by Paul Kidd
To any other eye, the entire tangle of old rubble would have seemed utterly fallow. But the shark had some definite advantages over other prospectors. Crouching close to the ground, she hunted her muzzle back and forth with her eyes closed, tracing down a strange tickle and tingle that came from the ground beside the cars.
Snapper’s tail fins twitched as she crept slowly about, sensing for electrical fields hidden in the dust. Feeling a faint prickle in her senses she narrowed it down – then quite suddenly felt a definite line hidden beneath the dust.
“Bingo!”
Behind her, Onan the cockatoo danced in approval – Snapper’s cleverness was always a source of pure pleasure for the bird. The shark took her mattock and slammed it into the dirt. She chipped down past the rock-hard topsoil, finally reaching a layer of looser rubble and blackened ash. Heartened by the ever widening hole, the girl hacked deeper, clearing aside a mass of old brick and broken stone.
Excitement boiled in her heart.
Snapper was an explorer.
There! On its side beneath an old rubble pile – an ancient motorcycle. The vehicle had been trapped beneath a falling wall. Although the tires, upholstery and instruments were long gone, the frame had been made from non-metallic polymers. The wheels were largely intact – each hub held an electric motor. They made excellent salvage – packed full of goodies that could be used to make power generators. The shark whistled to Onan and the cockatoo came trotting over, bringing saddlebags full of tools. Snapper set to work with practiced care.
A scatter of bones was trapped beneath the bike. Snapper pulled aside an old and broken helmet, carefully removing the bones inside. Sure enough, a small blue chip fell out amongst the dross.
The old chips had apparently been an implanted form of identification. Average citizens seemingly had a white chip. Those higher up the totem pole had carried red – this was the standard trade currency now used in villages. Blues were nigh impossible to find, and so were worth far, far more. The shark girl breathed on the chip and buffed it off: the thing might be a useful reserve some day. She tucked it beneath the fur turban that ran about her steel helmet, then smoothed the helm’s long streaming horsehair crest back into place.
The bike motors were choked with dirt, but the power hubs were not too corroded. They would fetch a decent chip or two. Snapper took everything she could – polymer panels, and even lengths of conductive cable. When she was done, she carefully laid the bike back in place. She reassembled as much of the old skeleton as she could find, and laid it off to one side in the trench, smoothing everything quietly into place.
“There we are mate. All squared away.” She made certain everything was straight. “Much better.”
Snapper carefully back-filled the hole over the old bones. She finished off the grave with a rock planted at the skeleton’s head, and another near its feet: a sure sign to other prospectors to leave old bones in peace. Dusting herself off, she dragged her finds back to the shade of the bacon fruit trees, sitting down to feed a salty cracker to her delighted cockatoo. Two of the melons growing from the vines were ripe: weird things, sort of half cantaloupe and half banana. They were not bad at all. Snapper saved the seeds, rolling them inside a paper packet while Onan showered bits of melon rind over everything in range. The bird chuckled, well entertained, and tried to extort more crackers as Snapper slung her loot behind the creature’s saddlebags.
The ironwood reach formed a belt of meandering, folded terrain a hundred kilometres to the north of Spark Town. Beyond the reach, plains gave way to rolling hills, reaching finally to the great barrier cliff range that towered high above. Tangled and occasionally treacherous, the ironwood reach was host to countless small finds of ruins; small places that yielded occasional salvage. There was enough scrap metal, scavenged polymers and artefacts to provide a living to any prospector cunning enough to scratch them from the earth. But the threat from feral tribes, cruising giga-moths and predators made it a dangerous occupation. Junk prospectors were decidedly a breed apart – restless, driven and occasionally quite mad.
Some parch lines in the grass revealed the presence of old walls, or perhaps an ancient road. Snapper carefully hunted her way down along the marks, looking for any humps or hummocks in the soil, but there seemed to be nothing of real interest hidden in the dirt. She made a note in her journal, and then decided to move on.
