“I got no friends.” Just customers. “I am an O-mad, a man with one name. Cast out by my clan and tribe. No one wants to know me.”
“Can’t you get another name?”
“Only if I kill someone. Then I would get his name.”
“Seems a bit drastic.” Tiffany was plainly new to Barsoom. “So, you have never killed anyone?”
“Not yet.” One crime he worked overtime to avoid.
Tiffany squeezed his shoulder. “Me neither.”
Her squeeze felt good. Not committing homicide seemed to absolve his other crimes, at least to Tiffany. He liked this air hostess more and more.
Having dodged the heaped up sand, SinBad set out across cracked golden claypan, broken by patches of mossy orange sward. Even with the good wind, it took most of a twenty-five hour Barsoomian day to reach the wagon track. There he camped atop a low bluff, at the head of a wadi, where he could easily turn about, going back the way he came.
Waiting until Thuria had set, he lit a fire, telling Tiffany, “There will be a wind wagon through soon. And you can be away.”
“Away where?” Tiffany surveyed the empty waste.
“Exhume beanstalk.” Barsoom was obviously bad for her.
She smiled at his neat plans. “How can I ever repay you?”
“No problem there.” Sex criminals were easily satisfied. “You are an air hostess, and a pretty one too.”
“Badly banged about,” she noted.
SinBad nodded. “Assorted scrapes, sprains, and bruises. But no broken bones.”
“How do you know?” Painkillers masked almost anything.
“Because I checked on that first night.”
Her smile widened. “You are exceedingly thorough.”
“I try.”
“And kind.” Her white-gold hair shone in the firelight.
“Too kind for my own good.” His last night with this pretty air hostess would be a chaste one, though that could hardly be helped. “Which palace are you from?”
“Erotopia.”
Said to be the best. If you could afford high flying entertainment.
“Here, lie beside me at least.” Tiffany made room next to her. “For I am sorely in your debt.” He lay down beside the offworld woman he had found in the dunes, costing him two days’ time, and all his profits. Easily worth it. Tiffany felt both slight and exciting. Strange, what a strong effect women like this had on men. When this wild adventure ended, he would be both glad and sad. SinBad let the fire die, covering them both with sleeping furs instead. Thuria would be up during the night. By dawn the Slaver moon had set, and they both slept in. Awaking to dark winged shapes circling over the wagon track, slowly spiraling downward. Tiffany looked at him. “Vultures?”
“You wish.” SinBad shook his head. “Massingales.”
“Who are they?”
“You’ll see.” SinBad went to the schooner and buckled on his sword, a long thin rapier. Tiffany eyed the blade. “Are they dangerous?”
He nodded grimly. “Oh, yeah.”
Despite having two names, the Massingales had never killed anyone. So far. They were sky folk, soaring above the desert tribes, living in legal limbo. And liking it.
“What should I do?” Tiffany asked.
“Smile,” SinBad suggested. “You have a very nice smile.” Massingales liked that. Dropping lower, the shapes turned into fliers, men wearing solar-powered wings. Barsoom’s light gravity made flying easy. If you had the wings.
Two of the winged men landed beside them on the bluff. Both Massingale brothers, Joe and Jeramie, stood before them, looking strong and handsome, as usual, in kilts and flying harness, with huge silver wings attached to their backs. They had hand-forged rapiers at their hips, but were otherwise unarmed. Greenies considered firearms and energy weapons obscene, and banned them from Barsoom, forcing humans to assault each other with edged steel. More winged swordsmen circled above. SinBad greeted them with a wary, “Kaor.”
“Kaor, yourself,” Joe replied. “What’s your cargo?”
“Just her,” SinBad was happy to say. Tiffany was too big to be whisked off. Besides, the Massingales did not traffic in females. They had women of their own, good-looking ones. They favored more marketable loot, like the drugs he had been smuggling.
Jeramie grinned. “Where did you find her?”
“Lying on a dune.”
Joe shook his head. “You always were a lucky shit.”
“Some of us got to work for living,” his brother noted.
“How about helping out?” Joe suggested.
“Sure.” SinBad had little choice.
“Gonna hit the wind wagon,” Jeramie explained. “We need someone to catch the swag.” SinBad nodded in brisk agreement. “Can do.”
Any other answer would hardly be wise. Seeing nothing they wanted, both brothers leaped from the bluff. They caught an updraft off the cliff face, spiraling skyward to rejoin their wing men. SinBad sat down next to Tiffany. “Change of plan. We are not going to put you on the wind wagon. We’re going to rob it.”
“Rob it?” Tiffany looked shocked. “Why?”
“Because that is what the Massingales do.” And he was not about to get in their way. In fact, he had to help.
Tiffany reached over and squeezed his hand. “Thanks.”
“For what?” They were now accessories to armed robbery.
“If it were not for me, you would not be here.”
“Same goes for you.”
Tiffany nodded. “Oh, I know.”
Presently, the wind wagon appeared, a sleek two-masted brig, sailing along on big balloon tires. SinBad hauled his sand sail over to the head of the wadi and waited.
Right on cue, the Massingales swooped down like birds of prey. SinBad released his brake, rolling down the wadi, bouncing over stones and ruts, picking up speed.
Crossbowmen aboard the wind jammer opened fire on the Massingales, but birdmen swooped down, slashing the fore sheets and mainsail stays, bringing the wind wagon to a thundering halt, amid flailing lines and flapping sails. Both Massingale brothers landed on the stern gallery, surprising the guards. Joe kept them busy with some fancy sword play, while Jeramie broke a window, disappearing inside. Reaching the bottom of the wadi, SinBad popped his sail, slewing about onto a parallel tack, passing the stalled wind jammer. Crossbow bolts zipped past his head, hitting the mast, ripping through the sail. One bolt buried itself in his boot. Another went through his right cuff, pinning it to the tiller. Suddenly, Joe and Jeramie reappeared, leaping off the stern gallery, wings beating hard, carrying a heavy sack between them. Dropping the bag onto the back of the sand sail, they disappeared into blue. Switching his tack again, SinBad sailed off downwind, away from the wind wagon, dodging the rain of missiles. Glad to leave the havoc behind him, SinBad jerked the crossbow bolt out of the tiller, freeing his arm. Tossing the bolt aside, he worked his way back around, tacking back and forth, until he was once more atop the bluff. Safe and sound. He did not want to know what was in the bag. Tiffany looked worried. “You’re hurt.”
“No.” This latest meeting with the Massingales had been fairly pain free.
“Yes, you are,” Tiffany insisted. “Your boot is bleeding.” He looked down. “Damn.”
“Here, I’ll help you.” It was Tiffany’s turn to nurse him, pulling the bolt out, then helping strip off his bloody boot. Now it started to hurt.
There was a nasty gash on his lower calf, just above the ankle. Tiffany slapped on antibiotic, then used an adhesive salve to seal the wound, followed by painkiller, all left over from his borrowed supplies. While she worked on his foot, the Massingales came winging back. Joe shook his head. “Hurt yourself ?”
“No.” SinBad grimaced. “Some crossbowman did it.”
“Where did you steal the meds?” Joe asked.
Jeramie smirked. “Aymads ain’t gonna like that.”