Pawn of the Muse

Pieces of the Game

Loaded Type — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 18:00:00 +0000

Ok, here is something that popped into my head....I get so many ideas, that it really annoys me. Seriously. I have to learn to focus. Anyways, enough whining. This story was kinda just jotted down in Word and is very rough. It is about a man (a boy, really) that is part of a country's elite assassination guild. It's going to be a story of intrigue, betrayal, and how thoughtless obedience may be good for a ruling body to keep control of its citizens, but not necessarily good for those it commands. I plan (hope, really) to make it a series called the Onyx Throne, and this is tentatively titled:

Pieces of the Game

♦ Placed pieces♦

We were born of strife
Molded into conscienceless tools of war
We bring a message to those who would do harm
To our throne, to our people, to our honor
We are the shadows that can only exist in light

-Morslindas, shadow agent

Ultain bowed deeply to the ambassador. He left the meeting chamber quickly and silently. He didn’t look back. He didn’t touch the scroll case hidden under his cape and he didn’t make eye contact with any of the many travelers in the wide hallways that made up the upper palace. There was nothing new for him to see here in any case. Ultain had been coming to the upper palace, the seat of the Onyx Throne in the city of Promise, for many months now. His master had said it was training to make him comfortable in the world of the nobles. There would come a time when he would be called upon by the Onyx Throne to perform his duty. His master had said that his mission would most likely take him to an environment much like that of the upper palace.

So for that reason, Ultain had been used—unhappily, he might add—as a courier by his master. He wanted to do more training. He wanted to learn the secret ways of the agents. He wanted to be like his father. His master has repeatedly explained to him that what he was doing was important to his growth. That the documents he carried were some of the most prized objects of the Onyx Throne.

Even though Ultain met with ambassadors and nobility several times a quarter, he found it hard to believe that anything they needed transported by a fifteen turns old boy could be of any value.

Thinking about the whole affair always made him cross. He considered dallying in the Grand Museum at the center of the palace instead of going straight back to his master. That was one of the only joys he experienced coming here. The museum contained a vast repository of the history of the Onyx Throne. Ultain thought most of it dull, but was always fascinated by the pieces attributed to the records of the Shadow Agents. Of course there were more precious pieces in the Dome of Shadows, the ancestral headquarters of the agency, but the ones at the Grand Museum just seemed more exciting.

As part of his training, as his master put it, Ultain had to learn every single hallway, passage way, stairway, and room location from the maps he was provided. His master had gravely explained to him that those maps were rare. He was sworn, quite seriously, to secrecy. No one is to know that we have possession of these maps, Ultain. Master had said with a grim smile. There are some close to the Onyx Throne that would construe our use of them as an opening to paths, literal and figurative, that shouldn’t be available to our brotherhood.

Ultain thought for a moment before choosing a series of narrow hallways that would provide the least congested path to the Grand Museum. Those hallways seemed to be use by the servants for the most part. They bowed politely to him when they passed, and Ultain nodded his head in return. Some of the servants were young—about his age—and they talked quietly to each other when they appeared in groups. The boys carried on gruff little tales of the escapades they performed. The girls giggled and whispered about lords knew what, especially when he passed them. Ultain felt a bit envious that those youths were able to enjoy each others company. He didn’t have such an opportunity. He was currently the youngest at the Dome of Shadows by a long stretch. The closest in age to him was Jareno, and he was at least twelve turns his senior. Jareno didn’t show any interest in dealing with Ultain outside of training.

♦ Opening Move ♦

When the Onyx Throne calls
I will be ready to walk the halls
of the enemy like an invisible hand
of that throne itself. For my land
I will take a life
I will give my life
For the Onyx Throne calls

-anonymous shadow agent

There wasn’t too much blood. At least not as much bleeding as Ultain expected there to be. The blade had missed his vital organs, so he would live. That is, if he didn’t fall down the narrow staircase and dash open his skull on a step. He paused for a minute on a landing, trying to catch his breath and listening for any sounds of pursuit. He had chosen a little used staircase of the lower palace to make his escape when the screaming started. He didn’t want to have to explain why he was trailing one of his body fluids through the Onyx Throne’s halls. So far he hadn’t met anyone as he stumbled down into the restricted common levels. He had also looked back several times during his descent and only saw small scatterings of red drops left in his wake. His wounds stung fiercely but he dare not look at them. He kept his bundled cape pressed to his side and tried his best to ignore the damage.

The pain was a small price to pay for his stupidity. He should have known better. He should have kept his senses and not let that fool of a noble provoke him. Even with the rich boy’s toadies’ cutting words battering at him, he was able to grit his teeth and bow his head. Everything would have been fine if the female with the preening buffoon didn’t find Ultain’s demurring to the noble so amusing. How could he continue to back down then? But, no, Ultain knew that he had made a mistake. He could already hear his master’s reproving voice. Ultain, he would say, how many times have I warned you to control your pride? Your role is to serve. Our kind must move in silence, act in silence, and wait in silence when not called upon.

At least he hadn’t killed the dandy. He wasn’t in any danger of dying as long as his hanger-ons got him some medical attention quickly. Ultain had made sure not to pierce the noble too deeply with his dagger. He only wished that the noble’s sword had been used just as deftly. The damned fool nearly decapitated him once or twice. Ultain couldn’t help taunting him when the noble’s swordsmanship was so obviously lacking. It also didn’t help that the dandy was more than seven years Ultain’s senior, and his friends’ jeers made regarding the age gap, enraged the noble even further. The whole situation was rather ridiculous!

Ultain allowed himself a wild giggle before he was forced to suppress it with a sharp gasp. It only hurts when I laugh, he thought to himself ruefully. He quickened his pace as much as his body would permit, and was finally able to reach a landing with access to the Military Quarter. No one that wasn’t in the service of the Onyx Throne was likely to enter there. He finally felt like he could relax at least a little bit.

The Military Quarter—or the MILK as its inhabitants were wont to call it—was a strange paradoxical mixture of order and disorder. Regular soldiers from most every division of the Onyx Throne’s forces wandered in small groups horsing about. Some swayed wildly; still high on whatever intoxicant they had taken in at the various play palaces that made a good living off the steady stream out of the MILK. Alternately, there were ranked squads and divisions of ground assault forces that marched silently through the wide avenues that split up the large structures that housed the various forces.

The loud and playful soldiers on leave were mostly ignored by the others on duty. That was unless they interfered with the marching formations. That was when the Military Quarter Watchers—or MILK Men—seemed to appear to apprehend the offending soldiers. On most occasions the intoxicated men and women went with the MILK Men with little fuss, but there were times when they had to be restrained.

It was just one of these lively encounters that Ultain weaved deliriously and quite innocently into. One of the MILK Men felt Ultain stumble into her and assumed he was attempting to assault her. She pushed him back with a warning shock from her watch-stick. Ultain’s body moved with a mind of its own. The MILK Man—or woman, in this case—was down on the ground with a broken arm before Ultain knew what he had done.

