GeneStorm: City in the Sky Page 25

  Blind with rage, the black-painted warrior could have cared less about the weird change in his opponent. He strode straight into her, fists up and ready to start causing serious damage. With a mighty roar, he aimed a blow straight at Kitterpokkie’s face.

  She blurred aside. Mantis claws whipped out with blinding speed, snatching out and back, slicing razor edged limbs across the feral’s forearm. The man bellowed and tried to strike again and again, but each time he tried to land a blow, Kitterpokkie flicked aside and whipped out with her claws. They were wicked weapons, scoring bleeding wounds repeatedly across the feral’s arms. The man snarled and tried to close, blundering forward, protecting his face as the mantis whipped and struck. He punched out at her again, fists thudding as they were met by fast-moving claws and swatted aside. He lunged forward to try and seize the girl in a deadly bear hug, but the mantis suddenly leapt. In a moment she was past him and behind, then climbing up his back. She locked her legs about the man’s huge neck and tried to squeeze his head clean off with her thighs.

  The feral roared, whipping left and right, trying to dislodge the girl. He punched back behind himself, but her chitin was tough enough to take the glancing blows. With blood shut off to his brain, the big man began to stagger. He hurtled himself backwards at a boulder, hoping to mash the bug at his back. Kitterpokkie jumped, wings spread and whirring, leaping clear as the big warrior cracked himself hard against the stone. The man’s head struck and he knocked himself quite senseless with the force of his own blow. He slumped, groping and dazed, as the crowd surged forward with a roar, holding up their hands in Kitterpokkie’s praise.

  The brought her a massive jug of bug milk beer, which she quaffed down in a daze. Dozens of men jostled her and spoke at her in the snarling, clicking feral tongue – all of them amazed and delighted by her feat. Kitterpokkie turned about, still in something of a trance, and saw the fallen feral warrior. She immediately hastened to the man’s side.

  “I’m terribly sorry! So sorry! Unforgivable. Oh – let me clean you up! Oh I shall never live it down!” She cleaned the man’s wounds with bug beer. “We’ll bandage you up. There’s whiskey in the baggage! Well, sort of whiskey. It’s ‘Cobblebacks’!”

  Gunner stood beside Snapper in the jostling, joyous crowd. The boy seemed well pleased.

  “It is an honourable thing for one opponent to respect another.” He gestured to Kitt and the huge warrior, who was now sitting up and bemusedly allowing her to tend to him. “It is a greater glory when enmity changes into friendship.”

  “It is indeed.”

  More bug beer was brought – the stuff had a kick like an insane kangaroo-bug, but Snapper found the taste was growing on her. She located Kitt and managed to extract her from the arms of the crowd, then steered her over to the ringside to find her clothes and gear. The mantis was still in a daze – flushed, battered and quite contrite. She gladly put on her pants once more.

  “I’m mortified! Quite mortified. I bit his head! Oh how shall I ever live it down?”

  “How did it taste?”

  “Oddly like bok.” The mantis made a face. “Oh dear! Oh dear oh dear.”

  The ferals were crowding about, wanting to talk – fingers flashing. Room was made at the campfire. More foods were brought, along with drink. Snapper patted Kitterpokkie’s shoulder, then steered her towards a seat beside the fire.

  “Well it was good diplomacy anyway. Seems we made the right impression.” The shark looked at her friend in concern.

  “You’re sure you’re alright?”

  “A bit banged about. It will mend, it will mend.” The pink mantis accepted a mug of beer. “Oh dear. Please don’t tell anyone in town that I bit a man’s head. I should never hear the end of it.”

  “Don’t fret about it.” The shark clacked mugs with her friend. “What’s a bite here or there? Now, one more mug, then that’s it. We’re exploring radiation death zones in the morning.”

  “Radiation. Lethal fallout. Poison in the air…” The mantis looked over the leaping, cheering, heavily beweaponed ferals and rubbed at her bruises. “It shall be a positive holiday.”

