"Eh, good morning, Lieutenant. Don't be too hard on Fenstermacher. He just wanted to give me a chance to, eh.. take care of, uh.. nature' s call." MacArthur self-consciously pulled on his jumpsuit and sat down to pull on his boots.

"Of course! I'm sorry," she said, blushing. "I'll watch Tonto."

"Tonto seems to know who you are, sir," he said. "He likes you." MacArthur held her eyes with his and smiled happily. She remained outwardly impassive, but her eyes brightened.

"I brought him in," she said, staring him squarely in the face. "We're going to take Tonto back to where you woke up. Go take care of whatever you need to do. I'll let Commander Quinn know."

"Yes, sir. And thank you," he said. MacArthur passed the returning Fenstermacher and received directions to the latrine. Fenstermacher told him about the hot springs and highly recommended he take a dip.

"You stink bad," was the way Fenstermacher put it. MacArthur laughed heartily and slapped the boatswain's hat from his head, sailing it off into the rocks. MacArthur stumbled stiffly down the hill, leaving Fenstermacher swearing with his usual surpassing skill.

They approached the cliff edge. Buccari marched at a hard pace behind MacArthur, frequently making eye contact with the injured creature carried papoose-style on the corporal's broad back. Quinn and Shannon came after her. Tatum brought up the rear. Tonto stared into the air. Buccari looked up and was not surprised to see soaring black specks.

"Sarge," MacArthur said, stopping, the cliff only paces away. "This is where I woke up. Maybe we should make camp and see what happens."

"Why don't we just put it down and back away?" Shannon asked.

"Tonto might run off," MacArthur said. "That won't prove anything."

"What are we trying to prove?" Shannon asked.

"Good question, Sergeant," Quinn replied. "I guess we'd like them to understand what we're doing—that we're returning a favor." The commander walked toward the edge of the cliff, remaining comfortably removed from the lip. He looked along the precipice and then back into the skies. "I agree with Corporal MacArthur. Let's make camp," he said.

Buccari shucked off her heavy pack, went up to MacArthur, and unstrapped the injured creature. Its body was passively limp. It intently watched the skies.

"Why don't I take Tonto away from the group and sit with him," she said. "Maybe something will happen if they see him walking around."

She carried the animal on her hip toward the edge of the cliff and sat down on warm granite. Carefully unwinding the cloth swaddling, Buccari unbound the creature's wings and legs and stood him erect. She held him by a light leash. Tonto stood calmly, staring into her eyes or glancing past her into the skies. Buccari was absorbed with clearing the animal's bindings and dressings. Occasionally she lifted her gaze, but she mainly focused on the creature in front of her. The others busied themselves setting up camp.

Tonto stood erect, taller than Buccari in her sitting position. She leaned back and watched the hunter hop about, never putting tension on his leash. He whistled and clicked and stretched his good arm, extending the membrane and allowing it to flutter in the wind, all the while keeping the broken arm close to his body. Buccari was intrigued with the mechanics of the wing. A bony appendage emanating from the animal's forearm extended the wingspan past the wrist and hand for almost a meter. At full extension the wrist and hand acted like an overcenter lock, holding the wing rigid on the down beat. When the wing was stowed, the arm rotated and the appendage folded back on the forearm, arranging the excess webbing around the creature's lower back in a smooth fold. She watched the creature as it gracefully stowed the good wing.

Buccari also marveled at the animal's fine fur. She reached out to the silky pelt. The animal watched her hand stroke its fur and, after several strokes, leaned against the pressure, its eyes closing to slits. Suddenly the creature's pliable muscles hardened into iron; its eyes opened wide and stared directly over her shoulder, toward the cliff. Buccari looked up to see Quinn, MacArthur, and Tatum frozen in action poses. Shannon had a pistol in his hand, and Tatum had grabbed a rifle. Buccari rolled to her knees and slowly turned her head.

Two hopelessly ugly animals, generously scarred, stood between her and the precipice. Like the humans behind her, they were postured dynamically, eyes slit to combative intensity. The newcomers wore thick leather chest and groin protectors, and one carried a pike that was half again as long as the creature was tall. Involuntarily Buccari cleared her throat. The fierce creatures' eyes darted to her, registered no threat, and snapped back to the men. She moved onto unsteady legs and found herself to be a head taller than the newcomers. She reached down and disengaged the clip holding Tonto' s harness and leash. With a slight shake of her hand the harness came loose. She stood up and pushed the injured creature toward the newcomers.

Tonto grabbed her finger.

Buccari looked down at the clinging animal and tried to smile. She gently broke loose, took three steps backward, and waited. Tonto hopped over to his comrades, while the creature with the pike waddled forward and placed the weapon at Buccari's feet. Uncertain what to do, she turned and looked at the men. She sighed with relief as Tatum and Shannon put their weapons on the ground. MacArthur, finger to his lips, walked over to Tatum and pulled Tatum' s knife from its calf scabbard. He moved past Buccari and laid the knife at the feet of the foremost animal. MacArthur stepped next to Buccari and picked up the pike at her feet. The animal bent easily and picked up the knife. And then it bowed, elegantly. MacArthur bowed in return. Standing erect, MacArthur startled everybody, including the beasts, by cheerfully whistling the seven-note ditty. As if rehearsed, Tonto, standing close to his fellows, whistled the same notes in return but stopped short of the last two. MacArthur firmly whistled the two final short notes.

Tension palpably lessened, but movements were still guarded, nerves taut. The newcomers grabbed their injured comrade and hopped to the cliff's edge. Without looking back, they pushed off and dropped from sight. Piercing screams shattered the silence.

"They deserved to die," Gorruk snapped, his huge body trembling, his brow tufts oscillating like tuning forks.

"You are hopeless," Jook rumbled. "Why do you act so? You represent my regime. Executing an entire regional government was stupid!" They lounged in Jook's private chambers, drinking kotta wine and smoking precious wahocca cigars. The imperial entourage had been dismissed.

"Regional bureaucrats!" Gorruk roared, surprised, and growing angry. He expected commendation for his decisiveness. "They would not obey procurement orders. My armies must be fed."

"Yes, yes, it is critical that your forces be provided for—their moment draws near—but even useless bureaucrats have purpose," Jook lectured. "There will be utter chaos until they are replaced. Tax revenues will disappear."

Gorruk glared sulkily at the Supreme Leader. The politics of government were too much for his direct mentality. He struggled, resisting mightily the urge to throw the emperor-general's own past back in his face. General Jook' s history—the scourge of the unification wars—was replete with mayhem and terror.

"You cannot threaten death whenever someone disagrees with you," the ruler preached. "I have learned this the hard way. Too much fear can be counter-productive. You create only martyrs."

"Yes, Jook," Gorruk replied. "But—"

"You will address me in the proper manner!" Jook bellowed. Both giants, staggered by drink, lurched to their hinds; the yellow scent of their mutual anger exploded into the air. Subtly concealed doors burst open, and a dozen armed members of the palace guard burst into the chamber, powerful snub-blasters aimed to kill. Air circulators kicked in.