Pulp Fedcom
by Andrew Borelli
12 DEC 3031
Epsilon Eridani IV, Federated Commonwealth
Hello, young man. My name's Tom O'Byrne. Boy, I sure have heard a lot about you. I was with your father in a Kuritan concentration camp, and I was there with him when he… passed away. Like a lot of people in the same situation, we sort of promised each other that we'd take care of certain responsibilities if something happened to the other. As it happened, I'm coming to see you. I've got something for you.
This is your father's wristwatch. This is an ancient device from Terra. See, you probably haven't learned much about this yet, but everybody in the Inner Sphere - every family across the galaxy has a common ancestry on old Earth. Even you. Your family didn't always live on Eridani IV, you see. And this watch has been in your family for quite some time.
Your great grandfather, Jackie Carter, was given this watch on the same day he shipped out to fight the Draconis Combine. That was in the First Succession War. He wore this thing every day he served in that war. Finally his tour ended, he did his duty, he came home to your great grandmother, and he put the watch in a desk and forgot about it.
Well eventually Jackie's son Augustus, your grandfather, was called on to serve the Commonwealth. He went off to fight the Combine again, leaving his pregnant wife behind on Donegal. This time they called it the Third Succession War. Jackie gave the watch to his son as a good luck token.
Unfortunately, Augustus wasn't as lucky as his old man. He was a tanker, see, and he got assigned to the garrison on Skondia. Three days before the snakes attacked, your granddaddy asked a drinking buddy of his, a dropship gunner by the name of Waushau, to deliver the watch to his infant son - your father - who he had never seen before.
Every man there was facing death. And they knew it. None of those boys had any illusions of getting off of that planet alive. Three days later, your granddaddy was dead. But Waushau kept his promise. When the war ended, he made sure your grandmother got the watch.
This watch was on your daddy's wrist the day he got shot down over Vega during the Fourth Succession War. Your father knew that if the snakes caught him with this, well, they would take it away. The way your daddy saw it, this is your birthright. He'd be damned if he was gonna let any filthy Drac get their greasy hands all over your birthright. So, he hid the watch the only place he could... where the sun don't shine.
For seven months, your father held this uncomfortable chunk of metal up there. Finally he died of dysentery, he gave me the watch. I hid this thing up there for two months in that hellhole on Proserpina.
Eventually the Combine and the Fedcom got around to trading prisoners, and I got sent home to my family. And now, my young man, I give the watch to you.
-Major Tom O'Byrne (Ret), 71st Light Horse Regiment, 1/3 101st Air Cavalry, Eridani Light Horse, speaking to nine-year-old Dutch Carter
FEB 11 3063
Solaris VII, Lyran Alliance
Solaris City, Cathay District
Let me ask you this. How many fights do you think you have left in you? Your mech is half scrap as it is. Your name is mud in half the arenas on Solaris. Ain't nobody gonna make book on your ass. The Liaos think you're a murderer since that fight against Slugger Chan went bad. If we weren't in Lyran space you'd be serving hard time in maxsec right now.
Thing is, you had drive, and you had ability, but you flushed it down the toilet when you couldn't keep from betting. The smart fighters know the smart money is through an agent, Dutch. But you never was smart. No, your talent was in your combat skills. Except you're pushing what now, forty? You've been broke for the past ten years, burning out your brain with a garbage neurohelmet should have been melted for scrap a decade ago. You should have known it was time to quit when you hocked your SRM launcher.
I've read the doctor's reports. Half the bettors on the planet have. Your neurons are shot. You can't even hold that drink straight. Now these are some hard facts to face. But the hell with that. Because six months from now, when you're rolling in c-bills on some quiet planet somewhere, you're gonna think to yourself Marcus Flint was right.
The people I represent don't give a damn about what you did before. The past is the past. This is all about the c-bills. I'm giving you a chance to get in on the payday for once. All you gotta do is put pride aside and be willing to take a dive.
So now I gotta ask you: are you our man?
- Organized crime lord Marcus Flint speaking to Solaris mechwarrior Dutch Carter
FEB 23 3063
Solaris VII, Lyran Alliance
Solaris City, Silesia Sector
Steiner Arena
-…I've never seen such ferocity in a fighter before! Carter came out shooting and didn't stop until Wellberg's machine had toppled!
-Dave, there's no doubt that this fight is going to rock the gambling establishment to its very core! An entire world was waiting for the demise of the always-controversial Dutch Carter, and instead he's sent a top rated contender down in a fiery wreck!
