150 Years Later:
Rust-land plains
Chapter 1
A cool wind blew through a stand of gingerbark trees, caressing up and across a tumble of old broken concrete walls. Cicada-birds buzzed, sunlight glittered, and the last few clouds slowly vanished from the skies.
Early mornings in the bush were always Snapper’s favourite time. It was early summer – just out of the rains, but not yet into the hard, stinging heat of the Big Dry. There was still some dew on the ground, although the clear sky promised heat by mid day. The dust and rocks had a sharp, almost electrical smell. A few critters still moved about in the open: cat-crows and some furtive bug-mice. It was going to be an utterly perfect day. Snapper rode up from the creek bed where she had spent the night, fixed her eyes upon a tempting hillock full of rubble, and slid down from her riding cockatoo with an elegant flip of her tail.
Part human and part predatory fish, Snapper was decidedly a spawn of the weird-lands. She was a rangy, solid, creature – curvaceous but practical. A shark through and through, with a decidedly wicked grin. Somewhere in the past, one of her ancestors had snacked upon the other – a shark eating a surfer, or perhaps a witless human eating the wrong fish and chips. After a century and a half of refinement, the mix had worked out well. Snapper was a smooth blend of her ancestral DNA. A decidedly feminine humanoid body had the sleek patterning of a tiger shark. She had a rather elegant pointed snout and a pair of wickedly bright green eyes, while tall ear fins, crisp as knife blades, soared up from long black hair. A muscular tail equipped with flukes and fins swayed out behind her as she walked, moving with a sinuous curl.
Snapper was well used to the dangers of the weird-lands. From the cadanettes braided into her hair to the pelisse rolled up at her back, she had the air of a rather dusty hussar. Her boots were scuffed, her helmet dented, and her pants had seen far better days. The girl’s torso was armoured in a cuirass made from scales of tough ancient polymers, her dorsal fin jutting from a slit in the back. Glasses were perched upon her snout, and a bandanna about her neck. Half the dust of the Australian desert seemingly covered her clothes.
Dust aside, the shark’s weapons were all well cared for. She kept a carbine in hand, a pistol on her belt, and a great broad-bladed sabre hung at her side – she took no chances when it came to the weird-lands. She scanned the rubble ahead, then the distant tree line. There was no sign of dust, glinting metal or movement, and the crow-cats seemed happy enough to settle on rocks nearby. Snapper surged quickly up into the cover of an old crumbled wall, took another long, quiet look over the terrain, and was finally satisfied that all was well. There were a few bacon-fruit trees to give some shade, and a big sprawling creeper that might have melons. The shark girl slung her carbine, then pulled her mattock out from its sheath behind the cockatoo’s saddle.
“Right. I’ll see what we’ve got. Keep an eye out.”
Behind her, Snapper’s huge apricot-coloured riding cockatoo fluffed up its crest and rolled a wily eye.
“Salty cracker.”
“What?”
“Salty cracker!”
“I already gave you a salty cracker.” The shark woman’s voice had a decided Australian drawl. “You’ll go through ‘em too fast!”
“Salty cracker later?” The immense bird dipped its head, crest rustling. “Salty cracker?”
“At lunchtime! But we’re going to dig about for a bit. You like that.” She regarded her cockatoo across the rims of her spectacles. “Now, eyes peeled and watch out for visitors. I’ll see if I can find you some sugar roots.”
The bird danced its head up and down and chuckled, well pleased. He rolled along in Snapper’s wake, walking with a pirate’s gait, peering about the ruins with an experienced eye.
In the vast time since the old world fell, most ruins had become completely overgrown. Old buildings within three days ride of Snapper’s home were nothing but rubble mounds, littered here and there with the bodies of ancient trucks and ground cars. But here and there, underground chasms lay beneath the ruins, and some of these could yield useful treasures. Snapper moved up amongst the rocks and weird weeds, thumping the butt of her shovel against the ground and listening for the slightest hint of hollows. She searched carefully across the south face of one mound, then down along the parch marks that showed the presence of an ancient wall. But the ground beneath her feet seemed solid. An ancient truck stood beside a maze of rubble, with a huge tree growing out of the control cab. Two car bodies beside it had already been stripped of windows, wheel motors and doors.
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.