Larry Niven - The Barsoom Project

Snow Goose stepped forward, charm in upraised hand. “Hail to you, great warriors of the wind. We saved your children from the mountain trolls. In return, we ask a favor.”

Max was aghast. The two enormous creatures looked at Snow Goose as if she were insane. Their babies lay at their feet-their feet were wet with yolk and blood-and this impertinent tidbit was asking for favors? Max gripped his harpoon and readied for some fancy footwork.

“Take us to the top of the world,” Snow Goose demanded. “Only with your help can we enter Sedna’s realm, and set right that which has gone awry. Will you help us?”

The Gamers drew back as the two birds came nearer, and then nearer still, until either could have lunged forward and caught a plump, screaming human in its softly gleaming talons.

Max shivered as the male inspected him. It cocked its head sideways and stared at Max with one huge, hypnotically deep black eye. Gazing into its depth was dizzying, but Max dared not back down. He was spinning, spinning, and prayed not to fall.

Without knowing why, Max stretched out one trembling hand. The Thunderbird watched his hand suspiciously, then jerked its head out of reach.

“What’d I do?”

“Watch your hands, smartass,” Orson hissed. “Thunderbirds are not pets! In Inuit mythology they’re usually the villains. Whatever Snow Goose did, I hope it’s strong enough.”

The male threw his head back, and the golden feathers around his neck ruffled. His scream reverberated to the heavens, rang up and down the mountain range like a thunderclap.

For a moment, the Adventurers were frozen in their tracks. Then from far away there came an answering scream of recognition.

Johnny Welsh coughed nervously. “I think someone just rejected a collect call-”

On the edge of the horizon, looming up now, came a quartet of winged figures, identical to the first two, but even larger.

The newcomers were older, the gold in their feathers more tarnished by time and the elements. They carried curious leather appliances in their claws, fitted with dangling straps and buckles.

“We’ve got the grandparents, I think,” Orson said nervously.

They circled, then came in for a landing. While the younger couple kept an eye on the Gamers, the older Thunderbirds examined the evidence. They found a spear still lodged in a blood-spattered troll corpse, bit and wrenched it out with the toss of a great plumed head.

One of the Thunderbirds carried it over and respectfully laid it before Snow Goose. The others folded their wings and sat in front of the Gamers, heads bowed.

“Well, I’ll be dipped..

“Hurry,” Snow Goose said, handing the charm back to Johnny. “We have five birds. One will stay to watch over the eggs. Break into groups of two or three. Fix the saddles and mount up.”

Docilely, the great beasts presented themselves as Max approached and nervously threw a saddle across the back of the nearest Thunderbird.

Hologram? Must be, and yet they expect us to…

The saddle landed on something solid. Max reached forward, and touched feathers. He struggled with his surprise, and then subdued it. Stop trying to figure out when they make the switch!

Hebert and Trianna were the handiest with the leather saddles, were fastest following Snow Goose’s directions as she helped them buckle and strap the contraptions into place.

“Guess they’ve had riders before, eh?” Hebert puffed.

Snow Goose smiled enigmatically. “So the legends say. I assume you mean the birds?”

Max and Orson nodded to each other, then split up. Orson went with Charlene and Hippogryph, while Max got into line in front of Trianna and Francis Hebert.

He tugged at the saddle, anchored just ahead of the giant wings. As much as the idea scared him, they were really very secure. He climbed up onto the waiting back and strapped himself in.

Trianna slid up behind, wrapped her arms around his waist. Her breath warmed his cheek, had that sweet-and-sour excited tang that is irritating from a man, but a turn-on from a woman. And Trianna was a lot of woman. His belly muscles flexed within her arms, feel the hardness, without consulting his forebrain. His lower body tingled with localized, increased circulation.

Ah, well. His heart yearned for Eviane, but the rest of him seemed more pragmatic.

Hebert climbed on behind Trianna-and the three of them, he estimated, added up to a hefty tonnage. He hoped the Thunder-birds were as strong as they looked.

The last Gamer had boarded his mount. Snow Goose checked all of the buckles with sober, expert care, then climbed aboard the lead male. It ruffled its feathers and ran at the edge of the bluff. Without a moment’s hesitation, it dove over and disappeared into the clouds.

Max barely had time to say “What?” when his own mount turned stiffly toward the cliff. It took five running steps that reminded him of something out of a Disney film on ostriches, and dove off.

He screamed, and swore to himself that he would scream all of the way down. His stomach contracted as if trying to squeeze his intestines out of his nostrils. When he opened his eyes his Thunderbird was plunging straight for the bottom-

(And he remembered, briefly, a quote from twentieth-century stunt man Eve! Knievel: “I’ve gotten to where I can say the Lord’s Prayer in ten seconds.”)

“OurFatherwhoartin-”

The bird leveled up and began to climb. And climb. Up and up, and when he looked back he saw the other Thunderbirds and their passengers behind and below him, sleek black wings beating against a dwindling backdrop of mountains. The wind burned his eyes, and they began to water.

The clouds drifted past. Within a few moments the plateau was a memory. He turned around and faced Trianna, who although strapped onto the saddle still gripped his waist with eyes closed.

“We’re all right,” he said. When that produced no visible result, he nudged her again. “Go ahead. Open your eyes.”

“I’m afraid of heights.”

He looked down. Distantly, a blue carpet of sparkling sea glimmered through the clouds. Not the place for an acrophobe. “Better keep ‘em shut, then.”

Behind her, Francis Hebert was gazing down at the view, eyes as wide as a child’s in Santa’s toy shop.

The view was somewhere beyond wonderful. After a few minutes, the birds curved around and began to head toward a range of mountains so distant that they registered only as wrinkles on a far horizon.

This was the life! The air beating against his face was pleasantly cool. The strong, steady stroke of the Thunderbird’s wings was a heartbeat rhythm, as soothing as it was exhilarating.

He began to lose track of time, pleasantly mesmerized by the frozen vistas below. Endless stretches of glacial ice and snow-locked rivers passed. From time to time his mount would bank gently and then level out again, but on the whole the trip was hypnotically placid.

Hebert was the first to spot trouble. Max heard the man’s shout and followed his pointing finger, detected a flock of tiny black dots approaching from the eastern horizon.

“They’ve got wings,” Hebert bellowed, leaning far out around Trianna’s shoulder. “More big birds. Does it look to you like they’re coming right at us?”

“Could be,” Max said.

“I wish we could ask Snow Goose.”

Max wished he could ask Orson. The other Thunderbirds were lumbering along with slow, steady wing strokes, but they were too far away for a good shout. Again he scanned the horizon. The other flying creatures were disquietingly close.

More Thunderbirds? He doubted it. The line of wing and tail on these great golden eagles was a marvel of nature. The new figures were somehow… misshapen.

Hebert was checking his rifle. “Hope this’ll be more use than last time. Trianna, dammit-open your eyes!”