-You're so right, Ted! And how many millions of c-bills were backing Wellberg tonight? Can the losses even be measured?
-One thing's for sure, Dave - this marks a tantamount turning point in Carter's career, who was well known for his financial troubles and perhaps a legendary string of bad breaks! And… this report just in confirms Wellberg is dead Wellberg did not survive the cockpit impact when his machine hit the floor! Like a master marksman, Carter unloaded a barrage of heavy autocannon shells that burrowed through Wellberg's mech like a hot knife through butter!
-What a display of skill from this underrated underdog! Wellberg seemed completely stunned when his actuators gave way! But not as surprised as he was when Carter's cannon fire tore through a main access hatch and straight into the primary LRM ammo!
-The question now is, where is Dutch Carter? He left the arena seconds after his victory had been made official, and as of yet there's been no word from tonight's champion!
Excerpt from broadcast transcript of Friday Night War Zone, c. 3063 Lyran Broadcasting Service
Five Minutes Earlier
The world stopped passing in a blur when Dutch Carter launched himself out of a square bathroom window barely big enough for a man to fit through and fell three stories down into a filthy dumpster intentionally filled with cheap foam comforters a few hours earlier. Half-dazed and unable to clear his head, the first thing he noticed was the smell.
Geez what a stench, he thought, fighting the urge to gag.
First things first. His battered duffel bag was half zipped; he'd literally packed on the run as he tore from the mech bay through the pilot's locker rooms and out the back window of the toilets. Using some of the comforters that separated him from a mound of truly vile refuse (and a painful landing besides) he padded the sides of the dumpster, which kept his hands from touching the soiled metal. In a single motion he leapt over the side and almost collapsed into a heap in the alley. His ankles exploded in pain, the taut lacing of his boots the only thing keeping them from cracking.
Smooth move old man, he chided himself.
From the window three stories up he could hear a distant commotion. It was most definitely time to go. He took a deep breath and started down the alley, his combat boots kicking up dirt and garbage as he ran. The alley was mostly dark, lit only by the tangle of neon and streetlights off of the main street. With every few steps he would hear himself kicking aside something solid - a beer can, a bit of scrap metal, broken glass. When he had reached the end of the alley he nearly slid as he strode through something slick and foul smelling.
Damn it.
The main street was awash in people, mostly locals and high rollers out slumming. Every store on the street was some manner of adult establishment that banked its trade on the Solaris fights. Around the corner the massive columns of the Steiner Arena rose into the dark night sky. He wanted to get as far away from there as possible. People passing were starting to give him sideways looks. The sight of a scraggly mechwarrior was a common sight in this part of town, but not one still dressed in shorts and a tattered cooling jacket. As quickly as he could he regained his composure, walked to the curb and tried to blend into the crowd of people waiting for the crossing light to change. The subway entrance was just three blocks away. But as word spread of the fight's outcome, half the gangsters on the planet would be looking for him. It would be three long blocks.
One Week Earlier
Solaris City, International Sector
Solaris VII
"Unit six, unit six, say again."
"Uh, Code 3, at site of 187. Multiple victims, we are 11-41."
"Roger that. Rolling medics to your location. Sit tight unit six, we're on our way."
The bar at the corner of Porter and Hallorand, for years a front for criminal enterprises had been empty for seven years now since the LIC had raided the place during an anti-organized crime sweep. It had since then become a popular hangout for the scum of Solaris VII. Emblazoned with routine varieties of gang tags, political slogans and obscene graffiti on the outside, the inside of the building served as a makeshift latrine, hideout, bedroom, and clinic for all sorts of unsavory individuals. It would not be the first time the SCPD had removed bodies from here.
But it was the first time they had found bodies in such condition as they were.
Outside of the building Officer Mark Nash, the bull of the 11th Sector, was puking his guts out to the amusement of the locals. More than one of them had a reason to dislike cops. His partner Officer Rache Harris kept to her digicorder, verbally noting the condition of the scene and marking evidence. They had placed collapsible plastic barriers with spinning red flashers (standard issue found in the trunk of any city police cruiser) around the entrance to the bar just to keep the onlookers at bay, and had taped up the door with the customary yellow "crime scene" tape.
