A little story called Air Hex

[Flippy_D]

Air Hex.[/u]

Prologue:

Kerryn raced the sunset again. She grinned fiercely as she pushed her glider past slipstreams and darted around spectral clouds. The wind whipped her short black hair into her face as it buffeted the small craft. Stretched taut, the sun making her a flashing point of light in the air, she spiralled and weaved in the sky. Kerryn often pitted herself against the sunset, but the sunset always won. She let the darkness overtake her, and flew on towards her destination.

Chapter 1:

Kerryn touched lightly on the grass once, twice, and then ran into a landing. She shouldered her glider, wearing it like a backpack with the wings protruding outwards, and looked around. It was a typical wanderer's campsite. It had been here long enough to make a mark â€" some trees had been felled, and there was a large pile of ash where the nightly fire would burn, but the travellers would not permanently scar the earth. She recognised the proud badge of the Clan Maralah painted on the side of one of the wagons, and knew she could find shelter here. Fondling the visor around her neck, she strolled up to the leader's tent. Flinging aside the curtain, she yelled inside.
“You disgrace! I travel all the way here from places you've never even seen and there's no food waiting?” she shouted in mock fury. The man inside the tent stared at her in bewilderment, then his eyes suddenly widened in recognition. He leapt up, overturning his stool, and ran towards Kerryn, scooping her up in his huge arms.
“Kerryn! You little skycrawler, where have you been for so long?” Kerryn laughed.
“Let go, Warrick, you're crushing me!” She wriggled free of his grip, and smiled at Warrick. She had known him for years, since she was six and had lost her parents, and her tribe. Her face flickered slightly at the memory. Kerryn's tribe â€" Peregrine â€" had been stormed by an unknown band in a night of fire and blood, and had been all slain, but for Kerryn. She had hidden, clutching her glider close to her. When it was over, the taint of burning had hung in the air. No-one knew who the assailants were or why they attacked, but Kerryn had promised to herself that one day, she would find out. She replied to Warrick's question with glassy brightness.
“Oh, you know, here and there. Flying over the sea and shore, mainly, sticking to the eastern coast. There were some nasty tangles with some bandits, but nothing I couldn't shake off with my glider,” she patted its wings over her shoulder fondly. “I dropped in on Clan Fanalow as well; I managed to get some… interesting information”. She said it casually, but Warrick knew her better than that. Leaning forward, he asked her,
“What sort of information would this be, then?” He paused for a second, and, helped by a disappointed look from Kerryn, seemed to remember himself. He sat bolt upright with a cry: “Good grief, lass, the food! I'll bet you're starving! Tell you what, stay overnight, and we can discuss this over some proper sustenance, hmm?”
“That sounds like a fine idea,” said Kerryn, leaning back and stretching. It was good to be back with friendly folk again.

