The Maze by Will Hobbs

’em off with his talons, like that eagle did to M1 and M3?”
    â€œCondors aren’t raptors—aren’t designed to kill. Their feet are different. They can hiss and grunt and put up a good bluff beating their wings, but when it comes down to it, their safety depends on flying. That’s why they need to roost every night in a place predators can’t reach, where they’ll be able to lift off easily too.”
    They returned to camp. Lon verified that the rest of the condors were accounted for. They’d perched close to one another as usual, in a draw below the Needle carcass, named after a nearby pinnacle. “Let’s have a real meal,” Lon announced. “We’ve got a lot of fresh food, and that’s not going to be the case much longer. All this salad stuff, some steaks…”
    â€œYou’re kidding.”
    â€œAll wrapped up nice in the bottom drawer of thefridge. Last time I fed ’em to the condors, when the birds were still in the pen. Made a nice treat.”
    â€œHow do they like their steaks?”
    â€œOn the raw side. Yourself?”
    â€œMedium rare.”
    â€œIf you think about it, humans are vultures too. We locate our carrion at the supermarket.”
    â€œIf you’re trying to gross me out of my steak, forget it.”
    â€œI’ll warm up some beans. You’re on for salad.”
    â€œHow should we cook the steaks?”
    â€œI always hold mine over an open fire with my hands. That’s why I don’t eat steak very often. If you’ve got a better idea, you’re in charge.”
    â€œLet’s just kind of sear ’em in the frying pan.” Rick found a pan, lit the burner. “Hey,” he called. “What about Sky? Maybe she’d like to join us. I bet she’d appreciate a big, bloody steak. What do you say?”
    That caught Lon’s fancy. “I usually feed her out behind the tents, but sure, let’s invite her to dinner.” Lon got his glove, went out back, and returned with the eagle on his arm. “I think she’d like hers rare,” he said, setting Sky down on the slickrock.
    Soon the three of them were gnashing at their bloody steaks by the light of a propane lantern. There was no more talk of Maverick. Tomorrow would be here soon enough.

13
    â€œIs it morning?” Rick asked.
    â€œClose enough. Let’s go.”
    Maverick had flown, but in the wrong direction. They located him perched on top of one of the giants in the Doll House. “We can’t afford to spook him,” Lon said. “If he flies any farther east, over the river, I doubt very much we’ll ever see him again. He’s definitely not ready for a major flight over a bottomless drop like that.”
    â€œWhen would he be?”
    â€œCouple of months, maybe. There’s a lot to learn. Six or eight months from now, a hundred and fifty miles in a day would be no problem. Up to fifteen thousand feet in altitude, no problem.”
    â€œDon’t let him hear you. How long could he sit there?”
    â€œMaybe he’ll take some short hops. It’s possible hewon’t make a move until he’s hungry again. I don’t know what he’s going to do.”
    They returned to camp. Lon had fallen silent. Rick could tell that he was less and less optimistic about Maverick.
    Lon turned to observing the others. By late morning the five were flying up and down the line of cliffs. Two landed by the new Double Juniper carcass. An aggressive golden eagle, possibly the one they’d seen close up from the blind, wouldn’t let them feed.
    Lon scribbled notes furiously, then started pecking out an official-looking report on his manual typewriter. He explained that each day he provided a summary of the birds’ behavior and activities. “I’m typing up yesterday’s report right now. It’s my longest one yet, on account of Maverick.”
    â€œWho reads