It was a standard dead body call until they'd gone into the basement and found the deceased. From what they could tell, there had been three victims. A fairly large room in the basement - it looked to be a refrigerated store room at one time, probably for beer kegs - had been wallpapered with neoskin, a common item used during surgery to get severed flesh to stick together in a hurry. It was a lifesaver on the battlefields of the Successor Houses.
Unfortunately it had not been used in such a merciful role.
The victims had been indescribably mauled so that limbs and organs and other innards were strewn about the room. Detectives assigned to the scene surmised that whoever had done the killing either had help, or immense strength. With the neoskin hung everywhere, the rendered parts had stuck to the walls, creating a milieu of horror. Neoskin was designed to absorb blood in order to assist medics in saving the wounded from bleeding to death, and so the entire room was literally soaked from ceiling to floor. Blood chemistry tests through Forensics later determined that the victims had been alive when the killer or killers went to work.
Despite a mountain of physical evidence, no suspects could be worked up, although many arrests were made only to be released. The case made sensational headlines for a few days, then faded to the rear of the ComNet. Overloaded with other crimes, the detectives assigned made few follow-ups before pushing the case to the rear of their files.
Anyone who had been paying attention would have noticed it was the six such killing in as many months.
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.
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."
The Marathon Motel
Hotel Row, Davion zone
Solaris VII
The next morning Veronica was up early, checking their bags and spending extra time to make up her hair. Dutch had asked her not to take too much time getting ready, but she intentionally woke early to groom herself for this, the day of days. She showered and dressed, and when her hair was finally done she went back to the bedroom to begin the laborious process of waking Dutch Carter.
As usual she began by nudging him gently.
"Good morning, sleepy face."
Dutch grumbled and cursed under his breath, mostly mumbling until he finished his sentence with the word coffee.
"Coffee sounds wonderful. We'll have two big cups with breakfast."
"Let's get to the spaceport first, sugar pie," Dutch replied in a half groan. He literally rolled out of bed and grunted as he feet hit the floor. He glanced around the room, blinking, trying to get things into focus. He
noticed Veronica was fully dressed.
"What time is it?"
"About eight-thirty."
"What time did you get up?"
"About six."
"You're gonna pass out the minute we hit the spaceport, babe."
"Not me. I slept like a baby once I knew you were safe."
Dutch stood up as Veronica turned on the holovid in the room. The morning news programs on the different channels (each one sponsored by a different House) carried the same stories differing only in the way the story was spun and the order in which it was reported. Continued fighting between LCAF and AFFS loyalists was growing more severe, while riots and guerilla actions either for or against Katrina Steiner- Davion were flaring up again across the two realms. SLDF forces on liberated Combine worlds continued to
hunt Smoke Jaguar loyalists, while DCMS and Nova Cat troops stationed in the same region were on alert again following renewed tension with the Ghost Bears. An accident in the New Colony region had left 200 Taurian colonists stranded, and the Explorer Corps offered a hand in a rescue attempt. The Outworlds Alliance was predicting a shortfall of wheat this year on several planets and had sent trade delegates to the Free Worlds League. The Marian Hegemony had successfully intercepted a Circinian pirate raid on one of their worlds and threatened to retaliate "on a massive scale," while Circinian diplos to the SLDF continued to insist that no Circinian forces were engaged in piracy.
The local news consisted of various crimes and social events, followed by the wrap-up of last night's arena bouts. The top story, of course, was the death of Floyd Wellberg during the Wellberg-Carter matchup the night before, and Carter's sudden disappearance from the Steiner Arena. The footage of Dutch's AC10 tearing into Wellberg's LRM ammo and the resulting titanic explosion was played over and over again. The part Dutch hadn't seen in person was where the shattered remnant of Wellberg's mech fell over forward, slammed into the floor of the arena, and burst into flames. Games spokespersons expressed their sincerest sympathy at Wellberg's death, and suggested that Carter had probably gone to blow off some steam after the fight's dramatic finish. "We suspect that after a hard night at the Shieldhall or a similar establishment for
gladiators, he'll come back into the fold ready for another fight."
Dutch had heard all he wanted to hear.
"Are you watching this?" he asked Veronica.
"Not really," she said, absentmindedly fumbling through her purse.
He turned the unit off and stepped into the bathroom for a quick shower. Mechwarriors learned to bathe quickly in the field where soap and water were a rare luxury. He emerged five minutes later scrubbed, refreshed and dripping wet.
