Interlude: Merchants in Repose
Calm waves lapped on the beach of this overcast night, the thalassic susurrus of the surf soothed stretched nerves of many.
"ARE THEY FUCKIN' HERE YET?!"
...But not of all.
"They're your guys, you should know," said a balaclava clad head which poked out of the semi truck, its flatbed trailer weighed down with the best scrap a vehicle Tinker could ever lust after.
A trackless bulldozer with fire scorched backhoe, helicopter turbine engines, farming tractors, gearboxes, differentials, car and truck axles, the fuselage of a 2-seater airplane, the winches off of a collapsed construction crane and assorted engines piled haphazardly and more overflowed the open top of one sturdy steel shipping container.
A second container held large sheets of steel and stacked steel I-beams as well as securely strapped down pressurized tanks of Oxygen, Acetylene, and Liquid Nitrogen among full tool chests and welding gear.
Skidmark muttered expletive laced complaints as time dragged on. The irritation to get this job finished so he could kick back and destroy some more brain cells increased in direct proportion to the rate the drugs he'd used to take the edge off metabolized.
Too bad Mush had practically O.D.'d yesterday and was still sleeping it off.
Skidmark had no one to talk to except Moist, that stuck-up asshole.
Eventually he went back to try, but mostly fail, to skip rocks across the water.
Sand and saltwater sprayed in the air as Squealer's vehicle brutally skimmed into view as the buxom blonde Tinker steered it up the beach to hover on a caged lightning storm.
Some sand fused into glass while spots of asphalt melted under the electrical discharges zapped randomly as Squealer steered her creation to a rest, multiple noisy engines idled to a stop one by one.
Squealer raised dark welding goggles from her face. "Hey baby, you miss me?" the Tinker asked as she leaned out the window of the bashed together kludge of a vehicle.
"Fuckin' A!" shouted Skidmark in response, "and the rest of the fuckin' alphabet too!"
"As delightful as nearly being electrocuted in the open ocean has been," said a top-hatted cape who stretched his legs after he exited the vehicle, "let's get this show on the road."
"Who pissed in your cornflakes, Trickster?" asked Sundancer while she helped a four armed Genesis move her comatose real body out of the passenger area.
"Let's just get going before anything happens," he said with a nervous glance back at the large modified shipping container secured to Squealer's vehicle with straps. Coil's mercenaries followed Trickster's instructions and removed the tie downs.
With a whoosh of displaced air the two cargoes on the vehicles swapped places like chess pieces in a castling maneuver. A second bump marked the transit of the Travellers container of personal belongings for the construction skip of tools and supplies.
A repetitious whine followed by a crack contrasted with sudden snapping sounds from down the beach while Coil's mercenaries re-secured both loads for transport.
Skidmark had piled dozens of his blueshifted layers of force on a driftwood log half buried in the beach sand and engaged in a rock skipping contest with Ballistic.
"OK, OK, OK... Five more layers down, a hundred bucks says my rock goes the farthest this time."
"You're on," said Ballistic, with a snap the rock in his palm leapt out into the ocean at incredible velocity.
Skidmark dropped his stone on the driftwood log and watched it rapidly accelerate, another thin layer of wood splintered from the log with a buzzsaw whine as the rock created a small sonic boom and sailed into the distance.
The mercenary drafted as referee raised his binoculars up and watched two plumes far out in the bay and said, "Skidmark got it this time."
"YES! Pay up!"
Ballistic counted out the money he owed the leader of the Merchants out of the winnings he'd already taken from the man.
Skidmark yelled, "Hey Moist! Reposition this log so it points at the PRT's rig, I bet I can hit it from here."
The waterlogged cape stood up from the damp patch where he sat, sand clung to his damp jeans since water continually condensed out of the air onto his skin, a rivulet of water rolled from the puddle he had created down into the surf.
Moist raised his arms and a rippling tentacle formed out of water topped by a large blob formed in the bay and moved toward the shore.
