Its magnificent sail hovered high above the canopy, floating in the snowy darkness like the mottled wing of some giant moth. There was a ragged wedge taken out of its center—which looked awful but bled only mildly, as the web of flesh between a person’s thumb and forefinger will do if scraped or torn in some way.
The tyrannosaur seemed perplexed by this. It shifted uneasily and sniffed at the air, then paced about nervously in a tight circle.
Savanna thought: That’s how the wicked bastard works—it bleeds ‘em to death. It swoops in like a stealth fighter and tears a hole in their side, then just steps back and watches the ship go down.
But the spiny-lizard did not go down. By going for its sail, the rex had merely inflicted a flesh wound—and a weak one at that.
The tyrannosaur c****d it
