|
2345. Docks, Southopolis. May 1, 2045.
Creeping into the warehouse yard, Kid Stealth and I crawled along at an agonizingly slow pace. All that jazz you see in the sensie vids is rubbish. Motion attracts attention, and attention means people start shooting at you. Either is bad. Now, both of us were loaded down with equipment vests for all our equipment. We both sweat profusely in the humid Southopolis air despite a swift Gulf breeze. Southopolis was about as descriptive as saying Centralopolis, Westopolis, Northopolis, or Eastopolis; it stretched from Old Miami to New Orleans, and to Old Atlanta. Our job currently put us in Old Mobile (Alabama, for the non-history buffs.) Even through the tall weeds and putrid stench of the Mighty M, we could see the five hundred story Green Giant Archology off to the north. My name is Sharkman, and this is my story.
Kid was a big bruiser; just over six and a half feet tall, and weighing nearly 300. He's a self-made solo who came into money the hard way. With blood, usually his own. He worked for gangers and fixers, doing dirtywork and learning to be an assassin. Learning usually comes about through mistakes. Mistakes usually mean death. He was now twenty-three; you can guess which way the odds tee-tered. He had a big round, impassive face with obvious Hispanic influence. Thus he had the characteristic dark hair and suave features associated with his 'race'. (Though race is as an outdated way of thinking of things as National Pride is today.) When he tried he was quite stunning and a real lady's man (I had seen it once, at a ball at the MSP capital where he plied his master assassin trade and killed thirty-five lobbyists. But the ladies he danced with said it was like dancing with the Apollo.) When he didn't he was just terrifying to behold. (Most assassins are.)
Standing just over six foot and easily weighing 220; I'm all muscle and metal, lean as a soy-steak. I bench 450 lbs for 100 reps every day; sound frivilous? Well trust me, upper body strength comes in handy. But now on to my profession. Me, I was a trained Solo. Basically grew up in the Ares Corp. military. They were my only real family. Spent nearly ten years in the service, 'round the world. They gave me my chrome and when I got out, I got to keep it. I earned my Solo license before I left, and have been an edge runner since. When I got back to my home in MSP, I met up with an old friend who introduced me to a guy he knew that was offering work. That was when I met Dr. Raven and that is what put me here. Kid and I were a real good pair he said.
The warehouses here were crowded with cargoes and old junk. Running roughly east-west this section and its streets was deserted of people except for two very nice black superstretch BMW Limos, a Lexus and four Zil cargo trucks. The Zils belonged to Arleigh, one of the South's most decadent and powerful Fixers/Gangsters. The Limos belonged to whoever he was meeting. Looking through my telescopic cyber-eyes I could see the Limos were guarded by roughly twelve persons of Arabic descent, armed with IMI-Shamiks (9mm ultra-modern Uzis.) Kid signaled that thirty guys from the trucks were armed with MP-12 SMGs (H&K's somewhat outdated sub-machine gun.)
They were up to something. We were here to stop whatever it was. Dr. Richard Raven (who drives a mint 1999 Rols Royce Trans-Atlantic) had given us this choice when he called us to his house in Lower Edina. There was a fee offered for the return of merchandise, and someone had come to Dr. to get it. To pursue this dirtbag or not; that was the question. Kid Stealth and I are Solos, we kill things, hop and pop, shoot and loot, brew and screw; but that's how we like it.
Arleigh had his usual entourage of orks (slang for morons) and meatboys, commanded by his right-hand man Boxer. Boxer was a tall UM type (universal military) that screamed THUG. He and I had crossed paths back in our Corp days, when he worked for A2 (Afforementioned Asshole) Corp. and I, Ares Corp. Even back then he was a blood-thirsty mongrel that never really played the game. Arleigh was a typical Fixer, dressed in spit shined shoes and Armani pin stripe suits to match, he oozed money. (As well as greed, slime, and corruption.) Some of Kid's people down here had heard Arleigh was meeting an overseas customer on some important business regarding a transfer of interests. Whatever that meant, I dunno, but to Dr. and Kid it sounded bad. So odds are I would get to shoot something tonight. Now don't get me wrong gentle reader, I hate killing but some things deserve it, and I keep myself honed for the explicit purpose of ending their too long and worthless lives.
As Zig and Zag (two more of Dr.'s newest associates) gave notice to Kid that Arleigh was leaving the Limo, we poked up our heads and saw eight of Ar's men simultaneously leaving the back of a truck. Arleigh and this Raghead were waiting across from the trucks by the Limo. We were about sixty feet from the back 4:30 (if you look at the clock like I do) of the truck; and ten yards separated us. Zig and Zag were about one-hundred feet on the backside of the Limo's. The other trucks ran north and the Limo's paralleled it on the other side.  Among the eight goons getting out of the back of the truck gave me a glimpse of the most beautiful redhead I have ever seen. I immediately wanted to try very hard, very long at making her the mother of my children. She was tall, slim, tan (not pale, but not belt-leather baked either) and gorgeous. Her long red hair was pulled back and she wore a long burgundy dress that clung to every inch of her thighs and legs. Her beauty could only be described as elven and ethereal. It took me about two seconds (very long for a Solo) to notice she was being all but carried by the two thugs who had grabbed her under the arms. Heavily drugged, and in obvious peril I never would have done what I did next if I had carefully weighed the odds. But I felt at the moment that I had RS (relative superiority - from stealth and surprise) and I had Kid on my side.
Over our personal communicators I gave the signal, "Execute Ejaculation!" I really love crazy code-words. Then without hesitating a second and remembering the words of Master Tzu 'Never give ground on the attack, press your enemy, or you will not break him.' I intended to break these orks.
