GeneStorm: City in the Sky (24 page)

“Is she a girl? How does one tell?”

“The
cere
. The little band atop the beak. It’s royal blue if it’s a male.”

“Oh excellent!” Kitterpokkie was quite pleased with the information. She patted her bird upon its beautifully striped neck. “Well, we shall endeavour to be the best of friends. I shall teach her to say charming things. She shall be a shining beacon of example.”

“You… do that thing…” Snapper passed over a water bottle. “Here. I put lime cordial in it. Damned good stuff.’

They drank together, passing the bottle back and forth, before tossing it to Beau, who drank their health, on to Throckmorton, who dabbled a root tendril in it most politely, and finally to Kenda, who waved the bottle away. They moved forward through the sea of grass, guided by compass and the crossing of the sun. Snapper kept her eye upon the local hills, and clearly knew the route. The little expedition moved on and on though a quiet, sunny day.

They had packed carefully for the wilds, using Snapper’s long experience and Kenda’s clipped advice. Weapons and what ammunition they could find, tent flies, food and excavation equipment. Snapper had her water filter, rope and medicines, and the pack beasts lugged the anti-radiation suits.

They took a break for lunch beside a row of ancient trees. These had once lined a road, but mutated long ago during the GeneStorm – a process that had left them twisted through with bands of weird growth and colours. The leaves were fragrant, and wonderfully shady; the space beneath a strange, cool, shadowy haven amongst the grass. The group all stiffly dismounted and walked about to stretch their legs. Seed bells were fed to Onan and the budgerigars, while the beetles all munched on bark and fallen fruit. Pendleton marched about the trees looking up at the branches, clearly hoping to engulf any local residents that he could find. He finally contented himself with hard kibble fed to him by his proud owner. Beau brushed the giant moth’s fur to a gleam, and the creature seemed content.

Several extremely large creatures were grazing nearby – huge, hefty things as big as a shed, covered with growths of long scarlet spines. The creatures were not placid: they kept sharp eyes watching over towards a tangle of old bushes. Snapper came quietly over to stand beside Beau, her carbine in the crook of her arm. She passed the man a packet of good, fresh sandwiches from home.

“Do you see there? Under the shade of those bushes?”

Beau turned, remaining beautifully poised. He peered across the grass, and finally thought he could make out a pair of lounging animals enjoying the distant shade. They were difficult to see – striped and patterned like the grass itself. But they seemed rather indolent. Beau preened at his whiskers in thought.

“Those?”

“Those.” Snapper looked carefully at the long grass near the group of herbivores. “Keep an eye open.”

“Ah.” Beau examined the creatures from afar. Lazing there they seemed utterly at ease. “What are they?”

“Chomper. A sort of mantis lion. They’re watching the herds to see if there are any young stragglers.” She moved to look at another distant patch of grass, and pointed. “Ah. There we are! There’s another pair hiding belly-flat over there in the grass.”

Beau looked, but could not for the life of him see the animals in question. But he looked wise and vigilant, nodding in stern agreement. “Ah – yes indeed.”

“Just let them know you’re aware of them.” Snapper walked about, clearly catching the distant gaze of the creatures beneath the bushes and glaring straight back at them. “Most critters know to be wary of riders and guns.”

Lunch consisted of sandwiches made with fresh home baked bread, filled with cocoplod cheese and cress, or slices of tender ham-melon. There were also lashings of hard-boiled eggs, which were consumed eagerly by Throckmorton, who showered shell fragments down from his perch high up in the trees. Beau ate nervously, trying to keep an eye on the predators out in the grass – predators he had swiftly lost all track of. He was still looking wildly about as the group finally finished their respite and mounted up once more.

As they headed out into the grass, the camouflaged predators slunk sulkily out of their way. Beau kept looking back behind himself for the next few kilometres, until Throckmorton finally drifted down to ask him what was awry.

“Ah! Nothing specific” Beau smoothed down his riffled fur and feathers. “Just exercising proper vigilance! A sharp eye and a canny mind are quite becoming in an adventurer!”

