Y'know who we haven't checked on for a while? Captain "The Head" Doyen. And we also haven't seen hide nor hair of Agent Griggs either; hopefully he's caught up on his sleep. Both are capable and competent men, so I'm sure they're doing just fine at... well, whatever it is they're doing. Hmm...maybe we ought to take a look. Let's pop in and check on them, just to see how they're getting on and make sure that no one's dead in that office... may's well go bother Haruko while we're at it... oh bother...
. . .
"Ahgh…ah, ahem."
"Mm-hmm."
"Director?"
"Uh-huh…"
"Director."
"Of course…"
"Director!" Someone derailed The Head's train of thought.
"I'm terribly sorry, what?" He looked up from his touchscreen tablet. Only now did The Head realize the entire table of the board was staring at him. "What have I missed?"
"Are you not feeling well?" One of them asked, peering quizzically at The Head for any sign of illness.
"Quite well, in fact. Just distracted it seems. Please, continue."
"There's no point continuing, Director." One of the board, standing at the projection screen, threw up his hands. "You appear to have disregarded my entire presentation."
"No Director Raun, I did not disregard your presentation." The Head paused to gather the information. He had been listening with half his hearing and a quarter of his mind. "In summation: production of finished products is holding, production of processed materials is up five percent overall thanks to the installation of new lines, but this is only a temporary gain as raw material acquisition has fallen; resource extraction on our current planetary holdings is reaching the falling off point; taking more resources to extract than we get in return. Our research departments were able to run a new reactor type for ten seconds; that took ten times the energy to run than it produced. Which runs into our next problem, that our current energy infrastructure is facing a shortage of transfer cable due to both a raw material shortage and sheer length of cabling needed. This is caused in part by our own practice of putting energy farms far and away from our cities. And, despite our insisting otherwise, The Priests have rejected our request to investigate alternatives. In a side note brought up by Admiral Jek, this means our naval shipyards and repair stations will not be able to operate at full capacity until the energy problem is solved. This will be made worse that, due to expansion policy set forth by The Temple, we have not been able to maintain a proper stockpile of spare parts ready for the Navy and will have to fabricate parts in a first-come, first-built manner. How am I doing?"
"Uhmm…" The board member had to check his own notes. "Better than me… do you want to have the rest of the slides?"
"You are doing an excellent job without my interference. I will just have to be more respectful as you go along. Please accept my sincere apologies. As I said, please continue." The Head forced himself to focus and put away his touchscreen. The rest of the meeting painted a less than ideal picture. The Armsmen were having trouble finding materials for their Autonomous Units, especially a rare alloy they had started using for armor plating. The bulk of this was already pledged to the Navy and the Armsmen felt their AU were being neglected. The Marines had a personnel issue; but not a lack of recruits. It was the quality of recruits they complained of. The latest generation of Red Star of The Solar Federation was found in entrance examinations too slovenly, physically unfit, and mentally dulled for Marine service. For all three their flight corps were short on computer components for their craft. The supply and production of computers or anything similar was tightly controlled by The Priests. They were not always the quickest to approve production to account for sudden surges in demand. And even on the domed cities committed to food production, there was a slowly growing loss on investment. Each new batch of crops, each field sown the same way it always had been, was producing less and taking more fertilizers, artificial sunlight, and additives than the previous cycle; and for less of a crop. Ten years ago, the average wheat bushel weighed sixty units and took a combined twenty units of products to grow. Now the same bushel weighed only forty units and was taking thirty-five units of products. And on and on the problems piled up. But this was the task handed down by The Priests. Medical Mechanica took the Will of The Priests and made it reality. Some way and somehow, solutions must be found. The survival of their Federation, their culture, their way of life, and all the billions of citizens under the blanket of The Red Star were depending on them.
