GeneStorm: City in the Sky (15 page)

“Nope. There’s one of them buying himself a lemonade.” The lemonade booth was making a brisk business serving panting, exhausted members of the lynch mob. “Head down – they’re coming back!”

The mob returned from the river, grumbling and growling. Their quarry had gone – apparently off over the river and into the scrub beyond. And now there were two girls dissuading, defusing and making their excuses. The entire chase had lost its zest. Most of the men headed towards the pub, determined to drink and find other entertainment. But the huge old rancher who had led the charge came over to the massage table, and sat down heavily upon the nearby tree stump.

He dusted off his hat, tired and weary, and looked to Snapper as she went to work upon Kitterpokkie’s lower back.

“Hey, are you doing back massage?”

“Ah… yes!” Snapper popped something back into place just above Kitt’s hips. “One red for half an hour.”

The old rancher sighed and drank lemonade. He rested his boots atop the pile of old fruit rinds. “Well I’ll go next. And my brothers there, too.” The man gestured to five men who had gathered in the Dancing Dugite’s yard. “It’s been a day, I’ll tell you.”

“It sure sounds like it.”

There was nothing for it – and six red chips wasn’t too bad. Snapper finally finished Kitterpokkie’s massage, then worked her way slowly through the ranchers one by one. By the end of a long afternoon, her hands were tired and she was sheathed in oil from head to toe – wattle seed oil she had been hoping to use to waterproof her leathers. As the sun grew low, the last of the ranchers thanked Snapper for her work and headed back towards the pub. A horn was blown, signalling that a town meeting was called for after full dark, and that therefore all fights were off, all arguments stalled, all feuds officially over. People headed off to eat, relax and drink before the deliberations of the meeting.

Snapper packed up her table and wiped down her hands while Kitterpokkie closed up her booth and loaded equipment into a wheelbarrow. With the streets emptying at last, the pile of fruit rinds quivered, and Beau’s face finally appeared. He took a cautious look up and down the street, then rose up and shook fruit pulp out of his feathers and fur.

The man cocked a resentful eye at Snapper.

“I’ll thank you to know that my genitals are perfectly acceptable in size.”

Snapper clapped Beau upon the shoulder. “Yeah, because
that’s
the information we really wanted to take away from today’s experiences.” She retrieved Onan from his lair beneath a nearby tree. “Come on – home we go.”

“Salty cracker?”

“The moment we get there.”

They walked home along the broad main street. The evening change of wall guard was taking place: the militia up on the walls and the pair at the main gate were relieved by friends and relatives. The day guards made their way directly towards the pub, keen to quench their thirst.

Beau lacked pants, and yet still carried two new gun belts across his shoulders. Snapper cast an eye towards the guns and sucked a tooth.

“Are those new guns? I mean, brand new guns?” The shark thought she might have seen them once in a gunsmith’s window. They were elegantly chased in silver. “Revolvers?”

“A gift from an admirer!” Beau was wonderfully pleased. “The Mayor, bless her! She felt that I had extremely skilled hands.”

“Again, too much information.” Snapper shook her head. “Way, waay too much.”

Beau drew in a breath of clean night air.

“All in all, it has been a successful day. I set out to help gather equipment needed for our expedition beyond the cliffs!” The fox-bird was well pleased. “I have managed a coup! A bargain! An excellent riding animal for myself, for free.” The man became rather candid. “I fear I have traded upon my reputation.”

“Mmmm.” Snapper nodded. “Yeah.”

They all walked on together, heading for the leafy arch that marked Snapper’s home. After a few quiet minutes, the shark finally flicked a considering glance at Beau.

“So… Mrs Baker…?”

“A wonderfully sympathetic woman.” Beau rubbed his hands together. “I must visit her again as soon as events allow.”

“We have to get you out of town before you die of exhaustion.”

They walked in under the arch, coming home at last. Beau looked about and stretched himself, giving a happy sigh.