  Chapter 12

  Dawn broke in the tribal encampment, with various drum-speakers sending forth a deafening howl to greet the sun. Snapper rather blearily opened one green eye, just in time for a barrage of drum beats to start echoing up and down the valley. Beetle-horses thundered as young men took riding beasts out to pasture. Children were chased into the cold stream to bathe, then sent running and splashing all along the banks, incidentally splashing water over Snapper’s face. It was clearly the start of a busy, bustling day.

  Snapper heaved herself up out of her bedroll, her skin bare to the wind, then gave a great bone cracking stretch, her sheathed sabre always to hand. She arose, let the morning air caress her, then fetched her clothing and made herself presentable. Cavalry overalls and boots, shirt and cuirass, pistol belt, sword and carbine. She stamped her booted feet, enjoying the feel of harness on her back, then walked over to embrace Onan and kiss him on the head.

  “Morning, Sunshine!”

  “Good birdie!” The cockatoo flapped his flightless wings and gave a great raucous squawk of joy. “Good birdie Onan! Good sharkie!” The bird rolled a wicked eye. “Nice Jemima!”

  “Very funny.” Snapper ruffled the bird’s crest. “I love you too!”

  “Jemima Jemima!” Onan bobbed his head up and down, chuckling immensely. “Salty cracker?”

  “Here you go.” Snapper led the cockatoo over to some sugar root bulbs that would make the creature an excellent breakfast. “Eat up! We’re moving out in half an hour!”

  Pendleton had been helping himself to someone’s breakfast: wary feral warriors looked at the moth-beast in amazement. The creature eyed off some poor family’s tent, apparently keen to eat the thing, and Snapper growled. Pendleton flattened down his antennae, resentfully pulled back, and satisfied himself with eating a mass of vegetable peelings someone had left beside a fire.

  Snapper wagged a finger at the beast.

  “I’m watching you!”

  Over at their campsite, the other adventurers had begun to stir. Kenda was already up and immaculately dressed, his clothes neat and face stiff. He tended woodenly to his beetle-horse – a rather dapper creature that certainly deserved better treatment. Snapper made a note to feed the creature some palm sugar with its breakfast.

  Kitterpokkie suddenly sat up in bed, looking wonderfully shocked. She stared straight ahead, as though trying to place whatever world she had found herself cast into. Moments later, she put a hand up to her head.

  “Not good…”

  “Good morning!” Snapper slung the girl’s pistol belt in her direction. “I’ve set camp bread to baking. Damper and jam for breakfast!”

  “Breakfast?” Kitterpokkie explored the concept rather gingerly. “I am not so certain I shall eat breakfast. I may not be feeling quite one hundred percent well….” The mantis suddenly felt at her jaw line, then at her ribs. “Good lord! I’m all bruised!”

  “Do you not remember turning into the bug of doom last night?”

  “The bug of what?” Kitterpokkie seemed quite bemused. “I remember no such thing! We had a lovely convocation about the village campfires. There was a delightful group gathering to admire my photographs. I consumed three of their astonishingly tasty local beverages, and then there was… was…” The bug waved a hand. “Something involving flying about in the air and shouting. And something that tasted like bok…”

  Snapper stood over the mantis and considered.

  “We are definitely cutting you off. Alcohol does not bring out the best in you.”

  “That is why I never drink it!”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Snapper nudged at her friend with her foot. “Up!

  “Oh…” Kitterpokkie tried to sink back down into bed. “I believe I may sleep in…”

  “No sleeping!” Snapper filled the air with false, wild glee. “Zone of death! Killer dust! Come
on!”

  She whipped Kitt’s blankets away, leaving her with no choice but to rise.

  Throckmorton was already over at the creek, splashing and flicking his wings like a finch in a bird bath. Snapper walked over to Beau’s blankets, but found they were neatly folded and utterly unused. She looked thoughtfully about, and her eye lit upon a large tent nearby – a tent hung with many many weapons, Chomper skulls and dried giant scorpion tails.

  The back of the tent suddenly lifted up. Two feral women hastily flitted out, holding up the edge of the tent. Beau came racing out from under the hoisted tent skin, desperately trying to put on his trousers. The women shoved Beau’s weapons and armour into his arms, then lunged back inside. Moments later they both emerged again to calling greetings to the armoured warrior striding home from guard duty. Snapper watched Beau’s rather shame-filled flit back to his own bed roll, and slowly shook her head.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “I am cursed with the gift of a kind and understanding heart.” Beau sighed for the weight of his terrible affliction. “I believe I may have managed to thaw out our diplomatic relations!”