He didn’t have time to open his mouth to explain before watch-sticks from every direction shot more voltage through him than his body could handle. The last thing he saw as his sight faded was a helmeted face staring down at him. The last thing he thought as his mind began to shut down was that his master was going to kill him.

Chrome Rain

Loaded Type — Wed, 07 Feb 2007 04:09:00 +0000

Well lets see...this one is an oldy. The basic idea I was going for here was hardcore sci-fi action.
It's your basic boys steal virtual data, boys hides virtual data in a pop star's wetware, druglords chase boy....yeah, well, you get the picture. It's called Chrome Rain after the highly dangerous and addictive (yes, and fictitional) drug that all the troubles revolve around. So with no further ado, here is:

Chrome Rain

        Badend was exactly like its namesake. It was a bad place to end up on the best of occasions; known euphemistically as the last haven for society’s unwanted components, its worn out and worn in ethnical gears. Badend was the mother slum of all slums, what the other slums world-wide hoped to become when they ‘grew up’. Its denizens reveled in their exile. Wore it like a badge. Every kind of lowlife scumbag that ever crawled or slithered on God’s green earth lived there. They survived there. Yes, and they died there. Lived there because no where else would have them. Survived there because Badend was the only place they had any chance of surviving the way they chose to live. Died there because ….well, because everyone and her grandmother living there was a cruel-assed motherfucker that would just as soon stab you in the heart as watch someone else do it. In other words, Badend was God’s testing ground for hell.
        So why the fuck did I agree to go there? Why did I let Dot talk me into entering that forgotten septic tank of humanity? Was it because she was my best friend and she said ‘please’? Hardly! Was it because I owed her credits and she was calling in her due? No, she actually owed me from my last job for her.
        The reason I was trying to get into Badend was the very reason most of those sorry no-codes were stuck there in the first place. You guessed it, money! And if what Dot promised me over the vid was no bullshit decimals I’d be getting a lot of it.
        You know when you see those holo-series with the down-and-out sucker being interrogated by the law with a bright light shining into their eyes? What’s their answer when the cops ask them why they did whatever crime they got caught doing? I needed the money! Yeah well, it sounds kinda lame, but I needed the money. Shit. It was really fucking lame and Dot knew I was hurting for the cred and she took advantage of me. Damn that fucking bitch. I don’t even know why I put up with her, but the truth remains that I was late on my last bio-aug payment by a few days. The grey doc (you know, one of those guys that perform upgrades in a back alley operating room without a license) told me that he would let the late payment slide that one time because I spent so much on the augment order. He made it clear however, that there wouldn’t be any more delinquent deposits if I knew what was good for me.
        I’ve been in some really crazy shit storms in my time as a Slammer, and I’m not afraid to be tossed into most combat theatres. But when a grey doc tells you to not miss your next payment, you don’t miss you next payment. Not unless you want to not wake up with your organs finding a new home in someone else’s body. The thing is, judging by my current account balance, I was pretty sure I’d be late on the payment again. That is, unless I did this job in Badend for Dot or if it didn’t scan proper. Three days to do the job and I’d have enough cred to pay off my bill to the grey doc early and still have a bit left over to maybe get myself that new Degtyarev SSR-320 I’d been eying for the last two years.
        But getting into Badend was tough. The outer walls were twelve stories high and thirty feet thick, and surrounded the three sides of Badend that weren’t butted up against the Hudson Bay. Air traffic in that sector was restricted, unless your last earthy wish was to go as a pretty firework display. The thing is there were dozens of security gates that had faulty surveillance on them that you could get past if you’re geared up with the right tech. It was much easier getting in than out. How I got out I would have to scan when the time came. For now I needed to find a tech-head I could trust to get me what I needed. I knew just the place to go to get him.
        I strolled into Coresoft, a small electronic repair shop on the outskirts of Free City. It was early morning and the sun hadn’t yet been able to burn away the veil of smog hanging over the sprawl of multicolored plas-crete buildings that gradually grew in height and density until they merged into the city proper. Surprisingly, there were quite a few shoppers wandering the disorganized aisles, in search of God knows what, I couldn’t tell you. At the counter was a tall tech-head scanning with some other tech-head that I could label right away as his friend by the way they were hooked directly into each others lobe nodes. The remains of my breakfast dripped out of its red foil wrapping onto the cracked cement floor of the shop as I approached them.
        “Hey!” complained the tall, thin, and ratty looking tech-head behind the counter as he unhooked from his buddy. “Why do you gotta eat that greasy crap in here, huh?!? Can’t you at least finish it outside, fer Chris sakes?” He made a shooing motion once, and then again when I didn’t take his advice. “Bitch….” He said under his breath to the other tech-head. He obviously was a new clerk and didn’t know who I was. As if I couldn’t hear him with my augs. I just smiled.
        “Is Solomon here yet?” I asked, making no effort to contain the juices of my Quiksnak meal. “Gotta talk to him. It’s important.”
        The man kissed his teeth and looked me up and down before replying. “You wanna do business, you do it with me. Solomon don’t have time to waste on chicks that don’t know the difference ‘tween USB and IF interfacing.” He was trying to give me the tough guy routine straight out of a Slammer vid. Chest puffed out, squinted eyes, curled back lip showing a hint of canine. If he had about seventy-five pounds more on him it would’ve had a chance at being believable. He clearly had spent a lot of time in front of a mirror practicing. “Anyways, why should I go get him? You ain’t givin’ me nothin’ but hassle, ho. I got better things to do than clean up after your ass!”
        I was willing to humor his posturing if it was going to get Solomon up front without drama, but what can I say, I really do love me some drama. I let the foil mess drop to the floor and it made a soggy splat when it hit. I pushed the punk the clerk was talking to out of my way and grabbed ‘Mr. Tough Guy’ by the interface cables he had draped around his neck. “If you don’t go get him right now you piss stain, you’ll be working atrophied muscles in a hospital ward. You scan me, sport?” To make sure he understood my sincerity I applied gentle pressure to one of his nerve points. His eyes bulged rather prettily. His quick departure was all the proof I needed that he scanned me.
        I didn’t wait too long (just long enough to witness the ‘friend’ plot a course to the shop entrance and disappear) before Solomon came out the backroom. He was a short round fellah, especially compared to the now docile clerk. He had more hair on his arms than I think’s right for a human. He was bald as a cue ball and had so many nodes on his skull it looked like a giant, egg shaped interface module. He wore a stained smock over a purple one-piece that had seen better days, hell, better decades. He pushed a pair VR goggles up onto his forehead and squinted like a mole. He looked like the king of the tech-heads. If you went by the rumors alone in Slammer circles, he was.
        “Mary…” he said in way of greeting, voice a deep baritone that rumbled past fat lips that were dry and chewed. “I thought I told you not to frighten my employees. They’re very fragile and hard to come by with any real talent. I must say, I lose more clerks to your scare tactics than to robbery”
