GeneStorm: City in the Sky (28 page)

One child made finger signs, moving clumsily and trying to get her words right.

“You have nice leaves.”

“Thank you.”
The plant inclined his little heads.
“I am Throckmorton. I like your big teeth.”

“Do you know how to play red stone/white stone?”

“I would be very happy for you to show me.”

The children took the plant by one tentacle and led him off beside the stream, where a complex court had been scratched into the dirt. Children were engaged in playing a game of tossing tones into the various squares, scoring points for proximity to marks and other stones. Throckmorton soon joined in, and passed a happy time as the evening camp fires slowly blossomed all about the hills.

Night time turned the valley into a space of deep indigo shadows and pale grey trees. Dozens of camp fires glowed with warm orange light, flickering with shadows as tribesmen walked back and forth. The air buzzed and echoed with the alien sounds of feral voices – the language seemed as much body posture as spoken sounds. At some fires, warrior societies danced, or coughed out strange, hooting songs. At the edges of the camp, mounted men stood guard, watching carefully for the slightest motion in the dark.

Snapper’s hosts had a well attended fire. The young man with the pistol – Snapper had nicknamed the lad ‘Gunner’ – lived in the tent nearby, along with his parents, who were both respected tribal veterans, and a pair of gangrelly sisters. An older man sat with his father – a man who still kept one arm in a sling. He was the man Snapper had rescued from the Screamer attack so many days before, and he bore the wound with fortitude: honourable battle scars brought a warrior great prestige. Other warriors came to sit nearby, bringing with them women, children, and even a bird-dog or two.

Kitterpokkie was deep in conversation with a drum-speaker and two of the local wise women, learning abut the intricacies of tribal feuds and relations, while also happily examining examples of flint knapping, carving and scrimshaw. Beside her, Beau was charming a circle of rather fang-laden ladies and young warriors with tales of derring do. Throckmorton was drinking the local beer – weird stuff made from beetle-horse milk. It tasted damned odd but the plant seemed to like it. Kenda kept absolutely to his own drink and rations, stalking away to stand outside the firelight and look off along the crowded valley.

Snapper – very clearly a warrior after their own heart – was the focus of the ferals’ main attention. She spoke with ‘Gunner’, his injured companion and his family, and answered questions about the battle with the Screamer hordes. A dirt map was drawn, and the final cavalry action explained in detail. Kitterpokkie was summoned, and she produced some of her grim photographs of the battlefield. The photographs – an utter marvel in themselves – were passed from hand to wondering hand. The vast numbers of Screamers that Snapper had described had clearly not been an exaggeration. Kitterpokkie passed more and more photographs about the party, accepting a large leather mug of fermented bug milk from the locals. She quaffed it down, keen to keep talking, pointing out some of the weirder features on the monsters caught in the photographs.

Snapper spoke with the injured senior warrior, and the men from the warrior societies beside him.

“Some wagon trains from the south have gone missing as they come towards Spark Town.”
The shark kept her gestures carefully formal.
“Tell me riders – have the other tribes begun to raid the plains? Are war parties now riding against the people of the towns?”

The wounded man’s hand signs were hampered by his bandages. But his reply was perfectly clear.

“Our own range is here. The Stripe-Mane tribe sends forth gatherers and hunters – not raiders.”

Snapper nodded.
“What of the Red Snouts? The White Bones?”

“There has been peace between us and The White Bones these past few winters. The Red Snouts lack riding beasts, and attempt to raid us. We have defeated them many times in battle.”
The wounded warrior made an emphatic set of motions.
“None of the tribes would raid south. Your rifles are strong – your riders are powerful. The Skull-Biters found this to their cost. Any tribe at war with the town people would be too weak to defend their territory from the other tribes.”

It was perfectly true. The last battles of the Skull-Biter war had been catastrophic for the attacking tribesmen. The few surviving Skull-Biters had been eradicated by the other tribes, and good riddance.

Young ‘Gunner’ immediately spoke – tolerated by his elders due to his new warrior scars.

“It was not the people of the tribes. Pink riders destroyed the southern wagons.”

