GeneStorm: City in the Sky

by Paul Kidd

  Back in the trees that lined the creek, Samuels ran crouching behind the dense plant/animal foliage. Town militia lay prone and waiting – two hundred riflemen, all of them in excellent cover. Out on the plains, the enemy were fixating on the tree line. Their columns had deployed out into two lines – the first of men with ordinary rifles, then a rear rank armed with plasma guns.

  The soldiers with rifles ran forward until they were six hundred metres from the trees. The plasma gunners were a hundred metres behind – while fifty paces further behind them, a group of splendidly uniformed human officers all sat on horseback.

  Beth Baker rode up beside Samuels and dismounted, then they both came hunching forward through the shrubs, watching as the human army hesitated.

  Beth scowled. “What do you think? Open fire?”

  “We don’t want them to think they can just outshoot us with the rifles. We need them to see us as a threat…” Samuels saw officers riding back and forth behind the enemy skirmish line. “What’s the range to the bigwigs at the back? Eight hundred? Eight fifty?”

  “Easily.”

  “We might be able to do the trick.” Samuels pulled back behind the firing line. “I’ll go get Ringtail Davy and his crews. You keep ‘em busy. Let’s get some fire into them!”

  Beth cocked her own rifle and found a good firing position amongst the rocks and trees. In a voice long practiced in shouting crowds to order at the Dancing Dugite, she bellowed out to the militiamen.

  “Alright folks! Get their attention! Shoot sharp – but take your time. Show ‘em why screwing with Spark Town is a bad idea!”

  Rifles began to fire, barking steadily as marksmen took careful aim. Brass cartridges rang as they ejected from breeches. Beth stayed in place, firing three rounds, then pulled back to run along the line. She settled beside another group of men, fired several more rounds, and again moved onward, calling out targets to the better shots. Bullets hissed back through the leaves, striking branches and cracking into trees. But the men out on the plains had no targets, and were already having to face into the afternoon sun. The enemy firing line took casualties – a man here and there. They ran forward a hundred paces and knelt to fire again, but still their shots crashed fruitlessly through the leaves.

  Out on the open plain, the din of rifle fire was deafening. The men were pouring a blind fusillade into the dark, packed trees and scrub that lined the creek bank. A thousand rifles barked as General Henderson rode forward towards the waiting line of plasma rifleman, unshipping his telescope to scan the enemy line.

  “Scouts to the flanks! Let’s see how wide the line goes.” By all accounts, the enemy could only muster three or four hundred ‘men’. “Keep firing! Keep them pinned!”

  Suddenly a massive explosion lit the north western sky. The entire army stared as roiling clouds of flame-shot smoke blasted upwards.

  Even from two thousand metres away, the shockwave was astounding. The air thumped – the sheer force of the blast was utterly horrifying.

  “My god!”

  The general stared. He fumbled for his telescope. The line of hills and ridges to the north were blanketed in smoke and a haze of debris.

  A radio man looked up from his hand set, utterly aghast.

  “General! No answer from the beast herders!”

  “Scouts?”

  “Nothing from Major Kenda!”

  The staff kept staring at the cloud of debris.

  The Screamer horde. The general turned to his chief of staff.

  “Send a scout detail to...”

  His chief of staff was suddenly missing part of his head.

  The officer’s body remained upright in the saddle for several long seconds, slipping only reluctantly aside. An instant later, a massive bullet buzzed viciously past. It slammed into the radio operator’s horse, felling the beast with a staggering blow. General Hendricks whirled to look at the enemy’s tree line.

  “General! Dismount!”

  Another huge bullet blurred past, almost big enough to see. The mutants had brought some sort of wall guns into action – massive firearms now targeted on the command team. The general leapt from his saddle an instant before his own horse was struck. The beast fell without a sound, crashing to the ground. An instant later, another senior officer was hurtled from his saddle by a massive rifle round.

  The mutants were making fools out of the army of purity! The general moved forward, shouting at his men.