Winter rains sometimes washed artefacts down out of the uplands. They tended to collect in the deep crevices between hills, often smothered by gravel and dried mud. Snapper rode her cockatoo out from beneath the trees and headed for a creek bed, hoping there might be some titbits sloughed down out of the hills. A trinket trail might lead back to something far more interesting. The shark was forever hopeful that some day – some day – she would find something wonderful. Something utterly worthwhile.
All through the afternoon, Snapper quietly sifted and searched. She found a few shards of glass, a pair of white chips, and a rather beautifully weathered glass bottle. Ordinary items found in any ordinary stream.
The water courses were already drying up. The broad creek bed now held a narrow trickle that linked deeper billabongs. Trees clustered at the banks – gingerbark and pfaffenpepper, sweet gum and tangle bush. Several plant-animals had come to set up house beside the billabongs for the summer – mobile creatures covered in photosynthetic sprigs and leaves. They seemed interested in one particular area of the banks.
There was an awful lot of dung at the water’s edge. The entire area had been trampled by dozens of hoof marks. They looked like cocoplod hooves: the plodding, rather stupid animal-plant hybrids were raised by ranchers far back around Spark Town.
Someone had crossed the creek here with a considerable herd of beasts. Snapper leaned over in her saddle and inspected the morass of half-dried mud: the herd could only have been here a few hours ago. But why would anybody bring a herd this far east, so far from civilisation? The hills were dangerous territory.
The tracks continued east – towards a landscape of rock piles and boulders. Intrigued, Snapper swirled her elegant tail, settled her spectacles upon her nose, and clicked her tongue to Onan. The beautiful apricot coloured cockatoo trotted onwards, his eyes rolling about to spy at the bushes and dust.
The trail lead up and over a rise of ground, then down through a valley filled with flattened fern grass. They crossed up along another rise, where Snapper found another type of track clearly imprinted amongst the cocoplod trails.
The tracks were from something heavy – something four, or possibly six legged. Almost definitely with a rider.
The hoof marks were broader than a cocoplod hoof print. Deep-scored, with a sharp imprint, almost like the letter omega. Whatever it was, the creature’s hooves had chipped rock. The shark sniffed the scent of broken stone and gave a puzzled scowl.
She dismounted and searched the ground, looking reflexively about for tiny artefacts. But it was Onan who suddenly bobbed his head up and down, fluffing out his feathers in satisfaction.
“Shiny-shiny!”
Snapper turned. “Shiny?”
“Shiny-shiny!” The bird pointed with its beak – sharp enough to shear a man’s arm clean off. “Clever birdie!”
“Clever birdie!” The shark made her way awkwardly over the rock bed to where something artificial gleamed amongst the pebbles. “Clever birdie!”
“Salty cracker?”
“Oh alright.” Snapper found a cracker in her belt pouch and tossed it to the bird. “You know you keep that damned bakery in business!”
Onan stood on one leg, holding the cracker in his great beak, turning it around and around with his horny tongue. As the cockatoo chuckled in satisfaction, Snapper knelt to see just what the bird had discovered.
It was a strange little piece of silver metal. A star shape that seemed to be made as a clip or pin. Military insignia? It was utterly untarnished. Snapper weighed the thing in her hand. It was apparently solid silver – a useful metal. Gunsmiths
could use it for making percussion caps.
She looked up and spied a few strands of long white hair drifting from where they had caught upon a shrub. She immediately clicked back the hammer of her carbine and brought the butt up to her shoulder.
The strands were from the mane of a feral.
There were seven civilised settlements scattered about the known wilds: Spark Town here in the north was the most technically advanced. They were all mixed communities – with inhabitants of all kinds of varied ancestry. But out in the deeper wilds, there were nomadic feral tribes: single species groups still gripped by the violence of the ancient GeneStorm plague. They were warlike primitives, constantly at war with other feral tribes. Although there were verbal treaties with the nearest clans, war parties from other tribes sometimes risked making raids. The tribe closest to Spark Town were a violent species of crocodile-pig hybrids: powerful creatures that rode insectoid battle mounts.
If ferals had been rustling cocoplods, a veritable range war might result. For twenty years the ferals had kept their distance – the guns and riders of Spark Town were deadly. But a new feral tribe might have migrated into the hills – or young warriors split off from an older tribe could be trying to make a name for themselves as raiders. Raids would swiftly bring counter raids, and it would become impossible for an honest prospector to make a living.
