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Pulp Fedcom
by Andrew Borelli |
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Steiner Arena
Silesia, Steiner zone
Solaris City, Solaris VII
The Arena building was quiet now, the crowds long gone, most of the staff home for the night. Only the distant racket of late-night activity in the mech bays echoed through the hallways. Even the locker room and the nearby showers had dried out for the night, losing their perpetual humid atmosphere and stale aroma as the air conditioners finally had a chance to catch up.
When his men finally found Marcus Flint sitting despondently in the pilot's locket room, he had already spent the past three hours with Dutch Carter's stable manager. The manager was on the floor, unconscious. Flint had spent the time making him intimately familiar with a neural whip.
"Mr. Flint..."
"Manager here says he doesn't know anything. What's the word on Dutch?"
"Dutch split. We're sending guys around to his apartment block, every bar he ever hung out in, we've got the spaceport covered..."
"What about his tech crew?"
"They claim they don't know anything, and we believe them. I think..."
"No, we don't want to think, dig? We want to know. You take them out to the Reaches, give them the works. We'll make for damn sure what they know."
"How do you want Dutch's search done?"
"I'm prepared to scour the galaxy for that SOB. If Dutch goes to Strana Mechty, I want a clanner hiding in his oatmeal in the morning ready to blast his sorry ass. Now, leave me." |
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