  “Clear those trees! Don’t skirmish – attack!” He ordered the plasma gunners forward. “Open fire! Set the trees alight! Close and destroy!”

  Plasma rifles were switched on, giving a brief whisper as they hummed into life. The riflemen ran forward, charging into the snap and buzz of enemy fire. A few men fell – and then at three hundred metres, a terrific volley crashed out from the trees. Human soldiers were smashed down, rifles barked in reply, then suddenly the first plasma rifles opened fire.

  The energy bolts flickered, leaving a brilliant after-image scored across the eye. Bolts struck the trees, superheating sap to burst their trunks. Wood splinters flew like jagged knives. Some cracked into Spark Towners’ armour, ringing from metal helmets and breast plates. Others struck into flesh. Wounded men fell back as plasma bolts slammed into riflemen. Trees and fallen leaves burst into flames.

  Human soldiers rose and rushed forward, firing as they came. Plasma bolts whip-cracked through the air, sawing through trees – bursting river rocks. Rifle bullets flickered through the trees. Spark Towners were falling, but Mayor Beth was still up and moving. She bellowed at the militia.

  “Hold the line! Rapid fire!”

  Human soldiers were rushing forward in pairs, firing as they came.

  “Keep them out there in there open!”

  Behind her, Samuels crouched in cover and swiftly opened up the radio equipment. He loaded the memory cartridge that Kitterpokkie had given him – a cartridge taken from a melted pistol in the far off city beyond the cliffs. He switched on his Mistral radio, opened the menus just as Kitterpokkie had shown him – and uploaded files into mid air.

  “Hold the line! Keep them stalled out there!”

  Beth moved from post to post, loading and firing again and again. Sharp splinters of wood jutted here and there from her immensely thick rhino hide. She pulled a dead man back out of a flaming bush, rescued his cartridges, and sent a round cracking off into the enemy ranks.

  “Keep them back! Keep them back!”

  Out on the plains, a plasma rifle suddenly blew apart.

  One moment the gunner had been running forward, firing from the hip. The next instant, the chamber destabilised and plasma exploded through the rifle case. The man fell, arms burned clean off. He shrieked in agony as the grass all around him caught aflame.

  A second rifle exploded in its user’s face – and then another and another. Men screamed while others staggered, blinded. Riflemen threw away their plasma guns in panic as they burst and melted, spraying white-hot sparks. Officers had pistols turn molten in their holsters. Kenda came racing up behind the line, frantically throwing aside his own pistol. The weapon burst inside its holster, hurling out a shower of sparks. Kenda saw the general fall, his own pistol exploding at his hip. Kenda cursed as staff officers were consumed by plasma blasts.

  “Reform! Close order!” Kenda rode furiously along behind the line, pulling riflemen back – sending shocked, weaponless plasma gunners stagging to the rear lines. “All companies close order! Move move move!”

  Smoke choked the line where grassfires smouldered. Kenda hauled his horse around as bullets whipped past him in the haze. The staff were down, and he was now the ranking officer still on his feet.

  He still had a thousand riflemen, and hundreds of ex-plasma gunners, unarmed but unharmed. He pulled men back out of the chaos, and gave a snarl of triumph.

  It was not too late to seize a victory.

  South of the main battle, three hundred Spark Town cavalry were formed up in two battle lines in t
he shallow river bed. Snapper stood up in her stirrups, watching through binoculars as plasma rifles burst and exploded. The enemy battle lines were in utter chaos. The shark gave a predatory snarl.

  “That’s it! We’re going in. Toby – take the second wave!” Snapper waved her big sabre forward. “First three squadrons on me! Prepare to charge!”

  Snapper spurred forward with the town trumpeter falling in beside her. The first line of squadrons surged out of the trees, locking boot to boot and crossing the open ground like a tidal wave. Toby waved the second line onwards, moving forward more slowly, letting the gap between waves open out to two hundred metres.

  “At the fast trot – forward!”

