barely warm, but better than the chill air. She shrugged off her coat and pushed his arms into it.
He stared at her, his expression confused. “You have wings.”
“I’m also a girl.” She crouched beside him. “How do you feel?”
He ignored the question, still looking at her as if she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. “You’re the eiree.”
“Only half.” The eiree. He’d seen the posters. Everyone had seen the posters. She wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d plastered them all over his lab. “So,” she said, brightly, as she massaged warmth back into his fingers, “what’s your name?”
His teeth chattered so hard she could barely make out the whispered “S-S-Sanders.” A name as pale and bland as the man who owned it. He sat up a bit and pushed her hands away. In a stronger voice, he managed, “You’re not Grit.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
She hesitated. But if she were going to die here, she wanted to do so with someone who knew her name. “Rainbird.”
He looked at her blankly. She could almost see his mental processes slowing down in the oxygen-poor air. And a wiz without a brain wasn’t worth much.
“We should get deeper inside the crack. See if it leads into the cargo tunnels. Maybe we can find a bed of creepgrass.” Creepgrass produced oxygen. They could fashion pads of it to wear on his face.
It was also not common, but the wiz was beyond considering such things. He leaned heavily against her as she hustled him along, deeper into the crack.
It sloped upward, then splintered into several smaller branches. Rainbird picked one at random, but hoped it looked like she knew what she was doing. Follow the warmth , she told herself. Creepgrass liked heat.
Several times she had to backtrack when a branch she took dead-ended. It was dark, very dark now, and only her eiree sense of direction kept her from getting totally lost. The wiz’s breathing was labored, a painful rasp against her ears.
And then something warm blasted down at her face, carrying with it the smooth scent of oxygen. Even the wiz straightened at this, face straining towards the source of the current.
Straight above them.
Rainbird reached up on tiptoe. Her fingers met the edges of the gap, traced around it. “It’s big enough,” she reported to the wiz—Sanders, she corrected herself—who slumped against the wall.
He didn’t answer, but then she didn’t expect him to. “I’ll boost myself up. I want you to stand right here”—she nudged him into position—“and stretch your arms up as high as you can reach when I say so. Got it?”
“Think…so.” Good. He was at least a little lucid.
“I’m going up now.” Rainbird crouched, then leaped up, high and straight, glad for her strong legs. She caught the lip of the crack and heaved herself up. A strong smell of organic material and a wave of warmth rolled over her.
Sanders would survive here. She hadn’t gotten him killed after all.
“Reach out your hands,” she called down to him.
No answer. No movement.
“Sanders?” Her heart beat so fast and loud, she couldn’t even hear his breathing, though she strained for it. She forced the panic down.
“Give me…second.” Faintly whispered.
“All right. Don’t worry. I’m right here. No rush.” His sense of time was all messed up, she bet. Rainbird listened for the rustle of movement, then swiped her arm through the crack. Her forearm smacked his hand on the third sweep; she caught one hand, then the other.
“I’m going to pull you up, all right? See if you can kick off against the wall, give me some leverage.”
Sanders may have been thin-looking, but he was not a lightweight. Rainbird heaved, worried about his shoulder joints. She felt him kicking around for purchase, and his breathing was so loud and painful, her lungs burned in sympathy. She finally got her hands under his shoulders and pulled. The wiz slithered up, fast, and they both fell over, breathing hard.
But
He stared at her, his expression confused. “You have wings.”
“I’m also a girl.” She crouched beside him. “How do you feel?”
He ignored the question, still looking at her as if she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. “You’re the eiree.”
“Only half.” The eiree. He’d seen the posters. Everyone had seen the posters. She wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d plastered them all over his lab. “So,” she said, brightly, as she massaged warmth back into his fingers, “what’s your name?”
His teeth chattered so hard she could barely make out the whispered “S-S-Sanders.” A name as pale and bland as the man who owned it. He sat up a bit and pushed her hands away. In a stronger voice, he managed, “You’re not Grit.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
She hesitated. But if she were going to die here, she wanted to do so with someone who knew her name. “Rainbird.”
He looked at her blankly. She could almost see his mental processes slowing down in the oxygen-poor air. And a wiz without a brain wasn’t worth much.
“We should get deeper inside the crack. See if it leads into the cargo tunnels. Maybe we can find a bed of creepgrass.” Creepgrass produced oxygen. They could fashion pads of it to wear on his face.
It was also not common, but the wiz was beyond considering such things. He leaned heavily against her as she hustled him along, deeper into the crack.
It sloped upward, then splintered into several smaller branches. Rainbird picked one at random, but hoped it looked like she knew what she was doing. Follow the warmth , she told herself. Creepgrass liked heat.
Several times she had to backtrack when a branch she took dead-ended. It was dark, very dark now, and only her eiree sense of direction kept her from getting totally lost. The wiz’s breathing was labored, a painful rasp against her ears.
And then something warm blasted down at her face, carrying with it the smooth scent of oxygen. Even the wiz straightened at this, face straining towards the source of the current.
Straight above them.
Rainbird reached up on tiptoe. Her fingers met the edges of the gap, traced around it. “It’s big enough,” she reported to the wiz—Sanders, she corrected herself—who slumped against the wall.
He didn’t answer, but then she didn’t expect him to. “I’ll boost myself up. I want you to stand right here”—she nudged him into position—“and stretch your arms up as high as you can reach when I say so. Got it?”
“Think…so.” Good. He was at least a little lucid.
“I’m going up now.” Rainbird crouched, then leaped up, high and straight, glad for her strong legs. She caught the lip of the crack and heaved herself up. A strong smell of organic material and a wave of warmth rolled over her.
Sanders would survive here. She hadn’t gotten him killed after all.
“Reach out your hands,” she called down to him.
No answer. No movement.
“Sanders?” Her heart beat so fast and loud, she couldn’t even hear his breathing, though she strained for it. She forced the panic down.
“Give me…second.” Faintly whispered.
“All right. Don’t worry. I’m right here. No rush.” His sense of time was all messed up, she bet. Rainbird listened for the rustle of movement, then swiped her arm through the crack. Her forearm smacked his hand on the third sweep; she caught one hand, then the other.
“I’m going to pull you up, all right? See if you can kick off against the wall, give me some leverage.”
Sanders may have been thin-looking, but he was not a lightweight. Rainbird heaved, worried about his shoulder joints. She felt him kicking around for purchase, and his breathing was so loud and painful, her lungs burned in sympathy. She finally got her hands under his shoulders and pulled. The wiz slithered up, fast, and they both fell over, breathing hard.
But
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