Many hours, several breaks, and dozens of exchanges of resources, promises, and trades later, the meeting was adjourned. A fraction of their goals accomplished; the struggle would resume the next day. The Head waited until he was one of a handful remaining in the room and slipped his touchscreen into his briefcase before heading for home. With so much information on them, taking a touchscreen out of its meeting room without having the data sent to a storage facility and then wiped, was forbidden. But The Head needed it for his at home project and if he got back to the meeting room first in the morning, no one would know. He rode the Reserve Car on the train to his neighborhood and arrived as the stations announced this was the last ride of the day. No more trains would be coming until the morning. Walking down his street, he saw a rare sight: several utility type transports parked outside a neighbor's house. Even in this upscale area, no one had personal vehicles. The Priests forbade anyone having one, and everyone rode the public trains. Depending on the situation, a vehicle from your workplace might fetch you in the case of emergency or no more trains were running. That or a maintenance vehicle from the neighborhood office to fix something. Otherwise, seeing one vehicle, let alone a trio outside someone's home was odd to say the least. But odder still were the six Operatives standing guard at the home's gate. Six Operatives that were openly armed.
"Greetings, Captain Doyen." An Operative acknowledged him passing. A left-handed salute was given, this so the Operative would not have to release his trigger hand from his shotgun. The Head considered correcting the Operative on his use of an old title, but he had a strange feeling in the back of his mind that the effort would go nowhere. The Operative continued. "How do we find you on this fine evening?"
"Blessed with the Goodwill of Syrinx, of course! And yourself? This is a new look for the Operatives…" The Head started towards the gate, wondering what was going on. All the lights in the house were on and shadows were playing in wild havoc on the shaded windows. He felt a hand of iron grasp his elbow and steer him back towards the street. "Is something the matter?"
"My sincerest apologies, Captain. We cannot have you interfering." The Operative in charge of the guard squad had the discretion to only redirect him; and not put the thumb-sized muzzle of his pistol in The Head's face. A Policeman might have done the same if they were in a gracious mood. An Armsman or Marine would certainly have not afforded the same courtesy.
"Interfering in what? That's the home of General Ristau. He and his family have been neighbors for, well, since I retired from the Navy. What is going on?!" The Operative pursed his lips, thinking hard. He looked around and seeing no one else on the street, answered in low whisper.
"You know as well as I that The Red Star of The Solar Federation has enemies everywhere; miserable people that would rather tear us down than allow us succeed in peace. As a matter of course, they have their spies, infiltrators, saboteurs…and traitors. And tonight…" The Operative smiled a toothy grin and nodded over his shoulder at the house. There was a great commotion going on inside, muffled yelling was increasing in volume and frequency, and the movement of the shadows sped up. "We have caught one such traitor."
"Gen…General Ristau?! HIM?!" The Head was flabbergasted at the news. Immediately, The Operative put one hand on The Head's shoulder, the other on his pistol, and frantically scanned the area; while urging him to keep his voice down. In a newly subdued voice, The Head asked again. "Is it really true?"
"Oh yes, we couldn't believe it ourselves when we uncovered his plotting." The Operative shook his head. "But I'm afraid the evidence is incontrovertible."
"He's in command of our planetary defenses, the orbital and anti-landing craft batteries."
"He was in command, Captain." The Operative corrected. "We will see how far the rot of his traitorous ways go, but at least the man himself will do no more damage. Now, I'll have to ask you to move back. We're about to…" From the house arose a piercing shriek, a great crash, and then two panicked gunshots. Someone inside yelled to get back, and that someone was armed. "Ohhhh… Priest's Damnation." The Operative swore and drew his pistol. One of the sitting room windows shattered as a man threw himself through it. Landing on his own lawn, cut to ribbons with glass and wearing only the lower half of his night clothes, was General Ristau. A gaping hole in his shoulder freely bled down his chest and back while his arm helplessly flopped by the remaining flesh keeping it attached. Finding his feet, General Ristau began running as the squads inside the house followed; some through the doors and two through the window.
"Stop him!" One, most likely the Operative in charge, ordered with a point of his arm. The Operative that had been speaking with The Head stepped onto the street and aimed his pistol. Despite of his bare feet slapping on the pavement and breath hobbled by panicked sobs, Ristau was making surprisingly good time. Complete and utter terror for your life makes for strong motivation. A third pistol shot rang out. Ristau's left foot twisted sideways as a bullet cracked his ankle; placed perfectly to break the joint, but not remove his foot from his leg and with minimal flesh damage. General Ristau fell in a heap and ceased forward motion; groaning in pain. A squad of Operatives raced down the street and snatched him up.