Veronica had collected all of their things from around the room and finished the final packing. "I can't wait to get some breakfast. I want pancakes, eggs, and a big cup of the best coffee." Dutch dried himself in /p>
front of her.
"Yeah, well, as soon as we're all checked in, we'll see about getting some chow."
He began to dress himself, picking a comfortable set of flight pants and a casual dress shirt that Veronica greatly approved of. He laced his combat boots and went to grab his personal items. Most of it was still in his duffel bag.
Something was missing.
"Where's my watch?"
"It's right there."
"No, it isn't. Where is it?"
"I left it right there with your things. It should be there."
"Yes, it most definitely should be here, but it's not. Where is it?" A cold gnawing feeling between to claw at the pit of his stomach. She couldn't have forgotten his watch.
"It must be there. I know I saw it."
"Well, did you take it, or didn't you?" He was beginning to raise his voice.
"I believe I did."
"You believe you did? What the hell does that mean? You either did or you didn't! Now, did you take the watch or not?"
She shook her head. A look of fear and horror crossed her face.
"Veronica, that was my father's gold watch. That thing is over 500 years old. Do you know what he had to go through to give it to me? I don't have time to go into it but it was pretty freaking important to him. And
it's just as important to me."
Dutch and Veronica had been together for nearly three years. In that time, he had been very careful about not letting his volcanic temper show around her. During his days with the LCAF, Dutch had beaten men nearly to death during apoplectic outbursts, only to black out and not remember a thing. LCAF shrinks claimed it had something to do with his childhood, the lack of strong parental figure coupled with unfavorable experiences in school.
Today, he wasn't holding back. He erupted into an insane outburst, his words unintelligible, most of them raw obscenities. He threw the holovid machine into the bathroom where it smashed on the floor. His fists
made holes in the wall next to the bed. He began to tear at one of the light fixtures when he caught himself, sat down on the bed, and began cradling his head. He went into breathing exercises and counted to thirty. Slowly he returned to reason.
"It's not your fault. I mentioned the watch, but I didn't illustrate how important it was to me. The only thing I really cared if you got or not was the watch, but I didn't make that clear, all I did was write up a list. A list doesn't tell you anything. You're not a mind reader. Are you?"
She shook her head, still too terrified to answer.
"Okay then. Not your fault."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm gonna go back to my apartment and get my father's watch back."
"No! Won't the gangsters be waiting for you?"
"They might be. I'll have to hang back and see what's what. If I can't handle it, I'll split."
First he removed the dress shirt. He took the needler pistol out from the dufflebag, put the sweatshirt back on, and stuffed the pistol underneath. He threw some S-bills on the table.
"There's a coffee shop down the street. Have yourself a nice breakfast. Stay off the side streets. I'll be back soon."
"Dutch, please don't -"
He glared at her, his patience strained to the breaking point.
"See you later, sugar bean."
He walked out of the room without another word into the bright, hazy morning and walked down the driveway of the motel. The streets were filled with homeless scavengers and a few locals. The automated sanitation maglevs hadn't made their morning run through the neighborhood, so the streets were as filthy as always. He walked to the train station for a long ride back to Silesia, and the Blackthorne district.
24 FEB 3063
SILESIA, BLACKTHORNE DISTRICT
STEINER ZONE, SOLARIS CITY
SOLARIS VII
Dutch emerged from the subway with his nerves on overdrive. Every other passenger who came near him had been an imagined assassin; anyone who looked his way was punished with a withering glare. He started off towards his apartment block. Blackthorne was a fairly nice neighborhood, and quiet at this time of day. To his right was the Solaris River. He reached the park at Siebert Street and turned left. Three blocks down the wide expanse that was the courtyard of his apartment complex took up an entire city block. His apartment was on the second level.
He prowled around the grounds of the courtyard with caution, trying to stick to the atrium on the sides of the courtyard where the entrances to the first floor apartments were. The courtyard offered some cover in
the way of fountains and various bushy foliage. He couldn't afford to be spotted, even by his former neighbors. A staircase in the center of the atrium led to the second floor balcony. He trotted up the steps,
checked the corners of the balcony before emerging fully, and walked with some speed towards his apartment.
The door to his apartment appeared intact. No scratch marks, no signs of forced entry. No one was peeking at him through the shades that covered his front windows. Hastily he inserted his access key into the digital
lock, which clicked open a bit more loudly than he would have liked.
He hesitated, and then burst open the door, grabbed the handle, and swung it shut behind him in a single motion.