Snapper’s ear fins lifted in interest.
“Pink?”

“Blue medicine flowers grow by the southern river. My arrow brother, he who fell to those-who-scream, he travelled south to gather flowers for the drum-speakers. He saw riders with pink faces on strange beasts, riding east. Behind them, they left many broken wagons – many townsmen were dead.”

Other riders gathered. Many eyes flicked towards Kitterpokkie – the most notably pink individual anyone there had ever seen. The mantis immediately broke into the conversation, setting aside a second empty mug of beer.

“Pink? Pink!” The mantis swept out her hands to make finger talk, almost clocking Beau across the back of the head.
“It was no relatives of mine! My family are perfectly peaceful! They run a school and a fruit fly farm.”

A huge feral warrior painted with evening stars made a glaring, sneering chop of his hand.

“Silence! It is not for you to speak.”

Kitterpokkie seemed to somehow swell with indignation.
“How rude!”

She was about to launch into a blaze of finger-talk invective. Snapper stood and interposed herself between warrior and mantis.

“She means only to help. She is a scientist – one who gathers knowledge”

The star-painted warrior dismissed Kitterpokkie’s presence with a wave of one massive, knotted hand.

“This one has no scars! She must not speak amongst true warriors!”

“Why you painted jackanapes!” The mantis flew her hands about herself in finger-talk, far too swift to be coherent, but the gist was clearly understood.
“You think because you’re too damned full of yourself to duck that you have some claim to fame! I’ve concocted stuff that has flattened more enemies that you’ve had hot dinners!”
She waved claws about herself in passion – clearly she’d had a drop too much to drink, along with numerous unresolved issues with bullies
. “Let’s see how well you gits would fare without all your weapons and armour! How would you like that, you bullying great bag of wind!”
The mantis tried to fight Snapper off as the shark attempted to haul her back. “Stop! What are you doing? I’m just giving this damned blighter the what-for!”

Snapper tried to push the mantis back behind her. “Kitt! Not now!”

“No no no no no! To hell with this! I was in a battle! Two! Two battles! Plasma guns, teeth, claws, bombs – not just gadding about with bows and arrows and bloody war paint!” Kitt pointed a claw at the feral warrior.
“My brains can beat your brawn any day!”

The painted feral warrior gave an immense roar. He danced around and around in a circle, suddenly beating at his chest. He threw aside his club, bone knife and weapon belts, stripping off armour to cast it aside. Bellowing and stamping, he pulled open his clothes. Kitterpokkie could only blink in bemusement.

“What on earth is he up to now?”

Snapper felt a surge of panic. “Oooooh boy. Ooooooh boy!”

“What?”

“I think you’ve just challenged him. That brains against brawn thing you said!”

“Ah! Brains against brawn!” The mantis cracked the knuckles on her slender little hands, feeling a flood of sheer confidence. “What shall it be, then? One of the classics, no doubt! Chess? Squad Leader? Settlers of Catan?”

Snapper felt a sense of approaching doom.

“Ah, more like an old fashioned barnyard fist beating…”

The black-painted feral warrior tore away his clothing and ornaments, leaving himself utterly naked. He gave a roar, flexing muscles upon muscles beneath his slab-armoured hide. Kitterpokkie made a little ‘o’ with her mouth, and quickly folded up her claws.

“Oh bother.”

Feral warriors came rushing to the site in their dozens, excited and chattering – bellowing back and forth. Women and children came running. A rough arc was being cleared along the boulder-strewn bank of the stream. The huge star-painted warrior was dancing, stamping and roaring, working himself into a frothing rage. Kitterpokkie pointed at the warrior in alarm.

“That man is naked! Hello? That man is naked!” The mantis blinked as feral women helpfully began removing her clothes. “Steady on! Oh I say…”

Snapper, Beau and Throckmorton were surrounded by warriors now wild with enthusiasm. Snapper tried to get the attention of a drum-speaker, or perhaps a senior warrior, but they were all too deeply engaged in betting, offering beads and necklaces, ornaments and robes. Gunner bet enthusiastically upon Kitterpokkie’s success, offering his only ornaments as a bet. He spoke excitedly to Snapper.