"What in Syrinx's Torment happened?!" The pistol shooting Operative demanded as the rest of his fellows left the house. They had with them trussed and hooded General Ristau's family; wife and children. They were not putting up a fight, but meekly whimpered and hung limply while carried along in the Operative's unrelenting hands. "Are we no better than common Police?!"
"He had this hidden in his floor." Another Operative produced from his coat a pistol. It was exceptionally crude, made of metal pipe and plate and tack welded together. It could only hold one round at a time and was reloaded manually by unscrewing the barrel, pushing out the spent case, inserting a new round, and then reinstalling the barrel. There were no sights. It would be no good past point-blank range. There were three cartridges, one expended. The Head recognized them as Armsmen standard issue type. General Ristau must have smuggled them out one at a time from the small arms range and built the pistol in dark corners of a machining section after hours. No one, not Police, Armsmen, Marines, Operatives, not even generals could keep their weapons outside official hours and duties.
"He had fallen to the floor during our questioning and used his body to cover his action. He had a secret hollow under a floorboard and pulled this out."
"Did he try to shoot any of you?" The Head asked, then suddenly remembering he was officially not supposed to be there. The Operatives glowered at him, then seemed to have a mental agreement. This was Captain Doyen, after all. "Well? Are any of you hurt?"
"No, Captain." The lead Operative on the mission answered. "He tried to shoot himself, lest he be questioned further, and his secrets revealed. Operative Nine-One-Three was faster on the draw and shot to disarm him. The second shot you heard was General Ristau firing into the ceiling in reflex, flinching as Nine-One-Three's shot hit him. We weren't expecting him to be armed so we temporarily backed off, and he used that moment to try escaping. As you can see, that was an ill-thought decision." General Ristau was dragged past them by his elbows, head hung down and feet sliding across the pavement. Rough bandages were wrapped over the worst of his wounds. He was hooded, handcuffed and shackled, then placed into one of the utility transports. Several Operatives hopped in after him and slammed the sliding door closed. By now all the houses on the street had their lights on, but no one was out on their street, sidewalks, or even porches. They knew better. If they watched at all, it was through the thinnest slivers between blinds or edge of curtains. The last Operatives returned from Ristau's house, arms full of boxes with what looked like books, pamphlets, papers, and a strange electronic communications affair. These went into another transport. The last squad, the gate security guard, saw the area was clear and locked up the house and gate behind them. The pistol Operative, who had stopped Ristau, stopped to debrief The Head.
"Allow me to guess. I saw nothing, heard nothing, said nothing, and was never here?"
"That's why you're in charge." The Operative took off his hat and placed it over his heart with his right hand and saluted with his left. "Always a step ahead of the curve, and exactly on point. The Priest's Blessings be upon you, Captain."
"And the Will of Syrinx with you and yours. Goodnight, Operative."
"Goodnight, Captain! Do come and see us sometime!" The pistol Operative, last of the group, jumped into a waiting utility transport and as soon as its door slammed shut, sped off with its two fellows in close formation. Feeling utterly drained, The Head made his way into his house. He stripped off his suit and pants, laid his effects on his bed, and sat on it in his underwear; staring blankly at the wall. He had heard of these types of visits from Police and even Monks dispatched from The Temple. Operatives did this sort of thing on their missions abroad, but he had never known them to conduct arrests domestically. That of course didn't mean they never had. What was truly shocking was the proximity to his own life. The dispatch reports always told of an investigation concluded or arrest conducted somewhere else; far and away. On that evening things had come to his own life, across and down the street. It was borderline unbelievable that General Ristau would betray them. He was, or The Head supposed had been, one of the best defensive strategy minds The Red Star had ever known with an exceptional lifetime of service; the latter years spent building a nigh impenetrable defensive network to protect his home planet and fellow Vinculum. But the Operatives had never been wrong in the entirety of their service. Whenever they chose to strike on a target, it was only after meticulous research and investigation to be absolutely confident they were not wasting their manpower or time and had the correct target. Both ideas, General Ristau and his dedication to The Red Star and the Operative's one-hundred percent success rate, could not exist simultaneously. Something was wrong but without additional information The Head could draw no conclusions.