"Knock it off, dumbasses!" Squealer shouted, "We're ready to go! The stealth field's gonna cut way down as soon as we get movin'."
"Rain check?"
"Definitely."
Skidmark faded the blue layers of force out of existence and climbed next to Squealer in the cab.
An outside observer would have seen a semi truck suddenly appear and drive out of the beachfront parking lot while short lived dust devils of sand arose on the beach also apparently from nowhere.
The lone light bulb flickered erratically for a moment where it dangled from the central peak of the army tent.
He lay flat on his back on a folding cot, the only conscious observer left after this winter campaign to push south past the line on a map denoting the parallel of fifty four degrees, forty minutes north.
It wasn't the sporadic moans of the wounded which got to him the most, nor the putrid septic stench of the dead and the dying as their numbers inexorably shifted from the latter to the former.
Not even the pain where his knees used to be, or that incessant itch where the arch of his right foot would have been if he hadn't stepped on that landmine.
No, the soaked bandages, uniform, and blanket clung to him. He sweated profusely as his body futilely fought the fires of infection which burnt through him even while snow fell silently mere inches away on the other side of canvas.
He'd never liked the heat. Where others would flock west to the beaches in the summertime he escaped east to mountains and cool glacier-fed lakes as often as possible to avoid the merest hint of muggy humid weather.
But here and now he knew that just like that doctor on that show about a space station had said, "Every problem eventually boils down to one of two things: Biology or Math."
Biology, in that his own had failed to overcome the infection which ravaged his body after the loss of his legs.
Math, in that impersonal cruel calculus of the greatest good for the most wounded with the best chance of recovery amid limited resources.
Triage. Lumped in with all the rest too far gone to save, the dead and the dying, or those who could not recover in time to flee the artillery bombardments coming ever northward from the enemy guns.
Over the interminable hours that passed he'd heard desperate whispered pleas to saints, angels, and even devils.
But there were no bargains brokered, no deals struck, no agreements kept or last minute reprieves granted for any.
Only the minor variations of paroxysms of death, reduced sounds which indicated life became rarer as the inexorable arrow of time flew on, occasionally punctuated by explosions coming nearer and nearer.
A lull in the bombardment, his own ability to draw breath was now unique among all others around him. Futile thoughts raced inside his skull, desperation almost gave way to panic as he tried to think of a way to survive this.
His own eyes were the only ones to see the white rectangle elongate in mid air, the woman step through, his were the only ears able to hear her offer.
Biology or Math. He accepted the narrowest of chances offering the slimmest possibility of survival, but when the only other option paid off at negative infinity, what choice was there, really?
Bums brawled in the street a block ahead, a police car already pulled up to break up the fight. Squealers vehicle buoyed by forces which casually gave physics the finger turned and proceeded down the road.
Unseen by all save the few inside the energetic field generated by her vehicle.
Technically it wasn't a stealth field, but it served the same purpose.
Space warped around the vehicle seamlessly, a folded pocket which allowed almost all light to skip past them to any observer as if they weren't there at all.
Since some light could get in, but none could get out, the interior of the area warped around them gradually brightened the longer the tinker-tech was activated.
The recent long run from Boston had Squealer squinting against the brightness even through the thick smoked glass of her welders goggles.
Other staged distractions for the cost of a bottle of gin here or a baggie of pills there provided a traffic free, although circuitous, route into their destination. Just one of many abandoned warehouses near the Docks.
The seemingly haphazard mishmash of technology settled to the concrete floor.
Merchants opened hatches to either side of Squealer's creation and ran with cables coiled on spools which unrolled until they clamped on to pillars that supported the warehouse roof.
Strange energies conducted through the buildings' metal frame and anyone who happened to look in a window would see a dark, silent, empty warehouse.
Yet walk cross the threshold inside the building and shouted orders could be heard in the dim, but gradually brightening area.
This was how Squealer could weld, rivet, drill, and hammer yet never be disturbed or discovered as her creations took shape in the night, a different location every night.