“Yes.”
Throckmorton gave an assenting waggle of his wings.
“And also, not being eaten.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Beau gave an airy wave of his hand. “Right! Onward to adventure!”

He spurred forward towing his pack beast behind him. Pendleton immediately startled a pair of extravagantly plumed plant-birds out of the grass, and Beau almost catapulted out of his saddle in fright. Kenda looked about, eyes narrow with alarm. He saw the fox-bird – all shimmering golden feathers and fuss – and shook his head, before going back to carefully scanning the horizon.

As the afternoon became soft and golden, the grasslands glowed beneath a gentle yellow light. The explorers fanned out side by side, leaving pathways behind them in lush grass that reached up to the thighs of their mounts. It was as if they were swimming in a gentle gold-green sea – swimming onward beneath a flawless sky. Majestic herbivores wandered in small herds and families, surrounded by smaller creatures who sheltered beneath their bulk.

Beautiful. It was simply, utterly beautiful. The group reached a slight rise in the plains. Some distance away, there was a stand of dark green trees beside a shallow creek. Old walls still stood, marking some kind of ancient building. Flowers and bushes grew all around. Snapper seemed relieved, and pointed the way forward, looking very glad indeed.

The buildings were good and solid – open on one side, and with heavy concrete slabs from an upper floor that still formed a roof. Several fruit trees had been planted here, and firewood piled beside a fireplace ringed with stones. A shallow gravel wash led down into the creek. There was even a rope swing hanging from a tree branch, out over the deepest section of the clear, cool stream. Snapper gladly beckoned everyone forward, waving to a concrete statue that stood beside the creek.

“Headless Harry! Here we are, everybody! Welcome home.”

Snapper eased down from Onan’s back. She unhooked his saddle and saddlebags, heaving them into place across an old broken wall. The shark then relieved her pack beetle of its heavy load.

“Don’t let your mounts go! Walk them around just a little. Then we feed them, then we preen them.” She began leading Onan and her beetle down along the outer walls of the old buildings.

“Throckmorton, could you do us a favour and just check those fruit trees? There’s an old basket in the hut there. See if there’s any ripe fruit or berries. And you’ll love the creek – the water here is the best!”

They all walked their mounts and pack animals about, ending up back beneath the trees. Snapper paid Onan his usual bribe of salty crackers. She led him to the water to drink, then stood on a piece of broken wall, carbine in hand, scanning the grasslands for hundreds of metres all around. She was watchful, yet seemed utterly at peace.

The pack beetles were drinking happily at the water’s edge, and Throckmorton had discovered ripe fruit up in the trees. Kitterpokkie came to stand beside Snapper, joining her in gazing off across the sunset lands.

“It’s beautiful!” The mantis turned around, looking back at the overgrown ruins with their strange old headless statue. “This is a regular place you stay?”

“Samuels and Toby made it, with my mum and their friends, way in the
waaay back
. Sort of a first staging point if you’re heading north to look for salvage. Good water, firewood.” She looked fondly at the old walls. “They used to bring me out here all the time. This is where Onan and I learned to ride. That’s my rope swing.”

There seemed to be nothing dangerous nearby – no dust trails out on the plains, no distant mysteries or lurking predators. The trees would stop any passing giga moths from swooping down to raid the baggage. It was an excellent place to be spending their first night in the wilds. Firewood was gathered from the litter beside the stream, and wild candy corn harvested and baked over the coals. Bacon melons grew by the stream, and these were sliced and sizzled into an excellent dinner, with the seeds kept to be replanted nearby.

After the meal, they sat about on old stones to enjoy the sunset. Kenda sat alone, tending to his equipment. Kitterpokkie was nominally on guard, and kept an eye out for predators. Beau played soft, merry songs upon a banjolele, raising a smile. Throckmorton played a natty little board wargame with Snapper, rolling dice and pushing pieces across a wooden board with much merriment involved. Once the game was over, Snapper sat back and carefully ran a hand down her injured thigh. Beau ceased his playing, and looked over in concern.