'Nothing I can do about it. No point dwelling on something I have no control over.' The Head changed into his evening wear and powered up the touchscreen on his way to the kitchen; thickpaper box full of parts under his arm. He was going to take photos of various parts close in to help the Materials Laboratory identify their composition. Each piece he shot in close-up and isolated from all other parts. This was so whomever he enlisted in the Materials Laboratory to help wouldn't be able to see the bigger picture of whatever this thing was that The Head was working on. He also snipped off miniscule pieces with sharp pliers. Each piece was put into a sealable bag and labeled with a number. He had a master list on the table, but that would be staying home. No laboratory tech needed to see where piece of material came from in the overall object. They just needed to tell him what it was made of and all properties of those materials. Simple need to know basis. Once his cataloging was complete, everything packed up for the morning, and the thickpaper box once again hidden, he set an early alarm. But with the shocking event he had just witnessed that evening, and the excitement of visiting the Materials Laboratory in the morning, it was promising to be a hard night to sleep.
. . .
While the universe moved along, Agent Griggs and his team had not been idle. It had taken a few weeks, lightning fast compared to their usual pace. But with the help of sources, informants, and a singular, reluctant deployment of Ice Pick, their goal was accomplished; sort of. Most of the journey of the AT4 rocket launcher tube had been traced. It had begun its life in a Swedish factory, was imported to Fort Bragg for the American Army, made another ocean crossing to Kuwait, then rode a truck into Iraq. It came back to America when its unit rotated home and once there, things got murky. Congress had been granting the military the ability to offload old, outdated, obsolete equipment to stateside agencies; one such being the Treasury Department. The AT4 weapon system was not on the list of items cleared to go to domestic agencies. This meant this specific AT4 should have been put into storage, issued again to an Army unit, or deemed unfit for service and given to Explosive Ordnance Disposal. However, the lot of equipment this AT4 was in, with several of its brothers, was lumped in with the shipment bound for the Treasury. The paperwork (much of it still in physical print media and most certainly stuck in the unreachable space between the back of a drawer and the body of the wrong and forgotten filing cabinet, with dozens of others exactly like it, deep in basement sub-level four of a neglected clerical office building, on a godforsaken section of one of the dozens of military facilities around the greater Washington D.C. area where Agent Griggs' team called home) was never quite clear what officially happened to the AT4's. According to Agent Griggs' sources in the Army archives, the best explanation would be the AT4's were in a 'grey zone purgatory' where no one would be able to say for sure where they were even supposed to be in the first place; let alone where they actually, physically existed. And Agent Griggs suspected that was exactly how whomever had given or sold Dark River Security the AT4's wanted things.
"That describes our map of the police and D.R.S. supply line thus far." An agent concluded and capped his marker. He had presented his team's findings to Agent Griggs and was wrapping up. Tapping the words "Treasury Dept." he concluded. "This is our black box. Things went in here, and somehow came out in Pennsylvania on the other side."
"You want to launch an investigation into the Treasury Department?" Agent Griggs wanted to make sure this agent wasn't throwing something at the wall to see if it stuck, just to please his boss. "They would be quite dangerous to go after."
"They are the last place of certainty this…" The agent nodded at the very launcher tube sitting on the conference room table. "Was known to go. No matter how dangerous they are, the Treasury touched it last. The Treasury also commands the B.A.T.F.E. who would be the authority on non-military transfers and possession of weapons like these. And in this case, either they are complicit, or have made a severe error. They must be looked into."
"Very well." Agent Griggs surveyed all the evidence lain before him one last time. He had trained his team well and they were proving themselves capable beyond what he could teach. 'Logistics. Getting the right things, to the right place, to the right people, at the right time. And there is always a trail, a chain of custody. Nothing appears out of the ether.' Satisfied with their evidence and conclusions, they matched what he had gathered on his own, Agent Griggs gave his orders. "You are approved. Also, one other task comes out of this new discovery. Do you know what it is?"
"N…no, Sir?" The other agents in the room looked at each other, puzzled. What would they be missing; aside from how the AT4 passed through the Treasury? What was Agent Griggs getting at?