The living room appeared normal. Everything was still. A clock on the wall over his now-abandoned couch quietly hummed. He crept towards the bedroom. Thankfully Veronica had not closed all the doors behind her, and he could clearly see from the short hallway that the room was empty. There on the nightstand next to his bed was his beloved gold watch. He grabbed it, stretched the band around his wrist, and headed for the door. Then something occurred that stopped him in his tracks; his blood ran cold.
From the direction of the bathroom, he heard someone flush the toilet.
The door to the bathroom was across from the bedroom. He crept back into the living room and then to the small kitchenette on the far side of the room. The needler pistol might not be enough if there was more than one guy. He glanced around for anything that would make a good weapon. A frying pan. Carving knives. Anything.
Suddenly he did a double-take. On the kitchen counter sat a General Electric Mk IV Blazer, a weapon capable of inflicting grossly fatal wounds at short range. The dumb SOB left his weapon on the counter
while he hit the head. Dutch smiled evilly and took the weapon into his hands, cradling it, getting a feel for the weight. He hadn't used one of these things since Basic. He checked the indicators and found it set for full power on both barrels. Whoever had set it had intended to blast him in two and leave the thing behind.
The door to the bathroom opened. Whoever was in the apartment was washing his hands. The water stopped abruptly. A second or two passed, and then… into the doorway of the living room strode an extensively tattooed young man dressed in gang colors Dutch didn't recognize. He was perhaps twenty
with a shaved head and a nasty scowl. Despite the gangster's youth there were various scars on his face and exposed arms. The knuckles on his massive fists looked as if they'd been through a meat grinder several times.
The gangster said nothing, raising his hands and nodding his head back, almost daring Dutch to do something. A tense moment passed. The gangster took a step back towards the hallway. Dutch flinched… and then fired.
In a brief instant twin beams of concentrated light reached out from the barrel of the blazer and struck home. The gangster's skull exploded as the contents literally boiled over. The body fell to the floor in near
silence, almost gracefully.
Stunned, Dutch put the weapon back on the counter and shook his head in disbelief. The needler pistol went back under his shirt. I can't believe they only sent one hitter, he thought. There's got to be somebody else with him. I ain't sticking around to find out.
He bolted for the door and again closed it quietly behind him. Barely ten minutes had passed; the courtyard was still quiet. Following the same routine he had used to get up to his apartment, Dutch made his way to
the street and began walking from the apartment block as quickly as he could.
That's why we're gonna beat 'em, Dutch. They just keep underestimating you.
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.
Forty minutes later…
Marcus Flint opened his eyes first. He glanced over to his right and saw Dutch Carter gagged and tied to a pole that ran from the ceiling to the floor. The light in the room wasn't good. It took him a second or two to
notice he was tied to an identical pole, his mouth also gagged.
The store clerk waved a small tub of something under Dutch's nose. Dutch sputtered and gagged, then sprang awake. Inexplicably someone had dressed and bandaged Dutch's shoulder and Flint's knee.
"Good."
The clerk moved over to Flint, only to see the gangster already conscious.
"Ah, you're with us. Excellent."
With that the clerk placed the small tub of salve back into the top pocket of his tunic. He stood about five feet nine inches tall, with thinning hair he kept combed straight back. His face spoke of Free Worlds origin. He seemed well groomed. His frame was small and wiry, though his arms and chest showed some tone.
They were in a basement of some kind; probably under the store, Flint surmised. It wasn't the dank, dirty sort of place one might have expected from an old basement, but rather cold, unremarkable, and antiseptic.
The walls were plain granite except for a series of power conduits and an access panel on the wall near a set of stairs that led up. The ceiling was low, the only light from a single low-wattage unit in the center of the
room.
Then the bottom began to slowly drop out of Flint's stomach. He glanced behind the pole where Dutch was and saw some sort of worktable on the far side of the room. Next to the table was a plastic and steel medical
gurney with the usual bioreadout devices that doctors relied on. The gurney had a slotted surface and a drain underneath. The worktable was filled with the contents of a field surgery kit.
"My name is Dr. Horace Greer. I don't mind telling either of you that because neither of you are going to leave here alive."
Dutch began to sweat. Flint became the picture of hysteria, his eyes wide, trying to spit threats and swear words past the gag in his mouth.
"My assistants Jebediah and Yi Lin should be here shortly. They help me in our… work."