‘Maralah' roughly translated as ‘born in an earthquake', and its people were proud of the name. They had a reputation for having an unusually harmonious relationship with the soil - after only a few days, even a skilled tracker would have trouble deducting that the Maralah had been this way, if the tribe did not want to people to know. With this heritage came many traditions, bound in the embers of flickering fire. Not all were still held, but for every ritual that died, a new one bounded forward from the flames, bought on by the cold solitude of the late night. As Kerryn ate, some Maralah youths entertained the elders with an age-old play of how the Maralah were formed. Kerryn laughed as a boy, pretending to be Taran the Founder, thrust a wooden sword savagely at a wild boar, played by a boy wearing a real animal skin. As the giant boar toppled over, thus saving the early clan, she applauded and chuckled along with the rest of the audience. At times like this she wondered why she did not join one of the many tribes she knew, but the answer was always clear. She sighed into the heat of the flames, and turned to see Warrick watching her. He spoke first.
“So, this rumor…?” Kerryn stared at the fire, and replied quietly,
“What I heard is that there's a new forge-town developing, in the south this time. Kiffton was the name I heard”. She frowned, and waved the chicken leg she was holding vaguely. “It's just gossip, but it's worrying. Forge-towns are never good news. Especially for you”. She turned to see Warrick's reaction. The big man was deep in thought. This would be the third forge-town in as many cycles. They usually ended up being huge messes of cities. Murder and exploitation become rife, and many people became slaves in all but name to the swaggering steel-mill owners. For the Maralah, so bound to the earth, it was a travesty. They blamed it on the choking smog that the factories belched out, and the grime of the streets. It wasn't healthy for people, they said. It killed them as sure as asphyxiation. When Smelt, the first forge-town, had appeared in the north-west, people had reluctantly acknowledged the need for its existence. It was built on a huge seam of iron ore, and could sustain enough of an economy to make steel, the most precious material in the Midlands. Previously, the only steel in this part of the world could be obtained in small amounts at huge prices, from local quarrying businesses. Now that had all changed. Smelt had begat Bearnstoke, another forge-town, again at the foot of the north-western mountains, but built around a river for trade overseas. It had enjoyed exclusive resource deals with Smelt, and rumor spread of military partnerships being formed. And now there was a third… Warrick cleared his throat.
“I suppose bandits will be lining the north-west to south roads like dead leaves now?”
“That's one probable consequence,” Kerryn admitted. “Warrick, you do know if people continue like this, there will be no land left untainted”.
“I know”. There was a silence between the two, marred by the merriment around the campfire. Kerryn could see the news was weighing heavily on her friend, and she quietly excused herself to check her glider. When she left, Warrick sighed heavily, and clasped his hands under his chin, the fire dancing behind his closed eyelids.

Kerryn eyed her glider critically, shifting from foot to foot in the cold night air. Having taken it off her back, she was routinely checking for wear and tear. The glider was mainly white, with two silver tags on the tips of each wing, individually about a foot wide. The actual wing itself was about five feet in length, its shape a thick wedge. The wings could fold in, but Kerryn preferred to have them out, ready for an impulse launch. The two wings then met in the center, where a large, hub-like object made up the main body of the apparatus. It had a narrow, rectangular slot in the back, from where the thruster propulsion system hissed out a steady, fiery blue-white tail. It was surprisingly quiet, even without the noise of the air. The glider was made up of a smooth material, warm to the touch. Kerryn didn't know what it was, and it often bothered her. It made her think of her parents, and her tribe. Was this technology the reason for the raider's attack? She stroked the elegant wings, and realized she was crying again. She cried too much, she told herself, but that didn't stop the pain, that didn't stop the constant memory of that night. She didn't want anyone to see her like this. Buckling the glider's belt fast around her waist, she gripped the handles on the underside of the wings and pressed the small button that started the thruster. She spiraled high into the air and shot out for an evening's flight, crystalline tears tumbling to the distant landscape, far below. On the ground, Warrick watched her leave a dim trail in the sky.

[Flippy_D]

He found her next morning, asleep on the top of one of the tents, sleeping peacefully on her back, the glider folder close by. He was loath to wake her, but it was better now than when the camp was a rowdy salmagundi of children and mothers. He hailed her from the ground.
“Kerryn! Hey, you up there!”
“What is it?” the sleepy answer came. Kerryn was staring blearily over the top of the tent.
“It's time for you to shift! Honestly, sleeping on the roof of my tents, what a cheek!” Warrick said indignantly.  Kerryn grinned.
“It's not my fault, you ground-dweller,” she shot back imperiously, just as the waking gong sounded. The rich tones pealed out over the small campsite, which suddenly became alive with children and parents alike stretching in the morning sun.
Breakfast in the Maralah camp was always a hectic affair. Wives often found their partners quietly downing a stiff drink, and the ensuing arguments were usually bountiful sources of entertainment, as each tried to shame the other into submission with embarrassing revelations. Occasionally, there was meat, but mostly it was bread and cheese, with fruit. Simple food for simple folk, Warrick had always insisted. Kerryn munched thoughtfully on an apple as she observed the chaos. She had resorted to wearing her glider when children were around, so she had control over it. It was always an unparalleled source of questions and stares, but with children around, she had to make sure no-one accidentally took off. She had demonstrated a vertical hover the last time she was with the clan, and older siblings were now boasting of the experience to their eager brothers and sisters, who pleaded with Kerryn to show them. A few hours after breakfast, she took some time displaying the glider to the children, and performed a few tricks to show her dexterity. As the children gasped in admiration at her second loop and demanded gliders of their own, she felt happier than she had been for a long time, too long. There was nothing like the sky for making her feel alone. And yet, she would leave these folk, with their comradeship and community, and continue traveling the ether on her own. She had to.