  The cavalry raced out of the river tree line to the south of the human troops. They moved with shocking speed. Sabres hissed from scabbards. Plasma rifles were still exploding – infantry staggering, men screaming. Snapper’s front lines closed from a thousand metres to six hundred, five hundred… They needed to cross the gap fast…

  “Canter! Canter!”

  The trumpet sounded the order. The entire line burst into a canter, the dense-packed wall of riders racing ever forward – birds and beetle-horses screeching, beaks and mandibles clashing. The first few staggering human infantry company saw the onrushing cavalry. A few men fired, and Snapper levelled her sabre like a spear.

  “Charge!”

  The trumpet blew the charge – four rising notes that flung the riders into madness. The cavalry screamed – their mounts screeched deafening war cries. Snapper felt a bullet whip past, then suddenly she was spearing her sabre through a rifleman.

  There was a crash as the central squadron slammed into the flank-most company of ‘crusaders’. Sabres sliced through riflemen. A hundred and fifty infantry vanished in an instant as the riders sabred down fleeing masses of men.

  The two flanking squadrons raced on, unencumbered by opposition. But something was happening. Two companies of infantry had shaken their riflemen into line. They managed a ragged volley, emptying saddles. As another company ran forward and added to the line, the rifle fire became a storm. Birds and beetle-horses balked. The charge faltered as more fire slammed home. Snapper’s bloodied squadron emerged out of the carnage of their own charge. She saw the other two squadrons being hammered, and sounded the recall, riding into the thick of the fire to rally the men.

  “On me! On me!” She emptied her carbine at the enemy ranks, sending two soldiers flying backwards. Other cavalry opened fire with pistols and revolvers. “Right turn! At the gallop!”

  The lead cavalry turned in place and sped east at astonishing speed. Toby’s squadrons raced into the gap, the men leaping from their mounts and opening rapid fire with carbines. Mount-holders raced the beetle-horses, cockatoos and budgerigars back out of the zone of fire, and men opened up with breechloaders and repeating carbines. The volume of fire was monstrous. But it was still a hundred and fifty men against three times that number. Human troops took terrible casualties, but were shooting back in return. Whenever a man fell, an uninjured ex plasma gunner seized the man’s rifle and kept up the fire.

  “Re-form! Re-form!” Snapper’s men were still in good order. They about turned in ranks and locked tight. Snapper sent Onan shooting forward. “Charge!”

  The three mounted squadrons charged home again, this time slamming into the human companies from the flank. Screaming birds crashed into the humans – sabres rose and fell. There was a panicked spatter of fire from rifles, but the infantry were smashed. Cavalry rode through them, swords flailing down. The beaten fugitives ran for a second line of troops that had formed themselves into an enormous square. The riders sawed aside, turned about and sped away as the enemy square locked tight.

  Four companies of crusaders had been utterly obliterated by sabres – but Kenda had rallied his men.

  The human crusaders had started with fifteen hundred men. Even after losing so many, they still outnumbered the Spark Towners by almost two to one. They had also finally realised that they were faced by only two hundred riflemen in the old creek bed. The Spark Town cavalry were the real threat. Riding at the centre of his men, Kenda formed six companies into a tight packed square, surviving plasma gunners behind the riflemen, ready to replace the casualties. Having forced order out of chaos, he could take stock of the battlefield.

  He was facing a mere two hundred riflemen to the west, a hundred and fifty dismounted cavalry to the south, plus another hundred and fifty mounted cavalry poised like ravening giga-moths to fall on the lines the instant his crusaders wavered. Some monks and southerners were emerging to the east – a meagre hundred men, and all armed only with muzzle loaders.

  Six hundred men at best. With his troops formed into a square to protect his flanks, Kenda let his men keep up their fire. The mathematics of the situation would eventually begin to tell. There would be no glorious instant victory, but through slow attrition, he could break the backbone of the mutant alliance in a single day.

  Snapper had made the same calculation. Toby ran to the right of his firing line, ducking as bullets slashed overhead. Snapper rode to meet him, and he bellowed up to her through the crash and crackle of gunfire.