        I shrugged. Not exactly an apology, but an admission that there was some truth to what he said. “If you added politeness to your clerks’ job description then maybe you’d keep more of them, Sol.” I replied with a grin. “I need to talk to you. Privately, if you you’ve got the time? My holoset keeps flashing 12 o’clock, 12 o’clock.”
        The clerk’s withering stare of disbelief that he directed at me when Solomon told him to go make the rounds of the aisles was priceless.
        Of course, he didn’t know that what I said was the little code Solomon and I had arranged to tell him I had serious business to offer. Usually Slammers arranged to see Sol outside of shop hours, but there were times, like today, when a Slammer couldn’t wait to get some custom tech order filled. There were other tech-heads out there in Free City that were good, but Solomon was the best, and his tech pieces were works of art. They did what they were meant to do quicker, quieter, and most importantly, more reliably untraceable than all other tech built in the city. Solomon was a cut above and he only worked with the best. Bloody Mary was one of the best. I’ve got the scars and notches to prove it.
        Sol led me through the workshop doorway and locked it behind us as I passed through. I stood patiently as a detection rig came to life from the ceiling and searched my body with every spectrum you could think of. All the rig found was my Bernadelli 10mm, a 9 inch combat blade strapped to the outside of my left thigh, two thermal grenades slotted on my belt, and three throwing knives sheathed at my lower back. Oh, and two backup clips for the Bernadelli in my purse. Yes, I carry a purse. It matches my boots.
        When that was done, Sol waved me over to a tidy little table lit with a bright overhead light. “Sorry for the search, Mary” He rumbled. “But a man has to be careful. Never know when the Federals have gotten to a Slammer and wires them up for sound.”
        I nodded in understanding. There were more and more tech-heads getting nabbed by the federal forces for illegal manufacture and sales of controlled or restricted tech. The feds had gotten into the habit of either making deals for lighter sentences with Slammers they’d arrested to wear a surveillance wire in order to get evidence on known technology merchants, or just wiring Slammers without them even knowing. Sol had been in the business for a very long time and he was always a step ahead of the feds.
        “So what have you got for me, Mary? It must be something special if you’re up this early in the morning.” He pulled a small bottle from his smock pocket and took a swig. I knew it wasn’t alcohol. No tech-head in their right mind did rec drugs. They took away from the purity of the interface. It must have been some sort of synaptic accelerator that tech-heads sometimes take to increase their computational abilities when they couldn’t keep up anymore. That couldn’t be happening to Sol. He was a god. He didn’t get old and he couldn’t die, right? I was curious to know what was in the bottle, but didn’t ask him about it.
        “Do you still make ghosters, Sol?” I asked instead. “I need a class 2 ghoster that will get me into Badend and I need it by tonight. Can you do it?”
        He stared at me owlishly for a moment. “You want to go to Badend?” He asked in a flat voice. I just nodded. “How do you plan on getting out? You plan on flying out on a chartered sub-orbital in first class?” he added sarcastically.
        “Can you do it, Sol?” I asked again. “I can give you five thousand in paper now. You get the other five when I get back. Standard deal”
        “You mean if you get back!” He countered incredulously. “Girl, I have no problem sending you off to slam in Africa, or China, or anywhere in the Japanese Cultural Unity. At least they have some form of rules. They officially have laws that they abide by, if albeit ineffectually. Badend will chew you up and not even spit you out, Mary!”
        “I already have a father, Solomon. I don’t need another one.” I expected less resistance from him than this. Didn’t need, nor wanted him trying to protect me. I pulled out the five grand and placed the slim stack on the table between us. “Can you get the ghoster ready by 8pm?”
        Sol crossed his arms and leaned back. His face fell into shadow and it was hard to make out his expression. “You never answered my question. Do you even have an escape plan figured out?” When I tapped the battered old bills in response he snorted. “Just as I thought. Stupid kid. I’ve known you for almost ten years and you haven’t changed a bit. Too much doing and not enough planning. Badend isn’t your typical town, you know? It’s a prison. The government just doesn’t call it one. It’s packed full of killers and crazies and—“
        “Oh, give it a break! I know all that, Sol. I wasn’t born a minute ago. I’ll figure something out. I always do.” I couldn’t stop the sigh that spilled out when I continued. “I’m at the top of my game and I can handle those fuckin’ no-codes, alright? Now can you do this or what?”
        Sol scratched at a node for a while, lost in thought. Just when I was about to start getting antsy he cleared his throat. “Alright. Ok. But I have two conditions.”
         “What conditions?”
        He leaned in again and there was a glint in his eyes. “First, you take Wijesoora with you.”
        I didn’t expect that. I was planning on doing this slam by myself so that I didn’t have to cover all the overhead of dragging along some up-and-comer trying to make a name. Still, Wijesoora wasn’t a bad Slammer at all. I’d never worked with him before, but I heard he was tough and fast. Also, he had a lot of connections in the underworld. “Does he know his way around Badend?”
        “According to rumor he has been in and out of Badend several times. Liquidation jobs, as I understand it.”
        It was my turn to lean into the cone of harsh light. “What are you up to old man? You better not be piggybacking my fuckin’ slam!”
        Sol raised his hands defensively. “Whoa! Wait a minute. I don’t want you getting the wrong idea here. I hired Wijesoora to deliver a package to Badend. I was worried about his affiliations, but I was on a short time schedule and couldn’t get anyone else who could get the job done.” Sol’s hands were doing a weak flutter as he talked, showing his nervousness “Now you can alleviate my fears. Which brings me to condition number two: I need someone I can trust to give me verification of the delivery, namely you. He doesn’t need to know.”
        Something smelled fishy about the whole situation. I mean, Solomon’s offer of someone who just happened to know how to get in and out of Badend, was just too convenient. I trusted Sol (as much as one freelancer could trust another), but couldn’t help but notice his sketchy attitude all of a sudden. He obviously had more going on than he was willing to let me in on. I didn’t like it, but as long as it didn’t interfere with my slam I could put up with it because I really needed his tech. The thing was that he also needed me!
        “You get me a ghoster by 8pm tonight, on the house, and we got a deal.” I said finally. He pushed the money back to me with a relieved grin. “Deal!” we said in unison. We got up and walked to the door. Sol unlocked it and it opened with a whoosh. “8pm, Sol.” I repeated a final time with a gun-finger gesture directed at him.
        As I walked around the counter I saw the clerk swishing a mop across the floor in front of it. His face was dark as a thundercloud with anger as he cleaned the mess I had left for him. “You missed a spot.” I advised him cheerily. He didn’t even look at me. That was ok ‘cause I was feeling like I might be able to run a smooth slam this time. I might just be able to get in, get out, and get paid with little or no fuss. That made me happy. I was smiling when I exited the shop and coded into my black tinted VW Spry. My grin at the image of the clerk resorting to menial labor fell off my face when I felt the cold kiss of a gun at the back of my head. I looked into the rearview mirror. All I could make out in the gloomy interior of the back seat were two sets of glowing cyber eyes. We were both quiet for a few seconds, but my unexpected passenger spoke first.
        “Mary-Ann Donato I presume?”