"Gentlemen, think of the How, of the How, of the How." Agent Griggs waited a moment to see if anyone understood. Finally, he began rubbing his thumb and two fingers together. "How does Item A get to the field? How do we get ahold of Item A? How do we PAY for Item A? Remember what I've always said?"
"Nothing comes from the ether." An agent at the far end of the table recited.
"Exactly. And just like any piece of equipment that has a trail behind it, it also has a price tag. Someone bought, someone paid, for this rocket. And if this passed through the Treasury, I believe we will find the answers to both questions there. And if we can shut down both the weapons and cash flow of our enemies, this little war of Medical Mechanica's is as good as over."
"Agreed, Sir. When can we start?"
"I will make a phone call first. There is someone I know who deals in procurement for the government and has on occasion worked through the Treasury to get things signed off on. I will see if he is willing to help at all, and then if he has anyone on the inside willing to assist. We must, after all, see what all resources we have at our disposal before doing anything. Once I have word on that, you will begin immediately."
"The usual two or three days?"
"Yes. In the meantime, you're to work on your usual assignments. Is there any outstanding business? No? Then you're all dismissed. Go home, get some sleep while you can. It may be hard to come by soon; trust me." As his agents filed out, Agent Griggs had an idea pop into his head just from this discussion. He began drafting a message for the Philipsburg Station and crew. It wouldn't make any sense to them, but their findings could make his life infinitely easier. And it wouldn't be that hard of a task on their end. How hard would it be to get ahold of a policeman's or mercenary's wallet and see if he had any cash on him? Especially when there were several thousand of them running around Philipsburg Station's area of operations, plenty of targets to choose from! Really, honestly…truly. How hard could it be?!
. . .
If there were any consolation to her chasing Atomsk across the American Heartland, it was Haruko got to see a lot of scenery. All well and good, and pretty and neat to look at... for the first dozen hours or so. From Michigan City she hopped the infamous Interstate-94 (When your drugs must get from Chicago to Detroit in four hours or less, accept no substitutes!) and rode it past the Windy City into the hinterlands of Northwest Illinois. Along the way she was nearly crushed, smashed, run over or run down by Chicago traffic as the posted speed limit was a paltry fifty-five miles an hour but the locals kept the effective speed limit at cool eighty. But the fast-paced city gave way to rolling grasslands, long smooth hills and waving fields far as the (one un-bandaged) eye could see. Having heard Jeff talk about this part of the country and how there were few and far between things to do there, Haruko agreed that she could see why some people living out there would turn to meth just to pass the time.
The Mississippi River she stopped halfway over on, between Illinois and Iowa to have lunch and admire the view. Slow and steady as she went, Big Muddy teemed with ships, boats and barges, winding their way around shoals and sandbars. The leftover Chia-town deep dish pizza she'd been saving for lunch had gone cold and soggy in her backpack, but even leftover pizza is better than no pizza; any day. It had been better hot, but she was in no position to be picky. Finished eating and the crumbs brushed into the dark waters below, she sat at the railing with her legs stuck out through the bars. Trying to remember the maps she had read, she mentally sketched the river's path back to its headwaters in Minnesota, and then down to the Gulf of Mexico; forever and far away. Such a majestic river felt familiar to her, maybe another memory from way back, from before...
"Miss? Excuse me, miss?"
"Heh?"
"Are you okay?" An Iowa state trooper had pulled up behind her and was approaching with caution. "You're not feeling depressed or suicidal? Please tell me you're not here to jump."
"What?! No, why would you think..." She looked down and realized just how far it really was to the river below. "I was just having lunch and a rest, long ride and all."
"Well, okay. But you gave me quite a fright. Are...are you sure you're alright? That bandage looks like it needs changed." He pointed to the left side of her face. "Do you want directions or a ride to the hospital?"
"No, no, I'm fine."
"If you're sure. But I am going to have to ask you to move off the bridge and finish your lunch on solid ground. It's not safe to be picnicking out here."
"I think I'll just be on my way." She stood, gathered her things and climbed aboard her Vespa. The trooper returned to his cruiser and waved goodbye.
"Ride safe miss! And welcome to Iowa!"