In the evening, Warrick walked thoughtfully back to his caravan. On brushing aside the curtain, he smelled the stew on the stove. His wife, Bramble, nodded to him as he entered.
“Good to see Kerryn again”.
“Yes”. There was a pause.
“I suppose she'll be off again soon?”
“Leaving in the morning,” Warrick confirmed. Bramble sighed at the news. As she clattered amongst pots and pans she smiled ruefully.
“I don't know why she doesn't stay longer, you know”. Warrick had been wondering about that as well. He could think only of one reason, but he didn't say it. To him, it seemed that Kerryn was only truly happy when with them, in the hectic carnival of the camp, but at the same time, the livelihood of the Clan bought back painful memories of Peregrine for her. Such a dilemma for one so young. He stared grimly out of the window, where clouds ghosted past the moon.
“Who can tell what she sees in the sky?”

In the soft pink light of the dawn, the silhouettes of Warrick and Kerryn embraced, and stepped apart. Kerryn buckled her belt and smiled.
“I'll see you in a couple of seasons, Warrick”.
“I'll look forward to that. We all will”. There was a heavy silence.
“Warrick… I just want to thank you; you're always here for me”.
“Anytime, Kerryn. Just say the word”.
Kerryn grinned again, and then, in one fluid movement, shot high into the air above, twinkling in the early, yellow sun. Warrick blinked after her, until she was lost once more to the clouds.

[Flippy_D]

Chapter 2:

Come midday, Kerryn had moved away from Clan Maralah's camp on the northern plateau, and now held an unrivalled view of the land, as always. She could look upon the Chalcedony Mountains far in the north, the mist-grey peaks stretching across the end of the horizon, and the Jaft sea sparkling on her left, far out east, liquid light in the sun. She could see the town of Forkwater close to her right, built where the Purge river split into the Jeune and Gause tributaries, and straight ahead, hazy in the distant air, the solitude of Anvil Woods. An ironic name now, she thought. What could be more unnatural than a forge-town, whose existance was based around the forest's namesake?
So, where to go? She was currently flying south, and Kerryn could travel from one coast to the other in three days. She wheeled uncertainly, spying out the landscape. She had flown this particular area many times, and knew it by heart, every rock and tree and hill. She was getting hungry, and as Forkwater was so close… twisting suddenly, she dove down towards the town, folding the wings for extra speed. Kerryn never got tired of the exhilarating velocity of a dive, the rush of air against the skin. Pulling up deftly over the grass, she cut the engine and allowed herself to drop the last few feet onto the ground. She landed lithe as a cat, and then straightened up, finding herself a few minutes walk from the outskirts of the town. It was always best to land a little away from settlements, and come in on foot. Stretching off her limbs, she set out for the buildings in the distance.

