It is misleading to say the people that fled Venus in the wake of the Torpor Bombings were ‘Venusian’ for the same reason it would be inaccurate to refer to all the people of the Earth as ‘humans’. Venus, at the time of rapture, was a planet of multiple cultures and creeds, and whilst the peoples of Earth, for all their physiological diversity, were but a single species, those of Venus could trace their lineage back to a multitude of races. There were the elder Venusians, with their magnificent curved horns; the plantfolk with their viridian skin. Slugfolk, who changed sex as easily as one might change clothes and Mycelliar who could morph from a village to an individual just as naturally. And as isolated populations interbred on the life ships, further bottlenecked by the inhospitable nature of the ether, those fortunate few who reached the Buffer Planet found they now possessed even more myriad forms.
And nowhere is this triumph of life more obvious than the harbors of Hyduddify. Glorious Hyduddify, where beings of every color and size imaginable trod the cobbled streets, bustling to and fro while vendors bark their wares.
Jewelry bugs embalmed in amber! Minted right before your eyes!
Sea silk garments that changed color with only the touch of a finger! Limited stock! Buy now!
Custom bred torogs for all your smelting needs!
Roasted cicada in over 500 flavors! Poison free!
Hidden deep in the crevices of this nexus of life, one Creosote of Batavia wonders if, perhaps, leaving her home had not been such a good idea after all. True, it was a necessary duty, and of all the sisters-in-training of the Monastery, it was she who believed her natural curiosity made her the best suited to going abroad. Kib was the God of Life, it was reasoned, so it only made sense that to garner her favor (and thus earn their redemption), the ladies of Batavia must gather as much information on their watery world as possible. But due to fears of the plague within them, it was ordained only one adventurous soul must interact with the greater world beyond the island- and the other Venusians that had come to call this strange new world their home.
Thus the young Creosote travelled from island to island, harvesting shells, trawling up fish, sampling water, observing weather patterns, just gathering, gathering, gathering information on the strange new world as only a child could. But not all information was laid out in the open. Books, weapons, clothes- those artefacts of the new world, the things that made Venusians Venusian- were not things their owners parted with out of charity. Not when there was something to be gained in turn. Hence the sack she lugs around, containing glass jugs of a
“Fine, high, quality good.”
Being sold for
“Reasonable Price! Accepting barter!”
And she would really appreciate if
“Somebody, anybody, interested in buying tequila? Please?”
The market swirls around her, indifferent as the storms at sea. She has been doing this for three days, and at the rate things are going, there won’t be enough money to return home. Above, the moons look down, their judgement final. Creosote sighs. Perhaps a return voyage is not meant to be.
A clinking, the sort that comes from glass tapping glass, finally brakes her despairing thoughts. Were it anyone else, the noise might have escaped notice, but the people of Batavia had keen ears, and Creosote’s are no exception. Slowly turning around, she finds herself facing two crimson eyes wide with fear.
Before Creosote can so much as lift a finger, the shadowed figure ducks into the crowd, pilfered tequila in tow.
“H-hey! Stop!” She cries, hot in pursuit. But her pleas are lost to the bustle of life. Although she’s never been the most athletic person, her emaciated body allows her to weave between pedestrians and roaming wildlife alike with ease, and her eyesight, accustomed to the dark, makes her only further aware of obstacles her quarry seems all too determined to bumble into. But it’s not enough. The Thief slips into the swampland at the edge of the market, and all she can do is follow.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Were the situation not so dire, Creosote might have taken a moment to observe the immaculate brackish ecosystem, with its delicate mangrove roots curving gently into the pristine water while innumerable fish swarmed round them. But she has a mission and will not tarry. Thankfully, her quarry is slowing a bit.
The Thief is cornered- in front of her Creosote, behind her a swamp littered with fallen trees.
“Stop!” Creosote cries. To which the Thief pops the cork off the pilfered jug and takes a sip, almost mockingly so.
