Bastion Science Fiction Magazine - Issue 4, July 2014 by Alex Hernandez George S. Walker Eleanor R. Wood Robert Quinlivan Peter Medeiros Hannah Goodwin R. Leigh Hennig Page A
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its wings, and the girl climbed onto its back. The pterodactyl stepped closer to the edge, the girl on its back, then leapt outward from the cliff, soaring across the water.
The images began to repeat.
Carefully, Yasmine climbed onto its back, holding tightly onto the bones at the front of its wings.
“I’ll be late for supper. Not that anyone cares.”
#
Trafalgar was near Malta, cruising outside the twelve mile limit. The data from Huntington’s instruments puzzled him. The readings were clearer, but the mascon seemed to be moving.
He needed to get closer to the island, but he knew better than to ask the Luddite captain. He finally tracked down Lieutenant Spencer.
“I need to fly to Malta.”
The lieutenant gave him an incredulous look. “You think I can just fly you there?”
“You’re a pilot.”
“Mate, this is a warship, and those are warplanes. The natives get sticky about that sort of thing.”
“The mascon coordinates are shifting. I have to follow it.”
“Your mountain’s moving?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we can talk to the radar officer. A moving mountain should show up on radar, right?”
“Not necessarily.”
But it was better than talking to the captain. They took the stairs to the flight control tower. The tower swayed with the sea, rain beating against the metal.
“Show me on the charts,” said the radar officer.
Huntington pointed. “This is where it was earlier.”
“What altitude?”
“Sea level.”
“Like a truck?” The officer shook his head. “I can’t pick things like that out of ground clutter.”
“Is there anything unusual at all?”
He studied the radar screen. “We have one UFO. Small footprint, low altitude. Maybe an ultralight, though he’d be bonkers in this weather.”
“What’s his vector?” asked the lieutenant.
“Appears to be heading out to sea.”
The lieutenant cleared his throat. “Clearly a search and rescue situation.”
#
Beneath darkening storm clouds, the pterodactyl landed on a tiny outcropping of rock out at sea. An island large enough for a palm tree, but with a navigation beacon instead. There was no sand, only rocks slippery with algae. Waves crashed against the island, sending sea spray high into the air. Rain matted Yasmine’s hair against her face, and she tasted salt water. She was too exhilarated to be frightened. Shivering, she crouched at the leeward side of the creature.
“You were supposed to flap your wings,” she shouted over the sound of the surf. She made flapping motions with her arms.
The pterodactyl had soared, but however it flew, wing motion had nothing to do with it.
“You need to look more natural, so you don’t attract attention.” She realized how absurd that sounded.
#
“Just a spot of weather,” said the captain.
The waves were over ten feet, and rain slanted across the flight deck. Huntington, the captain and Lieutenant Spencer were preparing to take off in one of the Trafalgar ’s helicopters. Huntington was in a jump seat in the back, and the other two were up front. Having the captain along wasn’t Huntington’s choice. He checked his equipment and put on a pair of headphones.
“Wind zero-one-zero, gusting twenty-four,” said a voice from Trafalgar ’s flight control tower.
Rain streamed like tears across the helicopter canopy as wipers fought to keep up. The sky was dark with clouds. Red and white flashes from the helicopter’s lights reflected off the rain-slick deck.
“Swordfish one-four, you’re cleared for takeoff.”
The cabin shuddered, vibrating with power. Members of the deck crew crouched low as the Swordfish climbed from the flight deck. Through the window, Huntington saw whitecaps rushing toward the Trafalgar . Malta was hidden by clouds and rain.
“Sir,” said the lieutenant, “Malta flight control wants to know what’s going on.”
“Tell them we picked up a garbled transmission and we’re doing a search, possible rescue.
The images began to repeat.
Carefully, Yasmine climbed onto its back, holding tightly onto the bones at the front of its wings.
“I’ll be late for supper. Not that anyone cares.”
#
Trafalgar was near Malta, cruising outside the twelve mile limit. The data from Huntington’s instruments puzzled him. The readings were clearer, but the mascon seemed to be moving.
He needed to get closer to the island, but he knew better than to ask the Luddite captain. He finally tracked down Lieutenant Spencer.
“I need to fly to Malta.”
The lieutenant gave him an incredulous look. “You think I can just fly you there?”
“You’re a pilot.”
“Mate, this is a warship, and those are warplanes. The natives get sticky about that sort of thing.”
“The mascon coordinates are shifting. I have to follow it.”
“Your mountain’s moving?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we can talk to the radar officer. A moving mountain should show up on radar, right?”
“Not necessarily.”
But it was better than talking to the captain. They took the stairs to the flight control tower. The tower swayed with the sea, rain beating against the metal.
“Show me on the charts,” said the radar officer.
Huntington pointed. “This is where it was earlier.”
“What altitude?”
“Sea level.”
“Like a truck?” The officer shook his head. “I can’t pick things like that out of ground clutter.”
“Is there anything unusual at all?”
He studied the radar screen. “We have one UFO. Small footprint, low altitude. Maybe an ultralight, though he’d be bonkers in this weather.”
“What’s his vector?” asked the lieutenant.
“Appears to be heading out to sea.”
The lieutenant cleared his throat. “Clearly a search and rescue situation.”
#
Beneath darkening storm clouds, the pterodactyl landed on a tiny outcropping of rock out at sea. An island large enough for a palm tree, but with a navigation beacon instead. There was no sand, only rocks slippery with algae. Waves crashed against the island, sending sea spray high into the air. Rain matted Yasmine’s hair against her face, and she tasted salt water. She was too exhilarated to be frightened. Shivering, she crouched at the leeward side of the creature.
“You were supposed to flap your wings,” she shouted over the sound of the surf. She made flapping motions with her arms.
The pterodactyl had soared, but however it flew, wing motion had nothing to do with it.
“You need to look more natural, so you don’t attract attention.” She realized how absurd that sounded.
#
“Just a spot of weather,” said the captain.
The waves were over ten feet, and rain slanted across the flight deck. Huntington, the captain and Lieutenant Spencer were preparing to take off in one of the Trafalgar ’s helicopters. Huntington was in a jump seat in the back, and the other two were up front. Having the captain along wasn’t Huntington’s choice. He checked his equipment and put on a pair of headphones.
“Wind zero-one-zero, gusting twenty-four,” said a voice from Trafalgar ’s flight control tower.
Rain streamed like tears across the helicopter canopy as wipers fought to keep up. The sky was dark with clouds. Red and white flashes from the helicopter’s lights reflected off the rain-slick deck.
“Swordfish one-four, you’re cleared for takeoff.”
The cabin shuddered, vibrating with power. Members of the deck crew crouched low as the Swordfish climbed from the flight deck. Through the window, Huntington saw whitecaps rushing toward the Trafalgar . Malta was hidden by clouds and rain.
“Sir,” said the lieutenant, “Malta flight control wants to know what’s going on.”
“Tell them we picked up a garbled transmission and we’re doing a search, possible rescue.
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