“Are you still doing back massages?”

“Don’t push it, birdie boy.” Snapper propelled the man towards the bath. “Don’t push it.”

As evening fell, the west slowly filled with bands of glorious colour. The moon hung broad and clear, clipped by a great slice of shadow. The sunset lingered violet, pink and orange amongst a drifting band of clouds.

A town meeting in Spark Town was a serious affair. Every person, every family was consulted, and the whole community let its voice be heard. This was how the town had been settled, waterwheels built, ramparts raised and manned, generators installed and feral invasions fought back into the wilds. It was serious business indeed. Samuels wrapped himself with the long embroidered stole that denoted his office – an outfit complimented by a pair of ancient, heavy pistols and a rugged old shotgun. He polished his beak with bee-mouse wax while the rest of the household polished their boots, shook out their finery or rinsed their tentacles. Old Toby even went so far as to run a brush across his fur.

The uninitiated may have been quite surprised to see citizens arriving for the meeting. No one came unarmed – in past times, town meetings had heralded an immediate call to arms. Those who had mounts generally rode them to the meeting, as a matter of pride. And so it was that Samuels and Toby finally stepped out of the house to find the others gathered on the porch, armed and resplendent – Snapper in her armour and pelisse, Kitt fitted out with plasma gun and wooden battery case, and Beau looking as though he spent far too much time polishing his feathers and claws. Throckmorton was already at the bar – meetings could be thirsty work. Snapper tossed Beau the plant’s crossbow and ammunition to carry to the Dugite.

Kitterpokkie looked at the crossbow and frowned.

“We must think about what equipment to gather for Throckmorton. I should not want him to feel left out – to feel that we are stinting!”

Snapper brushed back the trailing crest at the back of her helm. “I don’t think he can carry all that much. He seems happy.”

“Surely we can at least replace the crossbow!”

“What with?” The shark adjusted and was finally happy with the set of Kitterpokkie’s buckles. “I don’t think he’s going to be dragging many cannon around up there.”

Kitterpokkie nodded. “He refuses to accept a gun, because the recoil would quite spin him around and around…” The mantis had a sudden inspiration. “I wonder if some sort of rocket gun could be prepared? Electric ignition – or perhaps percussion caps?”

“I don’t think Throcky’s very keen about
fire
, Kitt.”

“I could certainly design a system that minimises the danger!”

“Let’s just… leave him as is for now.” Snapper steered the girl towards the stables. “Come on – meeting time!”

“I suppose…” Kitt swivelled her head one hundred and eighty degrees to look back at the workshop. “But I shall see about creating an electric winch for the crossbow. Surely we must drag him into the modern age.”

“Yes yes. Later!”

It would never do for Samuels to arrive at the meeting on foot. His own grumbling, black-armoured beetle-horse was saddled up and waiting, along with Toby’s violet budgerigar and Onan, who was already calculating the number of salty crackers he might extort in return for good behaviour. But beside them was a great fluffy burgundy-red creature that brought everyone to an alarmed halt.

They could only stare. Beau, however, was filled with pride.

“What do you think?”

“You bought the moth…?” Snapper was appalled. The creature looked about as trustworthy as a cannibal in a nursery. “Did you look at this thing’s face before you took it?”

“Of course! He‘s a splendid creature. Striking! Handsome in the extreme!” Beau seemed quite overjoyed with his new mount. He walked up and patted the creature, whose expression seemed to indicate its brain was stripping a few gears. “We’ll strike quite the figure, eh?”

Snapper was utterly at a loss.

“Beau… This thing is just… It’s just…”

“I have decided to call him Pendleton!”

Kitterpokkie inspected the moth creature from a careful distance.

“Why?”

“It’s a good name!” Beau seemed completely taken with the idea. “Rolls off the tongue! I think I saw it written on an old bottle in some ruins.”

