a torrent. "To protect my land! Too much we have suffered! The Papa Doc! The Baby Doc! The Tonton Macoutes! Attaches! And now the Americans! I will have no more! NO MORE!!"
I stared at the witch in astonishment. I'll be damned--a Haitian nationalist. Almost a contradiction in terms, if you knew anything about the wretched place. . . ."So you sought to enslave me with that--that thing."
Her eyes, flaring so brightly only a moment ago, guttered and dimmed. She looked away. "Yes."
--And then would have flung me, alone, against the entire American Task Force. God, what an optimist. And what could I have done against such firepower? Provided them with perhaps a few minutes sport before they rolled right over my shattered corpse? "For that alone I should kill you slowly, old woman."
"Then kill me and be done with it," she replied, her voice going flat as she turned her back on me. "The day is hot, and I am tired. Be done with it."
I studied the back of her worn gray dress for several long minutes. Spot stuck his head out of my shirt sleeve and peered at her as well. I gently stroked him under the jaw as I thought.
"No."
Her back tensed.
"Old woman, I will bargain with you. Will you bargain with me?"
Slowly, so very slowly she turned, her eyes wide with astonishment. "Bargain?"
"You have something that I want."
For a second I thought that she was going to collapse, but she caught herself, leaning heavily upon her cane. She stared at me. "Speak."
"You have power in my world of dragons," I explained. "A small power, weak, fragile as a spider's web. Yet so cunningly wrought that it actually held me for a while. I want to learn that cunning."
"But . . . but you have power!"
I gave her a tight, bitter smile. "Oh, yes, I have power. Enormous power. Such power, in fact, that a doddering old woman with one foot in the grave can trap me with ease. I want that to change."
She stared at the ground, thinking. ". . . .And what will I receive in return?"
"You wished to find a way to wage war on any who would hurt those you care for." She winced slightly--at some memory, perhaps? "That is something that I can teach you."
It wasn't the easiest of deals; anger and suspicion had to be overcome on both sides, but finally we had a bargain.
"Good evening, gentlemen; for the duration of the short time we'll have together, you may call me Hasai. Now before I even get started, let's get something straight: I am not your friend. I am not your enemy. Frankly, I couldn't care less if that insignificant scrap of an island of yours goes straight to Hell. And for those reasons, you can trust me. Why is that?"
The handful of faces looking at me in the tiny Sunday schoolroom frowned at me, confused; this wasn't what they'd been expecting. I smiled mockingly, feeling the sweat sticking the shirt to my back in the stifling room. "It is because I have no agenda. I have no wish to conquer you; your country holds nothing that I am interested in. Nor am I here to 'help' you; I am not so foolish as to believe that a people can conquer their demons by relying on the charity of others. You must help yourselves. I have an agreement with the one I know as Mary to show you the tools. How you actually use those tools is up to you."
"What do you see?"
I sat back on my haunches and studied the structure. Both it and the tiny scratches etched into one of my scales glowed softly. "Lines of light. Blue-white, mostly. Where two lines intersect, you're getting a plane. Looks like glass, but lit from within." I snorted with amused wonder. "A house of cards constructed of sheets of glass and lines of light."
Mary stared silently at the lines scratched into the dirt. After a few moments she took her cane and added a few lines, changed others. "And now?"
I squinted at the structure. "Several of the planes just rotated. Some of the lines, those you added plus some others, just went from blue to a bright green."
"Green?"
"Green. Um, it's as if the power dropped an octave."
With a muttered oath, Mary slashed across the lines, obliterating them. I winced at the result. "Why did you do that?"
"I made a mistake. We must start over. Why? What did you see?"
I opened my jaws, then closed them again and considered. "It was like a glass cathedral," I replied at last, "pulled crashing to the ground."
Mary stared at me, then at the scratches in the dirt.
"You can't see it, can you?" I quietly asked.
Mary sighed, then rubbed her eyes. "Mortals are as clear air to the magic. It passes around and through us as if we did not exist. I cannot see the magic. I cannot even touch it, except through the symbols."
"But--but how can you tell what you're doing, if you can't see it?"
Mary actually laughed at that, a small grim chuckle. "Only through a lifetime of trying, and seeing what comes out. Only that way."
