SinBad the Sand Sailor

Woman in the Dunes

Near to noon, SinBad saw something flapping on a dune. Loose shiny fabric, with an expensive sheen, shone in the morning light. He had the wind on his port beam, and was making good time on firm red-ochre sward, bordered by sand, headed north for Hastor. Sand goggles hid half his face, showing just the hard line of his jaw, and a black spade beard. Clean, even teeth grinned at the prospect of getting something for free. Barsoom was seldom so giving.

SinBad spilled air, losing precious headway, pulling his sand sail into the wind, skidding to a stop on the sward. Starting up would not be so easy.

Leaping out of his seat, SinBad ran to see why he had stopped.

Up close, SinBad saw the sandy bundle had blond hair, and smooth bare limbs, half-hidden by a torn air hostess uniform. Her big silver badge said, “Hi! I’m Tiffany.” He instinctively looked to heaven. Thuria, the nearer moon, was rising soon. Leave her here, and Slavers would snatch her up.

Feeling a faint pulse, and a flutter of breath, he said a swift prayer to Issus, “Do not take her yet.” SinBad dashed back to his sand sail, breaking into the cargo box. Luckily, he was smuggling offworld drugs. Finding a hydrated sedative and a broad spectrum antibiotic, he injected her, then waited. His employers would hate this. SinBad smuggled for the Aymads, the Number Ones—who did not do charity. “Watch Out for Number One,” was their motto. Whatever meds he used would come out of his end. Or else.

Pulse and breathing grew stronger, more regular. Good. Now what? He could not leave her. His sand sail was fully loaded.

“Shit.” There was just one solution. Removing his cargo box, SinBad buried it in the dune, consigning a fortune in pharmaceuticals to the sand. His employers would hate this even more. If anything happened to the cargo, he had no hope of paying back the Aymads.

Horrible thought. But he could not leave her to dire wolves and Slavers. His trip to Hastor was over. Barsoom’s .4 gravity made lifting the unconscious woman easy. Beneath the sand, sweat, and sunburn she might even be pretty. Probably was pretty, given her air hostess uniform. Silver rings shone on sandy fingers. Her badge said, “Tiffany,” but air hostesses were notorious for using assumed names, and unusual positions.

SinBad rolled his eyes. “Hope to hell you are worth it.” He strapped her to the back on the sand sail, wrapped in his sleeping furs, then turned the wind-powered tricycle about, to get the best of the southeast breeze. Sitting down in the seat, he gripped the boom controls and released the brake.

Off they went. He had been headed north, with the wind abeam. Now he went over to the opposite tack, running almost due west, with the wind on his port quarter. There was a wind wagon track ahead, and a canal a couple of hundred haads farther west—once he got the offworlder to medical care, he would work his way back upwind to retrieve the drugs.

Sward turned to grit and gravel, then to packed sand. SinBad made excellent time until the wind died. At dusk he lit a fire, and hydrated his sleeping supercargo, with a shot of superglucose. Using some precious water, he washed her face. She was air hostess pretty, with a cute turned-up nose, and fine cheekbones. Too bad she was comatose.

He doctored her scrapes and bruises as best he could. Her limbs were not broken, and her ribs felt right. Nice even. Then he covered her with furs to hide her from Thuria.

Hopefully, she had no internal injuries, since his medical skills were minimal. Praying that sleeping booty would survive the night, SinBad lay down by the dying fire, watching Cluros, the further moon, drift across the starry sky until he fell asleep.

Dawn breezes woke him, light airs out of the west. Restarting the fire, he put on coffee, then checked on his fallen angel. Still asleep, but even more beautiful by daylight. Good thing Thuria was down. Or Slavers would be dropping in for breakfast. What had she been doing in the dunes? He would have to ask, when she awoke. If she awoke. SinBad sipped thick black coffee, waiting for the wind to change.

Slowly it did, shifting around to the south. His supercargo stirred. Putting on fresh coffee, he watched her long lashes flutter. Finally her eyes opened wide, looking first at the sky, then at him, revealing a fetching shade of blue.

