Wyverns of Mass Destruction

Margot I, part 2

Their plane awaited them at the southern terminal of the airport. Moonscale and Snowmirror had painted wings on the nose, but they'd used acrylic paint, and all that remained were scattered clumps of grey chips. Steel climbed up into the cockpit and began his pre-flight checks. Margot leant back against the rental and played a round of Angry Coats on her comm. No one knew quite who'd made the game, but Rabbitchaser's consulting work was obvious. Dr. Anders knocked over blocks with syringes. Bosko swung a cartoon penis in a circle. Gu lassoed blocks with his beard. Harper's breasts exploded. The game had been banned, but the arch commander still openly played, so Margot figured she wouldn't get in trouble with anyone who mattered.

A flicker of motion caught her eye.

Dr. Harper and her latest recruit were crossing the tarmac. She smiled at him, and Margot stared as he smiled back. Oh, boy. Did he not know what kind of mind-fuck he'd signed up for?

For the hundredth time, Margot wondered what drove the young doctor. Synthos Biotek, the company the government had hired to make the wyverns, must be paying her a small fortune. But there were easier ways to get rich. Dr. Harper watched the Wing with a burning impatience. Coldwater joked that Dr. Harper loved their skinny asses, but that kind of humor didn't strike Margot as particularly wise.

The new recruit, an average-looking middle-aged white man, stared at Margot, promptly looking away when she met his gaze. Enjoy it while you can. He'd know what those stares felt like soon enough.

"Michael Boorley," he said, extending his left hand. His mass-manufactured parka was so new he must have just purchased it inside.

She shook it. "Margot sura Bashaw. Recruit. First Wing."

"Huh?"

Dr. Harper glared at her. Oh. This recruit really didn't know anything. Margot needed to watch her words.

"Everyone ready?" Steel shouted from the cockpit.

"That's Steel," Margot said. "He's our pilot today." She took a deep breath and wished she didn't have to ask. "Mr. Boorley, could you please help me load this crate? It's heavy."

"Sure," Michael said, and Dr. Harper even went to help him. While the two humans stowed the crate, Margot joined Steel in the cockpit. Ten minutes later, their wheels left the ground.

"Not the same, is it?" Steel shouted as they rose. The humming of the plane's engine nearly drowned him out. Margot glanced down at Anchorage. The waters enfolding the city glittered in the weak sun. So much water. She'd once loved the sight of the ocean, and the unlimited freedom it promised. But now it was the sky she needed, where she was welcome and safe.

"No," she said, scowling at the metal cage surrounding them. The harsh cockpit lights were tinting his olive skin an unnatractive green. "Let's go home."

Hours passed. Her ears grew accustomed enough to the engine's noise that she could hear murmured conversations behind her. Steel wasn't in the mood for conversation, so Margot propped her book of True Crime Crosswords on the control panel. She was thinking over 'English Professor Drowned on Dry Land'—seven letters, third 'l', last 'n'—when Michael spoke up.

"Mind if I come in there?" he asked from the back. "Phyllis is sleeping and I could use the company."

Margot glanced back at the passenger seats. The doctor was, indeed, unconscious. "Are you dating?" she asked, hoping it was true. A boyfriend might just put the head administrator in a good enough mood to relax the internet censors.

Michael just looked stunned. "I . . . I . . ."

Steel sighed. "Ignore Margot, bro. Come on up."