Within the hour, Aisha and I left the Outlaw Star in Gillium's capable hands (or manipulator claws, at least) and hit the road with a fully gassed Ehefrau, a conspicuously heavy duffel bag, and absolutely no idea where to go.
"So all we have to work on is this note?"
"Well, that note and some security video footage Gillium picked up."
"Video? Of Gene and Melfina? Never pegged you as a voyeur, Jimmy." Aisha winked suggestively. I did my best to ignore it, but tightened my grip on the steering wheel, none the less. "Of them leaving." I grumbled. "Apparently, they left around 3:00 or so in the morning, which gives them a good six hour lead on us."
"Six hours is a long time. Heck, they could've gotten offplanet by now."
"I know." I sighed. "I'm just hoping that Gene's got more sense than that- he wouldn't want to leave his ship behind, after all. I figure we can start out by checking out as many bars, clubs, and restaurants as we can and hope for the best."
"Sounds like a pretty farfetched plan."
"Well, it's the best I can do on such short notice- that is, unless you can track them by scent or something."
Aisha merely hrmphed in my general direction from her place in the passenger seat. "I'm good- but I'm no miracle worker." She huffed. "Besides, I make it a note to avoid Gene's smell when I can help it."
Over the course of the next few hours, Aisha didn't have much to worry about the smell of one Gene Starwind- nor did we find any other sign of him either. Out of twenty-two restaurants, thirteen bars, nine dance clubs, four gun stores, two strip joints and a laundromat (don't ask) there was absolutely no evidence of either the outlaw nor his raven-haired compatriot. Tired, uninspired, and low on gas, Aisha and I found ourselves sitting in a booth of the twenty second restaurant (it was across from the laudromat) planning out the next phase of our makeshift search. I occupied myself in pooling over the unfolded map before me, marking off locations and areas that had already turned up no results. The rapidly growing amount of red ink on the crinkled paper was less than encouraging.
Aisha did the only natural thing that a C'tarl C'tarl could do in an eating establishment, and that was to rack up an outrageous dinner tab. Her amassed piles of food loomed precariously over my map, threatening to topple over at the slightest provocation. We achieved a Zen-like state with my planning and her eating within moments, no words crossing between us. The maps showed no answers to Melfina and Gene's whereabouts, and Aisha showed no signs of stopping her display of gluttony.
That is, until she started talking- not in her usual 'table manners' (that is, in-between exceedingly large mouthfuls of remotely edible material) –she actually took time to swallow her food to speak clearly.
"Y'know, they could be at the ship by now."
"Maybe."
"So we could just go ahead and go back and meet them and everything would be fine again. Right?"
I peered up from the charts before me, both intrigued and irritated. "It's not like you to want to LEAVE a restaurant." I gave the C'tarl C'tarl an appraising look. In retaliation, Aisha grinned in a look meant (I assumed) to imply innocence on her part. It failed. "You've run out of money, haven't you?"
As I expected, her expression fell. "Well, yes- but that's not the ONLY reason."
"Don't tell me that the food here's bad enough to make you lose your appetite." I chuckled. "I was thinking about getting a donut."
Aisha shook her head, unusually sincere. "No Jim, it's just that…I-" she paused, as if searching for the proper words. "We shouldn't be here."
I nodded. "That's true- we're wasting time. There should be an underground casino right about-"
Again, Aisha shook her head, ears flattening against her skull in distaste. "That's not what I meant, Jim. I mean that we shouldn't be out here looking in the first place- Gene and Melfina can take care of themselves, after all. They're not that bad at it, for humans." She leaned back, crossing her arms to nod contentedly. "So, if you'll just foot the bill, we can get back to the ship in time for that new TV show about the bounty-hunting jazz musicians with a talking rat or something."
Shaking my head, I replied. "It's not that easy." I found reason to peer down at the charts once again, only to spy Aisha's hand impact gently in the center of the map. Of course, the term 'gently' is in proportion to the strength of the average C'tarl C'tarl- meaning that Aisha didn't shatter the table; she only rattled it enough to cause the precariously-stacked dinnerware to cascade down in an avalanche of crockery. Surprisingly enough, most of it stayed intact, due to the fact that it was little more than cheap plastic.
"Why not?" Aisha snarled, her tone growing hostile. "Either those two are off rutting like fell-beasts in heat by now, or they're off getting chased around by mad folks with big guns. If it's the first, neither one of us needs to see that sort of thing. If it's the second, neither of us needs to get killed for it."