“Kaor.” He smiled to show he was friendly. “Are you hurting?”

“Not much,” she whispered.

A compliment to his medical care, and offworld painkillers. “It’s Tuesday,” he told her. “You have been out over twenty hours.”

Shaking her head in disbelief, she asked, “Who are you?”

“Your savior.” It was not too early to get on this pretty hostess’ good side.

“Thanks.” She glanced about the gravel wadi he had camped in. “Where are we?”

“South of Hastor, headed for a wagon track.”

Lying back, the woman closed her eyes. “What am I doing here?”

“Hoping you would tell me.”

She shrugged. “I do not remember much. Not since late Sunday night.”

“How about your name?” he suggested.

“Tiffany. Tiffany Panic.” She sounded proud she remembered. Just like on her perky badge. Now his pretty problem had a name. “Your outfit says you are an air hostess.”

Tiffany looked at her torn sleeve. “So it does.”

“Did you fall out of a pleasure palace?”

She sighed. “More likely pushed.”

“By who?”

Tiffany shook her tangled blonde hair. “Cannot say.”

Cannot or would not? Either way, it was not his business.

“It was near to morning.” Tiffany studied her silver rings, seeming shocked that they were still on her fingers. “I had gone out on a balcony, to greet the day. Something shoved me from behind. Then, I was falling. I do not remember hitting the ground.”

Small surprise. “You were passing over high dunes. You must have hit the side of one, and the sand broke your fall. That is where I found you.”

“Thank you,” Tiffany whispered. For salvaging her, not just her rings.

“Thank the dunes.” He just did what he must. Even criminal sex addicts had standards, however low. Offering her some coffee, he prepared to get underway. Wind was perfect for Hastor, but he no longer had the drugs. Instead, he strapped Tiffany into the seat behind him. “I will take you to the wagon track, or the canal, where you could get a boat bound for Exhume beanstalk.” And a safe trip back offplanet. Then he could retrieve his cargo—minus the drugs that went into Tiffany. That would cost him. Tiffany did not comment on his plans for her, merely asking, “What’s your name?”

“People call me SinBad,” he warned her. “Because I sin badly.”

“What sort of sins?” Tiffany inquired.

“Smuggling, drinking, sex crimes...” He released the sail, and they were off, skidding over the gravel onto a starboard tack. He guided his land schooner out of the wadi, then turned due west toward the wagon track, sailing over hard packed sand. “...the usual offenses.” Being in the business, she leaned closer, expressing polite professional interest. “What kind of sex crimes?”

Most women did not want to know. “Abetting adultery, copulating with the wrong clan, co-habiting with known lesbians, that sort of thing. Desert tribes have many rules.” His supercargo understood. “That’s why pleasure palaces are airborne.”

“Right now I am transporting an air hostess without a valid permit. Or her owner’s permission. Both serious felonies.”

Tiffany laughed. “I have no owner.”

“Nor do I.” Sinbad trimmed the sail, to go more with the wind, avoiding patches of deep sand. “Folks take that amiss.”

“Same with me,” Tiffany agreed. “What do your friends call you?”

“I got no friends.” Just customers. “I am an O-mad, a man with one name. Cast out by my clan and tribe. No one wants to know me.”

“Can’t you get another name?”

“Only if I kill someone. Then I would get his name.”

“Seems a bit drastic.” Tiffany was plainly new to Barsoom. “So, you have never killed anyone?”

“Not yet.” One crime he worked overtime to avoid.

Tiffany squeezed his shoulder. “Me neither.”

Her squeeze felt good. Not committing homicide seemed to absolve his other crimes, at least to Tiffany. He liked this air hostess more and more.

Having dodged the heaped up sand, SinBad set out across cracked golden claypan, broken by patches of mossy orange sward. Even with the good wind, it took most of a twenty-five hour Barsoomian day to reach the wagon track. There he camped atop a low bluff, at the head of a wadi, where he could easily turn about, going back the way he came.

Waiting until Thuria had set, he lit a fire, telling Tiffany, “There will be a wind wagon through soon. And you can be away.”

