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Pulp Fedcom
by Andrew Borelli |
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FEB 23
Solaris City Subway
Solaris City, passing through Cathay Sector
"Hey, mister."
At first Dutch took no notice of what was going on around him. He was still trying to remain inconspicuous, and so he sat in the rear car. Local residents knew better. The rear car was where the predators hung out. It was also where one could be cornered. Dutch was there for the privacy.
Several minutes earlier he had broken into the conductor's booth on the last car of the train and hastily changed into an oversized sweatshirt taken from his dufflebag. His cooling jacket went out the window of the booth. He had hastily checked and loaded a Federated Arms .144 needler pistol before tucking it under the sweatshirt.
The needler was a risky choice. He couldn't afford much better. In the hands of an amateur, it was likely to just piss off the target rather than do any real damage. But Dutch's marksmanship was one thing he still had on his side. A solid round to the face, hands, or crotch of an assailant would stop that person cold. Unless the target was armored, he stood a good chance of inflicting a grievous hit. And he rationalized that it would be some time before the bad guys got their elite armored hitters mobilized. For now, the sort of clowns that would be looking for him would be second raters.
"Hey, mister, you're that mechwarrior, aren't you?"
Dutch looked up, frowning powerfully. The last thing he needed was someone recognizing him. Standing over him was a smiling woman dressed in technician’s overalls and a crew hat, which read "Starlight Corp. Technical Svcs."
A shock of curly red hair was tied up in the back of her head and seemed to be stuffed under her hat. She was perhaps no older than 25. The various pockets of her uniform bristled with tools, parts, and on her right hip, a holstered Nakijama laser pistol. A lady knew not to travel unprotected on Solaris mass transit. Dutch idly noticed that the pistol was a Kuritan weapon... odd for a technician with a Davion-aligned stable of fighters.
"Don't know what you're talking about," he said, staring back at the floor.
The woman continued to smile slyly, then sat down on the bench across from him. "You're the one from the fight at the Steiner arena tonight. You killed the other warrior, you know."
Dutch looked up again in surprise.
"He's dead?"
"The ComNet said he was dead."
"Wow. Sorry about that, Floyd."
"So what's it like? You know, to pull the trigger on someone like that?"
Dutch frowned again. "What are you, some kind of a weirdo?"
The woman laughed. "It's something every techie thinks about, in case you didn't know. Sure, you mech jockeys, you take your mechs out and shoot each other full of holes, then you come limping back into the mech bay and expect miracles. And we deliver, every time. But we never get a real piece of the action."
"There's betting houses for that."
"Not like that. We get to watch you guys slug it out, and sure the pay is good. We get closer than anyone else does to the action. But in the end all we get is the scraps. So I want to know what it's like to take somebody down like that."
"You shoulda joined the Nagelring if you wanted to find that out."
"Orphan girls from the Periphery don't get to apply to the Nagelring, Dutch."
"Tell you what. You tell me your name, and give me one of those mints you've got there," he said motioning toward one of her pockets, "and I'll tell you what you want to know." His mouth was paper dry. The mints were a popular brand manufactured on Oblina and were often found in the possession of mechwarriors and aerotech pilots. They were made to quench thirst when water wasn't available. He guessed techies got thirsty sometimes too, pulling 30 hour shifts in the mech bays.
She poured out a few mints into his outstretched hand; he popped him into his mouth, savoring the sweetness and the moisture.
"Esmeralda Blanco. The name is Terran, but I'm from Circinus."
"Okay Esmeralda Blanco, what is it you want to know?"
She grinned broadly.
"What was it like to kill the other pilot?"
"I'll tell you the truth. I've killed mech pilots before. And every time, I didn't feel anything. As for Floyd Wellberg, I didn't know he was dead until you told me. It looked to me like he had more than enough time to punch out. And now that I know he's dead, you want to know how I feel? I don't feel the least bit bad about it. If he had been a better pilot, he'd still be alive. And if he'd never plugged in his neurohelmet, which he shouldn't have done in the first place, I wouldn't have killed him."
The train pulled into the Halloran Street station. It was time for Dutch to go.
"So long, Esmeralda Blanco."
She winked and smiled knowingly. "Sayonara, Dutch."
He grabbed his duffel, exited the car and quickly walked up the deserted platform towards the escalators. The escalators led to the station; at this time of night the station was "exit only," which meant that no agents were available in the token booths, and few trains would be stopping at the platform. Another escalator took him up to the street.
It was quiet that evening as night slowly gave way to early morning. He was in the International Zone, but at the very north end of the sector where it blended with the slums of the Black Hills over in the Davion quarter. About five blocks into the Black Hills was an HPG station that operated all evening. Although it was a small station, the massive HPG transmitter over the building was unmistakable from blocks away. He half-sprinted the distance, entered the station, and paid the usage fee to a cloaked ComStar acolyte who eyed him suspiciously. Armed ComGuard sentries stood on either side of the desk, they had more discretion than the night clerk did.