Chrome Rain - Chapter two

        Fuck me! I thought as I tried to gather my composure. This asshole had caught me off-guard. How he got into my Spry, I don’t know, but that just proved he was a serious pro.
        “Do I know you?” I asked as calmly as I could. I hoped he wasn’t set up to measure my biometrics and see how shocked I was to be held at gunpoint in my own car. “I mean, it would just be polite to know who you are before I put you in intensive care, pal”
        My passenger was quiet for a moment. “I asked my question first. I wouldn’t want to put a bullet into the wrong skull”. His voice didn’t waver in its civil tone. He had no delusions about who was actually in control of the situation. “So, are you Mary-Ann Donato? Or do you prefer Bloody Mary?”
        I tried to turn my head enough to look directly at the man, but he pressed the gun harder against my head. “If you’re not competent enough to know who you’re dealing with I would suggest you find another line of work.” I tried to remember who the hell wanted me dead; more precisely, who had the time, money, and courage to hire someone to off me. I couldn’t think of anyone that fit all three criteria. “If I was either of those people—and I’m not saying that I am—what would a professional hit man want with me?” My hand started to move very slowly down the steering wheel.
        The man chuckled. “Hands where I can see them, please” he said in his mild voice. “Assuming that you are Bloody Mary, I would be interested to know what you were doing in that repair shop you just came out of.”
        Outside on the street a large deliver truck hit its breaks to avoid a biker and let off a loud blast from its horn. The man was distracted just long enough for me to slip my combat knife from its sheath and reach the reclining button of my seat at the end of my draw. The seat snapped explosively backwards and down, with the help of my weight, against the man’s thighs. At the same time I shifted my head to the right, hoping that the hit man didn’t have time to pull the trigger and spray my brains all over the front window. As this was happening I brought the blade up to the man’s neck, ready to give a killing blow.
        In the man’s defense, he was actually quite quick as well. He was able to lock up my left arm with his own as I stabbed at his neck. As a result, my attack barely broke his skin. He had finally lost his bland expression, I noticed, as I looked up at his face while grabbing onto his gun hand.
        This little dance took all of two seconds. We both were very quiet as the truck driver’s yelling washed over us and the car vibrated in the wake of the truck’s passing. Once again, the man was first to speak. “Well I guess that answers my question.” He said wryly.
        “You think, Sherlock? Who are you and what do you want? I could kill you right now and it would be self defense.”
        “I want to offer you a job, Miss Donato.” He said with a laugh. “I work for….let’s call it a small government agency that has been watching you for quite some time now. You are on a list of individuals that are considered an inconvenience to the country’s security and are slated for liquidation…. until an issue came to light that we believe you would be perfect for. The government so dislikes wasting a resource.”
        I processed that for a few seconds. The government, huh? What the fuck?!? “I didn’t actually expect for you to be so blunt. And you still didn’t say who you are”
        “And I won’t” he said with a small shrug of apology. “Let’s just says that my employers are allowing you to keep breathing for the time being”

So, so lonely!

Loaded Type — Wed, 24 Jan 2007 21:53:00 +0000

Well I guess I don't have anything to post right now. Waiting for someone to give me some replies on the ones below.

Guess I should tell some peeps I know this blog's address......hmmmmnn.....that would be a smart move.

The Corvain Dagger

Loaded Type — Sun, 21 Jan 2007 21:15:00 +0000

Another bit of writing - Corvain Dagger

This one is a story that I am working on as well. I wanted to give the impression, or the feel, of medieval armies with foot soldiers and all that. But have it take place in the future. On top of that I wanted to sprinkle it with humans who develop mysterious powers. Of course I also wanted there to be a grand struggle between two massive political/military forces.

I think this one is written a bit more smoothly than Thief's Choice.

~The Corvain Dagger~

Prologue

Corvain Year 292

Planetary summer

Planet 618825

(called Bon Chance by its inhabitants)

15 kilometres from Colony 7

(called Marseilles by its residents)

