The road answered Sivra with a weapon.
One silver pane turned edgewise in the storm. Green veins filled inside it, first dim as moss under ice, then bright enough to show every hook in Myrn's black harness.
Jiang lay ahead of the saddle with his belly pressed between two breathing slits. Neither webbed foot had a proper grip. He held Myrn's neck with the useful wing. The injured one could only press his ribs.
Below him, the red Armada lantern widened.
Myrn had not flown closer to it. She had fallen.
Jiang's old human stomach remembered elevators, bad turbulence, and one New York flight spent arguing about a broken seat belt. He would have apologized to that seat belt now. The plane had possessed a floor, which in retrospect was excellent engineering.
His penguin body offered no useful response to empty air. It spread the toes that should have gripped ice and found only wet hide.
