wagon, the pink mantis signalled to Throckmorton.
“Are they crossing over the river?”
“No.”
Snapper’s skin suddenly tingled. She felt the same, strange, unfathomable keening that had accompanied the Screamer’s attack against the hapless ferals. She turned, motioning Kenda and the wagon guards to fall back.
“They’re heading this way! OK – we have to defend the gorge!”
“Wait!” Kitterpokkie came clambering across the top of the second wagon from the rear. “Are we utterly married to these wagons?”
Tammin looked aghast at his load of cotton cloth.
“That’s two thousand chips worth of dyed cotton!”
“A tad hard to cash it in post mortem!” The mantis was already in action. “Right! Plan B! Get the acid!”
Beau blinked, bewildered. “There’s a plan B?”
“Well it was sort of my personal plan A, but I relegated it to the back burner just in case things went well.” Kitterpokkie already had six other passengers conscripted into a chain, passing her the acid jugs. “Get the other wagons moving! Far as you can!”
Snapper winced – then half felt something still scraping at her senses. “We’re making a bomb?”
“Oh – we’re making a five ton bomb!” The mantis was already pouring acid all over the cotton. “Nitrocellulose. Keep out of the fumes!”
“Oh crap.” Snapper climbed straight up from Onan and onto the wagon. “Beau! Ride a few dozen metres upstream and keep guard. Kenda?” The human had gone, but another rider was near. “You there! Stay part way between us and Beau. Anything eats Beau, you have to come back and warn us!”
Beau – quite set upon being heroic - suddenly reigned in his bird. “Wait – eat me?”
“Just get down there” Snapper was far stronger than the mantis, emptying three jugs of acid for each one managed by Kitterpokkie. “Go! Go!”
Shark and mantis worked side by side, with Kitterpokkie turning the cotton fluff with a pole. The fumes were utterly lethal, stinging at Snapper’s eyes. Acid dripped through to the wood of the wagon beneath, steaming on the boards. The shark coughed, trying to protect her face.
“Doesn’t it have to dry?”
“Not really! You just wash it and dry the stuff to make it stable.” Kitterpokkie turned the cotton and soaked it through. “There we are! The cotton core’s changing. We’re getting excess acid crystallising.”
“Is that good?”
“Well, it means it’s going to be unstable.”
The shark coughed. “Unstable like what? Nitro-glycerine?”
“Oh no no no no no!” The mantis gave an easy wave. “ Far less stable than nitro-glycerine.”
Snapper froze. “Unstable how?”
“Ooh, well, hypersensitive to shock, change of temperature, strong light… Could detonate under its own weight…”
“Oh sweet Godfish!” The shark emptied out the last acid jug and scrabbled clear. “So do we need a fuse?”
“Not when we have a plasma rifle.” Kitterpokkie surveyed the mass of seething cotton, then leapt from the wagon. “It will go off. But we need ten minutes for it all to settle.”
“Ten.” Snapper rinsed her hands in the creek, then unshipped her carbine and checked the cylinder. “What’s minimum safety distance?”
“Ah, well ideally we need to be around a corner and about three hundred metres away.”
“Three hundred. Gotcha!”
“Or possibly five hundred.”
“Oh great…” The shark turned and yelled back towards the passengers and guards. “Rifles! We need to hold the line for ten minutes!”
The rearmost wagon had been turned to block as much of the creek bed as possible, and the dray beasts driven away. A dozen men of all manner of species, armed with a mix of breech loaders and muskets, came splashing up to the scene. They took cover about the wagon – all save Snapper, who mounted Onan and rode behind the line. Twenty metres behind them, the acid wagon dripped and seethed, its contents converting into a bomb of truly epic proportions – nothing
“Are they crossing over the river?”
“No.”
Snapper’s skin suddenly tingled. She felt the same, strange, unfathomable keening that had accompanied the Screamer’s attack against the hapless ferals. She turned, motioning Kenda and the wagon guards to fall back.
“They’re heading this way! OK – we have to defend the gorge!”
“Wait!” Kitterpokkie came clambering across the top of the second wagon from the rear. “Are we utterly married to these wagons?”
Tammin looked aghast at his load of cotton cloth.
“That’s two thousand chips worth of dyed cotton!”
“A tad hard to cash it in post mortem!” The mantis was already in action. “Right! Plan B! Get the acid!”
Beau blinked, bewildered. “There’s a plan B?”
“Well it was sort of my personal plan A, but I relegated it to the back burner just in case things went well.” Kitterpokkie already had six other passengers conscripted into a chain, passing her the acid jugs. “Get the other wagons moving! Far as you can!”
Snapper winced – then half felt something still scraping at her senses. “We’re making a bomb?”
“Oh – we’re making a five ton bomb!” The mantis was already pouring acid all over the cotton. “Nitrocellulose. Keep out of the fumes!”
“Oh crap.” Snapper climbed straight up from Onan and onto the wagon. “Beau! Ride a few dozen metres upstream and keep guard. Kenda?” The human had gone, but another rider was near. “You there! Stay part way between us and Beau. Anything eats Beau, you have to come back and warn us!”
Beau – quite set upon being heroic - suddenly reigned in his bird. “Wait – eat me?”
“Just get down there” Snapper was far stronger than the mantis, emptying three jugs of acid for each one managed by Kitterpokkie. “Go! Go!”
Shark and mantis worked side by side, with Kitterpokkie turning the cotton fluff with a pole. The fumes were utterly lethal, stinging at Snapper’s eyes. Acid dripped through to the wood of the wagon beneath, steaming on the boards. The shark coughed, trying to protect her face.
“Doesn’t it have to dry?”
“Not really! You just wash it and dry the stuff to make it stable.” Kitterpokkie turned the cotton and soaked it through. “There we are! The cotton core’s changing. We’re getting excess acid crystallising.”
“Is that good?”
“Well, it means it’s going to be unstable.”
The shark coughed. “Unstable like what? Nitro-glycerine?”
“Oh no no no no no!” The mantis gave an easy wave. “ Far less stable than nitro-glycerine.”
Snapper froze. “Unstable how?”
“Ooh, well, hypersensitive to shock, change of temperature, strong light… Could detonate under its own weight…”
“Oh sweet Godfish!” The shark emptied out the last acid jug and scrabbled clear. “So do we need a fuse?”
“Not when we have a plasma rifle.” Kitterpokkie surveyed the mass of seething cotton, then leapt from the wagon. “It will go off. But we need ten minutes for it all to settle.”
“Ten.” Snapper rinsed her hands in the creek, then unshipped her carbine and checked the cylinder. “What’s minimum safety distance?”
“Ah, well ideally we need to be around a corner and about three hundred metres away.”
“Three hundred. Gotcha!”
“Or possibly five hundred.”
“Oh great…” The shark turned and yelled back towards the passengers and guards. “Rifles! We need to hold the line for ten minutes!”
The rearmost wagon had been turned to block as much of the creek bed as possible, and the dray beasts driven away. A dozen men of all manner of species, armed with a mix of breech loaders and muskets, came splashing up to the scene. They took cover about the wagon – all save Snapper, who mounted Onan and rode behind the line. Twenty metres behind them, the acid wagon dripped and seethed, its contents converting into a bomb of truly epic proportions – nothing
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