Unit 18 on life form control duty- Day 12

“I can’t do it Sarge…I don’t think I should go down there,” Netmender edged away. “….I got this…um…feeling…”
“Just get in there ‘n flush tha suckers out, Netmender!” Sgt. Baker growled through his thick beard. “You don’t have ta propose t‘em or nothin’…what, do I gotta send Smith wit ya ta hold yer hand?”
Netmender’s face reddened. They were all gathered around the unit’s three flamer cannons and setting up their ambush for the Nixhecra onrush with the offhand manner of individuals performing repetitive tasks. Netmender shivered as he eyed the beckoning hole. He backed off another step.
“What ever is the matter, Netty? Scared of the dark?” someone chirped. Sharpe probably. He was the unit’s loudmouth. The other Footmen brayed behind Netmender. “Need a torch, Nort?” was another jibe. “Don’t pee yourself, kid! You’ll rust your armour!” shouted another soldier. His face reddened even further. Even the ammo boys filling the flamer tanks with volatile liquid took their concentration off their hazardous work long enough to snicker at him. They all thought that he was afraid to go into the Nixhecra hole. The shivering numbness in his toes and fingers told him they were correct. He was afraid, very afraid. But not for the reasons they expected…not for the reason anyone would expect! The Nixhecra were vicious little bastards that could be very dangerous in large groups -- and the Sgt. wanted him to follow the methodically clawed out tunnel to their nest, where there would be several dozen of them! A full grown man that fell while trying to outrun a Nixhecra horde, would be ripped to bloody shreds rather quickly.
A soldier would ironically be in greatest jeopardy because of the armour he wore. Despite their horrendous appearance and violent nature, the Nixhecra weren’t carnivores. They had no taste for flesh and blood. They did have a tremendous appetite for metals and plastics, however. A Nixhecra horde could tear a camp apart overnight with nothing left but organic material. So the units of the Southwester Division were forced to resort to systematic pest control.
All the other soldiers in the unit had already done their stint as Nixhecra bait and now it was Netmender’s turn. He had to do it, and by himself. The Sgt. expected it. The unit expected it. And what’s more, the unwritten creed of the soldier demanded that he faced the same dangers as the others of his unit. He wouldn’t be able to live it down if he didn’t go down that hole. The remainder of his service with the Corvain Army would be extremely unpleasant he was sure. He had to go down that hole!
But if Norton Netmender went down that hole, down into that deep, damp, dark, he would…what? What would he do? He asked himself. He wasn’t sure, but he felt that going down that hole would be a very bad idea.
It was something in his head that was whispering to him. Something grating –no, grating was wrong; it was more of a battering than anything else. Norton couldn’t tell Sgt. Baker that of course. The no-nonsense career soldier would definitely consider him unstable and recommend a thorough psycho-energetic probe be performed. That was a thought that truly frightened Footman Norton Netmender.
He had heard rumours of men claiming to hear voices in their heads. Symptoms of schizophrenia and other mental disorders evident in soldiers were handled as follows: They were sent to field hospitals as per standard operational procedure. The stay at the FH was no doubt quite enjoyable at first; good hot meals and a dry bed with warm blankets. Not to mention a cute nurse attending to a patient’s every need. It would have seemed like a great plan. An ingenious scheme designed to get a little vacation from the humping and constant battles with the indigenous life forms of this planet. According to grunt gossip whispered through the dust and exhaustion as they hunkered down for the night, men in the deep blue outfits of the M.U.D.D. would eventually show up at the patient in question’s bed bearing sophisticated equipment. None of them ever wore any rank insignia. They would confer quietly amongst themselves for a while then begin running the patient through a battery of psychological tests. Most times, the testing wouldn’t last longer than an hour before the patient was released back to his unit (usually with their service record bearing a stamp in red stating: DOES NOT FIT TREATMENT CRITERIA FOR D-NX-626). Sometimes however, the M.U.D.D. technicians would visit the patient again. The privacy curtain would be drawn. Elusive shadows would skitter across the canvas material of the curtains for hours, accompanied by low mewling sounds one would not expect from a grown man.
It was then most common for the curtains to be pulled aside to reveal patients unsuitable for return to duty. These men were dismissed from service and taken off-world for permanent care. But there was no rush in signing out the patient. Sometimes weeks would go by before the bed would be free for use by others. Not that the ‘patient’ minded, of course. They were lost in their own world and made no complaints whatsoever.
Very rarely, the M.U.D.D. technicians seemed to discover profound and unusual results from their study of the patient. Men in unmarked uniforms were always called in at this time. These men were scarred and battle hardened. They moved with the deadly grace of those accustomed to constant wariness of one’s surroundings. They brought with them a wheeled chamber resembling a coffin. The patient was placed in the chamber and carried from the FH. It was said that the soldiers of the unit the patient originated from never saw him again and were told nothing about his whereabouts.
Netmender wasn’t sure he believed all that. He thought it was more likely one of the many ‘boogie man’ stories that floated around the service. Still, he didn’t want anything like that to happen to him so he kept knowledge of the voices in his head to himself. He was more afraid of losing his mind to experimentation than to going insane of his own accord. It wasn’t like he always had voices talking to him his whole life, anyway. The whispers had only started a few weeks after landing on-planet. He had attributed it all to stress and loneliness. He was from a small planet crowded with dozens of large fishing cities. The cultures were loud and boisterous with a distain for authority and pomp. It took a long time for Netmender to acclimate himself to military life, and so thought his strange mental behaviour was caused by the pressure placed upon him in his new environment.
He was just getting the jitters. The jitters, that’s all. Nothing else. He was going to go down that hole, be the human bait expected of him, and lead the Nixhecra out into the trap waiting for them. He would do it because he had to. To prove to the others he wasn’t going to let his fears control him and to show the ‘voice’ it was wrong. Show it nothing was going to happen to him.
He squared his shoulders and stood a little bit straighter. “Yeah. OK. When ever you’re ready, Sarge.” He felt another shiver that bordered on a spasm.
Netmender approached the Nixhecra hole. “Everythin’ ready, Eddy?” Sgt. Baker asked his second in command. Corporal Eddy Yokohama gave the thumbs up. “Alright, Netmender, you know tha drill. Get them critters hankerin’ for ya so’s they follow ya up here.” Netmender nodded. “Cut to the side when ya clear tha hole. To the right side, mind you!” Sgt. Baker’s stubby index finger punctuated his orders on Netmender’s armoured chest plate.
Netmender nodded stiffly and lowered his visor. At Sgt. Baker’s command he edged himself into the opening. As he went deeper into the tunnel he could hear his unit’s jeering. Their voices settled over his shoulders like an unwanted touch. His trembling fingers, encased within composite chain mail, worked at controls embedded into the forearm plating of his left arm. The world around him darkened, and then slowly coalesced into shades of cool green as his visor’s lowlight display came on-line. Data scrolled down the sides of his vision. Two hundred yards to the Nixhecra nest at a 12 degree decline. There was a 7% toxic gas ratio in the tunnel. Not too dangerous at that quantity, but it would only grow stronger as he went deeper. Nixhecra gastric gases were toxic, the by-products of metal and plastic breakdown in their digestive system, he thought as he eyed the figures. Netmender fixed his mask to his visor. Cool air, filtered and regulated, flowed down his throat. It tasted vaguely medicinal. Memories of his training on Fort Righteous, the Corvain Orbital Military base, came back to him. A quick glimpse through a corridor port was the last time he saw Jacobsworld. It was one year ago that he left orbit. It all happened so quickly that he didn’t have time to thinks things through. He was no longer a fisherman. He had become a soldier. Became a paid killer. He had become a killer because it paid more than he could ever make on Jacobsworld and his family needed money.
The fact that he was a Footman in the service of the Corvain Army was still a cold shock to him. He had thought he would live his life fishing the seas of Jacobsworld. Just like his father and his father’s father had done. But he did not have a boat. It was lying at the bottom of the Razor Reefs, shattered and providing shelter for sea life. Without a boat a fisherman couldn’t make a living. It was Norton’s fault the Netmender Family no longer had a boat. A man had to take responsibility for their mistakes. A man had to do what he had to do. He couldn’t let his family starve. Not because of a stupid mistake.
So there he was, a nineteen-year-old fisherman, shuffling down a rough-hewn tunnel on a planet 20 LY from home towards a nest of dangerous creatures. No wonder he had voices in his head telling him to turn around and flee. What business had a fisherman, a man who had spent all his life on or near the ocean, tunnelling underground?
The footing beneath him changed and he had to concentrate on his course. There was now plastic and metal debris peppered throughout the loose dirt under his boots. He was getting closer to the nest. The toxic gas level was higher as well.
As he trudged deeper he passed other tunnels that branched off on either side of him. They were empty of travellers and seemed rarely used. Some were little more than crude alcoves used to store caches of debris a Nixhecra would consider food; low altitude rover panels and generator parts made up the majority of the rubble.
Once, he caught sight of a standard-issue Corvain Army helmet, battered and torn with patches of some dark dried substance upon it. Though the low-light augmentation of his visor allowed Netmender to see in near dark, colors were reduced to ranges of green, so he could not tell if it was blood on the helmet. He felt grateful for the gear’s limitation. All the same, he proceeded with added caution and tightened his grip on his weapon.
The heft of his Bruebaker-Haus did little to bolster his confidence. It was a stubby autogun designed for close-in battle. Propelled by a compact electro-magnetic pulse generator, its depleted uranium bearing ammunition was capable of tremendous kinetic delivery against soft and hard targets.
Unfortunately, his rules of engagement only called for weapon fire in the event that one of the beasts got too close as he baited them towards the surface. Netmender thought he would probably be too busy running for his life to give a backward glance let alone take time to turn around and fire at any Nixhecra about to pounce on him.
That thought brought his hand to the small electronic unit clipped to one of his armour’s utility slots. The unassuming palm-sized device was a modified molecular gas dispersion unit used by game hunters galaxy-wide. It mimicked the molecular trace or ‘odour’ found on living and non-living matter and scattered the artificial gases into the surrounding area. In this case, the molecular gas dispersion unit—or MGDU—was set to give off the tang of a ton of high-grade metal. This was proven to attract Nixhecra from even the deepest tunnels they were known to dig. Once Netmender pressed the charge plug the MGDU would operate for two minutes before its load ran dry.
The right bait for the right prey. Just like fishing. It was ironic that Norton Netmender left his life as a fisherman only to end up fishing for metal eating vermin underground. I shouldn’t be doing this crap, he thought. The voice agreed. The voice demanded he go back or it was going to happen. “What? What will happen?” He complained out loud. His head suddenly pulsed with pressure he had never felt before. Like a migraine, but more intense. His vision blurred. His legs became weak.
His com-line squawked and Corporal Yokohama’s high voice washed over Netmender’s mind on a wave of nausea. He couldn’t understand what the Corporal was saying; it was too difficult to focus on anything except trying to remain standing. The ground beneath his feet seemed so far away.
The darkness was closing in on him. The walls of the tunnel seemed too close.
It was then that the motion sensor software running on his armour’s combat circuitry decided to rail in his ears like the angry nattering of old fisher wives over whose nets were in the best condition.
The voice told him it was too late now. There was no turning back. It was all on Norton’s shoulders from here on in. It had tried to warn him, but would he listen? No. He had to be stubborn, didn’t he? He had to be brave.
Netmender barely had enough time to peel off his air mask before his last meal came back up. It didn’t taste very good going down, he remembered. It tasted even worst as it passed back over his tongue and teeth. The vomit was mostly liquid, but with thick choking chunks, that escaped his mouth with surprising force. He didn’t feel any better after inhaling the base gases no longer filtered by the air mask, either.
The damned voice wouldn’t shut up. The motion sensor’s alarm became more insistent. And the Corporal….the Corporal was demanding a sit-rep. Why was he not moving? Who was down there with him? The unit was picking up movement in his vicinity. WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON???
Now it was Sgt. Baker who growled curses into Netmender’s ears. He was screaming that Norton should back out! Back out quick and remember to cut to the right!! They were on him, damn it!!!
They? They who?, thought Netmender. He raised his head, towards sounds down the tunnel, and activated his headlamp. The sounds of many feet scampering in the farther darkness of this enclosed space. The noise became louder and was soon accompanied by imprecise shapes undulating like a Rorschach blotter in his watering eyes. He tried to blink away the tears, but they stung even more. The gases. It was the gases, he thought to himself almost dreamily. He did not need unobstucted sight to realize what was coming up the tunnel. He knew. The voice told him. It told him very clearly. The Nichexra were coming. Many of them. More than Netmender would care to want to see. They were coming, and it was time.
“Now. Do it now” someone said out loud. He wasn’t sure if it was the voice or if it was himself. But that didn’t matter. He could see the Nichexra eyes glowing like cold little gems as they rushed out of the darkness his headlamp didn’t reach.
“NOW!”