“Away where?” Tiffany surveyed the empty waste.

“Exhume beanstalk.” Barsoom was obviously bad for her.

She smiled at his neat plans. “How can I ever repay you?”

“No problem there.” Sex criminals were easily satisfied. “You are an air hostess, and a pretty one too.”

“Badly banged about,” she noted.

SinBad nodded. “Assorted scrapes, sprains, and bruises. But no broken bones.”

“How do you know?” Painkillers masked almost anything.

“Because I checked on that first night.”

Her smile widened. “You are exceedingly thorough.”

“I try.”

“And kind.” Her white-gold hair shone in the firelight.

“Too kind for my own good.” His last night with this pretty air hostess would be a chaste one, though that could hardly be helped. “Which palace are you from?”

“Erotopia.”

Said to be the best. If you could afford high flying entertainment.

“Here, lie beside me at least.” Tiffany made room next to her. “For I am sorely in your debt.” He lay down beside the offworld woman he had found in the dunes, costing him two days’ time, and all his profits. Easily worth it. Tiffany felt both slight and exciting. Strange, what a strong effect women like this had on men. When this wild adventure ended, he would be both glad and sad. SinBad let the fire die, covering them both with sleeping furs instead. Thuria would be up during the night. By dawn the Slaver moon had set, and they both slept in. Awaking to dark winged shapes circling over the wagon track, slowly spiraling downward. Tiffany looked at him. “Vultures?”

“You wish.” SinBad shook his head. “Massingales.”

“Who are they?”

“You’ll see.” SinBad went to the schooner and buckled on his sword, a long thin rapier. Tiffany eyed the blade. “Are they dangerous?”

He nodded grimly. “Oh, yeah.”

Despite having two names, the Massingales had never killed anyone. So far. They were sky folk, soaring above the desert tribes, living in legal limbo. And liking it.

“What should I do?” Tiffany asked.

“Smile,” SinBad suggested. “You have a very nice smile.” Massingales liked that. Dropping lower, the shapes turned into fliers, men wearing solar-powered wings. Barsoom’s light gravity made flying easy. If you had the wings.

Two of the winged men landed beside them on the bluff. Both Massingale brothers, Joe and Jeramie, stood before them, looking strong and handsome, as usual, in kilts and flying harness, with huge silver wings attached to their backs. They had hand-forged rapiers at their hips, but were otherwise unarmed. Greenies considered firearms and energy weapons obscene, and banned them from Barsoom, forcing humans to assault each other with edged steel. More winged swordsmen circled above. SinBad greeted them with a wary, “Kaor.”

“Kaor, yourself,” Joe replied. “What’s your cargo?”

“Just her,” SinBad was happy to say. Tiffany was too big to be whisked off. Besides, the Massingales did not traffic in females. They had women of their own, good-looking ones. They favored more marketable loot, like the drugs he had been smuggling.

Jeramie grinned. “Where did you find her?”

“Lying on a dune.”

Joe shook his head. “You always were a lucky shit.”

“Some of us got to work for living,” his brother noted.

“How about helping out?” Joe suggested.

“Sure.” SinBad had little choice.

“Gonna hit the wind wagon,” Jeramie explained. “We need someone to catch the swag.” SinBad nodded in brisk agreement. “Can do.”

Any other answer would hardly be wise. Seeing nothing they wanted, both brothers leaped from the bluff. They caught an updraft off the cliff face, spiraling skyward to rejoin their wing men. SinBad sat down next to Tiffany. “Change of plan. We are not going to put you on the wind wagon. We’re going to rob it.”

“Rob it?” Tiffany looked shocked. “Why?”

“Because that is what the Massingales do.” And he was not about to get in their way. In fact, he had to help.

Tiffany reached over and squeezed his hand. “Thanks.”

“For what?” They were now accessories to armed robbery.

“If it were not for me, you would not be here.”

“Same goes for you.”

Tiffany nodded. “Oh, I know.”

Presently, the wind wagon appeared, a sleek two-masted brig, sailing along on big balloon tires. SinBad hauled his sand sail over to the head of the wadi and waited.