This is her first mistake. For what the Thief thought was little more than particularly luxurious water instead scorches her throat with the heat of ten thousand suns. She coughs and sputters, dropping the half-empty bottle into the mud.
Her second is trying to hop along the strewn-about logs which fill the swamp to get to the other side.
“Komodo!” Screams Creosote.
The Thief can hardly believe how desperate she is. Even idiots know that komodos are oceangoing lizards!
That is, until a log opens its eyes and grabs her leg.
Were the Theif not in so dire a position, thy might have been interested to know that while Komodos are oceangoing, their young tend to reside in lacustrine environments to avoid competition with much more aggressive adults.
Of course, the myriad teeth lodged in her knee take priority. A guttural scream pierces the night as the young komodo, no more than twenty feet long, drags her to its muck-laden domain.
Creosote has never met the thief before this day. For all she knows, the slight girl is secretly the leader of a violent street gang, and would not be above murder to get what she wants. The world outside Batavia is a beautiful but savage land, where brutality repays brutality. But right here, right now, there is a chance that isn’t the case.
In one swift stroke she grabs the fallen jug, hurling it at the overgrown lizard’s eyes. With a guttural bellow old as time, the komodo releases it’s prey, just long enough for Creosote to drag the Thief to the safety of the trees. The primordial bellowing lasts for hours.
It is against a tree Creosote makes her next move. Praying to Kib for forgiveness, she takes out some cloth from her pack, douses it in tequila, and dabs it on the poor Thief’s mangled leg. Her eyes open and she screams in agony.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Creosote assures her, and as the girl’s breath steadies, she adds “I promise, you shall be fine.” The last thing Creosote does before heading back to the marketplace is wrap the leg in her only blanket. Having nowhere to go, and lacking funds to afford an in, she sleeps on the streets, clutching her cargo.
----------------------------------------
That should be the end of it, just an odd happenstance in the great drama that was life on this brave new world. But the way of Kib is mysterious and full of surprises. The next night, Creosote is roused from slumber by
“Firewater! Get you spicy, exquisite, firewattteeeeerrrrr!”
That thief from the day before is standing over her body, selling HER wares!
With what little strength she has, she pins the girl to the ground. Unfortunately, this is where her strength ends, and the Thief, leg bound in cloth, rises again.
“Hey! What was that for?! I’m just trying to help you, dummy!”
As if on cue, a curios onlooker walks up to the fighting pair.
“Pardon my interruption, but what did you sweet ladies say you were selling?”
The Thief leaps up.
“My dear Ma’am,” she begins, half-bowing (a hard task given she’s using a stick as a crutch) , “Might we interest you in the most, fine, exquisite beverage in all the islands?”
“That depends,” she says, “Name your price.”
“Ma’am, this is no ordinary beverage! This is the one, the only-“
“Tequila.” Whispers Creosote.
“TEQUILA!” Cries the Thief, loud enough to draw glances from the other vendors. “Made only by-“ She looks to Creosote for instruction.
“It’s made by nuns on Batavia, an isolated island housing much unique flora and fauna.”
“Nuns who devote their whole life to the craft on the island of Batavia, a land apart from time with creatures found nowhere else in the world!”
By the time the pitch ends, most of the bottles are gone, replaced by the market’s myriad treasures.
Only Creosote and the Thief are left.
“Thank you.” Says the nun-in-training.
Her former foe blushes. “Hey, it was the least I could do. And you helped me out back there. Nuns on a small island apart from time. Hah! You’re way cleverer than you look!” And with that, the girl starts limping back into the marketplace, leaning on her makeshift crutch.
“Wait!”
The Thief pauses.
“You’ve been truly helpful today. If it’s not too much to ask, would you be interested in being my companion? I could certainly use a travel assistant.”
The Thief shrugs.
“Well, it’s not like I have anything better to do.”
Tears well at the corners of Creosote’s eyes.
“Thank you, miss-“
“Malagasy.” The tall, red-eyed urchin smiles, “The name’s Malagasy.”