Kerryn usually harbored distaste for towns, with their dirt and noise, but Forkwater was different; the streets were safe to walk on. The lazy trio of canals running through the buildings supplied adequate fresh water, and the town thrived on trade from all directions. Sometimes the northern Purge would hail the arrival of mountain folk from the Chalcedony range, in strange craft with cloth and beads and spice, and the wild-eyed people would spend a few days selling the exotic wares to the curious town folk, until they slipped quietly back up the river. Sometimes a belch of steam would herald the approach of one of the new metal ships from Bearnstoke far in the west, the cold vessel secreting heavy bars of iron and steel. The ship would be surrounded by youths, eager to brush the cold skin of the ship with curious hands, until anxious mothers came and dragged them away. The townspeople distrusted the silent men from the forge-town as much as Clan Maralah.  
Forkwater was a place of shouting merchants and bustling streets; it was the largest non-industrial city in the Midlands. The street cobbles were buffed and chipped by hundreds of people and wagons every day, shuffling and yelling. Kerryn weaved her way through the crowds, keeping one hand one her glider, the wings of which had been folded away. She ducked past frothing salesmen and sidled around squealing children. She slipped out of the busy street into a small tavern, by the name of The Bronze Pail. Her eyes watered slightly at the haze of smoke inside, and she made her way over to the bar.
“Hello, Archie”. She had known the landlord for a long time, and he had always been a keen listener to her stories, continually querying her on how she traveled so fast and so wide. He had not yet come close to guessing the truth. Whilst Kerryn was open with small Clans and the occasional village knowing about her glider, she knew exactly how fast words traveled in the complexity of the city, and what some people might think.
“Ah, it's your good self, Kerryn. It's been a while, how goes the world?”
“As regular as always,” said Kerryn. What a lie.
“That's good to hear. What can I be getting you?” Archie polished one of his glasses industriously, then snapped his fingers. “Do you still not drink, Kerryn?” Kerryn had once crashed badly as a result of an ambitious glass of whisky, when she had been younger, and she now usually steered clear of alcohol. But one small glass wouldn't hurt, she reasoned, not with food as well. She made up her mind.
“Just a small â€" a small glass of sherry, Arch, thanks. And what do you have to eat here?”
She ordered her food, and Archie pointed out a small table in the corner, where Kerryn spent most of her lunch wrestling with herself about having a second glass of the fiery liquid, until she noticed the man watching her. She had chanced to look in the mirror opposite her on the wall, and saw someone reflected in it, staring back. It was a calculating look, which made her blood crackle and her skin tighten. It was dangerous. She spent the rest of the meal sat quietly, until she had finished. Glancing briefly at the reflected gaze as she got up, she gripped the side of her glider. She ambled innocently to the bar and leant forward, close to Archie.
“A man to your right has been looking at me the entire time I've been here,” she murmured quickly. “Keep him behind; I don't like the look of him”. Archie gave the slightest of nods, peering at the stranger through the bottom of a glass. Kerryn raised her voice to a normal level again.
“How much is that, Archie?”
“Ah, Kerryn, you visiting me is payment enough,” he replied generously. One of the regulars at the bar lifted his head and stared balefully at the barman.
“What, she gets free food and drink? Why can't we, we're the regulars here!” Archie winked at him, careful to keep the façade of normality.
“Aye, but you ain't got a face as pretty as this one, now, have yez?” He smiled at Kerryn. “Go on, be off with yourself”. Kerryn nodded, took a breath and strolled out, breaking into a run as soon as she was out of sight of the window.

Slowing down after a few corners, Kerryn frowned to herself. The man in the pub had shaken her â€" what was he after? Her glider? The idea of not having her wings was a crippling and terrible one to her. Her knuckles whitened.

[Flippy_D]