"I'm not planning on getting killed."
She crossed her arms, glaring at me. "You coulda fooled me! Just because Gene goes off on these damn stupid "let's get shot at!" moneymaking jaunts doesn't mean you have to follow in his footsteps."
My grip around my mug of coffee tightened. "Like you're one to talk. When it comes to life-threatening escapades, you're just as bad as the rest of us."
"Well, it's different with me." She huffed.
"Why's that?" I snapped back, anger rising at her stubbornness. "Just because you can take a beating doesn't mean you're invincible. No amount of lycanthropy or super strength's gonna save you if somebody gets in a lucky shot. Hell, you're lucky that guy back at the Pinnacle wasn't packing stronger caster shells. Contrary to what you keep on saying, the C'tarl C'tarl sure as hell aren't immortal. I'd know; I've killed one." Spurred on by frustration, the words escaped my lips before my mind could fully register the potential impact that they carried.
Aisha didn't say a thing; she didn't even make a sound. Ears splayed back in a shocked gesture, she could only stare at me. The silence was a bad sign; in all the years I'd known Aisha, she always made some sort of noise, be it her incessant bragging, the ill-mannered way in which she ate, or just plain snoring when unconscious. After awhile, I learned to tune out such noises when in her presence, just as one learns to ignore the cacophony of noises that come along with the average starship.
As one could imagine, a silent Aisha wasn't something I expected. Her eyes merely widened as she gaped. I realized at that very moment that I'd never fully explained the strange events surrounding my liberation of a ship full of sex-slaves. Gene and Melfina had just found me unconscious inside of the ship, surrounded by relieved women and dead slavers. Naturally, Gene gave me no end of trouble about it all- so I just decided to clam up about the whole ordeal. It was easier that way.
At least it was easier up until this point.
"Jim-" Aisha peered into my eyes. "When did you grow up?"
Unfortunately, the answer to this question wasn't readily apparent. Ever since I had achieved a sense of self-awareness, I had been forced to fend for myself in some way or another. The question also led to another question that different cultures had mulled over for millennia; just what is it that makes a boy a man? Intelligence? Independence? Having killed something (or someone) important? Losing one's virginity? Beating the tribe elder in single combat? Going off on a drug-induced vision quest to decide on a 'true name'? The hodgepodge of examples that sprung to mind reminded me of stars in the sky; there's some I've been to, some I haven't, and a couple that I've only heard of in passing. (I'm not about to tell you which 'rites' I've been through and which I haven't. A guy's gotta keep his secrets, after all.)
My introspective look into the realm of personal philosophy was interrupted by a salvo of bullets as they tore through the restaurant. I ducked beneath the thick table, reflexes more than used to this sort of thing. Aisha joined me beneath the makeshift bunker- more likely out of a desire to keep me company than anything else. After all, ducking beneath tables when one's nearly bulletproof already doesn't accomplish much.
"What the hell's going on?" Aisha growled, rage kindled the violent interruption.
"I'd say that we're getting closer-" I fished my handgun from its holster. "-to whatever happened to Gene and Melfina."
"Or we just got caught up in a turf war."
"…Or that." I was forced to admit.
"Either way, I'm gonna bust a few heads." The C'tarl C'tarl made to stand up- only stopped once I grabbed ahold of her lengthy braid and yanked down in order to make her stay put. Naturally, she yowled in surprise at the less-than-pleasant sensation.
"Now what was THAT for?"
"I'm not about to let you charge off without a plan or something."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not bulletproof, remember?"
"So you're planning on using me as a shield?"
"More of a distraction, really."
"I'm flattered." Aisha muttered, deadpan.
"Besides," I smirked. "You were headed in the wrong direction. They're over that way." I jerked a thumb in the general direction that the gunfire came from.
"Whatever. I'll meet you at the car, alright?"
I nodded, and the two of us sprang to action, Aisha springing towards the sound of gunfire while I dove away. I kept my head low for obvious reasons, upturning tables and chairs as makeshift barriers whenever possible. Lead flew, raining tearing the décor of the restaurant to bits- thankfully, that's all they did, as the bullets never came close to hitting me. (At least, not close enough for me to notice.) Weaving from bit of cover to bit of cover, it was a simple matter to get to a window to the street outside. Avoiding the burst of automatic weapon fire that followed wasn't nearly as easy. There were shooters outside, covering the exits.
