The Return by Chris Roberson

Author:Chris Roberson [Roberson, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Chris Roberson
Published: 2011-12-22T23:11:07+00:00

29

At that moment, fifteen hundred miles to the east, another supersonic plane blazed across the sky. Scott was at the controls of the Blackbird, piloting the spy plane to the Sargasso Sea for the second time in as many days.

In the copilot’s seat beside him was the imposing Russian, Peter Rasputin, while the blue-furred German, Kurt Wagner, crouched in the space between them, an arm draped over the back of each of their seats.

“What are you working on today, mein Freund, ” Kurt said, glancing at the sketchpad propped on Peter’s knee.

Peter blushed, his cheeks going a deep red, and Kurt for the millionth time was forced to resist the urge to mock his stalwart Russian friend. Even with all that they had seen and done these past years, the places they’d been and the foes they faced, still and all did Peter Rasputin so often seem like a little boy stuck in a man’s body. A towering, well-muscled man’s body, to be sure, but a little boy, for all of that.

So it came as no surprise that, having been caught sketching a devastatingly attractive woman with a Mohawk hairdo, in a state of casual undress, Peter would stammer like a school boy caught out by a scolding teacher.

“Who is she, then?” Kurt said. “The heroine from one of Katzchen’s fantasy novels? A fierce warrior princess or a maiden to be rescued?”

His hands still on the controls, Scott glanced over casually. “Those are Fall People markings, aren’t they?” Peter blushed deeper, the red of his cheeks intensifying, and nodded. “She is Nereel.”

“Ah,” Kurt said, understanding dawning. He reached over and, gesturing for permission, took the sketchbook from Peter’s hands. “That girl in the Savage Land. I remember her now.” He looked up at Peter, a lascivious grin on his lips, sharp canines exposed. ‘Am I mistaken, Herr Rasputin, or did you not spend some . . . quality time with this attractive young lady?”

Peter averted his eyes, suddenly finding something of great interest in the featureless waves passing beneath them. “Perhaps,” he finally replied.

Kurt’s grin widened, and he regarded the sketch admiringly. Then, casually, he flipped to the previous page. It was a drawing of the same woman, with the same Mohawk and lax dress code, only this time she was carrying a small child in her arms, its hair and eyes dark little more than an infant, really.

“A Savage Land Pieta,” Kurt said, nodding appreciatively. “A primordial Madonna and child. Peter, I believe you missed your calling when you chose world-saving as a vocation, and not the pursuit of art. But tell me...” He handed the sketchbook back to Peter, open to the picture of Nereel and the child. “Why portray Nereel with a child? I don’t recall her being a mother.”

Peter accepted the proffered sketchbook, and gazed at the drawing for a long moment, as though seeing something in it he recognized, but being unable to say precisely what. “I’m not sure,” he answered at length. “It just... felt right.

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