"Guerilla Warfare, also known as Low Intensity Conflict, or LIC, is by far the most successful form of warfare, historically, and the type that is most likely to create lasting changes in a given society. Unfortunately, it can also be the longest and most hateful form of conflict, as well. . . .
". . . .In a LIC environment, the combatants are arraigned into small, self-sufficient groups called 'cells.' Each cell is totally independent of other, neighboring cells. Indeed, members of any one cell will not have the faintest idea as to the identities of members of other cells. Communications are handled solely by the cell commander, and then via a double-blind method called a 'drop.'
". . . .For every fighter in the field, you must have a dead-minimum of twenty active supporters among the population. You can get that support from one of two ways: Love, or Fear. Both work. The willing support of a population, however, is a far more resilient foundation to build upon than one based upon fear, which can very quickly unravel at the first major setback. The Sendero Luminoso movement of South America is a case in point.
"You don't understand--the order in which the lines are done to make the symbol is just as important as the lines themselves. Try it again. . . . No, again. . . .Good."
I watched as the lines I'd drawn began to fill with glowing power, siphoning up from the earth itself. How very curious. Where did it come from? Never mind; it's energy, and it seemed to follow all of the same rules that governed the more mundane forms that I understood so very well. . . .
I blinked. Could it be that simple? Could this be nothing more than some extension of the energies that I'd worked with all my life, undiscovered by all but a handful of humans? I felt a surge of elation. If so, then I could control it. Channel it. I was an engineer long before I became a dragon, and this I knew. "Mary, what would happen if I supplied a different power source?"
"What do you mean?"
"What would happen if I tapped the pattern--here, and--here, then. . . ."
I placed talon tips on certain key points, then felt my mane stir, crackling as I poured my own strength into the seemingly random scribble. Light flared, eye-hurtingly bright, and the lines quickly shaded from blue-white to a blue of heartbreaking purity. Abruptly the color shifted, sliding up into violet, then taking on the blackish glow of ultraviolet. With a gasp I jerked my hand away, and for the tiniest fragment of time the pattern actually clung to my talons, then shattered and faded to nothingness.
Mary was watching me carefully. "What happened? What did you see?"
I stared at my talon tips, dimly surprised at seeing them still there instead of burned away by the sudden power surge I'd felt. "I don't know. Something I. . . .No. I don't know."
"Jacques, you must try to understand; yes, it would be a fine thing to stop skulking in the brush and back-alleys and meet the opposition head-on, if such engagements were decided by the rightness of one's cause. Unfortunately, they are not. If you indulge in such a toe-to-toe slugging match, you create what is called a meeting engagement. No soldier in his right mind wants to have any part of one of these, because then all of your advantages are cast to the winds, and all that counts is logistics. Who can 'git thar fustest with the mostest,' if you will.
"Do you think you can win in such a scenario, Jacques? You are a poor people, living in a poor country. Allow the enemy to draw you out into a meeting engagement and you will die, taking with you all your comrades and all your hopes. For nothing more than a moment's personal glory, which no one will live to remember."
"Mary, I may have something here that might interest you."
I inscribed a series of lines into the earth. "This is the design we were working on the other night, with a few changes, see? Now, if I continue this line--so, and this one, then. . . ."
As I completed the line, I began to pour power into the design. Swiftly the pattern's color escalated up into the ultraviolet. Once again I brought up my talons, and once again the pattern seemed to lift with them. But this time I didn't jerk away; rather, I continued to add power as I proceeded to draw, straight up into the air.
The pattern shifted slightly, turned, then began to slowly rotate before me as I continued to add to it, my talons leaving blazing purple-black lines inscribed upon the very air as they went. The pattern folded, then duplicated itself, the vertices joined in a multidimensional structure. It spun faster.
"Hasai! What are you doing?"
"Hmmm?" I looked down, to see Mary clinging to my flank, her gray dress whipping in a vicious wind that had suddenly sprung up from nowhere. Alarmed, I looked about me to see the surrounding scrub being torn out by the roots as dust devils formed about us and rapidly grew to towering proportions.
I gaped at the apparitions for a moment, then turned back to the construct, which was now spinning with eye-blurring swiftness. It was still growing, still elaborating, but on its own now. Power was sucked up into it from the earth, the air; even the stars seemed to flare more brightly.
