irregular pattern, weak from loss of blood and unable to control her vehicle properly. Sheer guts had carried her this far; she could falter at any moment.
Logan sped to catch her.
Rutago charged closer, giving the wind his smile.
The Lame Johnny was below, and Logan bounced in the saddle as the swift currents affected his power thrust. He cut to the right, using the bank, and his speed resumed. Rutago was almost upon him.
The king was here, the man who rode the Ribbon. Logan had heard of this legendary feat. Many deestickers had tried it, tried to hug that flexible durasteel cable stretching the storm-tossed Atlantic, but only one jockey had ever ridden the Ribbon from shore to shore, through wind and wave change, cold and blind fog. Only Rutago had managed it. The king.
Logan braced himself for attack. And was shocked.
In a wash of jato heat Rutago sliced past him, heading for Jess.
The gypsy raked the side of her jato housing. She wavered as smoke began seeping from her craft. It staggered downward, the girl fighting for control. Rutago circled, lazily riding air, expertly guiding his machine, playing her.
Jess regained partial stability, and he was at her again immediately, forcing her close to the red granite walls of the ravine. Her face held terror; in another moment she'd be spilled from the saddle.
Logan shot up to engage the gypsy, flashed by him, drawing him away from Jess in a hazardous ploy: Logan took his stick up the sheer ravine face, riding the mountain with the water boiling below them.
Rutago could not resist the bait. He made splendid use of his fabled skill to harass Logan, dipping and slashing in at him. Logan was a boy once again, all awkwardness and uncertainty in trying to handle his first devilstick. This man who knifed at him was in cool command of the air, but when would he tire of the one-sided game?
He'll go for Jess again unless . . . unless I kill him . But how?
Logan kicked his craft around, aimed it at the gypsy. Rutago veered left; Logan veered with him, fixing his trajectory. Full throttle. A startled look on Rutago's face as Logan pitched himself from the saddle.
Down . . . down . . . down. The Lame Johnny far below. Rapids. White water. Logan arrowed toward it in a long dive.
The stick caught Rutago below the rib line, carrying away his stomach as it drove into the face of the ravine.
Logan sliced the water, and the rapids took him, rolled him twisting, sucked him under. He came up choking, kicking to maintain leverage. Rocks just ahead.
The last thing Logan saw before he went under again was the faltering smoke trail of Jessica's wounded machine layering the sky.
He knows the girl is on black now. A runner.
But the quarry has vanished again beyond Crazy Horse.
He checks the board in Rapid City. It does not help him. The Follower remains dark.
He is certain that Logan and the girl must break cover soon.
When they do he will be ready.
He will be there to intercept them.
AFTERNOON . . .
Jess lay unconscious in a pale square of sunlight next to her damaged machine. One cheek was scraped raw where she had skidded along the black asphalt. The wound on her thigh still pulsed blood.
She didn't hear the soft footsteps or the voices that surrounded her. Fourteen bright eyes peered down.
"Ohhhhhhhh!"
"Pret-ty, pret-ty!"
Seven tiny moppets in pink playrompers drew back in alarm as the girl stirred. Jess moaned, lapsed back into unconsciousness. The children bent over the still figure. Wonderingly, they felt her hair, her soft lips, the long lashes of her closed eyes.
"What is it?"
"It's a people! Ohhh . . . so big! '
"People tired."
They clucked together, deciding that Jess should be in a crib. They tugged and lifted and pulled her toward the Cribroom.
Fourteen bright eyes peered down. Jess lay on her side in a small crib, knees tucked under her chin. The crib had sensed her hurt and ministered to her, closing her wounds with synthaskin. She slept deeply.
The eyes
Logan sped to catch her.
Rutago charged closer, giving the wind his smile.
The Lame Johnny was below, and Logan bounced in the saddle as the swift currents affected his power thrust. He cut to the right, using the bank, and his speed resumed. Rutago was almost upon him.
The king was here, the man who rode the Ribbon. Logan had heard of this legendary feat. Many deestickers had tried it, tried to hug that flexible durasteel cable stretching the storm-tossed Atlantic, but only one jockey had ever ridden the Ribbon from shore to shore, through wind and wave change, cold and blind fog. Only Rutago had managed it. The king.
Logan braced himself for attack. And was shocked.
In a wash of jato heat Rutago sliced past him, heading for Jess.
The gypsy raked the side of her jato housing. She wavered as smoke began seeping from her craft. It staggered downward, the girl fighting for control. Rutago circled, lazily riding air, expertly guiding his machine, playing her.
Jess regained partial stability, and he was at her again immediately, forcing her close to the red granite walls of the ravine. Her face held terror; in another moment she'd be spilled from the saddle.
Logan shot up to engage the gypsy, flashed by him, drawing him away from Jess in a hazardous ploy: Logan took his stick up the sheer ravine face, riding the mountain with the water boiling below them.
Rutago could not resist the bait. He made splendid use of his fabled skill to harass Logan, dipping and slashing in at him. Logan was a boy once again, all awkwardness and uncertainty in trying to handle his first devilstick. This man who knifed at him was in cool command of the air, but when would he tire of the one-sided game?
He'll go for Jess again unless . . . unless I kill him . But how?
Logan kicked his craft around, aimed it at the gypsy. Rutago veered left; Logan veered with him, fixing his trajectory. Full throttle. A startled look on Rutago's face as Logan pitched himself from the saddle.
Down . . . down . . . down. The Lame Johnny far below. Rapids. White water. Logan arrowed toward it in a long dive.
The stick caught Rutago below the rib line, carrying away his stomach as it drove into the face of the ravine.
Logan sliced the water, and the rapids took him, rolled him twisting, sucked him under. He came up choking, kicking to maintain leverage. Rocks just ahead.
The last thing Logan saw before he went under again was the faltering smoke trail of Jessica's wounded machine layering the sky.
He knows the girl is on black now. A runner.
But the quarry has vanished again beyond Crazy Horse.
He checks the board in Rapid City. It does not help him. The Follower remains dark.
He is certain that Logan and the girl must break cover soon.
When they do he will be ready.
He will be there to intercept them.
AFTERNOON . . .
Jess lay unconscious in a pale square of sunlight next to her damaged machine. One cheek was scraped raw where she had skidded along the black asphalt. The wound on her thigh still pulsed blood.
She didn't hear the soft footsteps or the voices that surrounded her. Fourteen bright eyes peered down.
"Ohhhhhhhh!"
"Pret-ty, pret-ty!"
Seven tiny moppets in pink playrompers drew back in alarm as the girl stirred. Jess moaned, lapsed back into unconsciousness. The children bent over the still figure. Wonderingly, they felt her hair, her soft lips, the long lashes of her closed eyes.
"What is it?"
"It's a people! Ohhh . . . so big! '
"People tired."
They clucked together, deciding that Jess should be in a crib. They tugged and lifted and pulled her toward the Cribroom.
Fourteen bright eyes peered down. Jess lay on her side in a small crib, knees tucked under her chin. The crib had sensed her hurt and ministered to her, closing her wounds with synthaskin. She slept deeply.
The eyes
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