Kthaahthikha
One man, a word-processor, and too much free time.
30 June, 2005
The Hunt - I. The Borderlands.
Alef reined her scuttler in at the tip of the rise. It was a hot, muggy, overcast day, and the promise of a storm before nightfall did little to lighten her disposition. The boiler began to rumble, so she kicked the valve, a jet of hot steam condensing and covering her in a wash of warm water.
Down below the rise, the plains began once more in earnest. Binoculars showed a small encampment on the horizon, but she couldn't make-out the tribe and, to be frank, she didn't really care.
The boiler began to rumble again. Alef contemplated stopping for lunch, deciding in favour of a snack in the chair. She cranked the motivator and steamed flooded into the pistons, setting the scuttler down the earthen bank and loping on its matte-camo legs. She swiveled back and forth on the saddle, maintaining a balance. As she did so she fetched a sandwich from the travel compartment with one hand, and unslung her rifle with the other.
She had two magazines full of mercury rounds, two full of hollow-points, and one of steel tips. She shoved the sandwich in her mouth and loaded the hollow-points. Realistically, they'd be the ones most needed.
Around mid-afternoon, with the first rumbles of thunder coming down from the north, twelve Ispahat dragoons came riding out of the encampment. They were mounted on thierets and mostly armed with scatter-bows and javelins. Just in case anyone ever made a fuss, Alef waited until the first swarm of shrapnel ripped by her head before cocking the rifle and blowing a chest apart. The slaika tumbled noiselessly from its saddle, but the dragoons were too spaced-out for it to hamper any mounts.
Now the shrapnel flew thick and fast. She steered with her thighs, rushing towards the Ispahat, cocking the brim of her akubra and working the lever like a water pump. Heads shattered and arrows went wild. She wasn't in javelin range yet, but when she was the relative slowness of the scuttler might do her a diservice.
There were only eight Ispahat now. A few slaika bodies were visible lying amongst the long grass. The dragoons hung back, less eager, and swerved from side to side. The jerky motion of the scuttler impeded her now that the dragoons were swerving, although it had been less troublesome in the head-on charge. Alef angled towards the north, bending in her seat and hoping that there weren't any burrows or dens.
The scuttler cantered, the thierets pacing it easily. Twisted as she was in her saddle, Alef found it impossible to maintain anything even resembling a level keel. She slung the rifle over a shoulder, faced forward, and put on all steam.
It was a rough run. The recirculator was top notch and the thermal generator kept the boiler hot, but the cistern would not last forever - especially not at this speed.
Javelins started to fall. One shot into the forward left leg and shattered amidst the gears. The leg choked and the entire scuttler almost went over, tripping to a standstill. Alef leant the scuttler back on its rear four and bucked the front legs. The splinters shot out, a sliver embedding itself in her cheek. She winced, glanced over her shoulder, and made note that the drag0ons were almost upon her.
Fuck it, she thought, jamming the gears until the scuttler was in a steep foward crouch, the underbelly - universals and cabling - exposed to the on-coming antagonists. She took the rifle and crouched behind the boiler, drawing a careful bead on the foremost Ispahat and leading by a few feet. It's carapaced chest caved-in and the slaika wheeled its mounted, wheezing bile as it headed back for camp.
Alef sighted again. Protected as she now was, the Ispahat held-off, and it took only a final maiming shot in a lower abdomen for the decimated party to retreat back to camp. The knot of new dragoons heading out to meet them slow to a stop and turned back as well.
Evidently, it had been decided that Alef and her scuttler were not worth the trouble. They would probably track her by night and try and take her in her sleep. Considering the price you could get for a Bielen east of the desert - and the desirability of a closed-system scuttler - it was entirely understandable.
Nonetheless, she put steam on again and decided to rest in shifts.
I'm in one of these eager, oddly-productive and mildly-felonious moods this evening.
Tom Meade, 8:04 pm