I cursed with alarm and swiped my tail across the lines carved into the earth, breaking them. The pattern swirling in the air above them shuddered in response and tilted crazily, then somehow managed to right itself. Lines bent, then shifted and flared within the structure, and the thing continued to spin and grow. Faster.
The dust devils were taking on the proportions of tornadoes by now. Mary was shrieking something at me, her words lost in a battering wind that threatened to upset even my bulk. Half blinded by blowing dust, I gnashed my teeth, then plunged my talons directly into the pattern.
It was--insane. For a mad moment, I found myself looking down at myself even as I continued to peer up into the maelstrom of energy. Then my own viewpoint was gone, ripped away as my awareness expanded to encompass the winds about us, then about the island, then. . . .Then. . . .With a howled oath I flung my talons wide and FLAMED directly into the fabric of the whirling structure. Incandescent lines darkened, withered, then began to unravel like physical things before my onslaught. Suddenly, my creation shattered, its death throes manifesting in a monstrous thunderclap of sound and wind, the concussion bowling me off my feet.
There were several moments as the winds moaned and faded, then silence, broken only by Mary's alternate coughing and cursing. I shook my head to clear the ringing from my ears, then slowly I got to my feet and dusted myself off while Mary disentangled herself from the pile of brush she'd been flung into.
"Foolish dragon!" she grated, "what did you do? In the name of God, what did you DO?"
Dazedly, I shook my head. "Regenerative feedback loop; evidently, it's even worse an idea in magic than it is in electronics. . . .Um, I--I tried to base a pattern on more than one power source, more than one dimension, then loop back, and . . . and it just started growing."
Mary stared at me like I was speaking Swahili for a long moment, then frowned. "You tried to build something that would draw more power to itself?"
I nodded.
"What limits did you set upon it?"
"Limits?"
Her eyes went wide. "Foolish reptile! You set no limits? Then what would stop it from drawing all the power there is? Dragon, I saw you fade! I saw it begin to devour you!"
I shook the last of the dust from my mane, coughed, then stared down at my talons. "Um, Mary, I think you got it backwards."
"What?"
"I don't think the pattern was absorbing me; rather, we were absorbing each other." Mary continued to stare at me as I opened my jaws then closed them again, searching for words. Finally I continued. "For a moment there, I was the pattern. Then I. . . .Mary, I can control the weather--feel it, to a degree. But there, in the pattern, I was the weather. I was the wind about the island. Then I was . . . more. I think I was every cloud, every storm, every drop of rain in the entire Caribbean--"
She brushed my words aside with an impatient gesture. "Hasai. What did you do with the power?"
"The--what?"
"The power, Hasai! When you broke the pattern, what did you do with the power it had gathered?"
"It. . . .Um . . . I sent it away."
"'Away' where?"
I shrugged my double shoulders beneath her fiery glare, suddenly feeling like a very small child who had just done a Very Bad Thing. "Just . . . away."
The witch gaped at me, then groaned and rubbed her eyes. "Dragon, do you think that such power, once gathered, will simply go away, just like that?" She shook her head. "Never mind; it is done. Let us hope that it will not cause us any more trouble."
I stood in the front of the tiny room and gazed at the men looking back at me. So many times I've done this before, in so many places. I felt a certain deep sadness overtake me as I wondered just how many of these men, my students, would be alive just a few short years from now.
I sighed, then set my jaw. "This is our last night together, and time for our last lesson. I want each of you to look at the men to either side of you. Go ahead, look. . . .Now, why did I want you do that? Partially, because some of you will be dead not too long from now. Mostly, though, because at least one of you will one day fall victim to a horrible addiction that I consider far worse than death. It doesn't matter the reason that you are here now--whether fear, patriotism, or simple hate. It will fall by the wayside once you taste that ultimate drug called Power.
"Did all the dictators, the Papa-Docs of the world, start out as dictators? Did all of the thugs, the butchers, the warlords truly start out to be such? Some. But not all. Some simply fell in love with the power that they came to wield, for whatever reason, and it devoured them. Will it devour you?
