The Standup Boys' Last Fight

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Can the Standup Boys live in peace?
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PulpWyatt
PulpWyatt
290 Followers

Author's note: This story is one of a series, but they can be read in any order.

* * *

'When are you going to make something of yourself?' If Neshet never heard those words again, it would be too soon.

It was good work she did, painting the pots her mother made so they'd sell for more. She pulled her weight, and when the time came, she'd take over the whole workshop. But her mother had once again made it clear that was not enough.

Out here, she felt better. The packed sand road that wound from the family workshop to the town of Anshabat could have fit five chariots side by side, but right now, there was only Neshet. Without walls, trees or even milestones to get in the way, Neshet's feelings spread out in the bleak, beautiful expanse of the desert, and the wind carried her worries away.

In town, brimming baskets of grain and barley drifted from shop to shop, with muscular men hobbling underneath them. The smells of camel, spice and perfume mingled, and hundreds of voices blended together unintelligibly. Here a pair of policewomen stood sagely at an intersection, watching for thieves while a police dog slept on the ground between them. There a handsome man hawked some useless luxury, his employer watching with satisfaction as customers gathered. Over there, a cat sat haughtily on a sack of flour as if it owned it.

And up ahead stood a soldier. Not a town guard, but a stern-looking woman sweating in bronze armor and with a spear and tall shield crossed on her back: the exact outfit Neshet's sister had worn on the day she left to fight the barbarians.

The soldier noticed Neshet's attention. "You there," she said, "Are you tough?"

"Yes." And it was true. Neshet always had been the first to wake up in the morning, the last to tire out and the last to complain about heat and hunger.

"Are there any warriors in your family?"

"Yes. My sister, Amamusa."

The woman's eyes widened. "Amamusa has a sister? Why haven't you joined too?" she threw out her hands. "We'd love another one!"

"I..." Neshet almost backpedaled, then thought back to her mother's constant demands for grandchildren. "I want to join. I want to go fight the sea people."

"We don't need more for them," said the woman, putting her hands on her hips. "Haven't you heard? We're going into

the jungle. It's good work. Blazing new ground for the empire, putting up outposts and pushing back the frontier. You get armed, you get fed and you get the glory."

"Did you say 'frontier?'"

"The southern jungle. Do you think you can take the moisture?"

On the frontier, there would be no pressure to marry. She could work hard and be something more than a deadbeat daughter. "Yes," said Neshet. "Yes, I can." She put some force into her voice. "Count me in!"

* * *

When Neshet faced the jungle, words failed her.

They had rushed her through a month of training in municipal law and mass battlefield tactics, both of which Neshet doubted she would need in the jungle. Then they had sat her down to teach her to read and write, only to find that she already knew, so here she was, facing a great mass of green.

Trees grew wherever they could fit and in some places where they couldn't, roots wrapping over each other with moss, ferns and mushrooms growing out of logs that looked like they had fallen only minutes ago.

Neshet had only seen her first mushroom a week ago, on the riverboat trip down into the jungle. In that time, she had seen more life in every foot of riverbank than there was over miles of desert. And already, she had developed the reflex of slapping her skin wherever she felt a tickle; the mosquitos had been bad enough back home, but here they were a divine curse.

"Here we are," said Ferena, the veteran who led their five-woman group. "Home sweet home. Welcome to Darmayet."

It wasn't much to look at. A dozen houses, none fancier than the simple hut Neshet had grown up in, lay in a grid connected by crude stone-tile walkways, with a solitary watchtower rising an unimpressive two stories from the ground, not getting above the tree canopy. The only thing that didn't look cramped and overused was the open-air armory, where spears, shields, spikes, machetes and even crossbows hung polished and ready.

Neshet had been told to expect a governor, and the woman who stepped out to meet them had to be her. Her makeup, her upper-class shoulder-length hair and the silver-trimmed dress all looked the part of the youngest daughter of an official family. The only thing that looked out of place was the fact that she was coming to meet the newcomers herself.

"Ferena," said the governor, facing the veteran. "I was told to expect your group. You may leave your supplies in the north house, the one with the broken lantern. Then get a shovel and find Captain Meeshahat. We are digging a drainage ditch to the pit downhill." She looked at the others. "That goes for all of you."

"Yes, Governor Mananat," said Ferena. "It's an unexpected pleasure to speak to you, face to face."

"You think speaking to grunts is beneath the dignity of a governor?"

