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Okay. In my experience, if you're really hit or seriously hurt, you don't say much. Maybe a few bad words. Maybe grunting sounds. You don't manage pithy quotes.
Quickly I shifted him this way and that, scanning for wounds. He had both ears, and his face was fine. I patted along his wings, which still looked too short to keep him aloft. Bright red blood stained my sleeve, but so far he seemed to be in one unperforated piece.
"Tell Akila," Total gasped, eyelids fluttering, "tell her she's always been the only one." Akila is the Alaskan Malamute Total had fallen for back on the Wendy K., the boat where we lived with a bunch of scientists on our way to Antarctica.
"Shh," I said. "I'm still looking for holes."
"I don't have many regrets," Total rambled weakly. "True, I thought about a career in the theater, once our adventures waned. I know it's just a crazy dream, but I always hoped for just one chance to play the Dane before I died."
"Play the huh?" I said absently, feeling his ribs. Nothing broken. "Is that a game?"
Total moaned and closed his eyes.
Then I found it: the source of the blood, the place where he'd been shot.
"Total?" I said, and got a slight whimper. "You have a boo-boo on your tail."
"What?" He opened his eyes and curled to peer at his short tail. He wagged it experimentally, outrage appearing on his face as he realized a tiny chunk of flesh was missing near the tip. "I'm hit! I'm bleeding! Those scoundrels will pay for this!"
"I think a Band-Aid is probably all you need." I struggled to keep a straight face.
Fang swerved closer to me, big and supremely graceful, like a black panther with wings.
Oh, God. I'm so stupid. Forget I just said that.
"How's he doing?" Fang asked, nodding at Total.
"He needs a Band-Aid," I said. A look passed between me and Fang, full of suppressed humor, relief, understanding, love—
Forget I said that too. I don't know what's wrong with me.
"Got your sniper," Fang went on, pointing downward.
I shifted into battle mode. "One sniper or a whole flotilla of baddies?"
"Only see the one."
I raised an eyebrow. "So, what, we're not worth a whole flotilla anymore?" I looked down at Total. "Wings out, spud. You gotta fly on your own."
Total gathered himself with dignity, extended his wings, and jumped awkwardly out of my arms. He flapped frantically, then with more confidence, and rose to keep up with us.
"What's up?" Iggy had coasted on an updraft for a while, but now he and the others were forming a bird-kid sandwich around me.
"Total's okay," I reported. "One sniper below. Now we gotta go take him out."
Angel's pure-white wing brushed against me. She gave me a sweet smile that melted my heart, and I tried to remember that this kid had many layers, not all of them made of gumdrops and roses.
"Thanks, lamby," I said, and she grinned.
"I felt something bad about to happen," she explained. "Can we go get that guy now?"
"Let's do it," I said, and we angled ourselves downward. Among the many genetic enhancements we sport, the mad scientists who created us had thoughtfully included raptor vision. I raked the land below, almost a mile down, and traced the area where Fang pointed.
I saw him: a lone guy in the window of a building close to the air base. He was tracking us, and we began our evasive actions, dropping suddenly, swerving, angling different ways, trying to be as unpredictable as possible. We're fairly good at being unpredictable.
"Mass zoom?" Fang asked, and I nodded.
"Ig, mass zoom, angle down about thirty-five degrees. Then aim for six o'clock," I instructed. And why was I only giving Iggy instructions? Because Iggy's the only blind one, that's why.