"I spent these past weeks teaching you the keys to power in a land such as yours, and, as I said before, what you do with it is up to you. Will you save your country from itself? Or will you simply be just another wave of thugs and warlords? I don't know; you know yourselves far better than I do. I can only tell you one last thing--watch yourselves. The deadliest enemies never come from without."
I stood there for a moment more, staring at them. Again I'd tried to keep my distance, tried to pretend these men were nothing more than pawns-- paper cutouts to used and discarded. Again I'd failed. Jean-Paul. Jacques. Michel. The others. Their faces would haunt me in my dreams, just like so many before them.
Without another word I turned and walked out of the door, quickly losing myself in the night.
"This just in from the National Weather Service: A tropical depression located just off the eastern coast of Nicaragua has greatly increased in strength within the past twenty-four hours, and has been upgraded to the status of a tropical storm. It is reported that Tropical Storm Gordon, as the storm has just been named, has begun moving in a northeasterly direction at a speed of about twelve knots, and is growing in severity. We will keep you posted as news becomes available. This is CNN."
"You have heard?"
"Yes."
"It's coming right at us."
"Yes."
". . . .Did I cause it?"
". . . .I do not know. Perhaps."
"Then I will have to deal with it."
Mary turned and looked at me incredulously. "Deal? With a hurricane? What are you, Hasai, that you can even dream of 'dealing' with such a thing?"
"I am Shen-Lung." I lifted my head and stared at the southwestern sky, still tinged with the last vestiges of sunset, and already striped with broad arcs of cirrus. "I can feel this storm, Mary; it's pulling at me. It's drawn to me in turn, like so many storms before it. Never have I felt such power."
I drew in a great lung full of the evening air, then let it out in one long sigh. "To ride a hurricane. Could I actually do such a thing?"
"You would be like a feather in the wind."
I nodded, still staring at the horizon. "Yes, if I rode it physically. But what if I used what you've shown me? What if I rode it through your magic instead?"
"Do so, and you are lost."
Irritated, I turned to stare coldly down at the witch. "Old woman, I have ridden storms--"
"--And mastered them. Yes. That I do not doubt. But this one will master you. Hasai, listen to me; I have watched you. Your power is drawn from the storms, yes?"
I blinked, and the witch smiled in satisfaction. "Yes. As I thought. I saw you fade, Hasai; I saw you begin to become the magic, rather than merely controlling it. If you attempt to control this hurricane, to try to absorb its power, I think that you will fade again, and your essence join with that of the storm."
"--And this is bad?"
"Hasai, I do not think that you will come back."
"You been watchin' the weather reports, Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir."
"How bad you think it's gonna be?"
I looked at the floor for a moment. "Don't know yet, sir, but the water's pretty warm out there, so there's a lot of energy this thing can pick up. If it isn't bad, it won't be for lack of trying."
"And the aircraft? We gonna take any damage?"
"Structurally? No; the airframe's pretty strong on these critters, and I don't think that Gordon will be able to pick up steam quickly enough before it hits to do any real damage. It's the turbines I'm worried about."
"Oh? Think they'll get messed up?"
"If we get salt water into the burner cans, we'll be a week in scrubbing them out. And if the damn stuff gets into the wiring. . . .Well sir, I don't really want to think about that."
"I dunno, Sergeant; those nacelles are sealed pretty well--"
"Sir, I've seen a hurricane force water through two-inch vulcanized weather seals. What we have on the nacelles won't even slow it down."
"I see. Think we should evacuate the aircraft?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where to?"
I thought for a moment. "Well, sir, we do have a scheduled inspection coming up, and Austin wants another look at that Number Three harness, maybe even tear into the engine a bit. If we evac to the maintenance facilities up in Florida, we can use the weather downtime to take care of some stuff we need to do anyway, without it showing on our readiness stats."
CW4 Baldwell thought about that for a moment, then nodded. "Well, everything you say agrees with my thinkin'. . .let's do it. I'll tip off the CO if you'll start workin' things out with Maintenance."
"I'm on the way, sir."
"Hasai, you don't know enough of the art. You do not have enough experience to try this."
"Mary, the storm is heading straight for us. Along the way, it's going to plow right over Haiti. How many will die if I do nothing?"
"Foolish dragon! How many will die if you try this and destroy yourself? You do not even know if this storm is yours! And what do you care, dragon, for a handful of mortals?"
