Rodrigo Garcia y Robertson - SinBad the Sand Sailor

First breathe. Setting Jem down beside the window, SinBad slid over to the back of the pavilion, where he stuck his head out a rear window.

Dark, terraformed air never tasted so sweet. Now think. He could wiggle out the window onto the veranda, then come around behind the flier. Assuming Tiffany could keep him talking. Arming himself with a champagne bottle, SinBad climbed out the window and crept along the veranda. At the corner, he hefted the bottle, then stepped around, hoping the flier was still facing the other way. He found the flier stretched out at Tiffany’s feet, as peaceful as the party in the pavilion. He lowered his bottle. “What did you hit him with?”

Tiffany replied coyly, “A kiss.”

Sedative lipstick. Usually associated with more sleazy pleasure palaces, where customers ended up robbed, then rolled over the side.

“Where’s Jem?” she asked. “What’s the champagne for?”

“Premature celebration.” He set down the bottle, held his breath again, and limped back into the pavilion, returning with Jem slung over his shoulder. “That better?” Tiffany smiled. “I’d kiss you, but I want you awake.”

Relieved he’d never taken liberties with Tiffany, SinBad strapped the two women to him as best he could. Feeling like far too small a flight to rate two air hostesses, SinBad spread his wings and stepped off the veranda. Bye-bye Erotopia.

Tiffany asked, “Where are we headed?”

“The ground.” This overloaded, every direction was down.

“Is that wise?” Tiffany wondered.

“Probably not.” He tilted his primaries, turning into a long slow spin, spiraling down through the hot Barsoomian night. Band music and the bright lights of Erotopia dwindled overhead. Blackness lay below. “What’s down there?” Tiffany asked.

“You’re the air hostess.”

Tiffany hugged him tighter. “So you don’t know?”

“Don’t count on sand dunes.” Like the ones that broke her last fall from Erotopia. “Not at this latitude.” No open bodies of water either. Which meant no trees. No major canal lines, no cities. Another of the big blank spots that abounded on Barsoom. Luckily, it was probably flat. His wings gave a terrain warning—“LOW ALTITUDE. PREPARE TO LAND.” SinBad spread his flaps, dropped his feet, then Barsoom slammed into him.

Hitting with his good leg, he rolled across mossy sward, folding his wings to shield the women. Much of the planet still had its original terraforming vegetation, springy reddish moss that scavenged water and broke up rocks. Perfect for soft landings. Unless a sleeping air hostess lands on your lame leg. SinBad howled aloud.

“Shush,” Tiffany whispered, lifting Jem off his leg. “They could hear...”

“Not unless they turn down the music.” Aerial bands played as Erotopia drifted off downwind. Pre-atomic blues, mixed with centuries-old 3V jingles. Culture crawled to Barsoom at light speed. Unscrewing a ring setting, Tiffany exposed a hypo-needle and gave Jem an injection.

“What’s that?” Drugging pretty teenagers always aroused his professional interest.

“Antidote.” Tiffany resealed the ring.

“You’re a cop?”

“Peace Corps.” Just like on the grenade.

“I had no notion.” No wonder they threw her over the side. In the pleasure business, the Peace Corps was as popular as a drug resistant STD.

Tiffany smiled, showing straight even teeth. “A lot of guys are surprised.” That explained the sleep-bombs and good-night kiss. Peace Corps did not kill people, they just went after those who did. “What are you doing here?”

“Investigating exploitation of underage natives by offworld corporations,” Tiffany explained. “You can do what you want on your own worlds, but it is a crime to murder, abuse, or torture inhabitants of another planet for profit. And against Navy antislaving regs. Greenies won’t police the pleasure palaces, so someone must.”

“If you say so.” Greenies did not care what humans did offplanet, even half a haad offplanet. Policing humans on Barsoom was bad enough, thanks to humans like him.

“We need a witness,” Tiffany explained. “Who can be truthtested, and brain scanned. Otherwise it is he-said, she-said.”

Human witness. SinBad arched an eyebrow. “Greenies do not count?”

“Absolutely.” Testimony by bio-engineered beings counted far less than fingerprints off a toaster. Jem’s eyes fluttered, and she asked in Apache, “Where are we?” Good question. When Jem had fallen asleep, she was starring in a high-flying orgy. Now she lay half-naked on the mossy ochre sward, with Cluros shining overhead, and Thuria due up soon. “We are a hundred haads south of Exhume.”

Flat, featureless sward faded into darkness in every direction. “We have to hide,” he added. “Thuria rise is in half a zode.”

Jem immediately understood. Apache girls played hide-and-seek with Thuria all their lives. “We should head downwind.”

More Apache thinking. SinBad agreed. It meant heading west, instead of straight north to Exhume, but that threw off pursuit, and put possible predators up ahead, while forcing fliers from Erotopia to work their way upwind.

He set off downwind, limping behind Jem and Tiffany, trusting in Apache senses and blonde ambition. At first it worked. After twenty or thirty xats, Jem held out her hands, then slowly lowered them, palms down. SinBad threw himself face down in the sward. Closing his eyes, he listened. Hearing nothing. SinBad listened harder, finally hearing the whump of propellers, slowly growing louder, as an airship churned her way upwind. Erotopia was looking for them.

Lots of luck. Antelope fed on sward moss. So did springbok and moropus. Dire wolves fed on them, and jackals cleaned up afterward. There were so many human-sized infrared sources and heat trails hereabouts that examining them all was hopeless.

Whoever piloted the airship agreed. Propeller sounds passed laboriously overhead, then slowly faded upwind.

Jem called out softly, “Let’s go.”

They set out again, across the flat sward. Jem no longer headed straight downwind, casting about instead, checking out streams and low spots. Tiffany dropped back to ask, “Where are we going?”

“We are looking for cover,” SinBad explained. “Thuria will be up soon.” Too soon. Slavers had high-powered optical scanners designed to work by Thuria light. If you could see Thuria, Slavers could see you. And Tiffany was just what they wanted. Jem too.

Finally they found a shallow draw, with an overhanging bank big enough to hide them from Thuria. There they slept and rested, while Barsoom’s nearer moon raced overhead. At seven xats past the eighth zode, Thuria set. This time they headed straight north. Rigel, Barsoom’s north star, could not be seen at this latitude, but Betelgeuse was up, a great yellowish-red beacon, pointing the way to Exhume.

Beyond some low hills, mossy ochre sward gave way to sandy short-grass steppe, dotted with thorn trees. Barsoom’s few forests lay mainly along the equator. Halfway through the ninth zode, Thuria rose again, and they sheltered beneath a spreading thorn tree. Betelgeuse was down by now, but the red lights of Exhume beanstalk poked above the northern horizon, pointed at the stars. Within sight of their goal, Jem sat up and sniffed the air, saying, “They’re coming.” Who’s coming? SinBad sat up and sniffed. He smelled it too, a faint catbox odor borne by the night wind.

“Ba’aths?”

Ba’aths were black-maned Barsoomian lions, bigger than any earthly cat, with saberteeth and gleaming green eyes. Jem shook her head. “Ba’aths do not stalk downwind. SuperCats.” Made sense. Lions would not waste a stalk. SuperCats were paid either way. And these knew that their prey dared not run when Thuria was up.