“Victor!” Feroza flung up her arms and Rusty, chasing them, climbed, engines screaming. “Copy and rebroadcast these signals.”
Frantically, she scrolled down menus in her visor, broadcasting the draconic communication signals she had recorded on the Leviathan’s back. “Help,” she broadcast. Her suit’s built-in transmitter was a puny thing next to Victor’s Radio Tick, but its range was more than wide enough to catch the attention of the Dragons. “Feed me,” She cried across the AM bands, “I’m afraid. Take care of your baby.”
Another modulated thunderclap from Victor’s Radio Tick, and the attack formation scattered. Sleek black bodies banked, swooped, dove, curved into arcs. Victor fell between them, arms and legs pressed against his body, juvenile Dragon coiled around him like a winged, robotic Rod of Asclepius.
The other Dragons had fallen into Victor’s thrall. They funneled down after him, tightening their formation like a whirlpool, spinning in flaming helixes, caught between attack and rescue, ancient impulse and modern calculation, hate and love.
Those that could fly gathered around Feroza and Victor, tugging them upward, encasing them in swirling nested spheres of metallic bodies, singing their praises across the airwaves.
The Dragons soon joined the song.