I opened my jaws, then closed them again, realizing that I had no answer. I turned and stared out over the ocean, and into the steadily growing darkness that loomed to the south. A breath of wind smelling of storm blew by, stronger than the last. Why was I doing this?
"Hasai, why do you wish to die?"
For a moment, it was if an icy claw had gripped my heart and squeezed. I looked down at the witch. "What did you say?"
"Why do you wish to die, Hasai? Twice you foolishly spared me, the one who would have destroyed you. You experiment recklessly with forces even a magus would fear. And your eyes." Mary paused for a moment, then slowly stepped forward and placed her hand upon my foreleg. "I have seen that look before Hasai; I've seen it in others' eyes. I saw it in my own, not so long ago. . . .Not so very long ago. . . ."
Her eyes had drifted to gaze down at the sea as she spoke, but they were seeing something far different. For long minutes we stared at the approaching storm, lost in our thoughts, our memories.
Why did I wish to die?
Finally I spoke. "I met her in the jungles of Central America. . .a Feathered Serpent, winged, Daughter of Kulkulcan. . . ." I smiled slightly, remembering, then laughed softly. "She tried to kill me the first time we met, thinking I threatened her young. But I survived," I paused, the smile fading "just like I always do."
I sighed. "It started out as a charitable gesture, bringing her food, watching over her. Then it became a fondness. Then it became so very much more. Finally, she even gave me a child of my own. Then he returned."
Was that a flicker of lightning? No. "Her former mate. He'd abandoned her, leaving her and her children to starve. I chased him off once, but. . . .But he came back one night, when I wasn't there, and. . . ." I watched, dimly puzzled as the distant stormy horizon began to waver and dissolve, like a watercolor in the rain. ". . . .And murdered my mate. And our children. And . . . and I don't know why. Why did he kill them? I tracked him down, and before I took his life I looked into his eyes, his sad, mad eyes, and found nothing there. No answer. I suspect I'll never have an answer. Just a single burning question, and a handful of fading memories of what I almost had. . . ."
I flinched at a touch on my lower jowl. Mary took her hand away, and stared wonderingly at the wetness on her fingers. Slowly a light of-- recognition?--came to her eyes. She nodded to herself, and still staring at her hand began to speak in a strange singsong.
"Once, this old woman, she had a family. A foolish family. A foolish husband, foolish sons. . . ."
She trailed off into silence and just stood there for a while, somehow looking very small. Very old. "The foolish husband, he was a teacher. You like my English, dragon? I learned it from him. And he thought he could change the world with his words. His loud words. His so very dangerous words. But the world did not hear his words, and in the night, the Tonton came. They took away this foolish man. This old woman, she looked for him. She looked for him a long time, and at last she found him . . . oh, yes, she found him . . . a little bit here, a little bit there. . . .
"The sons, they get older. They get married. They think that now the Papa-Doc and Baby-Doc are gone, everything is changed. They can speak out. When the army took over, the sons thought they could fight with their words. Their foolish words. But nobody listened, and in the night, the Tonton came. But now they called themselves attaches. They took this old woman's sons, their wives, their children, and took them into the street. Then they used the machetes."
Mary looked up then to gaze once more at the sea, her features black iron and her eyes burning with the light of Hell. I watched her silently, waiting, until she finally spoke again. "If you wish to survive this battle, you will need an Anchor--someone to pull you back. And if I am to be that Anchor, Hasai, I will need your Name."
A chill went through me. I drew a deep breath and let it out in a long slow hiss. "How long have you known?"
"Since the moment I conjured with the name Hasai, and realized the true depths of my sin."
I remembered that feeling of something blowing through and past me like a hot wind, something searching for a target that did not exist. But sin? "I do not understand."
"You lied to me, Hasai! Only a creature that must answer to a far higher Power than I can lie within the pentacle! The collar would have merely controlled one of the Soulless Ones, made it amenable to my will. But, placed upon a creature with a soul. . . ." She shuddered and looked away.
"And you want me to give my Name to you."
"Yes." She turned, and stared me in the eye. "If you wish to battle the storm, you must trust the one who would have destroyed you."
I gazed down at her suspiciously. "Why do you suddenly wish to aid me, old woman? You argued so strongly against this, and now you want to help?"