It all sounded like bad news. Snapper swung back up into Onan’s saddle and sent the bird swiftly climbing up the hill, keeping to the shadows of the rocks. They shadowed the cocoplod trail from a distance, keeping well hidden amongst the rocks and trees.
A sharp escarpment looked down into a narrow, twisting valley. Cocoplod prints ran through the valley, following a path through bramble trees that curved off to the east. The water course in valley bottom was still slightly muddy – the herd would not be raising any dust. The rustlers had clearly thought out their strategy.
Snapper’s eye spied a good path down the far side of the hills then up into the boulder far beyond. She raced Onan onwards, keeping low, sensing something dangerous in the wind.
Feral raiders would surely have a rear-guard. Snapper curved wide around the cocoplod’s line of march, hoping she could pick up the herd at the far end of the valley. Onan moved with speed and cunning, his huge clever feet pad-pad padding on the rocks and soil. They rode for about two kilometres circling about the valley, then cut back to intersect the trail. Snapper found a hill crest well sheltered by dead trees and old stones, and crouched low, easing Onan forward until they could see the distant valley floor.
The valley had broadened. Several other valleys had joined the first, making a wide space down below. There were a few old walls down there – what looked like a few collapsed houses and possibly an old garage. Normally, Snapper would have been instantly ablaze with joy - but there was something wrong: the tangled trees down by the houses seemed oddly full of menace.
There were no cocoplods – the herd’s trail still led east. Snapper looked carefully over the scene, then twitched at Onan with her heel, turning him to the east.
A faint, unheard something jangled at Snapper’s nerves. It worried at her, somewhere just out of sight and hearing. She flicked her head about, staring back down at the valley – and suddenly a numbing bestial scream shattered the air.
Three feral warriors came racing through the trees down in the valley, firing bows behind them as they rode. One man fell as something leapt on him, tearing him from the saddle of his beetle-horse. The other two ferals turned to fight, drawing war clubs. But six creatures smashed into them, leaping in ambush from the trees – carnivorous monstrosities with vast jaws and studded with eyes. A beetle-horse was pulled down as horrifying monsters swarmed over beast and rider all in one. The third man – smaller than his companions – flailed about himself left and right, trying to beat back monsters that leapt screaming at his throat. The creatures crashed into the feral’s mount, sending the beetle-horse slipping and staggering madly aside. The monsters shrieked out ear-splitting calls.
Two men down – and the monsters were closing on the last. Time to rattle her dags! Snapper cast a quick glance over the terrain, slung her carbine and drew her wicked sabre from its sheath.
“Onan! Go!”
Snapper jabbed her heels, and Onan raced straight down the hill towards the monsters.
The bird charged at blinding speed, head down and wings spread, almost flying across the dust. He exploded out through the bushes, right into the midst of the melee.
Snapper charged full speed at the screaming monsters, her great broad-bladed sabre held point forward in the charge. The curved blade speared clean through a monster as she crashed through the swarm. She whipped her blade clear, monstrosities cannoning out of the way as Onan smashed clean through. The injured feral rider fell, scrabbling clear from his falling mount, streaming blood from his arm.
Snapper was a cavalryman; she kept her mount racing, moving fast. The shark girl rose in her stirrups and made a huge scything cut as she galloped through the swarm, slamming her sabre in an upper cut with the full force of Onan’s speed behind it. One of the screaming monsters fell, its entire head and shoulder cut through. Snapper did not stay to fight, but spurred onwards, flicking her sabre free of gore. She gave a wild cry of delight, riding thirty metres onward then swinging hard about in a turn.
The screaming, snarling monsters ran straight at her.
Two were down – still thrashing, but clearly done for. Three others came straight for her. A last creature ran shrieking towards the injured feral, who took shelter in the ancient garage. He tried to block the entrance, struggling to jam an old car door in place to block the gap. The monster, a huge being rippling with muscle, tore and wrenched at the door, almost hurtling the feral warrior out into the dust.