Thief's Choice

Loaded Type — Sat, 20 Jan 2007 17:14:00 +0000

Alright! So here is the first bit of writing that I want to show. It's a story set in the future where mankind has spread out into the galaxy. The focus of the story is a thief named Rojad Olan. I don't want to give away anything, so please read on. Oh, and I would love it if you let me know if I 'shouldn't quit my day job' as the saying goes, or if you think I might have some talent (I know I'm pretty new at this writing stuff and have a lot to learn) that is marketable. Ok. Ready....set....GO!

Thief’s choice

~a Rojad Olan story~

PROLOGUE

WANTED BY THE D.I.R.T.

Rojad Olan had never been one to worry too much about being in a sticky situation. Things had a tendency to work themselves out in the long run. At least it did in his experience. One only had to keep a cool head and have a bit of nerve, that’s all. Of course, if a little underhandedness was in order to get an upper hand, then so be it. Citizen Rojad ironically had a knack for getting into trouble whether he planned to or not. Being a master thief, getting a tad too friendly with the ugly twin sister of good fortune was stock and trade of the business. He lived with what fate dealt him and, if truth be told, had grown to love the unexpected. It was what kept the whole game interesting. Interesting was good, right? But then, the ancient Chinese had a curse about that, didn’t they? He didn’t know it at the time, but things were about to get very interesting indeed for him.

Rojad was having a few celebratory drinks over a successful and rather lucrative job in an exclusive, and unauthorized, club in a lower level of the station. At the table with him were his partner Katlan, the two con-girls used for distraction in the operation and the freighter pilot they’d contracted to move the goods. It was situated at the back of the small lounge area set aside for those not willing to expose themselves to the hazards of the dance floor. The pounding of the A-Belt Honky-Tonk was blessedly dulled by the audio screen shielding the lounge. One of the girls was starting to get along very nicely with Rojad. She’d expressed a fascination with tall, dark, men. After a few drinks and much thigh stroking, she had whispered in his ear a few of the bedtime activities she was quite fond of engaging in. The others at the table were engrossed in some techno babble Rojad was glad not to be a part of. Tech and the thief had never gotten along.

Katlan sat across from Rojad and was pushing a tall glass hemorrhaging whiskey over its brim his way when a shadow eclipsed the table. The figure causing this unwelcome anomaly was standing behind him and couldn’t be identified directly. The look on Katlan’s face once her vision focused over his head was enough of a clue for him to guess a name. Katlan was a sweet kid and had smiles for almost everyone she encountered. The expression of utter disgust she wore now was reserved for only one person. Of course, the glazed hungry look of the woman, who was up until a second before wooing Rojad, was a big hint as well.

‘You mind not standing between me and the fluorescents, Yeoman?’ Rojad said over the rim of his glass. ‘Plus, I don’t like people standing where I can’t see them. Professional trait, you understand.’

Rojad heard the man remove himself from his blind spot. The thief turned as the man brazenly took the seat to his right. The freighter pilot served as a passable buffer between Katlan and himself.

Dwight Yeoman…. he was a reliable Info Fencer and Rojad had used his services many times. He was Earthborn and damn proud of it. Also, he and Katlan had been married at one time. It didn’t end well. Yeoman seemed to have an inability to keep his cock holstered in the private company of women that weren’t his wife. Now, there was one truth the thief had discovered over the years and it was the secret to his success: Every man has a certain thing that they just can’t resist. For some it was drugs. Others can’t stop betting on the races or the wheel. Yeoman….well, he probably was unlucky enough to have the one vice that will get a man into serious trouble quicker than assassinating the Emperor. What made matters worst was the unarguable fact that Yeoman was the most handsome man you’re likely to ever meet. He exuded charm and charisma. What Katlan saw in him, Rojad never knew. Any fool can tell you not to ever trust a ‘pretty boy’. Rojad guessed she would have to chalk it up to a learning experience. ‘So how is the dynamic duo this fine station evening?’ he said as he spread his grin between them all like honey on Centauri bread. His gaze lingered on the two females, as they were new prey and he hadn’t yet bedded them (by the simple fact he hadn’t met them before). He had them hook line and sinker with that stare of his. Rojad was ready to sock the guy, and so was the pilot if you judging his sour look.