Iowa opened up into the leading edge of rolling plains and golden waves of corn, wheat and soybeans ready for harvest. Interstate 80 was a cruising paradise, one long ribbon of asphalt that stretched to the horizon. She was making such excellent time she nearly missed the sign for the National Motorcycle Museum. She somehow lost track of time between the Evel Knievel exhibit and one of the first Vespa 98's ever built that very nearly went out the door with her, until the staff started turning lights off. A Motel 6 down the street had a room open and she checked in. Two pills of Vicodin to help ease the ache that had started up again in her head and to lull her to dreamless sleep. Morning, wake-up call, try to use the bathroom but find you're stopped up six ways to Sunday from too much deep dish, shower, change bandages, two pills to ease off the morning headaches, shovel down a free continental breakfast, nick the fruit basket, six yogurts and all the granola pouches when no one is looking, high-tail it down the road before the desk manager hears the first guest complain half the breakfast bar just walked out the door, put on your headphones and let the music roll as your engine revs barely on the safe side of its red line and the guitars ring out loud and clear...
*If you see me flashin' byyyy...
Do not stop me; do not try!
'Cause I'm a Motorcycle Maaaan!
I get my kicks just when I can!
Motorcycle Maaaaan! ... Motorcycle Maaaaannn!
I can beat your Street Machine!
We're takin' risks, that's what we mea-ean!
'Cause I'm a Motorcycle Man!
We get out kicks just when we can, when we can!
Iowa flitted by as she put the throttle to its max and with her feet up, engaged cruise control. Ah, this was the life. No more getting up early to clock in at eight, working hard under machines or vehicles and getting covered with oil and grease, exhausting herself running a press or sweating to death behind the steel burning heat of an acetylene torch. This was where she was meant to be: out on this glorious road as fast as her iron steed would carry her, wind in her hair and only one goal; and no nagging foreman or supervisor needling at her to get it done in any kind of hurry. Picturesque small towns she blasted through, giving these one-horse, no stoplight having vill'es what she felt was some much-needed excitement; doing seventy plus in twenty-five mile an hour zones.
If you see me ridin' byyyy...
Do not stop me; do not try!
'Cause I'm a Motorcycle Maaaaan!
I get my kicks just when I can! When I can!
Motorcycle Maaaan... Motorcycle Maaa-y'annn...
Motorcycle, Motorcycle... Motorcycle MAAAaaannnn...
Still, the glimpses she was able to catch, they were pleasant enough to look at: century old storefronts, proudly family owned diners, well-maintained classic cars out for one last drive before the seasons turned over, leaves beginning to turn color, stone churches and courthouses, and quaint "Welcome to our Town!" and "Thanks for coming; please see us again!" signs greeting and saying farewell. Each one its own small, little world, an island in a sea of sifting breezes over the fields, and Haruko blew past each and every one with hardly a glance to either side of the road.
I can beat your Street Machine!
I'm takin' risks, that's what I mean!
'Cause I'm a Motorcycle Maaaannn!
We get our kicks just when we can! When we can! OH!
Motorcycle Maaaan! Motorcycle Maaaannnn!
Motorcycle... Motorcycle...
MOTORCYCLE MAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNN!*
Hours later and now in Des Moines, she spotted a tantalizing sounding treat: a place called Smokey D's BBQ. They were offering "The Challenge of a Lifetime: Finish the Super-Sized-Spicy-Sizzler-Steak in under ten minutes, and it's FREE". How could she in a thousand years pass that up?! With a stomach built of cast iron and an intestinal tract that doubled as a scrap yard, able to handle bowls of Double-Heat-Triple-Spice-Curry, this would be no match for her digestive prowess...
"Miss, do you need us to call someone?"
"No, no, I'm...hurk..." How was there anything left inside her to get rid of? Surely, she'd given up everything she'd ever eaten since, hard to be at least the academy... "I'll be okay, just...hurrkkrkkgsksksksssfjkjekbllleaaagghhhh..."
"I've only got so much Pepto Bismol, miss." The manager, Mr. Smokey D himself, was trying to prevent a fatality at his establishment. "To your credit, you did manage to finish half a seventy-two-ounce steak and that's no mean feat. But I think you overdid it on the peppers. Are you sure you really know what a ghost chili is?"