There was no time to ride about taking pot shots with a carbine – and Snapper’s blood was up. Huge teeth bared, she levelled her sabre in the charge and made another run. The monsters raced straight at her, shrieking like banshees as they came. They leapt for her an instant before impact – and the fight dissolved into a blur of tentacles and steel.
The sabre jarred in Snapper’s hand, slamming through a monster. Teeth scraped from her helmet, and claws ripped across the denticles of her hide. Onan bit and tore, rearing back with wings flapping: One monster leapt up and half landed on Onan’s back behind Snapper. The shark drew her double-barrelled pistol and fired behind herself. The heavy bullets slammed into the creature and set it staggering. She caught it with a vicious sabre cut, and the monster fell away.
Onan was battling the monster to the front, beak against fangs. Snapper back swung her sabre, cutting a deep wound into the monster. It never wavered, but came straight back into the attack. Snapper blocked the thing’s jaws with her sword, shoving back with both hands. A tentacle studded with claws lashed at her, cracking hard against her cuirass. But Onan managed to seize the monster’s hindquarters in his wicked beak and tear a savage wound. As the creature was wrenched free, Snapper slammed her sword down in a great razoring slice. The monster fell back, head dangling across its back, and fell kicking in the sand.
The last monster had ripped the wounded feral warrior out of his shelter and flung him hard against a tree. Snapper dropped her sabre and let it hang by its wrist strap, drawing her carbine. She fired the weapon from the saddle – eight shots, as fast as the efficient revolver could fire. Heavy bullets smashed into the monster’s back. It spun, horribly wounded, then came straight for her, but Onan danced backwards. Snapper ejected the spent cylinder of shells and clashed home a new one. As the monster closed the distance she fired twice more. The creature spun and fell, thrashing in the dust.
Snapper fired a shot into each of the fallen monsters, then galloped past the final creature, firing into it one handed as she passed. She was already leaping out of the saddle as Onan raced up beside the injured feral warrior.
The feral was clearly a youth – still slight and wiry. His right arm ha
d been badly clawed, and hung bloody at his side; his head had taken a blow, and blood flowed into the long mane of hair running down his neck. He could hardly stand. Still rather dazed by the fight, Snapper approached.
The feral warrior planted his back against a tree, looking up at her through dazed red eyes.
The warrior tried to reach for a knife, but the bone weapon had shattered against the hide of the attacking monsters. His club lay broken. Snapper kept back and carefully held up empty hands. She moved her fingers carefully and clearly.
“Be still. I will attend you.”
She did not share a spoken language with the ferals. But amongst the town folk there were species that lacked lips or vocal cords. Finger talk – a sign language of hand movements – had become a second language, and filtered out to become the trade talk of the plains. Snapper motioned carefully, trying to keep her motions calm.
“Enemy gone. You are safe.”
The feral warrior cautiously raised one bloody hand.
“Screaming ones. Enemy!” He made a puzzled motion. “Town dweller – enemy also. Why help THE PEOPLE?”
“You are no enemy of mine. No bad blood between us.” The shark made an airy motion of her hand. “A true rider helps those in deed.” She spoke aloud, giving a bow.
“Noblesse oblige, mate! The cavalry’s here.”
Dazed, the feral warrior leaned back against a tree and looked at the splayed corpses of the monsters.
“Your gun is powerful.”
“My mount is true.” Snapper knew her jagged grin could be a little less than welcoming. She decided not to smile in reassurance, since it might be taken the wrong way. “Warrior – I will tend your wounds.”
She washed out the feral’s wounds with some of Spark Town’s infamous whiskey. The boy never twitched a muscle, but merely set his jaw. The shark girl cleaned the wound, inspected it, then bound it with a bandage from the first aid kit on her belt. The bandage smelled sharply of ants: bull-ants exuded an antibiotic, and the ant family beside the blacksmith’s store made a good living selling medical supplies. Snapper set the youth up with a sling for his arm, then set her belt canteen into his good hand and bade him drink deep. Leaving him in Onan’s care, she went to check the fallen ferals and their mounts.
