When he landed, the moropus was there, raking his remains with those tremendous razor claws. Just as the moropus was warming to its work, SinBad squeezed off a shot, aiming at the base of the neck.

  Without waiting to see what happened, he cranked another round into the crossbow, then took aim again. Jackpot. His first shot had spined the moropus, dropping the thrashing herbivore next to Laird Islay.

  He fired anyway, blowing out the back of the dead beast’s head, just to be safe. Always kick an enemy when he’s down. SinBad had done nothing to disturb this four-legged ogre, even going out of the way to avoid him and his friends. Blame the ba’ath if you liked.

  Cranking in another round, he went to check on Islay. Miraculously, the laird was still alive, though not by much. Shooting that mad moropus had given Islay half a chance.

  Simba appeared, spear in hand, calling for med-evac on his communicator.

  Night continued to fall, and the ba’ath was still out there, after taking out a wife and husband who had come a dozen light years just to shoot her. Unless this was another ba’ath, toying with them—which SinBad doubted. A ba’ath had way better things to do, unless it had a bug up its butt. This was the cat they had trailed, hounded, keeping her hungry and horny, getting some of her own back. Crossbow cocked and ready, SinBad loosened his loincloth, which had been sopping wet ever since that first moropus burst out of the brush.

  The orbital yacht landed, and he helped hustle Islay into an autodoc, tossed and trampled by a beast that is casually ridden by Crow children, several at a time. Small wonder. Barsoom had dozens of ways of taking you down, none of them nice and easy.

  Simba insisted on setting up an overnight camp, so they could go looking for Silver-wig at first light. “She is now my employer.”

  With Islay in a coma, his wife was in charge of the hunting party. Unless she was already eaten.

  Thuria was down, and Pretty Bottom meant to make the most of that opportunity, throwing her arms around him, whispering, “My wonderful hero.”

  “Who wet his loincloth,” he informed her.

  “So did I,” giggled Pretty Bottom, who was not wearing one.

  “Come, my chieftain.” She dragged him into the thicket, aiming to celebrate their brush with fate. He went, eager to get out of the wet loincloth, and he owed her for saving him from being trampled. In the midst of snatching life, she licked his ear playfully, whispering, “Simba is a Slaver.”

  So that was it. SinBad nearly missed a stroke. It fit. The leaderless hunting party had been dragged from behind its energy fence, into a tangled valley that stretched out of Issus range. And in half a zode, Thuria would be up. “Don’t worry,” Pretty Bottom brought him back to business with a kiss, “he’s just a cat.”

  SuperCat actually. Bred to be better than SinBad, or at least more dangerous—faster, stronger, smarter, with big teeth and claws. Ba’aths called back and forth in the darkness. Maybe even their ba’ath, looking for a boyfriend.

  When they were done, SinBad asked, “How do you know Simba’s a Slaver?”

  Snuggling against him, Pretty Bottom replied sleepily, “Who else would hunt ba’aths at Wife Stealing Time?”

  Good point, SinBad admitted. He was not here for the ba’aths. Simba must be at least as smart.

  “Last year, this same cat was lurking about, when Arapaho Woman disappeared, along with her little sister. Only then he was a smuggler, trading offworld jewelry for civet skins.”

  “So you bought some?” SinBad saw where this was going.

  “For five skins. It is pinned to my possible sack.”

  Which was aboard his sand sail, thank Issus. Haads away from here. Passing out radio-tagged trinkets to winsome young nomads was an old Slaver trick. No wonder they had checked out his sand sail. Her possible sack had drawn them straight to it.

  “Killed the civets myself,” she murmured. “Strangled them to save the skins.”

  She was soon asleep, happy, fed, and pregnant, safe from Slavers and ex-boyfriends, turning Wife Stealing Time into time away from the tipi. Ba’aths called in the darkness, mating cries, from close at hand, having their own tryst in the thicket. She-ba’aths in heat kept finding mates, even after becoming pregnant, to keep the males guessing.

  Simba came on the communicator, sounding a general recall.

  Not trusting the communicator, which doubled as a tracking device, SinBad reported in person, leaving Pretty Bottom asleep under the thorn bushes. She did not fear ba’aths, and strangled wildcats barehanded, so she should be safe until Thuria rise.

