“There’s tension.” Kylee pointed off to the east where the volcano sloped away. “Mobbers. See all the colors in that column? Like kaleidoscope crazy? And how they flock so tightly together and whirl around each other? That’s your first clue that they’re not scarlet fliers.”

“Will they attack the airtruck?”

“Yeah. But we’re a good half mile away . . . and yep, they’re diving down into the canopy. Got something down there that they’re chasing. It’s a guess, but the common suspicion is that they don’t have good vision at a distance.”

Falise watched the swirling column vanish back into the forest. “So, what’s the tension with the cannibals?”

“I think it’s what you call baggage. From when they got here. They tried to kill my folks, Kalico, and Briah Muldare. Were going to eat them. Chased them down into the forest. Mom and Mark were killed by the treetop terror. People died. Didn’t end up warm and fuzzy, even after they cast Batuhan out.”

“What happened to him?”

Kylee gave a knowing look. “Flute and I lured him into range of the treetop terror. The pus sucker never knew what hit him. Paybacks are a bitch.”

“You play rough.” Falise turned her attention to the forest rising to the airtruck’s left, wondering at the lumpy-looking slope, seeing patches of stony outcrop here and there where the trees couldn’t find purchase for their roots.

Kylee again gave her that appraising quetzal look. “Are you getting it yet?”

As they rounded the mountain, it was to see the land to the north, a series of ridges and mounded hillocks, interrupted here and there by volcanic necks that shot up in spires as they faded into the hazy blue distance.

“Makarov would have had the mountain for a landmark,” Kylee told her. “It’s the biggest thing . . .” She lifted a finger from the wheel to point. “Whoa!”

Falise followed her point, seeing where the mountain’s flank extended to the north before falling off into a series of steeper slopes. Even as Kylee pulled back on the wheel to gain more elevation, the scar in the trees could be seen.

Kylee banked them to the west, still climbing, and Falise got a good look. The shuttle had come in at a low angle, rising at the last instant to clear the outcrop at the toe of the ridge. Then it had torn into the trees, crashing through vegetation, leaving a clutter of sialon debris, shattered trees, and devastation as it slid and skimmed across the thin soil.

The bulk of the shuttle had come to a stop, piles of splintered, broken, and trashed trees wrapped around the leading edge of the delta-shaped fuselage. That it remained in that good of a condition—looking like a broken silver bird—was a miracle.