Her eyes didn't waver. "Dragon, had I known how alike we are, I would have never raised my hand against you. Alike in what crosses we bear." She sighed, and finally turned away with those burning eyes. "Responsibility--that is the demon that drives us, is it not? The thought that we have done . . . or failed to do . . . something . . . that has caused so much pain. And now? Now we try to pick up the pieces of our lives, and as we do so, we feel we must try to somehow make amends."
I found myself staring at the chalky dust between my forelegs, my thoughts deathly cold within me. Amends? How could one possibly make amends? The blood is spilled, the eggs shattered, the pattern broken. Nothing could change that. Nothing. Black despair welled up within me, and I thought once again of a fragment of blue-grey eggshell, laying next to a loaded automatic. . . .
Amends. Forgiveness. Such thin, pale, pathetic ghosts of the true redemption that we ache for. . . . But, finally, I reached out with one of my deadly talons and laid it, so very gently, on Mary's shoulder. "Old woman, my Name is Michael."
She let out a small sigh, and bowed her head in acknowledgment. Then, to my utter amazement, she actually chuckled. "Such a strange name, for a Dragon."
And then she gave me her Name.
With a grunt, CW4 Baldwell heaved the last of his flight bags up into the aircraft's aft cabin, then turned to me. "Got that Weight and Balance sheet worked out, Sergeant?"
"Right here, sir . . . but with all that stuff you're always lugging around with you, you've probably screwed it all to hell, sir."
The pilot glanced up from the clipboard with a grin. "Wise-ass. . . .You sure you aren't comin'? Gonna get awful rough around these parts."
I shrugged, then smiled. "No sir, I'm staying. I have to keep an eye on the gear. Besides, I'm rather fond of storms."
Baldwell smiled back, then shrugged. "Well, suit yourself. Anything you want from up north?"
"Well, I could use about 500 pounds of steak if you come across it."
"So could we all. Food gets a little tirin' around here, don't it?" He paused. "It's good to see your spirits pickin' up, Sergeant; you were beginnin' to get us all a little worried. You gonna pull through now?"
I thought it over for a moment. "Yeah. . . .Yes sir, I think I will, now."
"That's good. Real good. Well--" He stuck out his hand. "Good luck. I'll come lookin' for you after this thing blows over."
We shook hands, and Baldwell pulled the stairwell door shut behind him. Fifteen minutes later the engines began to turn, and the big plane lumbered down the ramp and out onto the tiny island's lone runway. I watched as the aircraft hauled itself up into the sky, turned to the north, dwindled into the distance, and was gone.
"Are you prepared?"
I studied the eye-achingly complex pattern I'd laboriously worked into the site's hard-packed earth. "I think so. . . .Do you see anything I might have missed?"
Mary looked at my design for several moments, blinked, then turned away with an oath. "You have gone far beyond me in your studies, dragon; I do not even begin to understand this pattern of yours." She looked southward into the looming darkness there, then up at me. "And now I must ask you one last time. Hasai . . . Michael, do you know what you are doing?"
"Yes Mary, I do."
"Then we will begin." With that, she began to work her own pattern--simple compared to my own, but complexity wasn't needed for what she was doing. My own pattern was already giving off an actinic-blue blaze, and when I slid my talons into its web it quickly began to slide up the spectrum, soon taking on a blue-black glow, like Saint Elmo's Fire.
I heard my Name muttered several times as I began to draw straight up into the air, bringing the pattern up with me, and I watched as it unfolded into a three-dimensional construct and began to rotate. About us, the wind began to gust and swirl, strengthening, then leveling out as I bent several crucial lines. . . .
Once again the pattern shifted slightly, turned, then began to slowly rotate before me as I continued to add to it, my talons scribing lines of Saint Elmo's Fire upon the very air. The pattern spun faster, then blurred. Beside me, Mary's work was glowing a sullen red, and from it I felt something touch me.
Now--I braced, then plunged my talons directly into the pattern. Insanity. For a moment, I found myself looking down at myself even as I continued to peer up into the vortex. Then my own viewpoint was gone, vanishing as my awareness expanded to encompass the winds about us, then about the island, then. . . .
There are no references for what came next--no words, barely any thought. Only Being. I had no body, yet I found myself moving through the heavens, somehow, toward that beacon of raw power that tugged at me. Beckoned. . . .