"No, Governor, I-"

"You should. Because I am a governor in name only." She grew a capricious smile. "Here, I am governor, mayor, captain, sergeant, soldier and laborer, all rolled into one. But if this colony grows, I'll be a real governor." She pressed a finger into Ferena's shoulder. "Help me get there, and I'll make you a general." On that, she turned away.

Quickly, Ferena regained herself. "You heard her, ladies. The north house."

As promised, a broken lantern hung at the entrance to the northern house, and a map and shovels waited inside. What Neshet had not expected to see was a man, remarkably broad and muscular, sharp-featured, prim and fit, but with facial hair that flew in the face of prevailing fashion back home. More strangely, his skin was tan. Not the deep, rich, dark brown that characterized Neshet's people, but a light tan.

"You," said Ferena, "Can I find Captain Meeshahat?"

"Yes, ma'am," said the man, in a smooth but guttural accent. "She is just a stone's throw downhill." He pointed out a north-facing window. "You can't miss her."

"Thank you." Snatching a papyrus map from a carved-flat boulder, Ferena took a shovel and marched for the door. Neshet followed, but hesitated and looked back at the man.

"You're surprised to see a man here?" he said good-naturedly. "Or surprised to see a foreigner?"

"Erm... both."

"Then I'll explain it to you." He picked up a shovel. "While we work."

On the northern hillside, at the bottom of a half-finished runnel, heavy peat soil gave way under the effort of a few dozen women, half of whom turned out to be men on closer inspection. "I can't believe it," said Neshet, as she half-heartedly sank her shovel into the soggy dirt. "How many men are in this colony?"

"Fifteen men from your land, mostly criminals who chose this over slaving away in the sand pits," said the man. "And eighteen others. More than thirty men in all, and this one is named Zameed. Have you ever heard of the city of Izaz?"

"You mean the city of Isos? I thought it was only a myth."

"It's pronounced 'Izaz,' and it is very real." Sorrow passed over his bold features. "If you're a woman, it's a glorious city of light and safety. If you're a man, it's a prison." He smiled. "When my parents died, my sister inherited the right to marry me off, and she was about to give me to a woman I had never met, just so she might get closer to the woman who could raise her station in life. It was a game I couldn't win. So I refused to play." He chuckled. "So I climbed over the city walls and ran sixty miles through the wilderness. I do nothing by half measure."

"Wait, your sister could just decide who you could marry? You couldn't refuse?"

"Sure I could, by running away." He smiled. "But I know what you mean. No, not in Izaz."

The conversation died.

Hours passed, the daylight shrank into night, and finally the work gang was called off. Neshet fell into her bedroll, and her head had barely hit the pillow when she was asleep.

"Hey," said a high, harsh male voice. "Get up, girl. Come on."

Neshet's eyes reluctantly opened, and she found herself looking at a sandal.

"Come on, get up." The voice's accent was so heavy that Neshet almost failed to understand. Then the foot gave up on words and prodded her roughly.

Peering up, she saw a thin blond man glaring down at her over a pair of folded arms. He looked barely out of his teen years—even younger than her.

To Neshet's embarrassment, his kilt did nothing to conceal his penis from her angle. Flaccid, it looked horribly shriveled, even unhealthy, with only his reassuringly full balls underneath to make it look normal.

"Hey!" he stepped back. "Quit looking, you piece of shit!" He turned away in a huff. "Emja buzizi, mazreal ba-ajmen."

"What?" Neshet sat up. "What's wrong with you?"

"That was Izazi," said the thin man over his shoulder. "Get used to it. The natives in the jungle all use it, though they mangle it."

"I mean before that. I'm sorry I saw up your kilt. I didn't mean to." She rubbed her left temple. "But you stood right over me. And you kicked me."

The thin man folded his arms and slumped against the doorsill, his face wrinkled with misery. "It's not your fault," he muttered. "It's something else."

"What is it, then? What did I do?"

"It wasn't you," he repeated. He glanced around, making sure the few women still in the room were asleep. "The governor let us live here instead of in the wilds. She said if ten of the fourteen of us became consorts, we could all stay. Now that more women are showing up, she's changing the deal. We all have to open our legs, or we're out."

"Fourteen of you ran away from Izaz at once?"

"There were a lot more than fourteen, sister." He sighed bitterly. "But when we found Darmayet, it was down to us. A few survivors trickle in every month or so, but... I don't want to talk about it." He extended a hand, palm out. "My name is Vot. Shall we call a truce?"