“Pendleton…” Snapper kept well away from the front end of the creature. “He looks like he’s been secretly plotting to steal some school kid’s lunch. Or possibly eat a school child for lunch.” The shark shook her head then mounted up on Onan. Each to their own. “Well, just be careful with it. Once you hitch the thing up at the pub, get it a basket of kittens to eat, or something…”

Beau leapt aboard the moth, which put on a weird grin and seemed to accept the fox-bird’s presence. Beau tried to invite Kitterpokkie aboard, but the mantis backed away and politely waved her claws.

“No no – I shall walk. I have no need to balance teetering upon an animal.”

The moth took the lead, swarming along on six powerful legs. Staying behind the beast, Toby rode close to Snapper, and leaned over to speak behind his hand.

“Hey. If that fox-bird fella gets killed by that thing, try to get hold of a hand or something. Maybe that medallion will still light up if you hold it in his dead fingers.”

Snapper flicked a glance at Kitt over her spectacles, then back to Toby.

“Oh Godfish. They told you about the medallion.”

“Your man Kenda did.” Toby looked pleased. “He was asking about the pass, but I didn’t tell him anything. Still, the boy seems to have money, and he survived them Screamers. So he might be an asset to the expedition. You think about it.”

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”

The group departed out through the leafy old arch, and down the lane beyond. Electric lights were starting to glimmer, lighting the streets and doors. Out on the main road, people were walking and riding up hill towards the Dancing Dugite. Wagons had been parked along the street – most still laden with boxes and bales. The town corral was filled with fluttering beetle-horses, and dozens of chattering, hungry budgerigars who ate their fill of konker nuts and seeds. Townsfolk called greetings to Samuels and Toby, falling in beside them as they moved along the road.

At the town gates, a wagon was slowly plodding in from the fields. There were two militiamen on the gates, and another up on the wall above. The wall guard was dividing his attention between the dark scrublands beyond the gate and the gathering crowds about the pub. Snapper spurred forward and looked at a hulking, scaly figure sitting bored beside the gates. She called up to the militiaman on the wall.

“Hey Anders! You got croc boy on duty here tonight?”

“Yeah.” The militiaman pulled a straw from his mouth. “Got him on the gate. Least he can use his muscles pushing it open and closed.”

The gate was still open, unlike any other night, when they would be locked by sundown. Old Toby looked out to the dark eastern plains, where scrub made huge purple shadows in the dark.

“They’re still riding in?”

“Now and then.” The militiaman leaned upon the ramparts. “The Brotherhood guys rode out about five minutes ago. Shot out in a fair hurry.”

“They’re not staying for the meeting?” Toby scratched at his neck fur. “Guess they heard all the news they really needed to know.”

Samuels rode forward and waved a hand to the three militia guards.

“Have a good night, lads.” Samuels turned his mount aside. “We’ll come up and spell you once the meeting’s over.”

“Thanks mate. You’re a legend!” The militia man gave a salute, then shouldered his heavy rifle. “Have a good meeting!”

The Dugite was the largest building in town, and therefore served as the default meeting house. Tables had been cleared back to serve as impromptu benches. People sat on chairs, tables, railings, windowsills and even the bar, with a hundred and twenty managing to crowd into the main tap room, another hundred in the eatery, and at least another hundred in the beer garden. Throckmorton cruised about just above the crowd, helping to usher newcomers to seats. The town council itself had been given a cleared space behind the bar. The councillors – three men and a large woman, including the indomitable Mrs Baker – were deep in discussion. Samuels joined them, and a table was brought over to give a sense of occasion. Mrs Baker – a rhino splicer with the bosom of a goddess and piercing blue eyes – hammered on the table with the butt of a sawn off shotgun, making enough noise to penetrate the buzz of conversation.

“Folks! Your attention please! This meeting will come to order. Third day of November, eighty fifth year after founding. All council members are present.” She rapped on the table once again. “We’re suspending other business in the light of a possible emergency!”