Rendered in gold by the long rays of the lowering sun, a distant flight of birds traversed the faded azure infinity of the endless desert sky, cloudless and clear but for the ghostly crescent of a day-moon. Painted in shades of umber and ochre, the weathered walls of the Dish also glowed dully in the wan light, in pale imitation, in muted tribute, in an infinitesimal echo of the fiery cataclysm from which the ancient crater had been born, so many millennia before.
However, more than mere sunlight illuminated the scene. Its vivid emerald-green luminosity internally rent by eruptions of violent reds, slashes of sulphurous orange and streaks of electric-blue, the sinuous, writhing, reticulated column of the portal now soared a hundred metres or more into the dry desert air, dwarfing the cavernous hangar from which it emerged, and dominating the landscape stretched out before the diminutive figures of the two agents, standing in forlorn isolation on their craggy outcrop, perched precariously on the inner wall of the crater.
Or at least it would have, if the dragon, positioned squarely in the foreground of their view, wasn't proving to be something of a distraction. Despite his re-acceptance of the reality of their situation, Fields nevertheless found something inescapably dream-like in the smooth, slow uncoiling of the beast's scaled, serpentine body, in the unhurried extension of its gleaming, undulous neck, and most of all, in the piercing, unmistakably intelligent gaze of its multi-faceted eyes, flaring flame-red in the rays of the fading sun.
For several long seconds they regarded each other, the two frail, insignificant humans and the mighty, bewinged creature, its iridescent form preternaturally still and silent. Completely at a loss as to how to address a monster that may not understand a word he said, was quite likely to eat him, and was in possession of far more teeth than any creature—mythical or otherwise—really had a right to, Fields was just about to try a careful bow, when the tableau was disturbed by the sudden emergence of an object from the portal.
Although, to be strictly accurate, ejection would probably be a better word for the object's abrupt entrance into the world. Launched at a shallow, climbing trajectory, its tumbling bulkiness was somehow strangely familiar to Fields, but it was only when a mournful lowing reached them, carried clearly through the dry desert air, that actual recognition registered in his reluctant mind.
And as with curious bovine grace the hapless cow sailed up and over the spectral moon, it was a wearily resigned Fields who felt Peregrine's expected elbow dig into his ribcage, her unbridled and completely inappropriate glee somehow evident even in that simple action.
"Look, Fields," she whispered, "the cow jumped over the—"
"Don't," he interrupted, rubbing his eyes. "Don't go there, please. If I hear a single hey-diddle-diddle, I'm going to feed you to the dragon myself."
"Oh, I don't think so. I don't fancy eating Peregrine. Not my cup of tea at all."
Fields stopped rubbing. Slowly, dragging his eyes away from the dragon, who returned his gaze with inscrutable calm, he turned to face his partner. They spoke in unison.
"Did you hear that?"
The answer evident in their shared question, both turned warily back to the beast, who regarded them with something more akin to a cheeky grin than Fields would have thought possible on that ridged and rigid face.
"Besides, she'd be terrible for my cholesterol."
In something of a contrast to the no-nonsense, sober-sided, factory-standard, default-model adult he'd become, Fields had been a bit of a fantasy-head as a kid. And as fond as he'd been of goblins and gremlins, of wargs and wights, of wizards and warlocks and witchery of all types, his particularly soft spot had been reserved for anything involving dragons.
Whether they be in The Lord of the Rings or The Dragonriders of Pern, from Hungarian Horntails right through to Night Furies, if they had wings and scales and high-temperature halitosis, then the gangly, pre-teen Fields was on board.
Or at least, he'd imagined he was. In the febrile, fertile fields of his immature mind, there had been no greater dream than to ride a dragon. To flame the Thread, to retrieve the egg, to save the day on a dragon-wing and a prayer, such were the fabulous fantasies that fired the fledgling Fields' fevered imagination.
Although it as it turned out, he reflected, watching the arid undulations of the desert landscape flashing by far below him, it wasn't quite what he'd expected.
"Climb on board," Ken/Al/the dragon had said, just minutes earlier. Although as far as Fields was concerned, 'said' was at best a loose approximation of the actual experience.
He gave his head a vigorous shake. "How are you doing that?"
"Doing what?"
"Talking inside my head! It's like telepathy or something."
"Like telepathy? Fields, it is telepathy. Given I can occupy minds, you can't seriously be surprised I can communicate with them too? As my new host doesn't have vocal cords, I don't really have much choice."
"Cool," breathed Peregrine.
"Anyway, climb aboard. From what I overheard, I gather we need to catch up with somebody, so no point dilly-dallying. You can fill me in on the way."
"I...but...how...?"
"Ah Fields, as erudite as ever, I see. Peregrine, given your partner appears to be a little dumbstruck, possibly minus the struck, perhaps you might like to do the honours?"
"You got it, Al. Er...Ken? Um, what do we call you now, anyway?"
"Well, after a little preliminary mental digging, the best translation I can come up with for a name is something like Raaargh-raaargh-burny-burny-cop-that-you-pathetic-non-dragon-thing-roar-roar-ooh-now-you-are-crispy-just-how-I-like-my-snacks-munchy-munchy-there-better-not-be-any-bloody-princes-around-here-grrr-grrr-otherwise-I'll-get-quite-cross-flamy-flamy-singe-oh-wow-I-really-am-super-awesome-just-truly-the-bestest-raaaaarrrgh."