Right on cue, the Massingales swooped down like birds of prey. SinBad released his brake, rolling down the wadi, bouncing over stones and ruts, picking up speed.

Crossbowmen aboard the wind jammer opened fire on the Massingales, but birdmen swooped down, slashing the fore sheets and mainsail stays, bringing the wind wagon to a thundering halt, amid flailing lines and flapping sails. Both Massingale brothers landed on the stern gallery, surprising the guards. Joe kept them busy with some fancy sword play, while Jeramie broke a window, disappearing inside. Reaching the bottom of the wadi, SinBad popped his sail, slewing about onto a parallel tack, passing the stalled wind jammer. Crossbow bolts zipped past his head, hitting the mast, ripping through the sail. One bolt buried itself in his boot. Another went through his right cuff, pinning it to the tiller. Suddenly, Joe and Jeramie reappeared, leaping off the stern gallery, wings beating hard, carrying a heavy sack between them. Dropping the bag onto the back of the sand sail, they disappeared into blue. Switching his tack again, SinBad sailed off downwind, away from the wind wagon, dodging the rain of missiles. Glad to leave the havoc behind him, SinBad jerked the crossbow bolt out of the tiller, freeing his arm. Tossing the bolt aside, he worked his way back around, tacking back and forth, until he was once more atop the bluff. Safe and sound. He did not want to know what was in the bag. Tiffany looked worried. “You’re hurt.”

“No.” This latest meeting with the Massingales had been fairly pain free.

“Yes, you are,” Tiffany insisted. “Your boot is bleeding.” He looked down. “Damn.”

“Here, I’ll help you.” It was Tiffany’s turn to nurse him, pulling the bolt out, then helping strip off his bloody boot. Now it started to hurt.

There was a nasty gash on his lower calf, just above the ankle. Tiffany slapped on antibiotic, then used an adhesive salve to seal the wound, followed by painkiller, all left over from his borrowed supplies. While she worked on his foot, the Massingales came winging back. Joe shook his head. “Hurt yourself ?”

“No.” SinBad grimaced. “Some crossbowman did it.”

“Where did you steal the meds?” Joe asked.

Jeramie smirked. “Aymads ain’t gonna like that.”

Barsoom’s underworld was not that big. Both brothers knew his employers, well enough to sell the Aymads their own meds back. Joe tried to cheer him. “Least you got a woman to treat you.”

“You’re one lucky sucker,” Jeramie agreed. “A little to the left, and you’d have lost that foot.” Chuckling over SinBad’s good fortune, they hoisted the loot and took off, leaving him in Tiffany’s care. She finished bandaging his foot. “Fine friends you have.” Like he had a choice. “I have no friends. At least the Massingales do not toss pretty blondes overboard.” Not on the first date.

“Good to know.” Tiffany helped him pull on the bloody sand boot. “What now? You were going to deliver me to the wind wagon, but you robbed it.”

“Not me,” SinBad objected. “Massingales did that.” Tiffany accepted the distinction. “Transporting stolen property, then.”

“That’s my job,” SinBad reminded her. “Though right now, I am working for free.”

“I know.” Tiffany ran her hand up his thigh.

Which felt astonishingly good. Too bad he was half lame. And Thuria would be up soon. He limped about, readying his sand sail, then arranging furs to keep Tiffany hidden. She asked, “Is this really necessary? Hiding from the nearer moon?”

“Not if you want to be seized by Slavers.” These notorious cosmic pests infested Barsoom’s inner moon. Tiffany peeked out from between the furs. “On Erotopia we partied happily, with Thuria hurtling overhead.”

“That just means they got a good look at you.” Pleasure palaces had defenses even Slavers feared, like batteries of Issus surface-to-space missiles. Greenies did not care so long as they exploded in the air.

“Macroscopes can read the logo on the seat of your hot pants. If they see you now, I’ll be dead, and you’ll belong to the highest bidder.”