Neshet pressed her hand onto his, completing the gesture. "Truce," she said. "My name is Neshet. And it was nice talking to you."

Vot glared for a minute, then seemed to realize that she meant it. Wide-eyed, he turned away.

Outside, Neshet barely had time to join the other women for a breakfast of sourdough bread, accompanied by jungle fruits that were exotic luxuries in her homeland, but standard fare here.

"Tower's going up," said Ferena, as the meal wound down. "Neshet, you haven't done much. Let's have you take the first shift up the ladder."

As it turned out, the watchtower that had seemed so inadequate at first sight was unfinished. Here in the jungle, mud bricks wouldn't bake, but wood was everywhere; instead of sandstone, this tower would be made of wooden beams slotted together and pasted with sloppy, runny mortar. At the top of a flimsy wooden ladder, it was Neshet's job to maneuver the awkward planks into place, creating precarious see-through grid floors.

On her second trip to the ground to exchange her mortar pot for a new beam, Ferena said, "Don't leave the mortar down here. Just tie the pot to the top rung so it's in reach."

Evidently, the ladder was stronger than it seemed. Neshet obeyed.

After a few hours, Neshet and Ferena switched places, with Neshet at the ladder's base, passing boards up to Ferena at the top. When they heard a fibrous tearing noise, both women stopped.

The mortar pot tore itself free, sundering the right leg of the ladder, and fell onto a crossbeam of the unfinished tower.

Neshet could see it all happen from two stories below. The vertical supports caved in. The boards connecting them either dropped away or had their fragile ends sheared off. No longer vertical, the supports fell past each other, and everything fell on Neshet.

On a reflex, Neshet threw up her hands, and instantly planks fell across them, her arms and her shoulders, grinding against each other and scraping her skin, and she sank to one knee under the weight.

Outside, a babble of panic gave way to a shouted command of, "Get them out of there!"

At the word 'them,' Neshet remembered Ferena, and she saw the unlucky woman crumpled on the ground next to her, bruised but breathing.

"Ferena!" cried Neshet. "Get up, Ferena!"

Gritting her teeth, Ferena gathered her elbows at her sides and struggled to lift herself. Above her, the weight of the tower's wooden skeleton trembled, prevented only by Neshet's strength from crushing the injured woman.

Neshet felt a pull on her arm, and for a moment she panicked, only to realize that that hand was trying to rescue her. "Get out of there!" screamed a voice behind it. "Get out of that wood!"

"No!" was all Neshet could strain out as she looked back to Ferena. The woman had tottered to her feet, and she groped her way cluelessly around.

Shifting her weight, Neshet slammed her shoulder into Ferena's side, knocking the woman out of the tower's footprint. Twisting the knot of wooden boards on her own shoulders, Neshet followed her, releasing her load and diving out of the way as it collapsed behind her.

Neshet closed her eyes and lay on her back, the rush of danger tingling from the tips of her toes to the base of her skull, a dull buzz in her ears that blotted out everything else. She tried to relax her hands, and found that her fists wouldn't unclench. Her frantic breathing slowed, and the knot of tension between her lungs slowly dissolved. She felt relief on her tingling skin as wet rags cleaned her scrapes.

Opening her eyes, she saw Zameed's concerned face over hers. Shade came over her face, and she saw a small crowd of people gathered around him, all staring at her uncertainly. "I'm alright," she strained out. She struggled to sit up, then she wobbled to her feet. Something warm supported her, and a moment later, she recognized that warm thing as Zameed. "Thank you," she said absently.

Ferena stood beside her, mortified. "Neshet, can you hear me? Neshet, I'm... I'm sorry. That was my mistake." She hugged herself, a strange gesture from the crusty veteran. "I think you've saved me from becoming a cripple."

"You're welcome." Finally, Neshet found the words to say what was on her mind. "I need to lie down."

* * *

Nothing worse than a very nasty bruise had damaged Neshet's body; her only real injury was the shock. Over and over, her mind replayed the disconcerting noise of wood fraying as the whole structure crashed down on her head.

Someone stood over her. At first, Neshet paid her no mind, then with a twinge, recognized her as Governor Mananat. She sat up.

"No need to get up," said the governor evenly. "I am here to congratulate you. Your quick thinking might well have saved Ferena's life."

Neshet shrugged modestly. "It wasn't that bad."