. . . .And there it was. . . .
Ahhh. . . .How can such order, such beauty, rise from chaos, and yet still be chaos? It seemed to stretch forever, its vast dark bulk interlaced with a random, yet not-random scribble of lines as bright as the sun, woven by the power of rain and wind and wave, and whirling about a central core so thick with Power I could barely look upon it. . . .It was magnificent. It was terrifying. And It Knew me. It had no awareness, and yet It Knew me. Called to me. Pulled. . . .
I moved toward It. . . .
Touched It. . . .
. . . .And It was Myself.
It was glorious. The World turned about Me, imparting spin. Beneath Me, the sea howled its fury, its warm waters feeding Me ever more power. I swirled, feeling Myself growing, Focusing ever more tightly, feeling the clouds, the rain, the winds and the waves of My being lifting their thunderous voices into a single mighty Hosanna. . . .
Tug.
I lost Focus for a moment as My thoughts seemed to twist strangely, dwindling, trying to drop down into tiny, ridiculously straight little pathways. I sought to right Myself, to return to Focus. . . .
Tug.
Unwelcome memory came back with a rush. I looked, and saw, stretching from an insignificant patch of sand lost in the churning sea, a strangely twisted thread of sullen crimson reaching up to tangle within the innermost parts of My identity.
Mary. I felt portions of Myself reaching toward that tiny island to sweep away this annoyance, this pathetic scrap of land, leaving only raging seas to mark its grave. . . .
Tug.
. . . .No. I withheld My strength, then curled inwards to gaze upon that which I had become, a deep sadness once again overtaking Me as I remembered what I had come to do. I had to break It. I had to mortally wound this wondrous thing that I had become, then turn It away, spurning that which was a part of Myself. In order to preserve, I once again had to destroy.
Dear Lord; am I forever doomed to be naught but a Destroyer?
The cloud-wall that formed the boundary of My Eye was approaching geometric perfection now, its keening winds as impenetrable as steel, its diameter constricting as I spun ever faster. It caused Me something that approached physical pain to fracture that wall, a major portion of My strength spiraling outwards in the form of a squall line, its passage tearing at the very fabric of My being.
I staggered, weakening, My winds slowing. And now, at My behest, a small ridge of high-pressure began to form to My northeast. I felt that which was Me impact that building ridge, ride up upon it, then slowly slide off, deflecting slightly, oh so very slightly, to the north. . . .
That tug came again, stronger this time, striving to pull Me back. I ignored it for a moment to gaze once more upon Myself. If I somehow resisted the pull, stayed as I now was, I could careen onwards--a storm to be remembered above all storms, until I at last hit land or cold water. There I would weaken and disintegrate, finally dissolving into a painless oblivion.
And would I find you there, waiting for Me, O Daughter of Kulkulcan?
Like a midsummer's tempest were My tears as I finally allowed the pull to take Me. There was a sundering, and for the briefest of moments I gazed upon Myself. Then It was gone, and I found myself falling back toward that tiny island. . . .
. . . .To find myself laying on my side, rain pelting my face. I blinked, then closed my eyes for a moment, collecting my thoughts and trying to recall how to live within a physical shell. The burning in my chest I relieved by remembering how to breathe. With a grunt I slowly rolled over, then hissed with pain as a wave of pins-and-needles swept through my entire body. After a short eternity it finally passed, and I slowly wobbled to my feet.
"Did you turn it?"
I turned at that papery whisper, to see Mary sitting cross-legged before her own weather-beaten pattern. She stared at me with exhaustion-dulled eyes, dried blood from bitten lips crusting her mouth. I looked at her for a long moment, then finally replied. "Yes, I turned it."
She sighed and let her head droop. I stared at her pattern, then at my own nearly obliterated design. "Mary? How long--?"
Mary's reply was a nearly incomprehensible croak. "Three days, dragon. Three days you were with the storm."
Three days. I stared at the ancient witch with something approaching awe as she gripped her cane and began to slowly fight her way to her feet. Three days she had held here, fighting to Anchor me, with nothing to sustain her but her own iron will.