Who wanted that? Tiffany stayed hidden until Thuria had set. Of all the offworlders SinBad had met, Tiffany was the most willing to learn. Too bad he must be rid of her. But he must. They were almost out of offworld meds. With the wind holding steady, he rode on through the night, steering by Cluros and starlight. Thuria rose and fell. Just past dawn, desert hardpan turned to soft mossy sward, a sign they were nearing the canal. Presently palm tops poked over the close Barsoomian horizon. An airship drifted overhead, following the line of the canal, a long silver craft, gleaming in dawn light. A wide blue banner trailed behind the gold control gondola.

Tiffany asked, “Should I hide again?”

“They won’t care about us.” Airfolk had their own worries.

“Then why are they turning our way?”

Unbelievably, the big airship was coming about, bearing down on them. Shit. What had he done now?

He was not due in Hastor until tomorrow, so it could not be the Aymads. They did not know he had betrayed them, yet. None of his other enemies traveled in such style. Fliers in solar-powered wings spilled out of the silver ship, flitting down toward them. SinBad hit the port brake and spun around, turning his sail into the wind. Tiffany put her hand on his shoulder, asking, “What are you doing?”

“Coming about. We’ll never outrun them.” And they had nowhere to hide on the flat yellow-orange sward.

“Who are they?” Tiffany asked.

“Someone nice, I hope.” He kissed her hand. If not, he would die—because of her. Winged figures landed around them, women in blue jackets and gold kilts, wielding short composite bows. Young business-like women eyed him warily, from behind bent bows and razor tipped arrows.

“Who are they?” Tiffany whispered.

“Not sure.” Winged Amazons were a first, even for Barsoom. “Northerners maybe, not desert folk.” Fliers grabbed the dangling ground lines, guiding the airship down. Her name was on the nose, in big red letters, Jeddara.

With the silver ship tethered a few feet above the sward, a ramp dropped down from the rear of the golden control gondola, and the lead archer told them, “Come.” SinBad went quietly. As did Tiffany. Inside the gilded control car were more women, along with albino SuperChimps to do the heavy lifting.

SinBad was searched for weapons, by a thorough young woman who did not enjoy her task. When she determined that he was lame and unarmed, he and Tiffany were ushered into the glass-walled command cabin. White apes worked big manual control wheels, keeping an even keel, as the airship lifted off. SinBad saw his sand sail sitting on the rusty-yellow sward below, watching it dwindle, then disappear. So much for his livelihood. And any hope of satisfying the Aymads. However this interview ended, he was a dead man.

He was presented to the airship’s commander, a tall woman in a gold gown, with a white fur cloak, made from the hide of some big arctic beast. Her hair was as white as her cloak, a wild frosty mane enclosing finely chiseled features, and pale ice-blue eyes.

Flanking her were two SuperCat bodyguards in battle armor, bio-constructs with humanoid brains, like Greenies; only SuperCats had tawny fur, feline faces, clawed fingers, and long curving saber-like upper canines. These two carried repeating crossbows.

There was a Greenie in attendance, wearing a flier’s harness bearing the insignia of Greater Helium. He was a bald, handsome, humanoid bioconstruct, with photosynthesizing green skin, who plainly enjoyed his job. Photo sapiens were bisexual nudists, designed to adore humans. Flying about in an airship full of human females was a Greenie guy’s idea of heaven.

“Are you SinBad the sand sailor?” asked the lady in white and gold.

“Yes.” He was the notorious O-mad outcast, facing offworld law at last. Until he met Tiffany, aerial authorities had not touched him.

Despite it all, he could not help wondering what his captor was like between sleeping furs. He was a guy, a sex offender for Issus’ sake—he had to wonder. Her ladyship’s beautifully biosculpted face was as inscrutable as her SuperCats. SinBad could not tell if she was ten or thirty, Barsoom years—twenty to sixty Earth years. SinBad was twenty-two himself, and had assumed Tiffany was in her teens, though now he was not so sure.

His captor turned to Tiffany. “And you?”

“Tiffany Panic, your highness.”

“Ah, the air hostess.” Her ladyship smiled thinly. “My correct title is Lady Kadara, Guardian of the North. I serve the Jed of Horiz.” Horiz was a seaport on the North Polar Sea, thousands of haads away. What was she doing here?