An invisible floating chop shop to render stolen vehicles down to parts for easy resale or components for Squealers' latest creation.
"You wanna join me for a toke and poke?" Skidmark asked with a leer.
Squealer replied, "Nah, I gotta sort through the new toys and got some new boys to interview later as well."
"Cool, cool," said Skidmark, "Wake me with a blowjob when you get home."
Merchants drifted in over the next hour to help Squealer set up her transient workshop.
A Merchant lookout at a high window pointed and shouted, "Hey! Armsmaster's coming!"
Everyone dropped what they were doing and ran to the windows, tables and chairs pushed close to the glass outside.
Squealer bellowed commands at Merchants to fan out all along the widows.
"Here he comes!"
Thumbs tucked into her belt, Squealer yelled "It's a go! …In three! …two…"
Armsmaster steered his motorcycle down the street between two abandoned warehouses alert for any gang activity.
Unknown to him, not fifteen feet away thirty Merchants had dropped their pants and mooned the arguably second most powerful Tinker on the planet.
Oblivious, he continued his patrol and drove away.
The sound of laughter and belts being re-buckled filled the warehouse.
"Operation 'Assmaster' never gets old!"
The woman in the white lab coat stood on the other side of the painted line on the floor across the opening to his cell. The man with her hung back in the shadows, mostly unseen.
"I have to say, I'm less than impressed."
He glared at the shrouded figure and did his best to ignore the callous casual insult.
The woman consulted her clipboard and impersonally rattled off information about him as if he weren't even there. "The apparent partial transformation may have been exacerbated by his injured condition resulting in the profusion of lower vestigial appendages. None of them below the waist alone or in concert are strong enough to move even the atrophied mass of his torso. Effectively sessile. One of our rare Tinkers and only rated at level one or perhaps barely a two. Thinker zero or one since he can operate his overbuilt prosthetics without electronics 'by hand', or flipper as it were."
"Not even a candidate for the Nemesis program, then?"
"No electronics means no easy EMP vulnerability to exploit, although the sheer durability of his crude Tinkering holds some merit."
He didn't like being talked about like the mangiest dog in the pound, but it still beat the alternative he left behind. At least they provided him with tools and parts to build the admittedly basic designs that swam through his brain.
His artificial legs walked him around the half completed project of a miniaturized steam power plant held in place by the strong, bulky artificial arms still to be integrated into his battlesuit.
If only the damn thing weren't so hot he wouldn't have had to include so many heat sinks and the secondary electrical systems for ventilation fans and lights.
A brief flash of light glinted off the man's glasses as he nodded. "Nevermind, I know the perfect placement for him."
Well, it wasn't like he actually had a choice in the matter anyway.
Squealer looked at the men in front of her. Drug addicts all, in deep debt to the Merchant organization or they wouldn't be here.
What separated these few from the pack was the jobs they had, or once had, before their addictions brought them to this point.
Over the sometimes deafening sounds of power tools and screech of tortured metal they lined up and stated their previous occupations.
They called out Engine Technician, a couple of Mechanics, an Electrician, a Machinist, a few Welders and one honest to goodness Sanitation Engineer.
Not the jumped-up title for a garbage man, but the guy who graduated college to learn the two most important things about city wide Plumbing. First: that water flows downhill, and second: that it ain't all water.
"You're all here because some of you might be useful stripping stolen cars to sell for parts or building my next vehicle instead of toting a rifle or becoming a new dealer for us," Squealer said over the din.
She pointed to a sturdy but beat up table with an anvil bolted on one end, a large vise on the other, and several hammers of different sizes inbetween.
"OK, first test," said Squealer as she held up a bulky foot-long bolt with a large hex nut halfway up it, inexpertly welded on in one place and handed it to a Mechanic, "unscrew this."
"You gotta be shitting me," he complained, holding the heavy metal in his hands, "that weld's huge."