"Er, right."
"Needless to say, this fellow had quite a high opinion of himself. And didn't have too many friends. Anyhoo, I think it might be best if you just call me Graham."
"Graham!" exclaimed Fields.
Two iridescent, scaled eyebrow ridges drew together, and from one of the flared nostrils, just the barest trickle of smoke emerged. "And what's wrong with Graham? One of my favourite nurses was called Graham."
"Nothing, nothing," placated Peregrine. "Truly awesome name, just super. Suits you, actually. Okay Graham, now if you could just scooch down a little, I'll climb—"
"No way, Peregrine." Fields' sense of duty was now allied to his long-forgotten desire to be a dragonrider and had become an even more serious force to be reckoned with. "I'm going."
"I don't think so. Besides, I need you to stay here and do something about that." She indicated the portal, which had visibly grown even in the few short minutes since Fields had last looked at it.
"Me? Why don't you stay and sort it out? I've already had a go. Stand aside, Peregrine—this is my ride."
"Ha! Not if I get there first!"
Several seconds of undignified scuffling and slapping later, the two agents paused, breathing heavily. Somberly, they regarded the dragon's long, gleaming back, which it had obligingly stretched out before them.
"Uh, Graham?"
"Yes, Peregrine?"
"I don't suppose you can retract those bad-boys?"
"Bad-boys? What bad-boys?"
"Um, the vicious, completely lethal-looking spikes you have right along your spine? The ones that mean there's absolutely nowhere for either of us to—you know—sit?"
The sinuous neck turned, the regal head regarded the scaled, glittering length of its own powerful body. "Ah, I see. Give me a moment." The brow ridges came together again, the jeweled eyes flashed, but the spikes remained firmly in place. "Hmm, it would seem not. Still, no matter."
"No matter?" demanded Fields. "No matter? How the hell are we going to go after Radovic if we can't ride you?"
"Simple. Which one of you has the strongest belt?"
As the only one actually wearing a belt, Fields had come up trumps in that respect. And it was this very same belt the dragon clutched with its powerful talons as they soared through the gathering dusk, following the winding course of the narrow road leading away from the Dish. To his intense mortification, rather than becoming a dragonrider, Fields had wound up a dragon-dangler.
Still, irrespective of his damaged dignity, he had a job to do. Shelving his disappointment, he wiped the tears from his streaming eyes and focused on spotting Radovic's car. He didn't have long to wait.
"There!" he bellowed, at the sight of the silver SUV barrelling along far below. "That's him!"
"No need to shout, you know. This vessel appears to have excellent hearing. Ah yes, I see. Let's take a closer look, shall we?"
With a gut-wrenching swoop, the dragon tucked in its wings and dived, accelerating towards the speeding vehicle, its roof soon just metres below Fields dangling feet. Trying hard to regain his breath, he considered the situation. Even though his quarry was now so tantalisingly close, he was at something of a loss as to how to proceed.
Until, with a spurt of inspiration, he remembered the radio in his pocket. "Radovic? Radovic, can you hear me? You need to pull over—the game's up."
There were a few long seconds of silence before—to Fields' intense relief—the scientist replied. "Still deluding yourself, Agent Fields? Why on this benighted, backward Earth would I pull over? When I possess the only drivable car for miles around? When you have no possible way of pursuing me? You need to man up and accept the facts, Fields. When it comes to games, I'm afraid you've lost and I've won, hnyah-hnyah."
"If you say so. Hey, listen, the weather's pretty nice this time of year—why don't you open your sunroof?"
"What?" barked Radovic. "What are you on about? Why the hell would I do that?"
"Well, you know, apart from the fresh air, there's also something you should probably see."
"Fields, I've had just about enough of you and your blathering."
"How about you humour me, prof? Or are you scared you might not be winning after all?"
"Scared?" The sunroof opened. "I'll show you scared, you ignorant, pathetic..."
Even from his precarious vantage point, Fields could clearly make out the distinct 'O' Radovic's mouth made, as he gaped up at the silvery, scaled beast soaring above him, with a bedraggled federal agent dangling from its underside.
Fields gave him a cheery wave. "Surprise, dickhead. Who's winning now? Might be time to pull over, huh?"
"Never!" To Fields' consternation the SUV, already comfortably exceeding the speed limit, put on a new burst of acceleration. "Nothing can stop me now. Not Frank's dithering incompetence, not those wretched princesses, with their mooning eyes and their pathetic pleading, not you and that Peregrine bitch, and certainly not some ridiculous, story-book dragon. These new algorithms of Frank's were the final piece, Fields—the key to unmatched power. Now that power is mine, and soon this world will be too. I'll never stop. Never!"
Bugger. Putting away the radio, Fields addressed Graham. "We need to stop him, somehow. Can you sort of, you know, give him a nudge or something? Or maybe we could fly ahead a bit and set up a road-block? Ooh, ooh, I know—you can drop me onto the car, and I can climb in the sunroof. Hang on, he's just closed it. Bummer. Maybe we could—"
Blindingly bright, searingly hot, and completely without warning, an incandescent column of fire lanced down, instantaneously transforming the hurtling car into a hurtling fireball, a blazing wreck that rapidly veered off the road, before cartwheeling wildly off into the adjoining dunes.
"What a knob-head. Anyway, that seems to have stopped him. Now, what's next?"