“Our noble lord of Horiz is extending the rule of law south of the equator. Past Exhume and Hastor, as far south as possible....”

From polar sea to polar sea. Ambitious, but hardly SinBad’s business. His was smuggling.

“...beginning by arresting you.”

SinBad was not totally surprised. “What for?”

“Theft of cargo. Attack on a wind wagon. Illegal transport of a sex worker, by a sex offender.” Lady Kadara shook her white head in dismay. “No wonder they call you SinBad.” Her battle-armored SuperCats smirked. So did the Greenie.

“But I am not carrying contraband.” Aside from the drugs that went into him and Tiffany. Kadara grabbed him on the one day that he was not riding dirty.

“We have 3Vs of the incident. Your sandboat is plainly IDed.” Tiffany spoke up. “He was not in it.”

“Really?” Kadara seemed surprised.

“He was wounded in my defense. Winged men stole his sand sailer, using it to rob the wagon—while I tended his foot.” A total lie, yet Tiffany told it so well, SinBad half believed her. Lady Kadara was not so easily fooled. “How did he get his sand craft back?”

“They returned it when they were done.”

“How courteous.”

“I thought so.” Tiffany had a knack for telling soothing lies that men liked to hear. An invaluable talent for an air hostess.

“You know you are being transported by a sex offender.”

There was no denying that. “He admitted as much.”

“That alone is criminal,” Kadara contended. Legally, SinBad could not come within a thousand sofads of a commercial sex outlet. Which included Tiffany.

“Except, that I am on medical leave,” Tiffany explained coyly.

“What?”

“I fell out of Erotopia, injuring myself too much to work.”

“So you have not serviced him?” Lady Kadara could not believe it. An air hostess traveling with a sex maniac, and nothing happened. SinBad barely believed it himself.

“I am not even licensed for surface work,” Tiffany added, making their whole criminal odyssey sound scrupulously legal.

Kadara turned back to SinBad. “Is this true?”

“I try to live within the terms of my parole.” Which covered sex offenses, not drug smuggling, or aerial robbery.

“So you are not being paid at all?”

“Apparently.”

Both SuperCats gave him toothy grins. They were paid upfront.

Lady Kadara could see she was being conned, but Tiffany was her only witness. Offplanet law relied on truth testing and brain scans, which did not exist on Barsoom. Greenies never lied, and expected humans to do the same. Jeddara’s commander reluctantly capitulated. “Since you are not my prisoners, please be my guests.”

Kadara dined them royally on roast zitidar, garnished with skeel nuts. Afterward, smiling Amazons propped his hurt foot on pillows, and fed him sweet sompus slices, happy to entertain a man, even a lame, unemployed sex criminal.

It turned out that Tiffany was not the only air hostess aboard. Kadara had picked up a runaway Red girl from Amour, one of the lesser palaces, a quiet dark-haired local, named Jem. Tiffany fussed over her newfound companion, coaxing the Red girl’s story out of her. Jem of Amour had been taken in war from a desert tribe, then sold into sex slavery. That was bad. Being in the same airship with an enslaved sex worker violated SinBad’s parole, as Kadara quickly noted. “This girl is qualified for surface work, so you will not want to stay aboard.”

“Right.” Because of one black-haired teenager, he had to leave this soft billet, with free food, and unlimited women. Why couldn’t Jem be a Greenie? But Jem was a Red girl from Barsoom, Apache most likely. He was Huron, before the tribe expelled him.

Now the Northerners did not want him either. Kadara set him down on the open sward, two hundred haads from where they’d left his sandboat. Tiffany gave him a hug at the gangway, saying, “Sorry I cannot kiss you goodbye.”

Even the hug was frowned on. Kissing him was a flat out violation of her license, and his parole. SinBad watched the silver airship lift off and head north, then he turned about and limped southward. He had no more meds, and the Aymads would want what was left of their shipment. Just thinking about the long walk back to the sand sail made his foot hurt horribly.