CQB
Too Close for Comfort
1930. Old Mall of America. August 4, 2044.
Rotting garbage. That's what Camp Snoopy smelled like today. That's what it smelled like everyday. Underneath 10 stories of the New Mall of America, the Old Camp Snoopy lay as a reminder of the old days and how they and their ideas had wasted away and become a sore to be hidden by the corporations. In the heart of the Minneapolis section of Northopolis the Mall of America was still a tourist attraction for young and upwardly-mobile corps and their families. But Old Camp Snoopy served a darker purpose, it was here for the sole purpose of containing the crime to one area. Corps could have fixed it if they wanted. But they didn't, so it existed at their whim.
Roy had told me to come here. Roy Boehm was an old Sgt. of mine in the Dragoons. He'd been in the old U.S. Navy SEALs. He was fifty when I met him. He remembered the days back before the fall, but he was a fighter and a survivor, he'd lived through it all. He got scooped up by Ares Corp back in 2005 shortly after he left the USN at age 20. He made the Dragoons what they are today and he cast them in the image of the Navy SEALs. Roy got out of the Dragoons eventually, and so did I. After I got out I came back to my home in MSP and met him, he said if I was looking for work to come here tonight, ask for RR. Whoever that was, I trusted Roy. If anybody else in the world (sans a few of my old team mates) had told me to come to the bottom level of the Mall, I'da shot 'em on the spot.
[ Editors Note: Roy looks like the Airborne Ranger Aerospace Engineer old grey bearded guy from 'The Postman,' by David Brin, directed by Kevin Costner. ]
The hallway ahead of me was dark, made eerie green by the passive nightsights in my cybereyes. The walls were covered with nonfunctional pipes and hoses. Overhead the lights that weren't smashed, sat dead in their sockets. The ground was damp and covered in dirt, plus either mold, moss, or paper waste that fed the former two. I kept my pace slow, having no need for speed, but relishing stealth. Up ahead there was a large opening into the heart of Old Camp Snoopy. I walked slowly out of the maintenance hallway and into the old mall area. My path kept me along the walls and the openings of the old shops. The fallen Great Ax lay across the tattered remains of the roller coaster, I crept up to the ledge and looked down at the ranger station. Where I was supposed to meet my fate, there stood a tall man in an overcoat. How cliché. I switched to PNV/IR and scanned the surroundings. Some old shops on the other side held broken glass and fallen shelves, but no signs of heat. I knew about thermal camo and chameleon suits on powered exoskeletons, but I figured the odds of meeting that heavy military hardware were slim. Unless I somehow pissed off Araska corp. but I didn't remember that, so I took my chances. Skirting down the rail some more, crawling on my belly to keep my silhouette down, I moved over to where the remaining stairway was. They'd expect me to take that so I wouldn't.
There was a break in the railing and I lowered myself down to the amusement land floor. Very few lights illuminated the park. I wonder why they were kept lit at all, and who kept them lit. Note to self: shoot out those lights and come back a month later. See if they've been replaced.
After circling my prospective meeting and finding no one it was just about time to walk up and say hi. First an inventory check. OK, jacket and jeans OK. Gerber folding CQB knife on belt and two ceramic darts on forearms. High hip holster with HK USP5 pistol, four magazines and 30+1 in the gun. Entry shotgun under jacket, five strips of six shells each: explosive, buckshot, dragonfire, and flechette under other arm. HK compact on ankle. Penlight, pens, lockpicks, and mirror in jacket pocket. Concealable vest on and trauma pads in place. Whip out baton in right front jacket pocket, and Nomex gloves on. Garrote wire and titanium cable around waist. Slap patch, first aid kit, pneumo hypo and case of injections in pants thigh pocket. Glass cutter, lockbuster, can of spray explosives, and (2)smoke and (2)concussion grenades on utility vest under jacket. I think that's everything. Oops, laces on aerobic ranger combat boots are knotted and cut short. OK. All set to go.
With the inventory done and passing muster, I low crouched and walked slowly up a shop lane that came up on my meetee's back. When I was within ten yards from them I called out, "Are, Are." Pronouncing it slowly and at a moderate to low decibel level, so not to arouse anyone else's attention in the immediate area (if there were any.)
The meetee whirled around and stopped, their head turning side to side trying to locate me. "Show yourself," he said in a low voice.
"Take your hands out of your pockets," I replied. He did so and in his left he carried a Glock M44. Well, he kept his side of the bargain, in word if not in intent, so I did the same. I stepped out of the shadow I was in and drew the Entry shotgun in a fluid motion, so it was out before I was in the light. "Mr. Boehm sends his regards."
