sooner or later, their Teuton scientists, even hampered as they were by Zhaithan religious constrictions, would back-engineer one or more Norse flying machines. Eventually the Mosul would have a warplane of their own. But, until then, the RAAC could soar and swagger like Masters of the Air.
Raphael knew how the Odin pilots must value their ability to rise above the terrestrial slaughter. The illusion of flying at high speed that figured prominently in The Four’s first forays into the Other Place was a close approximation. They dived and they skyrocketed, and the enemy had come at them out of the bizarre cloud cover of impossible skyscapes. Further practice and a deeper exploration of their powers had presented other options, but flight was still their most powerful extra-reality. They still tended to enter the other place in the flying mode, if for no other reason than the knowledge that no safe training grounds existed in the Other Place, and even while they refined their concentration and rehearsed their moves, they were constantly at risk of attack by enemy entities every time they attempted the real thing. This was no empty fear. The enemy had come upon them no less than seven times during training. The now familiar, but no less dangerous, Mothmen had materialized out of nowhere and assailed them, lethally screaming. The new and hard to describe things with the streamlined bodies and razor-sharp cutting dorsals, that Cordelia had flippantly dubbed the “sports model,” had also appeared from sudden rents in the fabric, and The Four had been hard-pressed to fight them off and retreat to terrestrial safety.
Raphael might have fallen into full reverie, reliving those desperate moments of occult violence in his mind’s eye, had he not noticed Yancey Slide, mounted on a tall and rawboned black stallion, wending his leisurely way through the shout and bustle of the mobilizing camp. The tall, angular figure had watched over them all through training, and his long trademark duster coat and the wide-brimmed black hat tilted forward to conceal his face instilled Raphael with a certain confidence that at least one being understood the infinite strangeness they faced. Slide’s unique oriental sword was across his back in its decorative sheath, with the hilt at his left shoulder, and Raphael did not doubt Slide’s brace of equally outlandish pistols was concealed under the lavish drape of his coat. The inevitable cigar was stuck in the side of his mouth, and his hands were hidden in black gloves. Raphael had long since given up speculating as to what Slide might be, or from where he might have originated. The only thing Raphael knew for sure was that neither he nor any of The Four, even after all the things they had seen in the Other Place and elsewhere, ever wanted to look directly into Yancey Slide’s eyes.
A photographer from one of the Albany newspapers was taking pictures of the mobilization with a heavy, tripod-mounted, wood and brass-plate camera. The man saw Slide and made the mistake of pointing his lens at him. Slide turned slightly, as though starting to pose, but then extended the index and second finger of his right gloved hand and created a sudden tiny but brilliant spark. The photographer tottered back, cursing, and all but knocking over his camera. While the man was still stumbling, Slide rode on as though nothing had happened. The photographer recovered himself, and then pulled the now-ruined photosensitive plate out of the device. He stared after Slide in anger and frustration, then dashed the plate to the ground and stamped it into the earth. The delivered message had plainly been received. Yancey Slide was not to be photographed.
Slide reined in beside Raphael. “The first to arrive, boy?”
Raphael nodded. Yancey Slide was one of the few people he would tolerate calling him “boy.”
“So it would seem.”
Slide dragged on his cigar and spat out a sliver of leaf that had detached itself. He knew
Raphael knew how the Odin pilots must value their ability to rise above the terrestrial slaughter. The illusion of flying at high speed that figured prominently in The Four’s first forays into the Other Place was a close approximation. They dived and they skyrocketed, and the enemy had come at them out of the bizarre cloud cover of impossible skyscapes. Further practice and a deeper exploration of their powers had presented other options, but flight was still their most powerful extra-reality. They still tended to enter the other place in the flying mode, if for no other reason than the knowledge that no safe training grounds existed in the Other Place, and even while they refined their concentration and rehearsed their moves, they were constantly at risk of attack by enemy entities every time they attempted the real thing. This was no empty fear. The enemy had come upon them no less than seven times during training. The now familiar, but no less dangerous, Mothmen had materialized out of nowhere and assailed them, lethally screaming. The new and hard to describe things with the streamlined bodies and razor-sharp cutting dorsals, that Cordelia had flippantly dubbed the “sports model,” had also appeared from sudden rents in the fabric, and The Four had been hard-pressed to fight them off and retreat to terrestrial safety.
Raphael might have fallen into full reverie, reliving those desperate moments of occult violence in his mind’s eye, had he not noticed Yancey Slide, mounted on a tall and rawboned black stallion, wending his leisurely way through the shout and bustle of the mobilizing camp. The tall, angular figure had watched over them all through training, and his long trademark duster coat and the wide-brimmed black hat tilted forward to conceal his face instilled Raphael with a certain confidence that at least one being understood the infinite strangeness they faced. Slide’s unique oriental sword was across his back in its decorative sheath, with the hilt at his left shoulder, and Raphael did not doubt Slide’s brace of equally outlandish pistols was concealed under the lavish drape of his coat. The inevitable cigar was stuck in the side of his mouth, and his hands were hidden in black gloves. Raphael had long since given up speculating as to what Slide might be, or from where he might have originated. The only thing Raphael knew for sure was that neither he nor any of The Four, even after all the things they had seen in the Other Place and elsewhere, ever wanted to look directly into Yancey Slide’s eyes.
A photographer from one of the Albany newspapers was taking pictures of the mobilization with a heavy, tripod-mounted, wood and brass-plate camera. The man saw Slide and made the mistake of pointing his lens at him. Slide turned slightly, as though starting to pose, but then extended the index and second finger of his right gloved hand and created a sudden tiny but brilliant spark. The photographer tottered back, cursing, and all but knocking over his camera. While the man was still stumbling, Slide rode on as though nothing had happened. The photographer recovered himself, and then pulled the now-ruined photosensitive plate out of the device. He stared after Slide in anger and frustration, then dashed the plate to the ground and stamped it into the earth. The delivered message had plainly been received. Yancey Slide was not to be photographed.
Slide reined in beside Raphael. “The first to arrive, boy?”
Raphael nodded. Yancey Slide was one of the few people he would tolerate calling him “boy.”
“So it would seem.”
Slide dragged on his cigar and spat out a sliver of leaf that had detached itself. He knew
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