  He found the SuperCat waiting at the yacht’s airlock. “With no energy fence here, we should all sleep on the yacht,” the bioconstruct explained. “There are ba’aths about.”

  No shit, Simba. More all the time. “I am wondering about that laser rifle.”

  “Want one?” Simba grinned. “Paint the target and pull the trigger, rifle does the rest.”

  Not always. “Islay’s rifle did not fire.”

  Simba shrugged. “Transient malfunction. I retired that one.”

  Another ba’ath call sounded, even closer.

  “Better get your mate,” Simba suggested.

  Pretty Bottom was hardly his mate. Goes Ahead had gotten in ahead of him. Along with Alligator Stands Up. But he was not about to argue personal relations with a bioconstruct and suspected Slaver. Nor was he likely to spend the night aboard ship. SinBad left, pretending to obey.

  He made his way back through the thorns to where he’d left Pretty Bottom. But there was nothing there. Sleeping booty was gone.

  Damn. No note or token. No sign of a struggle, just gone. How like her. Determined not to spend the night alone, SinBad slid two more explosive bolts into his crossbow to fill the clip. By now the ground was cool enough for her to leave a good heat trail, so he flipped his goggles onto infrared.

  Her heat trail appeared at once, headed away from the moropus thicket deeper into the canyon. Great. He had wanted to sit out Thuria rise, curled under a thorn bush with his cute Crow companion; instead he was headed deeper into a canyon that had already swallowed two wealthy offworlders. Ba’aths called back and forth in the blackness, sounding like they had made a kill. Hopefully no one he knew.

  With each cautious step, he remembered the scratches on his crossbow stock. A ba’ath with a bad attitude had jumped him at point-blank range, without even a warning growl. He got off one shot before the ba’ath batted the crossbow out of his grip, then bowled him over.

  Luckily, when shooting at arm’s length, he rarely missed. Instead of being ripped to shreds, a dead ba’ath landed in his lap. When he heaved the beast off him, he’d found an arrow broken off in the ba’ath’s belly, a festering wound that must have hurt horribly. An Apache arrow, but try telling an angry ba’ath that you are Huron. He did have hard words for some local Apaches, who laughed to hear how he’d found their arrow.

  Slowly the heat trail faded. He was not moving fast enough to catch Pretty Bottom, wherever she was going. Crow women were always up to something, which was why they had Wife Stealing Time.

  Then, without warning, the glowing trail got stronger. Something close to Pretty Bottom’s size had recently passed through. He picked up the pace, finding the trail getting brighter and fresher. Encouraged, SinBad kept his crossbow in front of him, ready for anything.

  Almost. Sitting in a grassy clearing ahead was the source of the heat trail, a barefoot and bedraggled Silver-wig.

  Her wings were drooped and broken; her silver paint was scraped off, revealing large swaths of pink flesh. Clearly happy to see him despite the cocked crossbow aimed at her bare chest, the offworlder smiled wide. “Hi, Huron.”

  Why was he always drawing a bead on beautiful women, thinking they were ba’aths? He lowered his bow. “Actually, my name is SinBad.”

  “Really?” Silver-wig seemed surprised.

  “What is yours?”

  “Deirdre. Deirdre Islay.”

  Very offworld, and meaningless, but somehow pretty. “We thought you were dead.”

  “I thought I was dead,” Deirdre admitted, “when that ba’ath grabbed me. I fought, screamed, and fainted.”

  Then the cat carried her off unconscious, dropping her when pursuit got too close. Doubling back on her tracks, the ba’ath led her bungling pursuers into the moropus herd. SinBad asked, “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head. “Grass burns, a couple of nasty cuts. But not a tooth mark. I think he dragged me by my wings.”

  “She dragged you,” he corrected her. “You were grabbed by a female. On Barsoom both sexes have black manes.”

  “Oh.” Clearly she knew very little about the beasts they’d come light years to kill.

  Yet she had survived the ba’ath attack unbelievably well. In fact, her real troubles were just beginning. He asked, “Are you cold?”

  She nodded. He took off his buckskin jacket and gave it to her. He had just a light linen shirt underneath, but this was spring in the tropics, about as mild as Barsoom got.

  Shedding broken wings, she pulled on the jacket, not bothering with the bone buttons, asking instead, “Have you seen my husband?”