"Nonetheless, you know the men in this colony are mostly joined as concubines. Most of them are already spoken for. There are only enough singles left for a few lucky women. I think you've earned the right to be one of those lucky few."

'Marriage...' thought Neshet. It was the thing she come here to get away from. She looked up at the governor's stern, expectant face, and any thought of protest died on her tongue. "Thank you," she said distantly.

"You may take up to a month to choose which available man you would prefer."

As the governor left, Neshet's head spun. It would be a grave disrespect to reject the governor's offer. Back home, she would have considered it, but here, where her governor was also her neighbor, it was unacceptable. She would have to endure it.

Then again, there was something to be said for the men around here.

Deciding that her nerves had recovered, Neshet got to her feet and tottered out of the hut, where the sun welcomed her back to the outdoors.

"Neshet!" Zameed padded up to her on bare feet. "Neshet, I was just coming to see you again. Are you alright?" The big man's eyes glistened with concern as he put his hands gently on her shoulder and waist, as if worried that she would collapse like the watchtower.

"Yes, I'm fine." She laughed as she removed his hands. "I'm not injured, Zameed, I swear it. I only needed some time to catch my breath. Now I think work is just the thing I need to clear my head."

"Oh, excellent! We need help clearing away the rubble."

"Zameed, I..."

Zameed turned to face her.

"Zameed, you're not married yet, are you?"

"We Standup boys don't like to use the word, but no, I don't have a mistress."

"The governor said I should pick a man because... as a reward, I guess." Her cheeks burned. This was all happening too fast. But there was no turning back now. "Zameed, would you like it to be you?"

Zameed's eyes shot open. He took a moment to close his mouth. "Me? I'd be honored! But... isn't this abrupt?"

Now she worried that her cheeks would melt off her face. "I guess so..." She took a quick breath to gather herself. "It is. I'm not happy about- I mean, I think this is abrupt too." She tore her eyes from the ground to face him. "But you've been nice to me, and between you and any other man here, I choose you."

He looked overwhelmed.

"Do you accept?"

His head tipped down in thought, and for one gut-wrenching moment Neshet considered that he might reject her.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I do accept!"

Neshet exhaled. Indeed, there was something to be said for her prospects.

* * *

Clearing away the wreckage of the tower had been cathartic. Now where there had been chaos and ruin, a fresh foundation had been dug, and the first new logs, freshly reinforced, had been set in the ground. Neshet and Zameed walked away from their handiwork together.

"Where are we going now?" asked Zameed. "Straight to sleep?"

Neshet's neck tingled. "Perhaps."

"I ask because a little time out in the bush can help you relax. I have it in Amuset's authority that the monster girls are timid this far north. They won't bother us if we stay close to the colony."

"Heh... Amuset." Neshet had met that scout. It took a special kind of woman to go traipsing around the wilderness, and Amuset was a little strange even for that. Still, she was no fool. "Maybe."

"Neshet, what's wrong?" Zameed stopped walking. "Are you afraid?"

She faced him.

"I would never hurt you," he said gently. "Back in Izaz, I was hurt, and I would never turn around and do that to someone else."

Neshet squirmed. "Let's do it," she blurted out. "Start slow, right?"

"Of course. Come, my friend Naka showed me a nice spot where we'll be alone."

"That sounds nice," she said stiffly.

Zameed led her out of the settlement, downhill into a patch of dirt that had been churned up by a working crew less than half a month ago, stripped of all its greenery. Zameed sat in the crook between two great trees, his eyes inviting her to sit across from him.

"Have you ever done this before?" asked Zameed.

"No," she lied. She clamped her hands against her sides to stop them shaking. "How exactly do you start slowly?"

As his answer, Zameed reached down to the tie holding his shirt together at the collar. With a slow, delicate pull, he undid the first knot, then his hands crept down and undid the second one, showing a little wedge of skin with short, bristly hair. His hands paused, and Neshet had a moment to wonder if it was normal that he seemed to have shaved his chest hair.

His left hand held his shirt closed as the right one traveled down the seam, skillfully undoing the knots without stopping. When he reached the bottom, he slowly slid his shirt open like a gate. First, Neshet saw his pectoral muscles meet over his flat stomach. As he showed more, she saw little ridges in his sides, then his pale nipples exposed to the open air.

Finally, he slid the shirt up and away, then leaned back and put his hands on the tree trunk behind him, letting her see everything from the belly button in his tight abdomen up to his smoothly muscled arms.

PulpWyatt
PulpWyatt
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