Finally her eyes once again rose to meet mine, then we both turned to look at her still-glowing pattern, its crimson tether still tangled within me. With such a hold upon my very soul, I was hers to do with as she pleased. For all time. . . .
We stared at each other, wordlessly, for an interminable moment. Then one corner her thin mouth slowly curled up into a grim smile and her cane lashed out to shatter the pattern, the line fading into nothingness. "We are too much alike, dragon. Never again."
Her eyes held mine for a moment more, then glazed and rolled back as she silently folded. I caught her in my talons and cradled her gently, my wings spreading to keep the weather off of her as she finally accepted the sleep of the redeemed.
Austin and I grunted and groaned as we shoved yet another of the bulky grey containers in through the cargo door, then I clambered in after it to secure the cargo net. I jammed the locking pins into their slots, then looked out to see Austin sitting on the next crate, mopping his face with a filthy bandanna.
"Damn, it's hot out here. Howzabout we take a short break?"
I shrugged, then sat with my feet dangling out of the hatchway. "No problem with me. Want a Coke?"
"Does a bear shit in the woods?"
I reached forward into the galley and flipped him a sweating red can. Austin snatched it out of the air and ripped open the top, downing half the contents in one gulp. He sighed happily. "Oh. Damn, that's good. . . ."
I smiled at this battered old bear of a man, then leaned back against the crate behind me to gaze at the sky. A tinge of regret touched me as I thought of a certain vast, glorious creation with the heart torn out of it, wandering blindly through the heavens, searching mindlessly for something it could never have again. . . .
"Y'know Sarge, maybe you can explain something to me."
"Yes?"
"We just got back from up north last week. Why in the hell are we goin' back? Can't they make up their God-damned minds?"
I chuckled. "Window of opportunity, Austin. Marines are pulling out. Until the new command staff gets its act together, we're going to be sitting on our hands. Might as well use the time to get that refit done that we've been putting off."
Austin shook his head in disgusted amazement. "Damned politics."
My chuckle became a laugh. "Don't knock politics, Austin; if it wasn't for politics, we wouldn't have a job!"
Several sweaty hours later, Mr. Baldwell showed up with those blasted bags of his again. "Going our way this time, Sarge?"
"Yes sir; after your last little side-trip, it seems someone thinks we need to keep an eye on you and the aircraft."
Baldwell made a face at me. "Yeah, yeah. . . .Hey, you hear the latest from Haiti?"
"Like what, sir?"
"Well, Ops tells me we were watchin' this warehouse just outside of Port au Prince. It's been gettin' a lot of late-night truck traffic the past couple weeks, if you know what I mean? Turns out that one of those goon squads down there was puttin' itself together a munitions dump for when we left. We were gonna hit the place, but somebody beat us to it--found the warehouse burnin', and all those goons laid out in a nice, neat little row with their throats cut from ear to ear."
I smiled. A handful of faces looked back at me from my memories, and I felt a mixture of sadness and pride. Good luck, guys. . . . "Sounds like some of the Haitians have finally had enough."
Baldwell shrugged. "Yeah, just might be. We'll see, though."
We talked a little more, then the senior pilot glanced at his watch and headed forward to the cockpit. A while later, the last of my maintenance crew boarded with their bags. As usual I was the last on board except for Austin, who was acting as ground-guide. I pulled the chocks and started to climb aboard, then paused a moment on the top step to take one last look at this place which I probably would never see again.
As I began to head inside, I spotted someone standing on one of the hills overlooking the strip. It was an ancient woman, dark, painfully thin, wearing a tattered gray dress. She was leaning upon one of those thick, ugly kind of canes that Medicaid inflicts upon its victims.
Our eyes met for a moment, and I think I saw her smile once, before she turned and walked away, vanishing into the scrub.
I gazed after her for several seconds, then went inside. Up forward, I could hear Mr. Baldwell and his copilot already well into their checklist and turning the engines, the craft coming to shuddering life around me. I threaded my way around boxes and bales to my seat and plopped into it with a grateful sigh. I then looked out the window to see the aircraft starting to move forward, heading for the runway. A few moments later Austin came pounding aboard, yanking the hatch shut and dogging it behind him.
I settled back . . . and for the first time, in a so-very long time, actually found myself looking forward to what life would bring me next.
Regards from the Steel Dragon;
---------> Hasai