She was soon walking alongside the Jeune canal, warming herself in the zenith of the day. She passed the various barges and boats, with their lurid wares flaunting in the brightness of the early afternoon, and soon her mind was on different things. There was always the question: where next? She could travel to Circle lake, and Bellinge, the town closest to the area Kiffton was rumored to be in. That sounded like the best idea, although it would mean a whole day's travel. She sighed at the thought of it. If she left now, she would make it to the lakeside town in the early morning, and she was as eager as Warrick to find the truth behind the rumors of Kiffton, but she hated flying at night. Neither did she want to stay here, with the strange-eyed man and his stare. In the end there was little choice, personal preference was second to safety. She set out to the east gate, where it would be an almost due south journey to Bellinge. She paused at the gate briefly, to pat the warm stones and look back into the busy street. She'd have to come back here soon, and thank Archie proper-
The man was there. He stood brazen on the opposite side of the road for a moment, clothed in a dark brown cloak. It was a few short seconds before he spotted the numbed Kerryn, frozen at the gate, and strode out towards her. There was no time to think. Kerryn turned and ran into the outside fields, fumbling desperately with her glider. The man was fast, and by the time Kerryn had got ready to fly, running with the wings spread behind her back, there was but twelve or so feet between the two. She leapt into the air, igniting the engine as she left the ground, and climbed to a safe height, where she hovered unsteadily, upright in the air. She yelled down at her sinister pursuer.
“What do you want!?” The dark man appeared to be busying himself with something in his belt, an object that gleamed dully. He didn't answer.
“Why are you following me?” The figure remained silent. Suddenly his arm stretched out, the evil thing in his hand pointed at Kerryn. There was a flash and a sharp, loud noise, and Kerryn heard something whip past her with an angry hiss. The man obviously did not want to talk, and whatever he was holding was dangerous. She pulled her glider around sharply with a wordless cry and streaked away like a startled bird, vanishing into the soft underside of the clouds. The man stared impassively at the patch of cloud she had disappeared into, before calmly dispensing of the wasted bullet, and shutting the barrel of the pistol with a snap.

[Evil]

The next Phil Reed, I tell ya what.

[Larien]

That's some of the best work I've read in a long time, Flippy.  Excellent job.  I want to read more sometime.  

[Flippy_D]

Chapter 3:

Kerryn meandered silently through a grey nebula, her clothes sodden and heavy with water. The light, dim as it was, barely permeated the drizzle in this ghostly world, and she flew on in the near darkness. It was like being in a cave of dead roses. She shivered. How long had she flown blind? She had slipped through the clouds in shock. It had taken her a while, when the adrenaline had gone and her breath had slowed, to realize that she had been attacked with deadly intent. Why? She shook her head in reprimand. She was tired, now was not the time. She had been encased in this silent void for too long, she needed to get out. Bracing, she steered her craft sharply upwards, elevating through the opaque sheets until she burst out of the top with an exultant shout, a diver emerging from the unknown. She scanned the ether. The sky was an endless, cold sea of blinding lavender under a pale moon. It was beautiful, and it was terrible; the solitude was too much to bear. Reaching a decision, she flew higher into the air, gasping as it became difficult to breathe, and closed her eyes. The only sound left in the world vanished as the engine was abruptly silenced. She hung in the air for a moment, the perfect silhouette of wings against the moon, a moment of glass.
Then, she fell.
She shot back into the clouds, puncturing the intangible surface, piercing the very sky in her descent. The rush was incredible, a peregrine falcon diving through the raw night. As she tore out of the cloud's base, she pulled the misty tendrils out behind her, tugged into her slipstream. Her eyes slammed open and saw Anvil Woods, saw the Circle Lake, saw herself falling between the two. She picked out the pinpricks of candlelight that marked Bellinge, and tumbled down towards them. When she was but fifty meters from the placid surface of the lake, she ignited the engine and started to pull out of the dive. The force was titanic, and as she drew level a few short feet from the water, she whipped it into a seething frenzy behind her, driven by the screaming speed of the glider. She thundered through the struts of the Bellinge Bridge, its vast length stretching away to the southern bank, and began a wide circle, wheeling around on herself, dragging the white water after her, heading for the town ahead at incomparable velocity.
An hour later she walked cautiously through the midnight streets, forever traveling downhill. Bellinge was a hive of small, uneven alleyways and scattered shops and bars, built on a hill next to Circle Lake. It was originally a fishing village, and although that remained its main industry, the vineyards plastered onto the nearby hills spoke of a second and more lucrative business. Kerryn knew few people in Bellinge, and that suited her fine. She arrived at a modest door and knocked. There was a reply from inside.
“Who is it?”
“It's Kerryn, Thomas,” she answered. “I need to speak to you”. There was the scrape of a bolt, and the door swung open, bathing Kerryn and the street in yellow light. She entered gratefully, closing the door after her. On the far side of the street, a shadow, slightly darker than the rest, stole away in silence.
Thomas busied himself in his kitchen, making drinks for himself and Kerryn, who was sat, subdued, at the table. He sat down with her, and refused to let her speak until she had drained the cup in front of her. The he took her hand, and spoke.
“What happened?” Kerryn recounted her tale, from when she had seen the man at the inn, to when he had attacked her. She described what the man had been holding, and Thomas' eyes widened. He got to his feet and started to sift through a cupboard at the far end of the room. When he turned, he was spinning something silver around his finger. He showed it to Kerryn. He spoke softly.
“Was it something like this?” Kerryn examined the object.
“Yes… yes, it was. It was smaller and shorter, but the same sort of thing,” she confirmed. Thomas shook his head sadly. He bade her follow him into a small guest room, grabbing an apple from his fruit bowl as he went. Inside, he placed the apple on a small stool, walked away from it, and took aim. He glanced at Kerryn.
“This is a pistol”. Kerryn watched him pull the trigger, heard the bang, and saw the apple in front of her explode into a thousand spinning fragments. She stared at the remains in horror. She turned to see Thomas watching her.
“That… pistol. That does that?” she stammered. Thomas nodded.
“These are deadly, you are lucky that the man missed. Kerryn, listen to me. If someone is chasing you and they have one of these, you must stay safe. Stay with me, or with a clan you know. I understand you are good friends with Maralah?” Kerryn nodded, her eyes still anchored to the apple.
“I'm just finding something out, I'll be back with them soon. I'll stay safe, Thomas”.
“I hope so”.
Thomas offered Kerryn a room for the night, and she gladly accepted. She slid the glider under the bed, and collapsed onto the covers. She was asleep within minutes, exhausted by the traumas of the day. Her dreams that night were haunted by gunshots.