This tactical layout let me know that I was dealing with professionals; though the sight of a man in a dark suit with an assault rifle lent me a good idea of the situation as well. Gangers don't wear suits. Gangers don't pack such high-grade weaponry, either. There are times when I really do despise my knowledge about this sort of thing; this was one of those times.
I dove out from behind the bullet-riddled mailbox that served as my cover, again running in a hunched-over crouch. It wasn't the most comfortable way to run- or the most elegant. However, it suited my purpose of presenting the smallest target possible quite well, as I made it to Ehefrau in a single piece. I snapped off a few wild shots as I ran, managing to cause one rifle-wielding suit to crumple to the ground. I didn't have any time to check if he was dead- nor any time to reflect on the consequences of doing so. I was more concerned with getting the hell out of the immediate area. Bullets spanged off of the car's metal siding, each metallic sound steadily increasing my mental estimates of repair costs.
Moments after I spurred the car's motor into motion, Aisha came crashing through the diner's door (literally, as she inadvertently tore it from its hinges) bounding across the parking lot to vault into the passenger seat beside me, with a wince. "Hit it!" She screeched; an order I was more than happy to comply to.
Gunning the accelerator, we tear-assed out of the parking lot as fast as Ehefrau's motor could take us (which, considering the amount of work I've done to her engine, was a fairly considerable speed). As we sped along, the scent of singed fur hit my nostrils, prompting me to glance over at Aisha.
Thankfully, she smelled worse than she actually looked- there was only a singed streak across the left side of her ribcage, revealing tanned skin where a small chunk of her outfit had been burnt away. I furrowed my brow at the wound, recognizing the effect.
"A caster?"
"Yeah." Aisha groaned, rubbing at her side. "Just winged me, though, I'll be-" Her consoling words, however, quickly erupted into a tone of dismay. "KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD!"
"Huh?" I shot back- only to remember that I was still driving. A quick jerk of the wheel prevented fruit-cart induced disaster, though the squealing of tires against the hard asphalt was hardly a pleasing sound to hear.
Then again, neither was the burst of gunfire that sprung up behind us. I ducked as low as I could duck while still peering over Ehefrau's dashboard, trying to present as small a target as possible. A brief glance at the rear-view mirror confirmed my fears, as I spotted a black sedan speeding along after us, complete with a black-suited thug with an assault rifle poking out of the sunroof. Two more identical vehicles pulled up nearby, complete with their own respective gunners.
"They're following us!" Aisha snapped, turning about in her seat to watch the pursuers.
"I noticed!"
"Well, lose 'em!"
"How?"
"I don't know!"
Beneath my breath, I swore; profusely. The chase in and of itself was bad enough; but the fact that there was more than one vehicle chasing us was exponentially worse; multiple cars implied that there was a large force after us- and larger forces obviously are harder to go up against. Such a plentitude of targets is rather hard on one's ammunition supply- not to mention the fact that larger groups have a good chance of being well-organized; and subsequently prone to the use of tactics you're not ready for.
This train of thought was justified as another trio of gleaming black cars swerved into view- in front of us, guns blazing. "Aisha!" I snapped, turning the car to the side. Trees, signs, buildings, and the occasional pedestrian whizzed by, the short time in which they became blurred attributing to our reckless velocity.
A thought struck me as Ehefrau slid around a particularly tight turn. "The duffel bag- Grab something explosive!" This referred, of course, to the small arsenal I had forethought to bring when I first stumbled across that damned note. I didn't bother listening for Aisha's reply, as a cacophony of gunfire, strained engines, and squealing tires occupied my sense of hearing. Even in the conflicting, ugly sounds, there was a sort of raw pattern, as if it was all no more than some twisted composer's work. One could call it "Fugue at 50 Kilometers per Hour, with Automatic Weapons". Briefly, I wondered if I should have taken up a career as an Artist, as opposed to an Outlaw, only to dismiss the thought once I realized that the latter profession was far more socially acceptable. The near-deafening sound of a nearby explosion served as a short, though memorable, crescendo to the symphony of mayhem.
"Aha! Got-" Aisha's triumphant cry was interrupted by no less than a bone-jarring force shaking Ehefrau, sending us careening off of the road. I struggled with the wheel for control, desperately attempting to prevent a crash- but an inconveniently placed warehouse quickly made any such maneuvers at that point.
A white burst of an airbag plumed up before me for a single instant, then everything went black as I was forcefully jarred into a state of non-consciousness.