“Dear lady – how is your wound?”

“Fine, fine. At least the stitches are out.” The shark woman rubbed gingerly at her thigh. “Eh. It’s shark hide. Scars look good on shark hide.

“No no no no no! The scar tissue will tighten – it will cause you discomfort in the future. Possible loss of motion.” The fox-pheasant waved a little bottle of oil. “You must condition the skin – restore its pliancy.”

“Why thank you.” Snapper caught the little bottle, and looked from it to Beau.

“You
are
aware I’ll be rubbing this in by myself?”

“Most certainly! Absolutely!” Beau gave a courtly bow. “Knowing that I have helped to preserve a work of art is entirely reward enough!”

“Hmm.” Snapper shook her head. “Beau, you are one of a kind.’

The fox-pheasant bowed again then moved over to the fireside, where a billy can was coming merrily to the boil. He poured boiling water into a little tea pot, and pottered about with cocoplod milk nuts and sugar. He carried tea over to one and all, setting himself down beside Kenda to muse upon the first of the evening stars.

Kenda had been buffing his tall boots to a gleam. He put them back on – smoothly and precisely – then turned his gaze upon Beau

“I have never seen your kind before. Where precisely do you come from?”

“Oh, a sleepy little place called Huffington Green.” Beau twiddled his handsome talons. “Rocky territory much given to raising woolly things for shearing. Once used as a country retreat for gentry! Full of interesting birds and so on. The village C in C is part spaniel, part duck. Not an elegant combination.” The fox-bird gave a sigh. “Now the deer! There’s beauty for you! The deer clan had the most wonderfully adventurous daughters – rather precipitating my need to travel. I’m sure you understand.”

“Not really.” Kenda leaned with his arms on his knees, examining Beau. “You say that you are a captain?”

“In all candour, it is quite hereditary in our locale.” Beau leaned back against a stone, quite at ease. “There is a military tradition of sorts – went back to the first survivors. All officers of course – all quite rarefied! Brigadier this and Major that! All arrived via an air crash, or so we’re told.” The fox-pheasant waved a hand. “So there you have it! Adventure is in our blood. Travel, action, a sense of style, and zero piloting skills. A perfect post apocalyptic combination.”

Kenda pondered the matter then arose, ordering his pistol belt and sword. The long sword clanked and glittered in the light.

Snapper, easily as tall as Kenda, stood and pointed to the man’s sword.

“Kenda, may I?”

The man stood still for a moment, then unsheathed his sword. Snapper passed the man her own, and then took his sword, turning it over carefully so that the blade caught the light. She examined the inlays on the blade – intricate work. The steel was clearly ancient and extremely strong. Holding the weapon in her hand – although clearly it was made for a right hander – she swirled her wrist and moved the blade, but it was clearly never intended for swishing sabre cuts. A piercing blade – a hacking blade. Well balanced, but a tad light for the shark’s taste. She looked at the intricate, formal inlays in the finger guard and mused.

“You have an excellent etcher. Not many people seem to need that work done.”

“An excellent etcher.” Kenda held Snapper’s sword for only a moment. He was interested only in the weight, and the broadness of the blade. “You have a butcher’s blade.”

“Oh, it’s a killer alright! Take an arm or a leg clean off. Got it from a book. 1796 British light cavalry model. Finest, most destructive light cavalry sword ever made!” Snapper utterly adored the weapon. “Cable damask! Hammer Randolph at the forge made it for me. The man’s a legend!”

“The man?”

“Yeah – big flinty skink guy. Scales like a pinecone!”

Kenda nodded. He handed back the sword and retrieved his own. He looked across the blade, as if inspecting it for marks. As he sheathed the weapon, he once again looked at Snapper’s sword, showing a near frigid dislike.

“A savage weapon. Not a scientific one.” The man settled his belts in place. “A curved weapon could only be hopelessly unwieldy.”

Snapper held her sword. To her it was a thing of absolute beauty. Light chased along the flowing curve, and it seemed an extension of her soul.