  He had seen parts of Laird Islay his wife never had, but SinBad did not say so. Who wanted an hysterical tourist on their hands? “He’s aboard the yacht.”

  She looked about. “Where is that?”

  “Close by.” Thuria would be up in a few xats. Who knew what would happen then? Not him. “But we need to hide first.”

  “Hide? Why?”

  He nodded at the night sky. “The Slaver Moon will be up soon.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “It’s not hard, when you have grown up under these stars.” What nomad boy did not thrill at Thuria rise, watching the girls scurry for cover? Imagining himself saving some beautiful offworld princess from Slavers, and winning a warm reward. Like a lot of boyhood dreams, the ideal totally beat reality.

  He hustled the winsome tourist into the underbrush, where she could not be seen by Thuria light. Though there was still their heat. If Simba told the Slavers where to look, a diligent search would find them.

  Clearly, Deirdre Islay did not look forward to spending another zode-and-a-half in the bush, not with some strange Huron. She told him earnestly, “Get me back to my husband, and I will see you well rewarded.”

  Not likely. Her husband was in an autodoc. Scratched, bruised, and hiding under a bush in a borrowed leather jacket, Silver-wig was now the outworlder-in-chief. SinBad just did not have the heart, or the need, to tell her. Not yet.

  He had way bigger worries. Thuria was rising, spreading enhanced moonshine over the landscape. Then came the boom of an orbital shuttle breaking atmosphere. Slavers were on their way. He unshipped his crossbow, for all the good that would do.

  “What’s the matter?” Silver-wig asked.

  “Slavers.” Unless it was another boatload of tourists, coming for a wild moropus nightride, or something equally useful.

  Tals ticked away. Then without warning a shadow fell over them, blocking out the Thuria light, then moving on. Silver-wig whispered, “What’s that? Slavers?”

  Smelling a familiar cat box odor, Sinbad slid over and silenced her with his hand, mouthing a single word, “Ba’ath.”

  Silver-wig’s eyes went wide. Another silent shadow passed, then another. One by one, more ba’aths came padding up, an entire pride, settling into the brush around them. Soon they were surrounded by the cat odor, and the soft regular breathing of a dozen sleeping ba’aths.

  SinBad set aside his crossbow. He did not have enough bolts to do more than make them mad. Silver-wig whispered, “Can they hear us?”

  Sure, if she did not shut up. He whispered back, “They do not need to. They can smell us.”

  “So, why don’t they attack?”

  “Maybe they’re not hungry. Or just too sleepy. Ba’aths do not kill for the fun of it.” Like offworlders do.

  She stroked his cheek. “I am sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Everything,” Silver-wig sighed.

  He smiled at that thought. “Not your fault.”

  Happy to hear that, she relaxed alongside him. Soon she was asleep, putting an end to a harrowing day. He closed his eyes as well, no longer worried by their heat signature. So long as they lay close together no one would spot them amid the ba’aths.

  Lying with eyes shut, listening to blond breathing, he suddenly heard the whoosh of a ship taking off. Looking up, he saw a flash in the night sky, half hidden by the thorn brush. Someone was lifting into orbit.

  He relaxed again. Thuria set, then first light showed in the east. Slavers had let sleeping ba’aths lie. SinBad decided to do the same, waking Silver-wig, whispering, “Let’s get going before they do.”

  She saw the sense in that, getting up and silently following him out of the brush into the long grass, leaving the ba’aths behind. As they neared the mouth of the canyon, SinBad told the offworlder to wait while he wormed his way forward.

  Just as he thought, Islay’s yacht was gone. All that remained was a circular dent in the grass, empty as a crop circle. He slithered back to inform his companion, who told him, “Give me your communicator, and I will call my husband.”

  “Let me make the call,” SinBad suggested. “They do not know you are alive.” Yet.

  “So? My husband will be happy to know.”

  Now he had to give her the bad news. “Your husband is in an autodoc. Trampled by a wild moropus.”

  Lady Islay looked aghast. “Will he live?”

  “Maybe.” If the Slavers aimed to hold him for ransom. “Just let me make the call.”

  He did. A chirpy computer voice informed him the yacht was in low orbit, while the owners were with their “hunting party” on the surface. Call them there.