Truth be told, the thief kind of liked Yeoman. He had a certain style Rojad appreciated. He would never tell Katlan this, of course. ‘What do you want, then?’ Katlan’s voice was devoid of any emotion. ‘Haven’t you some mindless ninny you can go shag with about now?’ one corner of her mouth curled up to reveal a sharp canine. Her eyes were glazed with booze and had a dangerous glint to them. Rojad would have to watch her.

‘It’s good to see you’ve moved on with your life, Kat’ Yeoman’s smile barely wavered. He turned to Rojad with an expression that he recognized all too well. ‘So Rojad…’ he continued smoothly over Katlan’s suggestion to allow himself to get pushed out an airlock. ‘I have some info I thought you would be interested in.’

He reached for the much diminished bottle of spirits only to see it dragged to the far side of the table by Katlan. “You’re kind of ruining our celebration here, kid. Can’t it wait?’ Rojad didn’t appreciate his cock blocking and was really looking forward to relaxing for a couple of months with the haul they’d pulled in on the last job. ‘Maybe come see me a few days, ok?’

‘I don’t think this can wait, my man’ He was all of a sudden very serious. ‘Very time sensitive info, if you get my drift?’

‘What do you mean it can’t wait?’ the thief asked gruffly. He was getting pissed their little party was starting to cool down.

Katlan leaned across the pilot and slammed her tiny fist on the table. Glasses bounced and the bottle had to be rescued by a con-girl’s quick grab. ‘Here now! You heard the man. Bugger off, you bloody right bastard. You’re not wanted here!’

Rojad was sure the con-girls would have disagreed. ‘Calm the fuck down, Katlan! I came here to talk to Rojad, not you. Mind your business.’ Rojad could see that Yeoman was starting to lose his cool, too. They were glaring at each other so intently that the rest of us became extremely uncomfortable. The energy between them was palpable.

‘I told you that you’re not to come within visual range of me! I’ve a mind to cram that beaming smile down your bloody throat, don’t I?!?’ She made a show of rising from her seat (albeit a tad wobbly). Katlan may be a tech head and a small woman to boot, but unlike most tech heads, she wasn’t a weak little sissy girly-girl. She had done two tours in the Galactic Forces Counter Intelligence division and was as tough as nails. Hell, even Rojad was afraid of her sometimes.

Yeoman leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. His wrist glinted with a panic band. Katlan also had a hidden implant that would alert the station if both their biometrics paralleled each other. He had taken quite a beating from Katlan the third time she caught him with another woman. The authorities had warned her that if she harmed him physically again she would be jailed. ‘What? You think that I haven’t knicked the bloody kill code? I could snap your fucking neck and the station wouldn’t hear a peep, old son!’

Rojad could see Yeoman’s shoulders tense with the threat. Katlan was just drunk enough to do something that stupid. Yeoman and Rojad both could see the signs; they’d each known her that long. ‘You’re drunk, fem. You don’t want to do anything you’ll regret later.’ Yeoman said calmly. Rojad had to give him credit for not bolting right them and there.

The con-girls, however, did take that as a sign to become scarce. They could tell there was a shit load of history here and didn’t want to get caught in it. They made a quick exit as they said their good-byes and grabbed their jackets. The pilot also grudgingly stood to go. He reminded the thief of the departure time for his launch, downed the last of his whiskey and handed a passkey card over to Katlan. She looked at it blankly for a moment, but then turned to the pilot’s disappearing back and promised him that she’s be at the hanger within the hour to set up the launch scanner jamming device in the freighter. He waved an affirmative as he walked beyond the audio screen.

‘Way to go, Kill-joy.’ Rojad hissed to Yeoman. He gave Katlan a swift warning glance to calm down. Her eyes slid away from Rojad’s and he took that as a confirmation she understood and was going to play nice.

Yeoman shrugged an apology. ‘I didn’t know it would go down like that, man. I just wanted to pass on some juicy Intel to you, is all.’ He fumbled inside of his real leather coat. It had about a dozen pockets and it took a few failed attempts before he was able to produce the target of his search. He placed it on the table between the thief and himself.

It was a data clip. Shiny new and its content light winked like a tease Rojad couldn’t resist. He picked it up and felt the heat still remaining from Yeoman’s touch. ‘What’s that, then?’ asked Katlan grudgingly. ‘And how much will it cost us?’

‘Listen to it,’ he nodded at the data clip in my hand ‘and then tell me what it is worth to you.’

Rojad pulled the data reader from his belt and placed the clip into an empty slot. He keyed the data stream to narrow permission and activated passive virus scan. Yeoman was an ok guy, but Rojad didn’t trust him. He trusted no one with anything directly involving his well-being, with the exclusion of Katlan. ‘It’s on the up-and-up, Rojad.’ He was insulted Rojad was taking such precautions.

Nodding, Rojad hit the play button. He had already done his set-up, anyway. The volume was high enough for him to hear it, but didn’t reach much farther. It sounded like a DIRT transmission to station launch. It droned on with what sounded like uninteresting jabber for about two minutes. ‘What the hell, Yeoman?!? What’s this shit?’ Rojad finally said, about to press the stop button. Katlan couldn’t resist any longer. She took up residence in the chair across from Yeoman and took the data reader from Rojad’s hands.

Rojad turned to Yeoman. He was trying very hard to talk himself out of smashing the bottle over Yeoman’s perfectly coiffed head. Yeoman saw the look in Rojad’s eyes and said hurriedly ‘keep listening, man, keep listening….’ Rojad was just starting to explain the ways he was going to prove a man can live with his limbs pulled off when Katlan of all people pulled urgently on his shoulder.

‘Forget that shite, mate! This is some serious business!’ She held up the data reader like it had suddenly spoken with God’s own voice. ‘The bleeding DIRT wants you for questioning, Rojad. The bleeding DIRT, mate!’

Rojad’s mouth hung open. ‘What?!?’ He asked stupidly. Katlan pushed the device at him. ‘Listen for yourself, mate.’ She rewound the recording and raised the volume several octaves. Launch Command was talking to the navigator of a cruiser. Rojad concentrated to filter through the techno mumbo-jumbo to understand the core of the conversation.

‘Launch Command we receive…confirming approach vector of 675 to berth 82. Over’ came the voice of the cruiser navigator.

There was a second of static followed by the bored reply of the Launch Command operator. ‘That is an affirmative vessel 392984FWQ. Approach vector is 675 to berth 82. Over’.

A new voice came on the communication circuit, overriding the cruiser navigator’s reply. ‘Launch Command, this is Investigator 1^st Class Raj Mohamed of the Dominion Investigation and Resolution Troubleshooters. I will require your Station Security Chief’s presence at the berth upon my team’s arrival, as well as an immediate lockdown of all departures. Do you copy? Over’.