  “Get dressed – and try not to sympathise with anything.”

  The shark walked away, shaking her head. Keeping these people on the straight and narrow had become a full time job.

  Breakfast was baked in the ashes of a camp fire while the team made ready. Riding beasts were saddled, and the hefty bundles of lead suits hoisted up into place atop the pack animals. By the time tea was made, breakfast was ready: hot damper and angry-bee-mouse honey, with slices of genuine Spark Town salami fried sizzling in the pan. Gunner and the three feral youths appeared on scene as if by magic. Beau’s lady friends drifted to the campfire – summoned by the scent of cooking. The elder drum-speaker, pretending an immense insouciance, ambled into the area as if by accident. Snapper’s camp larder was sadly diminished by the time breakfast was through. Such was the price of diplomacy.

  An escort accompanied the adventurers to the edge of the taboo land: Gunner and his arrow brother, the three merry youths, and Kitterpokkie’s star-painted opponent from the night before. There was also a strange group of brash young feral warriors – all of them groomed to a high state of polish, and dressed with exceptional magnificence. They jostled one another, riding swiftly past Kitterpokkie and then putting their mounts through all manner of impressive tricks – walking on back legs, or trotting and prancing to the side. The men made a great show of themselves, always performing directly in front of Kitterpokkie, who made a point of appreciating the theatre. She finally grew a tad bemused, and leaned quietly over to finger-talk with Snapper’s young friend, Gunner.

  “Sir – why do these warriors all ride this way? Is it a religious custom? Some tribal ritual?”

  The young man seemed amazed at the girl’s ignorance.

  “They display themselves as prospective bride grooms! Mates to the fearless one!”

  “Oh!” Kitterpokkie seemed immensely pleased. She turned and gave Snapper a salute. “Snapper my dear! It seems you have admirers!”

  “I’m not the one they’re admiring, you great git!” Snapper genuflected regally towards the mantis. “All hail the fearless one!”

  “Oh! Oh surely not! No no no no no. There is surely an error – some terrible misconception…” The mantis looked about, counting at least seven potential bride grooms jostling for attention. “Oh bother!”

  Another pair of bridegrooms had arrived – each from a competing warrior society. One was painted red with electric bands of blue, and the other painted in dandelion green. They both whirled their mounts about in spectacular caracoles, almost bowling other suitors clean out of their saddles. Two men almost came to blows, and a great deal of shouting began. Kitterpokkie forestalled a fight by riding inbetween and making mollifying motions, begging one and all to please behave. This merely seemed to encourage yet more trick riding and bombast: three men struck up eerie serenades upon long flutes, each one trying to drown out the other. Kitt cantered to safety, joining up with Snapper as she rode along quietly making finger talk with Gunner and his friends.

  “Snapper – help! This is really just too far out of hand!” The mantis waved at the hellish orchestra of warriors. “They are almost coming to blows! How are we to put an end to all this competition?”

  “You could always marry one.”

  The mantis gave Snapper a frosty look. “That is not an option currently under consideration.” The girl gave a sniff. “In any case, if one were chosen, the others would rise up in absolute revolt!”

  The shark looked dubiously at the bridegrooms and scratched her ear fin. “I don’t know, ask Beau. Maybe you could set up some kind of roster…?”

  “That is being less than helpful!” The mantis was an even deeper shade of pink than usual. “We might have a diplomatic incident! Fights, riots, duels!”

  “Well, we’re only twenty minutes form the radiation zone. That ought to do the trick.”

  “If we survive that far!”

  “Well, don’t drop any handkerchiefs.” The shark gave an airy wave, thoroughly enjoying herself. “And don’t drop the soap.”

  The exasperated mantis found herself surrounded once more. Her hands fluttered about, utterly ignored.

  “Gentlemen! Flattered as I am by your attentions…”

  Riding beside Snapper, young Gunner was attired in full war gear, complete with clan ribbons and fetishes. The young man’s face was serious – he clearly took his escort duties to heart. Snapper nodded to him in thanks.