  No need to do that; the Islay still on the surface was crouching next to him in the tall grass, wearing his buckskin jacket and not much else. Hearing what the yacht had to say, she told him, “Give me the communicator. That ship is voice-coded to me and my husband. I can shut down its drive, then trigger a distress call.”

  “No, you won’t.” The voice came from behind them, and had that SuperCat lisp caused by talking around saber-tooth canines.

  SinBad turned to see Simba standing in the grass, with a silver communicator clipped to his ear and a laser rifle leveled at him. The bioconstruct had stayed behind, waiting for them to break cover and open a channel. The only real question was why didn’t Simba pull the trigger? SinBad’s own bow was at his side, cocked and ready, but he dared not raise it. The SuperCat had super reflexes.

  Only Deirdre Islay did not get it, saying, “Simba, what are you doing?”

  Her hunting guide grinned. “I was looking for that pretty young Crow. But you will do. Please, stand aside.”

  Simba wanted a clear shot.

  Deirdre stood up, stepping squarely into the line of fire. Flourishing the communicator, she warned the SuperCat, “You shoot, and I will punch MAYDAY, disabling the yacht.”

  Simba snorted. “This rifle can shoot right through you, and him.”

  Sliver-wig shrugged. “Then you lose everything. You will never get that yacht outsystem, not with me dead and my husband in an autodoc.”

  There was a Navy ship insystem, the suburb-class corvette Tarzana. Any attempt to alter the yacht’s registered flight plan would arouse suspicion. If Deirdre punched MAYDAY, Simba could shoot them, but he would lose his prize. And the Slavers aboard the yacht would be prisoners. Stalemate.

  For the moment. Simba kept the laser rifle leveled. Thuria would be up soon, then Slavers would swarm over them, jamming the communicator and firing sleep gas, eager to have Deidre Islay and her husband’s starship. Deirdre stood clutching the communicator while Simba cradled the rifle, waiting.

  Slowly, a big black-maned ba’ath ambled nonchalantly up, not even looking at them, followed by another, then another. Simba’s grin turned grim, as the pride gathered around them, crouched and waiting. Riding atop the biggest ba’ath, a great sable-headed male, was Pretty Bottom. No wonder her parents called her Beast.

  “Kaor,” the young Crow called out, holding tight to the black mane.

  “Kaor,” SinBad replied, never happier to see her, or a pride of ba’aths.

  “What do you want?” Simba demanded, eyeing the ba’aths warily.

  “That Huron,” Pretty Bottom pointed at SinBad. “And the offworld woman.”

  Simba shook his head. “Get any closer, and I will kill both of them. Then you.” He still had them, if he could stall until Thuria was up.

  “You are the one who will die,” Pretty Bottom warned.

  “Maybe.” Simba was counting on his superhuman reflexes and self-correcting sights. He could do a lot of damage before the ba’aths got him.

  “Certainly,” Our Lady of the Ba’aths replied, raising her slim hand.

  “Don’t!” Simba aimed the rifle at her, a curved claw on the trigger.

  Pretty Bottom froze, hand held high. Ba’aths snarled at the SuperCat, but did not spring, waiting to see what the Crow woman would do. This was not their fight. SinBad weighed the odds, trying to decide if he could aim and shoot before Simba fired. Not likely.

  He did not have to. An arrow streaked from downwind, hitting Simba in the neck, slicing through the cat’s jugular. The SuperCat fell forward, dead before he hit the ground.

  SinBad exhaled softly, barely believing his eyes. Another arrow thudded into the fallen SuperCat, ensuring he was dead. Simba did not twitch.

  Deirdre was on the communicator at once, calling the Navy and shutting down her ship.

  Looking to see where the arrows had come from, SinBad saw a Crow warrior emerge from the thorn trees, his feathered bow in hand, riding a dark red moropus. He wore a scout’s wolfskin, and hail-spot paint, making him as deadly as an ice storm on a sunny day.

  Pretty Bottom grinned. Ignoring her and the ba’aths, the Crow scout dismounted, keeping a tight hold on his rope reins, saying, “Kaor, Huron.”

  SinBad returned the Crow’s greeting, asking, “To whom do I owe my life?”

  “Her.” The Crow casually pointed his bow tip at Pretty Bottom. “She is the one I came to get.”