  “We can’t take this for long!” He waved to the north. “Do we signal? Do we send them in?”

  “Not while they’re in close order like that! They can hold off a charge!” The human soldiers all had excellent bayonets on their rifles. She stared at the centre of the square, where a distant figure was exhorting the human crusaders to keep their ranks. “Kenda! He’s in charge.”

  Toby spat. “Bugger knows his business!”

  Somebody else also knew their business.

  Floating up at the top of the western tree line, Throckmorton had a grandstand view of the entire battle. Watching through his opera glasses, he saw the small forces of the alliance being held at bay by the human crusaders – saw the square locking tight behind steel-tipped ranks of bayonets and blasting rifle fire. He observed Snapper’s cavalry chafing for the kill; Toby’s men firing, their ammunition already running low; Mayor Beth and Samuels trying to hold the line below him. At the eastern edge of the fight, southerners and monks with muzzle loaders were bravely exchanging fire with breech loading rifles. Throckmorton knew the plan, knew what was at stake, and so he drifted back and away through the trees.

  Once out of sight, he whirred away with all six wings beating, pushing himself as swiftly as he could go. Gas vented and cooled as he dropped height. The plant circled past the makeshift hospital and sailed on for a kilometre, then sank as he reached the mighty aerodyne that sat parked upon the grass.

  He put on his splendid hat and flew through the rear hatch, waving the gold chip he had taken from Mistral. The hologram stewardess immediately shimmered into life.

  “Mister President! How may I help you?”

  Throckmorton descended to the computer equipment. A virtual keyboard shimmered into life as he approached. The plant thought for a moment, then hunted and pecked for keys with a tentacle.

  “Mister President wants to make a flight please.”

  “Mister President – warning. The power plant is at a critical stage of breakdown. Detonation within eight minutes or less. We cannot advise a flight at this time.”

  “Okay” Throckmorton typed. “Turn on power plant for three minutes. Then close outer door. Fly to this location...” Throckmorton indicated a precise point on the map with his tentacle. “… and wait there with power plant at full power please.”

  “This will violate safety protocols.”

  “President will live with it.” Throckmorton made certain that the mini bar was empty. “Start now please!”

  The hologram waved happily. “Initiating program. Please have an enjoyable flight.”

  Now clutching two miniature bottles of gin, Throckmorton high-tailed it out of the aircraft. Behind him the power plant cranked up – the machine now sounded like it was gargling flaming wildcats. The plant whirred back towards the trees, mov
ing as fast as his gas bags allowed.

  The aerodyne took off slowly, wobbling erratically as its power generators began to scream louder and louder. As Throckmorton reached the trees, the craft groaned and screeched just overhead. It headed out above the Spark Town militia, almost dropped to the ground, then struggled to maintain height and cross the few hundred metres of open ground. With a rising scream the aircraft arrived above the tight-locked square of human infantry, levelled off, then dropped the last ten metres to slam into the ground.

  Kenda heard the terrifying, grinding scream of engines. He wrenched his horse aside as the aircraft slammed down in the centre of the square of troops. He stared, then screamed a warning to his men.

  “Run!” The aircraft set the grass afire all around itself. “The north is open! Run north! Run north! Move!”

  The mounted men raced to the north as all around them the square broke and men fled in their wake, sprinting fast, leaving the wounded behind.

  There was no saving the south side of the square. As men fled they tried to give the aircraft a wide berth. Snapper’s cavalry raced past, crashing in amongst the trailing fugitives, slashing into them with sabres. Toby’s dismounted cavalry kept up their fire as mounts were brought racing from the rear. But the south flank of the square – two hundred and fifty humans – were still racing past the aircraft as the power plant detonated in a sudden blast of light.

  One moment, the aircraft was whole: in the next instant, a white flash blasted outwards. Nearby men were incinerated, others were hurtled aside. Shattered wreckage slewed and bounced, crashing down fifty metres from the initial blast site.