“No one had pushed you to accept a fight! Combat is far better than talk! But we were unsure whether such customs were amongst your people!”
The boy found beer mugs for himself, Beau and Snapper.
“It is unusual that your companion should challenge Rock-Fist. He is a mighty fighter! Truly the pink one must have uncanny skills at her command.”

The shark felt a rising sense of panic
. “Perhaps I can be her substitute?”

“No! The challenge is made and accepted!”

Beau – standing immaculate amongst the chaos, was slightly confused. His finger-talk was not quite up to the rapid flow all around him, and he was not entirely sure he understood what was going on.

“Snapper – why is that big chap naked?”

“Kitt’s challenged him to a boxing match!”

“Really?” The fox-bird was quite amazed. “A boxing match? I didn’t know Kitt had it in her!”

“What she has in her is this damned beer! It’s like raw moonshine!”

“Well that might explain much…” Beau suddenly took off his helmet and laid it across his heart in a sign of absolute reverence, admiration and respect. “Oh my! Oh my my my!”

The crowd of womenfolk who had coalesced about Kitterpokkie  now vanished, leaving Kitt quite naked, shrinking away and trying to cover herself with her hands. She gave a wail and waved frantically at Snapper with one claw.

“They took my pants!”

Onan had come forward to see the fun. He stood behind Kitterpokkie, bobbing and screeching, crest held high. Across the far side of the ring, the huge feral warrior ceased his dance. He cracked his fist into the palm of his hand, glaring at Kitterpokkie and scuffing his feet, making ready to charge. Snapper raced over to get behind her, massaging her upper pair of shoulders.

“They won’t let me substitute. You’re going to have to fight the guy.”

“A fist fight?” The mantis seemed utterly dazed. “When did it all escalate to physical violence?”

“Oh, about the time you started bragging you’d knocked over more enemies than he’s had hot dinners.” The shark watched Kitterpokkie’s foe as the man pranced and roared.

“He’s got a hell of a punch on him. You want to use your speed and keep clear – close and hit. The hide looks thinner underneath his arms…” Snapper made a rough massage of Kitterpokkie’s upper pair of shoulders. “Have you ever punched anybody?

“Well, I have occasionally had to be come
quite
miffed.”

Snapper patted the mantis on the rump and sent her into the fighting ring.

“Yeah, well, it’s miffing time!”

Kitterpokkie stumbled forward – slender, feminine and ridiculously slight. She looked back at Snapper.

“What do I do?”

The shark bellowed across the deafening noise of the crowd. “Just keep clear of him. When he tries to hit, step back and away. Keep him in play! Once you’ve put in a minimum effort, we might be able to call it a technical victory for their side!”

“Ah! So it’s merely a matter of measurement of distance! Of precise judgement – of scientific positioning!” The mantis was immediately relieved. “Well that should be…”

“Kitt!
Duck!”

The star-painted feral charged like an avalanche, launching an immense left hook right at the mantis’ head. Kitterpokkie ducked, then leapt inward to land a dazzling rain of utterly useless little punches and love taps on the naked warrior’s hide,
bat-bat-batting
at the man in floral-pink fury. The feral turned and punched at her, missing again and again, then suddenly spun about, slamming his heavy crocodilian tail into her ribs. The mantis flew through the air like a football, landing in the grass and mud beside the stream. She rolled upright, dazed, thrashing awkwardly back up to her feet.

“I think I have him on the run!”

The huge feral charged again, his roar utterly deafening as he launched a staggering series of blows. Kitterpokkie fell back, her confusing array of limbs thrashing about and slapping each punch narrowly aside. But finally the warrior managed to snatch at Kitterpokkie’s upper arm and slam her in against his chest. He tried to bear hug her. Kitt’s eyes almost bulged, but she was narrow and slippery as an eel. She somehow wriggled down just as the feral tried to bite her shoulder. The mantis tumbled free, utterly incensed. She ended up in the dust just near Snapper.