"Right, you're out, go help the others unload." Squealer yanked the bolt out of his grasp and handed it to the next man in line.
With a mumbled "righty tighty, lefty loosey" the unshaven addict separated the threaded bottom half of the bolt from the hex nut welded to the top, a slight grin on his face at working the task to completion.
Squealer bounced her hands under her breasts and announced to the group, "These ain't brains, but I'm a Tinker, which makes me smarter than you. That also means if I tell you to do something, I don't want the first words outta your mouth to be a whiny bitchfest about how you can't do shit without even trying first."
She pointed at the Sanitation Engineer and said, "You, college guy. Poke your head through this," as she handed the man a length of steel rebar bent and welded into a six-inch across circle.
"Um, what exactly do you mean?" asked the Sanitation Engineer while he looked skeptically through the small ring of solid steel.
"I mean poke your head through it, like this…" said the Tinker. She sauntered up to him, leaned in close and reached her arm through the ring to flick him on the forehead as she playfully said, "Poke!"
A few chuckled when she took the ring back from the blushing man, tossed it on the table and said, "He did the right thing. If you don't understand what I tell ya to do, ASK."
"If ya don't, you just might end up with a nickname," Squealer turned and yelled at a Merchant in a leather apron pounding a rod through two clamped pieces of steel to create a large hinge, "AIN'T THAT RIGHT, 'HALO'?"
The Merchant in question looked up, frowned, and flipped off Squealer.
She laughed a little then turned back to the group, "Now, next each one of you grab one of those hammers on the table."
The men walked forward, elbowed each other for position, picked up a hammer and returned to the line.
Squealer appraised their choices, walked over to the burly man who took the largest sledgehammer and said, "OK, we get it. Understood. Message received, loud and clear. You have a tiny dick."
Amid the outbursts of nervous laughter of the assembled men, Squealer returned to the table and picked up a hammer of her own. Squealer turned back to the laughing men and said, "This next bit is for bragging rights. But also so it sinks in that if you're here in my shop, you work hard. No slacking, no excuses."
Squealer pointed to a clock on the wall, its' second hand swept rapidly towards twelve. "Arm straight, raise your hammer to shoulder level and keep it there for one minute," she said as she raised her own hammer, "starting… NOW."
After the first ten seconds the mens' hammers wavered slightly in the air, while Squealer's remained still, practically unmoving. The big sledgehammer was the first to fall and cracked the concrete.
Over the next ten seconds arms wobbled and weaved. "You in the red, no bending your elbow, you're out," Squealer said, "and you in the back... nice try, but no holding up your arm with your other arm. You're out too."
Five seconds later three of the remaining six men had dropped their arms. Squealer smiled a lopsided grin and said through clenched teeth, "Final four, time to separate the men from the boys."
Seven sweaty seconds later the next man dropped his arm and tried to massage some feeling back into it with his other hand. Squealer glanced at the clock, the second hand swept past the eight, then locked eyes with the bearded, bald, clock-watching Machinist and said, "Halfway there…"
He muttered "But..." and with his concentration broken dropped his hammer as well.
"OK strong guy…" said Squealer, but she was interrupted by a loud screech of metal moving against metal.
All attention in the noisy warehouse focused on the shifting parts inside the largest container. A transmission tipped over one side and an engine block went the other way and noisily banged on the ground.
"GET THE GUNS!" Squealer yelled as she ran toward the container of machinery hammer in hand and thought, "If Coil fucked us I'm gonna shove this hammer up his ass sideways."
A massive hydraulic fist lifted a tractor up in the air, another grasped the lip of the container and bent the steel with a complaining screech of metal.
An armored form eight feet tall rose into view, the faceplate a crudely welded mishmash of rusty iron grillwork and lenses from welders masks.
A few Merchants quick on the uptake realized their rifles would do little against this metal colossus and looked to Squealer to provide orders.
The hulking form dropped the tractor on top of an airplane cockpit which shattered.
