Free Banshee by Terry Maggert Page A

asked, bemused.
    “No, but we can use four.” The remaining engines started up outside, and the cheers broke free again, wild and unfiltered. French shot Watley and Yarnell a look that told them both he was watching every move they made as he jingled the spare keys in a slow, gloating motion that was at odds with his usual quiet demeanor.
    Watley looked stricken. He’d just spent his political capitol on a failed coup and been undressed in front of the entire community. The death knell of his ascent was all around him and, for the first time in recent memory, he had nowhere to hide. Yarnell’s face was nearly dizzy with hate, but he was a sycophant who looked solely to the looming blowhard next to him. Both worked their jaws in silence as the cheers continued to erupt. French began to stride toward the exit, handing the key ring to the outstretched hands of Harriet Fleming. Her wry smile told him she was aware of how badly he’d outplayed the acquisitive Watley, but there was an undertone of danger brought on by this display of cunning. French was no longer a bumpkin; he knew that, but then again, in his mind, he never was the simpleton they assumed him to be. With a final look at Watley and Yarnell, French stepped out into the desultory air, resigning that no matter what, from this point forward, he would never turn his back on those two again.

12
     

     
    Trinity Outpost, August 10, 2074 A.D.
    Delandra made shushing motions as Moss Eilert stomped into the medical bays.
    “Jesus, Moss, do you have to punish the floor? Take it easy, big guy.” Delandra was only half kidding. She was ferociously protective of her area, and more importantly, her patients.
    Suitably reproved, the commodore lightened his step and waved Delandra forward to the curtain that acted as a wall for the recovering visitor. With practiced ease, she drew the gauzy fabric back to reveal an elevated bed, a night stand, and an intravenous fluid bag held aloft on a chrome pole that had once served to sell clothes in a long-forgotten department store. Sunlight flooded the room and the air was still but not stuffy; Delandra kept air circulating with fans and the walls were thick and cool to the touch.
    “Hi, friend. I see you’re back with us?” Moss said to the man who sat relatively alert, if pale and drawn. He looked tall lying down, was painfully thin, and had unremarkable black hair and intelligent brown eyes. Sun damage told of a life on the move, in weather, and his hands were long and thin. A smile of thanks crossed his sunken face, the expression weak but present. Saavin arrived quietly behind Delandra and gave the man a single terse nod. His eyes widened with recognition as he allowed a smile to break loose on his gaunt features.
    “I think I see someone I should be thanking, or would be, if I could only stand up.” His voice was deep, but rusty with disuse.
    Moss waved Saavin forward. “This is your savior, indeed. She . . . well, along with Banshee, they were able to carry you overland and through the air. Got you here just in time to treat that nasty toxin and wound.”
    Saavin dipped her head, acknowledging the praise, but remaining silent.
    “Through the air? How?” The patient looked out the window with curiosity.
    Saavin spoke up. “Cradled in the arms of my dragon, Banshee. He carried you.”
    A long sigh escaped from the man, who looked back out the window again, seeking something known only to him. When he turned back to the commodore, his voice was reverent. “If there are dragons here, then I must be at the right place.”
    On cue, a deep bass hooting penetrated the sanctum of the medical area. It ranged into a groan between pleasure and pain, and then trailed off with a blasted snort and thump.
    “What was that? Dragon?”
    Moss smiled. “That was”—he craned his neck out to identify the beast that had made such a commotion—“Dauntless, being scratched on the back with a rake by his rider Bertline.”
    A robust