"You looking at something, friend?", Dutch challenged the acolyte.
"Uh... no sir, of course not. Please use booth number 17, right down the corridor. Wisdom of Blake be with you," he called after Dutch, who had already turned away from the desk and begun striding towards the comm booth.
Each comm booth was a small, dark room a bit larger than a public vidphone booth. The walls were covered in black office carpeting, as were the floors. The rear wall of the room contained a public HPG terminal designed to be easy to use to send or retrieve messages. To both side were diagonally shaped armrests, and in the center was a comfortable plush office chair. The dim lights of the booth darkened completely when Dutch entered his access information into the terminal and locked the door behind him.
There was a single message waiting for him.
DUTCH,
IT'S A GO! WE BET HEAVY WITH NINE OF THE BIGGEST BOOKS ACROSS THE SPHERE. AFTER WE DROPPED THE WORD THAT THE FIX WAS IN THE BEST ODDS I COULD GET WERE 100 TO 1. LOOKS LIKE SOME PEOPLE ARE GOING TO BE A LITTLE CASH POOR FOR AWHILE. I'VE ALREADY GOT MY BOYS COLLECTING. WE SHOULD HAVE IT ALL BY THE TIME YOU GET IN. SEE YOU ON ALPHERATZ, BRO.
-SMITTY
Dutch grinned broadly, logged out of the terminal and walked out of the station, intentionally giving the acolyte a threatening glance, who pretended not to notice.
Satisfied, Dutch took a deep breath - he was breathing hard and perspiring quite heavily by now - and took off in the direction of Hemlock Street, the home of Hotel Row. He had rented a room in a nameless but sufficiently clean motel that sat inconspicuously in the shadow of the Royale, a top-shelf joint off of Halloran. Normally, he lived in a fairly decent apartment in the Blackthorne district of Silesia, the Steiner-controlled zone of Solaris City. That place would be crawling with gunmen by morning looking for him, if they hadn’t trashed it already. But by morning he’d be gone.
He walked up the short driveway of the motel and then to the exterior door to his room. He paused, wiped his brow, and caught his breath. In the distance the giant lighted comm towers of the spaceport were visible,
as were the plasma trails of several departing dropships. Soon, he thought. We’re halfway home.
Looking over his shoulder one final time, Dutch inserted the guest access card into the slot next to the door. The slot glowed green, and the door slid open. The room was dark. He cautiously crept inside, the smell of stale cigarettes and motel carpeting hitting his nostrils.
“Keep the light off,” a small voice said in the dark. His pupils adjusted to the lack of light. Veronica, his better half, lay on her side on the bed.
“Hey sugar plum,” Dutch said, in gentle voice he only used with her. He took off the sweatshirt and kicked off the heavy combat boots, sighing in satisfaction. Heat seemed to pour from him like a mech venting its coolant ducts. He literally plopped into the chair next to the bed, resting one of his arms on the convenience table that accompanied it.
“How did it go?” he heard her ask.
“Rough day, babe. I got into a fight.” She was one of the few people in the world he ever joked with.
“Did you win?
“I won, alright. Didn’t you watch?”
“I never watch your fights. I hate those bloodsport shows.”
“Well, I won.”
He reached down into a small plastic cooler next to the convenience tray and pulled out an icy Timbiqui Ale, a newer product from the famous brewer. He popped open the unusual trademark container and took a long drag of ale.
“So everything turned out well in the finish, yes?”
“Well, we’re pretty far from the finish yet, sugar pop.”
“Come lay down with me.”
In one long draw he finished the ale, then lay down and embraced her. She snuggled up to his broad frame with its many old scars.
“So now what do we do?”
“Well, we’ll be in the money once we get to the Outworlds Alliance. Gonna take us a few weeks to jump there. But it ain’t the kind of dough where we can live in the Sphere like kings. In the Periphery, we find ourselves a quiet place to chill out, the kind of dough we’re going to have will stretch a long, long way.”
“Can we get married when we get back home?”
“If you want to, pumpkin pie.”
“Yes, I would like that very much.” He loved the way she spoke. Veronica had grown up on one of the more rural worlds of the Outworlds Alliance. Her slight country twang had delicately melded with a Terran Dutch accent, reflecting that society’s neo-Amish roots. Her parents had disappeared during the depression years, although she often mentioned two brothers who were fighter jockeys for the AMC. She hadn’t seen them in years, but she was pleased as punch at the prospect of going back.
“Are we in danger still, darling?”, she asked.
“I gotta be honest with you, babe. As long as we’re anywhere near Solaris, it ain’t safe. Sooner we get to the spaceport, the better.”
“Shouldn’t we have booked a flight tonight, then?”
“I couldn’t be sure what time I’d be back here or how much running I’d have to do. ‘Sides, middle of the night, most of the scheduled drops are inbound loads of tourists. Most of your outbound traffic goes up in the morning. We should have plenty of time to get out of here.”
She kissed him on the lips. “My smart man,” she said grinning. He returned her kiss. |
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