  “Your presence is most welcome. Thank you for your company.”

  “We wish that we could do more, but the fearless-one has described her suits…” The young feral looked off along the hills. “We will support you as best we can. The ones-who-scream are a terrible danger to the tribes. The pink riders are also a new danger. We understand and respect the towns people – we have fought against one another with honour, and now we have lived in truce with honour. These are worthy days.”

  “Worthy.” The shark nodded, looking back along the procession: Kitt’s suitors were all performing magnificent feats, and her opponent from the night before was riding at her side in a public display of comradeship. “Worthy indeed.”

  Gunner touched his own new battle scars – a sign that he spoke a truth with honour.

  “A grey fin rode in the wars against the Skull Biters. My grandfather, also. He died in the final battle with great honour.” The boy made the sign for ‘kin’. “Your ancestor and my own were already comrades, although they did not know of one another.”

  “Indeed they were.”

  Throckmorton hovered overhead, ranging slightly to the fore as the mood seized him. His unique viewpoint allowed him to guide the party along the easiest footing. He also threw dirt clods now and then at clumps of bushes where noxious wildlife lurked. An irritated skunk-lizard waddled off, tail high, letting its displeasure be distinctly known. Throckmorton wafted up to peer over the crest of every hill and ridge, satisfying himself that all was well. Finally, he honked his horn. The plant came floating happily back down towards the riders, and wove his tentacles in greeting.

  “The totem stick is at the bottom of the next valley.” The plant pointed off to the northwest. “There is a ridge that is made of big red rocks. Three kilometres that way. Mantis said that rocks were needed.”

  “They are indeed! Thank you Throckmorton!” Snapper whistled to draw attention from the mass of riders, and pointed north west. “Throcky’s found a rock ridge leading into the badlands! Three k’s!” She waved a hand forwards. “Kitt – stop flirting! There’s work to be done!”

  “I am not flirting!”

  “That’s good news!”

  Down into the next valley they rode, trying to avoid a drift of dust that had been washed down through the badlands by the rains. Onan balked at the stuff, then hunted about, finding a route up and over rugged rocks. Snapper saw all of the riders acr
oss, warning the feral warriors, then galloped Onan to the fore, where the bird could scan for danger.

  Onan’s feathers were rising as they came up and over another hill and finally found a red rocky ridge beyond.

  The valley below them was broad and shallow, running off towards the dead soil to the north. The cliff line towered into the sky some twelve kilometres beyond. Snapper could see the cliff marks that she knew to watch for. The rock ridge seem to run for at least part of the way. It was the best start that they could have hoped for.

  Onan suddenly stopped and back pedalled. He balked at the dirt that coated the valley floor. Snapper held up a clenched fist, and the other riders all clattered to a halt.

  “Looks like this is our way in. Time to suit up!” The shark swung down out of the saddle. “Let’s hurry! I want to be up and over those cliffs quick as we can.”

  Kitterpokkie took command of her would-be suitors, directing them to help unload the pack animals. The lead suits were unloaded and unrolled, each beside its prospective user. Snapper and her team worked to divest themselves of weapons and equipment, sealing them into lead lined canisters and locking them down tight. Kitt conscripted Beau and Kenda to help her painstakingly fit the pack beetles into their protective suits – pulling on the booted leg protectors one by one and locking them in place, and then hoisting up the heavy body suits. The beetles bore it all with fortitude – Kitt’s budgerigar with agitation. Pendleton however seemed to find the suit extremely funny. The moth grinned and sniggered, striding about making light of the entire burden.

  Onan demanded a salty cracker, and then helpfully extended his feet to allow Snapper to fit him into his suit. They had practiced this three times before. The bird waddled about once he was dressed, quite pleased with his performance.

  “Good birdie!”

  Kitt pulled on her suit, shrugging her many limbs into the equipment and tightening her straps.

  “Alright! Everyone give your mounts a drink, then fill your water bottles.” Water bottles with straws had been provided. But once broken out of their lead wrappings and used, they would have to be discarded. “Check your seals!”