He walked past the two of them and out of their range of vision. There was silence. When he walked back a few moments later, he wore the full uniform of a Death Commando… and a heavy rubber apron.
"We are Thugees, you see. As in ancient Terran history. We are the avenging fist of House Liao, the soldiers of Kali Liao, the sons and daughters of Lady Romano, and the protectors of Sun-Tzu. We move and work in shadow. Nothing can stop us. And when we decide it is time for someone to die, no one can save them."
He paused a moment and studied the reaction of the two bound men.
"Don't seem so surprised. That is the nature of the mighty Capellan empire. Our forces are everywhere, ready to strike when you least expect it. We brought your precious Fedcom to ruin and civil war."
They heard footsteps on the stairs.
"That would be my assistants."
Two people entered the room: one a tall, lanky man wearing the uniform of the Lyran police militia; the other a small-framed Capellan woman with short-cropped hair in civilian mufti. The tall man spoke first.
"Who're these two, Doc?"
"I'm not sure. I don't believe they are spies. But that is what we're going to find out. Either way, they will end up like the others."
Dr. Greer glanced at them both. "Let's see. Take… that one first," he said, pointing at Flint.
Flint's face became a mask of rage and terror. He began to flail at the bindings, to scream through the gag. The male assistant pinned Flint's arms behind him while the female undid the hand restraints that kept Flint tied to the pole. Then she re-bound his hands and the pair dragged Flint to the gurney. Flint was kicking wildly now. Jedediah literally pole-dropped Flint like a bag of potatoes onto the gurney; Yi Lin quickly bound him to it. They rolled the gurney to the back of the room where a barely noticeable panel in the wall slid open. A bare room with neoskin taped up to the walls lay beyond the panel.
"Take him inside. I'll be with you both in a moment."
The two assistants and the gurney disappeared behind the panel, which slid shut ominously behind them.
Dr. Greer walked over to Dutch, standing a foot from him. He raised his arms as if to wash his hands. With his right hand, he rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, then rolled up the right sleeve with his left hand.
Each arm was a dull metallic shade from the elbow down. The color seemed to suggest metal, but the texture said it was some kind of biomechanical myomer. Dr. Greer had two cybernetic arms.
"These are a gift of the Federated Suns, my friend. When your great breakthrough, the 'glorious' Fedcom linkup of 3030 left the Free Worlds League in shambles, I was trapped on a world behind the lines. I was just a field medic then. Unfortunately, some kind soul piloting a modified Warhammer chose not to respect the Ares Conventions on medical units. When the lines broke, they overran the MASH area. This particular Warhammer was armed with a battery of flame throwers. The plasma flames incinerated most of the wounded and my colleagues. I was 'lucky;' I only lost my forearms.
"The economies of the Inner Sphere were smashed by Davion's war. Crippled veterans received only what the state could afford. I received barely functional plastic replacements for my arms and hands.
"Time and tide turned, as you well know, and by 3057 we began the great crusade against your damnable Fedcom. It was then that the Thugees contacted me as a potential member. I have sworn my fealty to the Liaos ever since.
"The newspapers and the holovids are amusing themselves by calling me a serial killer. Actually, it's something quite different. We exterminate enemies of the Capellan state. Sometimes we act under orders. Sometimes we act on our own. The Thugees ensured I received more fitting replacements for my forearms. Amusingly, our friends in the NAIS provided the technology in these myomers. I can bend endosteel with these, you know. Or tear a man to pieces.
During this entire soliloquy, Dutch stared at Dr. Greer in shocked silence, enormous beads of sweat pouring down his back and neck, his shirt soaked.
"I can see you're simply overwhelmed by this lesson. I do not know if you or your friend in there qualify as our normal choice of victim, but regardless, you've stumbled into something much bigger than yourselves, and I can't allow you to take this information back out into the world. "
Dr. Greer backed away from Dutch and walked towards the panel in the back wall. "See you shortly, friend," he called out as he walked away. The panel slid shut. The room was completely silent.
Holy good God Jesus Christ, Dutch thought. His mind was racing, the adrenaline pouring through him. His bulging eyes darted around the room, down to his shoes, anywhere there might be some kind of method of
escape. He pulled at the restraints holding him to the pole; they held fast. He tugged again, yanking against them as hard as he could. From the panel in the wall he could hear Marcus Flint moaning in obvious discomfort.