"I sure do now..." She groaned. Her stomach felt like she'd taken a barrage of body blows and her throat burned from acid. This had been a terrible idea, what had she been thinking? Too much listening to her stomach than her common sense. Then again, no one had ever accused her of having learned how to make good decisions. "Everything, everything considered...I think, I'm just...just gonna go."
"You're sure you're good to drive? This's my last offer to take you to the clinic."
"My hotel's just, ah, just up the road. I'll be fine."
"Okay, don't say no one offered. By the way, since you didn't finish the steak, your tab is sixty-five dollars." Haruko felt sick again, this time not from ghost peppers, but having to spend that much money on a meal she hadn't managed to keep down; never mind finish. She pulled out her wallet and reluctantly extracted four twenties.
"Keep the change; my apologies for the mess." She had lost her stomach right in the middle of the restaurant and never even made it to the bathroom. The casualties were numerous as no one in the establishment was spared, the damage extensive, and aftermath horrific. Her throat ragged, mouth still crackling, face beet red from heat and shame, and eyes flooding nonstop, she dragged herself to her Vespa and set off to find somewhere to sleep. A Super 8 had vacancy and the little snack bar was still open. She bought every half pint of milk they had in the fridge. She spent the rest of her evening sitting in the shower with the water running, slowly drinking milk and sloshing it around her mouth to get rid of the capsaicin still wreaking its havoc. Her mouth finally cooled, Haruko crawled out of the tub and pulled a towel down from the rack to dry off. She then crawled across the floor, stomach empty and wagging in her gut like an empty sack, one that had been scorched beyond recognition, and clawed her way into bed. Exhausted, she fell asleep immediately. It felt like she had barely closed her eyes when she was awakened. A sunbeam, taking eight minutes and twenty seconds to travel 91,535,000 miles, slipped between a gap in the curtains and nailed her right in the eyes. Morning had arrived, and immediately nature called; from all ends.
"Oh, what a way...what a way, to start the day..."
Travel was pitiful that day and she only made it as far as Omaha at sundown. The Missouri River glinted and sparkled as the sun went down. A glorious flame orange pattern charged with yellows, flanked by reds and silhouetted with dusky purple colored the water to the dazzlement of people walking the riverbanks for an evening stroll. Haruko was in too foul a mood to enjoy a second of it. She had eaten nothing all day, finding no appetite and been sick several more times along the road. Water and a pack of crackers were her only acceptable sustenance that didn't immediately get sent back. And on top of it all she had absentmindedly scratched and picked at her wound; distracted by her digestive distress. So now it was agitated and inflamed from being disturbed. Two 10mg pills of Vicodin tonight instead of the little 5mg ones ought to set things right. This hotel did let you rent by the week, maybe she just needed a break, just some time to get... her... bear...ings... Several days sleep gone by and the pounding of a sheriff's deputy on the door with the motel owner yelling outside woke her up. Luckily for her a handful of cash smooths out even the most ruffled of feathers. The owner went back to their office satisfied and blocked that room off for a week, and the deputy didn't arrest the woman with pink hair and bloodshot eyes. A few days later and Haruko felt right as rain again. Back in the saddle and ready to get on the road again!
. . .
*Motorcycle Man - Saxon
The Head is certainly no stranger to violence, but seeing it happening right across the street from your house, and to someone the day before you were trusting your entire planet with... shakes a man up. Those Operatives don't give out any favors though, no rank or position is immune to prosecution for treason. If he is to finish his project, The Head had best be minding his P's and Q's and keeping his head as low as possible. If a top general lost his way... Syrinx only knows who might be next!
Agent Griggs gives me the feeling of a heavy millstone. He may not be the coolest, flashiest, or fastest character here. But he is always in motion, always working, and grinding especially smooth for a perfect end product; and once you're caught in his grip, there is nothing in the known universe that will get you free.
Haruko... oh, what are we going to do with you, young lady? One of these days you're either going to wise up, or the world's gonna give you such a learnin' it'll make your head spin. In my family, we have a saying: "Learn Cheaply." That is, learn from watching the mistakes of others so you don't make the same error yourself; letting someone else pay the price of messing up. Learning Expensively is when YOU make the mistake yourself, and have to pay for it yourself. And wow, is Haruko determined to write screw-up checks she cannot cash. How long until one bounces?