Now both metallic hands crushed the steel container rim further, the metal man leaned forward and flipped head over heels out of the massive bin of parts with a cacophonous clatter.
Squealer got a good look at the powered armor as it rolled onto all fours.
Hydraulic rams mimiced muscle groups, pushing instead of pulling. Each foot had two large toes angled out for stability.
The faceplate popped open and a man's head lolled forward and vomited copiously on the floor beneath him.
"Eeeughk... Milk was a baaaad choice…"
He reviewed the files on the Merchants one more time.
"You have the backup locations for your dead drops in case you communications gear conks out, yes?"
He stared down at the obsequious little man Coil employed to handle some of his affairs. 'Yes, Mr. Porter, I've got it. You're sure this insertion plan is going to work?"
"Oh yes, definitely. It's not like they would turn away an apparent addict and your designs are congruent with Squealer's own style."
He slipped the bottle of ipecac into his breast pocket to sell the illusion and climbed into the container as cranes loaded equipment on top of his battle suit.
Even with the power plant running at minimum the delightful heat permeated his body.
At least he wouldn't be cold. He hated the cold.
The armored suit clambered into a standing position. The man inside asked, "This ain't New Orleans, is it?"
"Nope," answered Squealer, "Brockton Bay. You got a name?"
"Call me Trainwreck. Brockton Bay, huh. East Coast?"
Squealer nodded.
"Good. The farther away from Cranial the better."
Squealer turned and lifted the bolt from the table. "Since you're new in town, you might as well join these guys in the interview…"
A minute later at the mechanical man's feet lay two halves of a cut bolt, a hex nut unceremoniously stripped off one end with its' weld broken by force, the remains of a ring of steel rebar warped and twisted by hydraulic driven fingers before it was yanked in two.
"We'll skip the hammer test," Squealer said, and turned to the Electrician. "Here, hold this."
The man reached out and grabbed the metal ends of the jumper cables and convulsed as he was electrocuted.
"My ASS you're an Electrician!" Squealer said, unclipping the jumper cables she had connected to a car battery earlier,, "Drag this dipshit out of here."
Trainwreck watched the impostor get carried out and said, "Anyone have something to eat? That technicolor yawn really emptied me out."
At Squealer's hip a phone buzzed to life, the Tinker didn't recognize the incoming number.
Squealer answered, "Yeah? Who is this?"
"This is…" the voice on the phone sighed slightly, "…Butterfly. Kid Win's at the convenience store at Lord Street and Mission. BBPD are on their way"
"Great!" Squealer replied, "I'm heading out right now. Call me later for your finder's fee."
Butterfly interrupted, "One more thing. Shadow Stalker's with him, and I noticed she's avoiding power lines and neon signs like they're contagious."
Sparks flew as Trainwreck tapped the jumper cables on his armored body to the tune of 'Shave and a Haircut'.
Squealer glanced at Trainwreck with a smirk, "Thanks, that'll come in handy. Squealer out."
She turned to the prospective apprentice mechanics with a feral grin. "Okay, boys, saddle up! This is your trial by fire!" She pointed to the vehicle in the center of the cavernous building, "Halo! Unhook the cables and pile in. Half of you with guns stay here and lay low, the other half come with me."
She pointed to a wet lump in a hammock suspended over a drain in the concrete floor and said, "Somebody wake Moist, we might as well take him along."
Squealer addressed the new recruits and said, "Out there, they all think you're worthless junkies. In here, you have value. Everyone contributes, everyone profits. We're Merchants! We take all we want and sell the rest!"
The tinker barked more orders as the chop shop ceased operations then approached Trainwreck.
"You bring that too," Squealer pointed to the car battery and jumper cables, "We'll knock over a fast food place on the way back."
Steam hissed as ungainly pistons propelled the mechanical man forward. "Best offer I've had all day," he said and clambered aboard the now-hovering vehicle.
Squealer accelerated through the open warehouse doors and said, "I can tell this is gonna be the start of a beautiful friendship…."