Most mech pilots learn standard escape training as part of their indoctrination, but few expect ever to use it. Dutch's skills were admittedly rusty. His wrists were bound with simple nylon cord, which had been knotted. He began to run his wrists up and down the pole rapidly, all the while raising and lowering his body. Every few seconds he would yank against the restraints. He did this for five minutes with no appreciable result. Anger began to mix with the adrenaline rushing through his blood. His face reddened, his heart raced. He kicked at the pole, swore through the gag, and most of all, yanked at the hand restraints.
And then the nylon cord, which perhaps had not been knotted perfectly, unraveled and opened. His hands were free.
He yanked the gag out of his mouth and threw the restraints to the floor. He had to fight the impulse to gag and cough, God forbid someone in the next room heard him. Instincts took over. He bolted for the steps, made it about two-thirds of the way, and then heard Flint yelling again, this time in pain.
Tough luck on him, Dutch thought, and jumped to the top of the stairs. Then he paused again.
But I can't leave him with these sick bastards, his conscience interjected.
He's going to kill you, him or one of his boys. Only a fool would go to save him.
Dutch found that the stairs led to a doorway in the back of the shop; he ran down the aisles to freedom.
Nobody deserves to die like that. If I have to kill Flint myself, I'll kill him. But not like that.
He paused. He would need a weapon. He tore through the items on the shelves, finding all manner of tools and parts which might do for a makeshift club. He checked behind the counter where Dr. Greer had knocked him out and found neither the shotgun nor the neural disrupter.
Guess I can't get that lucky twice in one day, he reasoned.
Then he stumbled across an attractively packaged item on a shelf right near the display window. It was a powered cutter built by CraftTech, a popular subsidiary of a large manufacturing company. It was meant to make accessing conduit paneling easy and was supposedly safer than using a welder. He ripped the cutter out of its package, searching frantically for a power source. At the front counter were packages of batteries of various sizes and wattages for different types of devices. Dutch had no idea what he was looking for.
After several tries and a few sharp curses one of them actually fit in the cutter's battery panel. The blade sprang to life, vibrating rapidly. He got a feel for the tool, swinging it around a bit and seeing how the controls affected the carbon blade.
I must be an idiot, he thought. He turned around and walked cautiously toward the steps, taking each one as quietly as he could.
There was no one waiting for him in the basement. The broken restraints still lay in the middle of the room. Every now and then the lights in the room would dim. God only knows what they were doing to Flint in the next room.
He walked over to the panel in the back wall and did what seemed natural.
He knocked.
There was a sudden pause in the sounds coming from the other side of the wall. Dutch heard someone make a shhhhh sound.
Without warning the panel slid open. Jedediah was standing there, his service night stick at the ready. Jedediah might have been a killer, but he was no fighter. Dutch spun, kicked the stick out of Jed's hand, then pressed the button of the cutting tool and lunged. A deep, ugly rent opened up on Jed's chest as the cutter made its mark. He fell backward into the room and died.
The woman Yi Lin had managed to brace herself against the wall of the room next to the door. She sprung like a coil, screaming a ferocious Capellan war cry that Dutch recognized as a trademark of MacCarron's Armored Cavalry. She spun through the air, feet and fists twirling. Dutch revved the cutter again and ducked, swinging the cutter wildly. Wailing, Yi Lin smacked into a wall and came down in a heap, also dead.
Dutch turned to face Dr. Greer and the gurney that Marcus Flint had been bound to. Flint's shirt had been removed and his chest was covered in bioscanners wired back to the gurney.
Dr. Greer stepped away from Dutch, taken aback. Surprise had crossed his face. There was blood on his apron, all over neoskin on the walls (though some of that was the result of Dutch's attack), and on his hands. In the opposite corner of the room from where Dr. Greer was standing, the anti-mech shotgun lay against the wall.
Flush with victory, Dutch grinned. But there was no humor in his smile.
"You want that shotgun, dont'cha? Go ahead. Grab for it. Please."
"There's... there's no need for this. If you go now there won't be any trouble. The Maskirovka-"
"Ain't got nothing to do with any of this." He motioned towards Flint. "Unplug him from all that crap."
Dr. Greer very quickly detached Flint from the bioscanner apparatus and switched it off.
"Wake him up."
Using the same small tub of salve from before, Greer waved the substance under Flint's nose until Flint regained consciousness.
He waved the cutting tool towards the door of the room.
"Now get walking. I'm calling the branch office of the LIC. They can take care of you, you sick SOB."