When she woke, it was early afternoon. She had arrived at Bellinge in the quiet of the dark morning, and had slept for a long time. She stood up unsteadily, and traipsed into the kitchen, where she found Thomas reading a book. He looked up as she entered.
“Feeling better?” He asked. Kerryn mumbled an incoherent response, and he grinned.
A few minutes later she was ready to talk to her host. She recalled the firearm.
“Tom, that pistol thing. Where did it come from?”
“Kiffton”. Thomas replied in one word. Kerryn started at the name.
“So it does exist, then?”
“Certainly, it's east of here. They built it around one of Jeune rivers, they renamed it the Kiff River. Hence, Kiffton. They supply all kinds of goods, mostly metal of course, and the pistol is one of the latest products”.
“But it's evil!” protested Kerryn. The pistol made her shudder just by looking at it. Thomas thought this over.
“I would say it is a tool. An axe is a tool, so is a bow. It's what one does with it that determines if it is evil or not”. Kerryn gaped at him.
“I can't believe you! That thing shouldn't be allowed! Someone almost killed me with one of those!” Thomas was taken aback at Kerryn's fury. “They are evil! Can't you see that? They should be destroyed! Can't you see?” She seemed to subside, and walked over to the door. She sighed.
“Thomas, thanks for all you've done, but there's something I have to do. Goodbye”. And with that, she was gone. Thomas stared at the door in silence for a few minutes, and then glanced at the polished gun on the shelf. Could it really be so awful?

