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Pulp Fedcom
by Andrew Borelli |
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24 FEB 3063
SILESIA, BLACKTHORNE DISTRICT
STEINER ZONE, SOLARIS CITY
SOLARIS VII
There were more people out on the streets now, but they hardly seemed to notice Dutch as he trotted towards the subway. As he got back to the corner of Siebert and River Streets, the smell of fresh roasting coffee filled his senses. There was an upscale coffeehouse in the middle of the street, a popular destination on a Saturday at this time of morning. Absentmindedly he glanced over at the shop, tempted by its displays of pastries and exotic bean roasts. The food at the spaceport wouldn’t come close to this joint. He was in a hurry; but Veronica was eating on her own now anyway…
He crossed the street, walked towards the shop somewhat sheepishly, and noted a number of patrons walking in and out. One of them was carrying two cups of coffee and a bag of goodies to go. He wore a mustard colored overcoat, impeccably shined shoes and matching slacks that Dutch seemed to recognize.
He looked up and found himself staring straight into the face of Marcus Flint.
Flint’s dark, evil eyes widened, as he stopped abruptly in place. Dutch did the same, then braced himself. Flint reached under his overcoat, throwing the bag and the coffee into the gutter.
“Son of a…”
Dutch went for the needler, but Flint was just as fast and better armed. Dutch’s shot sent a tightly grouped flight of twelve plastisteel flechettes at Flint’s right knee, mangling it (and the slacks) badly. Flint’s shot went straight through Dutch’s left shoulder, leaving shattered tendons and cartilage in its wake. Locals on the street scattered in every direction, screaming and yelling.
Dutch ran as quickly as he could in the opposite direction, hoping he could make the subway platform before Flint could line up another shot. He felt the drain and shock of blood loss. His arm was a ton of bricks attached to his side.
Even with his knee shattered, Flint gave chase better than Dutch expected. They “ran” another few blocks drawing looks from passers-by and exchanging several poorly aimed shots that sent people on the street running for cover. When a round from Flint’s pistol smashed through the glass façade of a public HPG sub-terminal, missing Dutch’s face by inches, he decided to try for one of the stores and hide in there. Police sirens called in the distance. The last thing he needed now was to be picked up by the Lyran Militia.
He had seconds before Flint turned the corner. One of the nearest storefronts would have to do. The first one was empty and locked up. The second was a popular take-out restaurant owned by a Capellan expatriate. That one wouldn’t do. Even if the owner was Free Cappella, he doubted he’d be welcome in there considering what had happened with Slugger Chan. The guy might even call the cops.
The next storefront was a small branch of a popular electronics chain that catered mostly to professional technicians. Through the window Dutch saw a sole clerk perched over the sales counter quietly reading the morning paper. He figured this guy wouldn’t give him much trouble. As calmly as he could, he strode through the door… just as Marcus Flint turned the corner and continued to give chase.
The shop was plain and laid out in a familiar fashion, being part of a large commercial chain. Packaged circuitry, servos, chips, wires, tools, and hundreds of other items sat on a few aisles of shelves. The clerk looked up from his paper skeptically.
“Yes… is there something I can do for you?”
Dutch pulled the needler from his shirt and readied it. “You can shut up and mind your own business,” he growled back. The huge frame of Marcus Flint filled the entrance of the shop and seemed to smash through like a charging bull. He burst into the room and immediately began grappling with Dutch.
Dutch landed several hits to the ribs before Flint delivered a crippling hammer blow to the jaw. Dutch retaliated by kicking Flint’s damaged knee as hard as he could. Flint shouted and stumbled to the floor, clamping his hands around Dutch’s throat and dragging Dutch down with him. Dutch smashed the needler into Flint’s face and put the barrel to his head as the two men struggled.
A frigid, clear voice cut through the store.
“Put that weapon down and back away from that man.”
Dutch turned around slowly. The store clerk was standing over them both with a huge Capellan-made shotgun pointed at them. It was the kind of weapon anti-mech infantry would carry to shatter actuators or pry open cockpits.
“This ain’t none of your business, mister! You don’t understand!”
“I’m making this my business, do you hear? Nobody kills anyone else in my store.”
“But this guy was trying to kill me!”
“Listen to me carefully. I’m going to kill you both if you don’t quiet down and back away from him.”
Nonplussed, Dutch threw the needler across the room and stepped a few paces away from Flint, who was losing consciousness.
"Now put your hands over your head and walk towards me, very slowly."
Dutch approached the counter cautiously, hands over his head.
"Mister, you don't need to-"
"Be quiet. Be very quiet."
Still holding the shotgun with one hand - a feat he shouldn't have been able to do - the clerk took from under the counter a neural disrupter, a hand-held device popular with police and security troops. It was a boxy black device with a simple trigger and two metal prongs used for striking the target. The device disrupted brain patterns and caused rapid unconsciousness.
With a pull of the trigger, the clerk thrust the disrupter at Dutch. Everything went black. |
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