The two men walked out of the small room. To his right Dutch saw Marcus Flint shaking his head, trying to get his bearings back. He would worry about Flint later.
"You got a phone in this place, Doc?"
"Upstairs, of course."
"Then get going. Slowly, up the stairs."
They walked upstairs and to the front of the store.
"Where's the phone?"
"Under the counter. I... I'll get it for you."
"Put it on the counter very, very slowly."
Dr. Greer reached behind the sales counter and seemed to stall for a moment.
"Don't fool with me, Doc. Ain't a good idea right now."
"I just need to detach it from its base, it's a mobile unit."
Greer lunged forward suddenly and swung the phone around, landing a direct hit on Dutch's jaw; Dutch grunted and spat blood. The phone smashed into pieces. Dutch swung the cutter but missed as the agile Dr. Greer leapt and ran toward the rear of the store.
Rather angry by this point, Dutch ran in pursuit of Dr. Greer. As it would turn out, there was no need.
The enormous roar of a shotgun shook the walls of the room. Dutch heard Dr. Greer call out and stopped in his tracks. Standing at the head of the steps was the large, wounded, still shirtless form of Marcus Flint gripping the anti-mech shotgun.
"Step aside, Dutch. Me and the Doc here got some things to talk about."
Dr Greer was on the floor, one of his legs badly mauled by the shell.
There was an awkward moment of silence as the two men stared at each other.
Dutch spoke first. "So, now what?"
"Now what? I'll tell you now what. I'm going to call up some of my baddest gangsters to come on down and put Doctor Sick Psychotic Bastard here through hell in the last few hours of his soon-to-be short-ass life."
Flint turned to address the unfortunate Dr. Greer. "You hear me, medical man? I ain't through with you by a long shot. I'm gonna get Stefan Amaris on your ass. You gonna wish that Warhammer had burned you up."
Dutch surmised that Dr. Greer had given Flint the same spiel he had given Dutch.
"Well, I meant... what now, you know, with you and me."
"Oh, that."
Flint sighed.
"I'll tell you what. There ain't no more you and me. We cool. Except for two things. Number one, what happened here never leaves this room. This is between you, me, and the future dead man on the floor over here. Second thing. You leave Solaris today, and you never come back. You lost your right to hang on the Game World. I ever see your face after this, you end up like Dr. Dead Guy there. Deal?"
"Deal."
"Now get out of here."
Dutch threw the cutter down and walked out of the store as quickly as he could. He checked his father's watch, the cause of this entire bizarre incident. Ten fifteen. There was still time to get to the spaceport. Fortunately by this time there were cabs for hire mixed in with the light traffic. He jumped to the curb past a pair of surprised wealthy locals and hailed the nearest cab he saw. It pulled in at the curb and came to halt.
Twenty minutes later Dutch was back at the Marathon Motel, having thrown the cab driver an extra S-bill for his speed and discretion, then told the driver to wait there with the meter running. He ran to the door of their motel room where he hoped Veronica was waiting.
"Veronica! Open up! Let's go, baby!"
The door opened half a moment later. Dutch was met by a frantically worried Veronica.
"Darling, what's wrong? What, what happened to you? Are you hurt?"
Dutch burst into the motel room and began grabbing their things.
"Never mind all that now babe, we gotta go! Now!"
He ran back down to the cab, literally threw half of their belongings in the trunk, then ran back to the motel room and grabbed Veronica, who had taken the rest of their bags.
"Dutch, what-"
"Baby, PLEASE! Let's go, will ya?"
She began to sniffle.
Oh God, not now.
"Sugar pie, I don't mean to yell, but we gotta get going, okay? Did you have a nice breakfast?"
"It was okay," she mumbled as they ran to the cab. "What about the gangsters, did they-"
"We don't have to worry about them no more, baby. We just gotta get going."
He hustled her into the back seat, then jumped into the cab himself, which took off before he could close the rear door.
"Spaceport, buddy, and quick as ya can." He turned to Veronica. "Baby, without a doubt this was the weirdest day of my entire life. I'll tell you all about it once we're in space."
"Where did you get all those wounds from?"
"Oh, that's nothing." He thought for a moment. "Uh, I got 'em from Dr. Greer."
"Who is Doctor Greer?"
Dutch sank back into the interior of the passenger seat, closed his eyes, and smiled the satisfied smile of a winner.
"Doc Greer is dead, baby. Doc Greer is dead."