[Flippy_D]

Kerryn was airborne again, traveling the half-mile to the Bellinge Bridge. She alighted deftly in the centre of the wooden structure, where there was no-one in sight. It was huge, two miles in width, stretching across the diameter of the Circle Lake. It had been built for the traders hailing from the south, meaning they didn't have to travel around the entire lake. The water itself was perpetually calm, it's surface a mirror of the sky. She gazed into the rose-tinted reflection thoughtfully. It was a beautiful afternoon, the strata of the clouds hued by the low sun. She stretched in the warm rays. From here, she could cross the plains west to Rolk, a small, peaceful village, near to which Clan Fanalow made their camp, or she could see this Kiffton for herself. She did not have much light left. If she went to Rolk, it would take another day to fly all the way to Kiffton, and she would have to rest in the forge-town. She grimaced at the thought. Her other option would be to sweep over Kiffton â€" she wanted to look at it, after all â€" and maybe camp in Anvil Woods overnight, then it would be a short flight to Maralah. But Anvil Woods was a strange place; there was plenty of superstition and myth wreathed amongst those dark leaves. Tales of travelers lost and doomed echoed through the communal consciousness every time the place was mentioned. However, they did not have what she had. She smiled, and not for the first time, she felt a sense of true elation at being able to use this craft. Such freedom! But freedom came at a price. The loneliness in the air was a curse that she had to endure constantly. She leaned forward just as a shot rang out. There was an impact inches from her head and she was showered with splinters from the wooden strut nearby. With a cry of alarm, she toppled forward, glimpsing as she fell a tall man in a dark coat. Not the same as in Forkwater, surely? He couldn't have traveled that fast, could he? She broke the calm surface with a crash, and was plunged into a marine darkness. Instinctively, she pressed her glider's ignition, and the world became a mass of bubbles as water was boiled away. She was floundering, helpless, in full view of her attacker. She struggled through the lake, which was suddenly treacle, to the support of the bridge, spluttering, and tried to find a handhold. Her questing fingers gripped a small space between the brickwork, and she painfully hauled herself up. She wrapped an arm around the thick support, and clung there, hidden from view, but trapped. She whimpered, wide-eyed. A shout came from overhead. It was a gruff voice, deep and threatening.
“Miss Kerryn!” She froze. How did he know her name? The man continued. “Miss Kerryn, I only need your glider!” he shouted. “Leave it here, and I'll let you go!” Kerryn stared at nothing. So this was why. This was why he had tried to kill her, twice. She shivered. He would be far too heavy to fly it, why did he want it? She was running out of time, her grip was weakening. On the top of the bridge, the man shot into the thick, wooden floor of the bridge. He stamped, and Kerryn flinched underneath.
“You can't get away, Kerryn! This is your only chance to live!” He spun the pistol aimlessly. “I can wait longer than you can! I can-” he paused. The sound of the engine starting could be heard clearly in the still air. He backed away, swinging his pistol from side to side. He yelled again. “Don't make me kill you!”
Kerryn lodged the glider underneath the bridge, the engine still running, and shuffled around the support, to the edge of the bridge. The man was slightly in front of her, switching his aim from left to right, covering both sides. She pulled herself up silently and crept up behind him. In one movement she had kicked him in the back of the leg and bought her foot up to meet his head as it came down. He spun around and collapsed. She stamped on his gun hand and grabbed the pistol, then threw the object far away. It twirled lazily in the sun, flashed, and vanished beneath the surface with a distant splash. She knelt down next to the man's ear, grabbed his hair, lifted his head, and hissed fiercely.
“I could have killed you with your own weapon right now. Don't forget that”. With that, she darted back to the side and swung herself down, next to her waiting glider. Within minutes she had left the shining edge of the lake far behind.

[Las Naranjas]

Very good, reminds me of this http://www-users.cs.york.ac.uk/~susan/sf/eyeargon.htm

[Flippy_D]

Thanks very much... I can never tell if you're complimenting me or insulting me. Or both. have pity, for I am feeble of brain on such subtleties.

[Goldmund]

Nothing can be as good as The Eye of Argon, Naranjas. I've heard that even Joseph Conrad was stealing from Jim Theis.

Flippy: I had no time to read it all, but I always advocate young writers to ban themselves from using pistols in their stories. The results are sometimes astonishing even for the authors.

[Flippy_D]

How so? This world is experiancing an industrial revolution, it's integral to the plot, so I am not going to ban pistols, but I'd be interested to know why you recommended it.

[LGM]

I'll wait for the movie...





Or a *finished* copy in PDF format