I ran at a hunch, and in a blink I was behind the first truck. By then I had fired my trusty Colt M31 carbine five times and dropped three of the orks. Not slowing as I passed the truck, I dropped one fragmentation grenade into its covered bed, and threw one smoke in the direction of the other truck to obscure my motion (and of course taking full advantage of the wind.) As I darted towards the fiery red-haired-one-of-my-dreams and her group of fumbling escorts, I unleashed a hail of 5.56mm bullets from my Colt. Their violent paths brought them into intimate contact with six of her escorts as they tried to no avail to unsling their weapons. Zig and Zag were dousing the two (armored) Limos with devastating fire from their AK-97's; this tied up the Meds. Kid was engaging those is the trucks: with claws if they came out and shooting through the tarps if they didn't. The formerly dark warehouse was not lit by the flash of automatic weapons fire and the firelight from the fourth truck.
Only yards away from my destination I saw Boxer move his hand across his throat in the universal 'kill them' motion as he pointed to the tall elven beauty. From behind a dingy moss covered aged crate I saw a Remington Rangemaster rifle barrel peering in her direction. All I could do was dive; jumping headlong at her remaining captor. The other orc had hit the deck rather than suffer my volley. My fist connected soundly with his jaw, shattering it. As I wrapped my body around hers and executed a roll to soften the blow with my body, she exhaled loudly, I hoped I hadn't knocked the wind out of her. Actually I hoped she had seen me, I'd made it there in just under three seconds. As I was hitting the ground, I heard the muzzle report. I assumed he missed.
Arleigh and the Raghead had been ushered to cover behind crates by their body guards when I had started shooting. When they got there they returned fire on my very exposed position. Kid popped smoke and riddled them with a four-barrel Ares gatling carbine. I grabbed the lady, and was back on my feet. I stepped on the neck of the captor who just held her, planted my foot, broke his neck, and made a break for the nearest cover I could find.
The fifty feet to that box were the longest in my life (except for Madrid - but that is another story.) Emptying the remainder of the 100 round dual drum magazine on the Colt as I ran (I was proud of that small investment) for no other reason than to keep their heads part way down. She squealed as she felt the impacts of 9mm and 5.56mm slugs in my back, despite my best efforts at evasiveness, though the armor stopped most of it. Several zigs and zags later (ha ha) I slid baseball figure-four style into cover behind a large steel packing crate, with her gripped in my arms on top of me. Over the radio I heard Max, Dr.'s Netboy, say "Reinforcements on deck, better shag it."
"Roger," each of the others answered in turn, then myself last. I rolled over on top of her, and used one leg of mine to tuck her up into a ball; she let out a soft grunt. As my hands reloaded the 100 CMax magazine, "Stay down," was my curt directive and she demonstrated her intelligence through immediate comply. I popped a pneumohypo out of my belt and stuck her once with a broadspectrum generic anti-toxin.
Kid and I emptied our magazines at the crates of the goons. During the five seconds it took my weapon to empty, I looked around and saw Zig and Zag moving up on the west of the crates in a flanking maneuver. The Limos were now swiss cheese and their owners had become dead. With the last round kicking out, I ducked again and reloaded - last magazine. Time to end this party. From under the kevlar lined Black parka I wore, I drew out my HK 99 repeating EMGL. This little baby had saved my life more than once. As I came up, the smart links in its grips registered and showed five live HEDP in the magazine, and I thought off the safety.
Whump! Whump! Whump! Whump! Whump!
Before I continue I have to say of all the literary devices available to me onomatopoeia is my favorite.
The thirty ounce Plastex-C High Explosive Dual Purpose rounds slammed into the crates of the crime lords. I let one hit Boxer in the chest even though I knew that would cut down on the lethal range of its fragments because of that razorboy's heavy armor. But regardless, the ensuing fiery blasts of death did much to improve my mood; that and knowing they were dead and I was alive.
"Five minutes," reported Max.
"Roger. Zig, Zag. Check the Limo then Move out. Kid check the crates. I'll cover you, then we check the trucks and get outa here." Double clicks indicated their understanding.
Getting to my feet proved to be painful, my jeans were torn, my nose was bleeding, I could feel a huge bump forming on my head, my ears were ringing, I knew I was shot in the back at least five times, and felt sure my face had a half-dozen lacerations from flying rock splinters; God it was good to be alive. As I stood with a fresh mag in the Colt, I felt a hand at my side. I had to do everything in my power to keep from executing a butt smash then drawing my Tanto on the 'attacker'. Then I realized the small fine fingers touching me. "You're hurt."
"Probably." I replied without taking my eyes off of Kid and his AO.
"You're bleeding," continued the most melodious voice my amped up ears have ever heard.
"If you wanna help, there'sa slap-patch in my pocket. Know how to use it?"
"Yeah," she said simply.
Kid came to a stop about twenty feet away and signaled that we could check the trucks. His departure would allow me a moment of enjoyment. "Thanks," I said as she finished and I looked down into her big, brown, saucer eyes that could melt butter. When she took her hands off having applied the patch I said, "Up. Lets go."
Kid and I ran through the other three trucks, each taking a turn at guard and at entry. We found a few papers, some maps, a couple bags, and a wallet. As we headed for the tall weeds we came in through with our Lady in tow, we could just hear the sirens in our amplified ears.
Back at the motel in the farthest northern burbs we met with Zig and Zag. They'd found a large quantity of paperwork, and Kid had found a mostly burned bag of credsticks. I had found what could become the love of my life. She didn't remember how she got there, I didn't care; but figured I'd probably made an enemy none the less.
|