"Likewise." So this was the guy Roy sent me to meet, he was prepared if not all that observant. "You here alone," I inquired to see if he would tell me if I missed anyone.
"Yup, for now." I didn't like that last part of that, but took a few steps closer. My muzzle was points 90 degrees off of him to the side, but unless he was super fast, I could beat him to a shot.
"What's the deal, Roy didn't say anything about what we're here for or even who you are. Since you know me, I'll skip it, but how bout an introduction?"
"Ah, right to the chase. My name is Richard Raven, I associate with men such as yourself. There is no pay, but the benefits are good." I was dubious, but had nothing to loose.
"I'm interested and in the market, but your terms are lacking description." Whilst speaking I swung the barrel slowly to bring the muzzle forty-five degrees off him.
I could see the temperature rise in his face as he continued, "Well, for starters, you keep what you find or collect on. Terms to collect on are what ever the client can afford, but never any more. So if a man has nothing, you can only ask for favors as payment in the future. What jobs you take is up to you; I don't pay you so I make no claims at commanding you." As he spoke in a deep baritone with incredible timbre, he took a few steps closer into the light. As the light hit his face I switched to VisLit. "I'll provide room and board."
He looked not the least flustered, but I wondered why his temperature had risen. Raven was tall and very well muscled, not like me but strong to be sure. He had broad shoulders that tapered to a thin waist and powerful legs. He wore a heavy synth-cotton sweater and canvas outdoor pants. His hair was long and black and worn loose, hanging down to his shoulders. From the darkness of his face, even in the darkness, he was most likely Amerindian or Hispanic. "Like I was saying, the last thing I provide is resources. I have many associates, which you may become one of, and they are all like minded. More or less they get along, I have several good Solos that you could learn a lot from and teach a lot to, too. As you know, there is safety in numbers." As he finished that last sentence, all the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. That doesn't happen much, but over the years of combat that have been my life, I've honed this instinct to keep me alive. When it barks, I jump.
My head spun around to the left, catching a glimpse of a huge man with some serious chrome legs. That wasn't so odd, except he was had just come to a stop, was directly behind me in the walkway I'd approached Raven from, and was carrying a 10mm SMG. That could ruin my day. As my right shoulder careened into a left turn, the thing started firing. I planted my left leg, and pushed off hard with my right. That launched me into a forward roll and propelled me ten feet forward and twelve to the side. In midair I felt two slugs slap into my back and one hit my left leg, but they didn't feel like normal rounds.
"Hold it!" I screamed at him as I landed with the shotgun pumped, shouldered, and the smart sight locked in on him. The glowing green recticle in my eye instantly told me he was thirty-seven point six yards away. Easily within gun range. He'd have gotten three sabot-slug rounds in the chest had I not known the rounds he hit me with were gel-pacs. Rounds made for riot control, and non-lethal to solos like me.
The barrel of his Steyr I was looking down, slowly came up and off me. My heart was going at 150 bpm as he said, "You're pretty good. Doc, lets hire 'im."
"Mr. Stealth, you know how it works. Mr. Sharkman has to join us," Raven said having not moved a muscle since this chrome-boy and I went at it. That admission made me feel better, but I had one question left.
I kept the laser indicator and recticle lined up on this slick as I asked, "What kind of jobs do you do? That would seem to make a major difference."
"Very good. That is the central issue," he spoke like somebody's father or a professor. (I have heard one of those speak, in London 2038. Ares Corp wanted him assassinated and we had to do it, so we did it Lecture hour.) "The helpless and the forgotten, those without SINs, victims of the Corps., and any who have a need but no power to force reaction from the police or the authorities. If there are authorities at all, as you know. Our clients are those in the burbs or the plexes who need help. That is all."
I lowered the gun off of the slick. "Then count me in," I said remembering my roots. "You gonna tell me who this Solo is?" with the weapon fully down at a low ready.
The big slick took a number of steps and came within ten feet of me. "The names not important, but most call me Kid Stealth," he spoke with a slight texas or southern accent. As he got closer I got a good look at his legs. Full chrome and of a design that had an extra knuckle like a raptor or a bird. They must be REALLY fast, and they had a snap-out claw from the looks of it in the lower shin. His name would explain why I hadn't seen him. Though, Doc or Raven or whatever his name was hadn't seen me coming, I figured Kid hadn't seen me either.
"Nice to meet you. Call me Sharkman."
Richard Raven and Associates
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Last updated 980918
Copywight 1998. Elwmer Fud Industwies. All wights weserved.