There was a long silence on the circuit. Finally a new voice came online. ‘Vessel 392984FWQ this is Launch Command Executive Officer Roche Mallard. Under whose orders are we supposed to do this thing you ask of us?’ The Launch Exo’s manner was as stiff and imposing as that of the Investigator’s. ‘We cannot just shut down all egress on some DIRT whim’.

‘Oh, I have sufficient authority, Mr. Mallard’ grated the investigator. ‘Please do validate the following code directly from the sector governor’.

A few minutes of additional silence followed. Rojad didn’t even think to fast forward the recording, he was so riveted. Katlan and Yeoman didn’t attempt to remind him that he could, either. His palms were sweaty and he felt a headache starting to manifest itself. Those minutes seemed like years, but the Launch Exo eventually came back online. ‘I…ah…am sorry for my earlier rudeness, Monsieur’. The Exo’s tone was completely different now. He sounded scared out of his boots. ‘We will give you all the assistance you require, Investigator Mohamed’.

‘In that case, I also want a station-wide search for one Citizen Rojad Olan’ said the Investigator. ‘He is wanted for questioning, so I want him alive. Do you understand ? Over’.

‘I....we understand, Investigator. It will be done! Over’ the Exo quickly assured.

‘Good. I will give further instructions to the Station Security Chief when I arrive. Vessel 392984FWQ signing out, Launch Command.’

Rojad didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he felt his lungs begging for release. The air escaped his mouth in a nervous hiss. He was stunned, his mind racing a parsec a minute. What did the DIRT want with him? Did he “liberate” something that was Government property in the last little while? He tried to think back through the jobs of the previous year or so. Nothing came to mind. He and Katlan always made sure that they only operated in the private sector. Military and governmental jobs were always more trouble than they were worth. He couldn’t recall anything that had passed through their possession out here in the fringe systems that warranted DIRT involvement.

Rojad looked at Katlan. He could see the same wheels turning in her head, or maybe not. She turned to Yeoman. ‘What your game, Dwight? You could probably make quite a bit of cred with our whereabouts. Why come to us instead of sellin’ to the DIRT?’ Katlan’s eyes were narrow with suspicion.

Yeoman raised his hands defensively. ‘Whoa there, Kat, whoa! Two reasons why I would come to Rojad before anyone else: Number one is that if they get their hands on you I may come up in the investigation. My work depends on a low profile. I can’t charge as much if my face is too well known, you get me?’

‘Yeah, right….and what’s reason number two, then?’

Yeoman sighed patiently. He looked Katlan directly in the eyes. ‘I thought that would be obvious.’ He replied. ‘I don’t want you to get hurt, Katlan. The DIRT doesn’t treat ex-military criminals with a soft touch. You know that.’

Rojad glanced at Katlan out of the corner of his eye. She looked shocked. ‘How much do you want, Yeoman?’ Rojad asked. ‘What do you want for this info? I can only assume your soft spot for my partner doesn’t go so far as to provide a discount?’

Yeoman shrugged and pulled his multibox from one of his pockets. ‘Business is business, Rojad.’ He said as he made some calculations. ‘Let’s see….5000 creds for the information. Another 500 creds for exclusive access to the information provided. I’ll charge 1500 creds, for my exposure to potential danger and incarceration, for a grand total of 7000 creds.’

‘You’re an angel, Yeoman. You’re a real honest-to-god angel with a shiny halo and lily white wings.’ Rojad muttered. Katlan was still speechless next to him. She was studying Yeoman like a Zeno-biologist at a freshly uncovered alien excavation site.

Yeoman put away his multibox. ‘Come on, Rojad!’ he said with exasperation. ‘You know I could get three times that amount from the DIRT. Not to mention a nice tidy sum for contract work from them if I convinced them I’m the best Info Fencer this station’s got.’

Katlan cleared her throat. ‘He’s right, Roj, on both counts.’ She signed and looked like she had a bad taste in her mouth. ‘There’s no reason he shouldn’t be smoozin’ with the DIRT right now’. She reached into her vest with a swift, jerky motion.

‘Listen, Katlan, I’m telling you that—‘ Yeoman retorted quickly. He was sure his ex-wife’s hand would be reappearing with a maser pistol.

The tech’s small hand slammed down on the table with the bang of metal on metal. Yeoman flinched, his eyes wide with fear. So did Rojad. Her hand pulled way slowly to reveal two worn chips of platinum. ‘8000 in universal currency’ she said quietly.

Rojad didn’t believe that Yeoman could appear more stunned. He was wrong. ‘Kat…’ he whispered. He hand hovered over the chips but slid down to cover Katlan’s.

‘The extra 1000 is for your assurance you won’t sell this conversation for at least another 36 station hours’ she said not looking at him. She pulled her hand from under his and stood up. She looked at Rojad, who was trying his best to become invisible during the whole interaction between the two. ‘We should go, mate. We can get that pilot to drop us off at the next sector station.’

‘You don’t have to go, you know.’ Rojad replied. He had been partners with Katlan for a long time and didn’t want to part with her. He didn’t want her caught up in whatever the DIRT had in store for him, either. ‘They’re after me, not you, Kat.’

His partner snorted as she headed for the lounge entrance. ‘And just what do you think they’ll do to me if they catch me, hmmn? Ask me for tea and crumpets and a nice bit of talk about the Emperor’s three wives?’

Rojad and Yeoman sat silently for a moment looking at Katlan’s disappearing back. Then Yeoman turned back to the table and pushed the platinum bars back to Rojad. ‘Keep the creds, Rojad’ he said. ‘Just promise me you won’t let anything happen to her. She’s the only thing I truly love in this world.’ He reached for the bottle and poured himself a stiff drink. ‘You better go before I wise up and change my mind.’

When Rojad left the club he found Katlan standing in the darkened doorway of a heavy machinery distributor across the causeway. He reached out to her, hoping to convince her to change her mind about going with him. She shrugged off his touch.

‘Shut your damn gob, mate…don’t even bother to waste your breath, you hear? I was getting sick and tired of…this whole place, anyway.’ She turned and started towards the nearest lift tube. ‘Always hated this bloody station, didn’t I?’

Dwight Yeoman sat alone at the table, deep in thought. He was running numbers and scenarios in his head, juggling the risks and advantages like a deep space navigator plotting a series of jumps without computer assistance.

If he was really heartless and cold blooded he could stand to make about 200 000 credits just by handing over the berth number of the smuggler Rojad had just met with. That was enough cred to get himself into the core systems on a nice technological planet. He’d always wanted to get back to Earth and start up a legit company. Show those cits back home that he wasn’t just a no-good black marketer. It would be so easy. All it took was a call. But could he live with himself if sold out his ex-wife to the D.I.R.T.? Would any amount of money sooth his conscience? How badly did he want to get back to Earth?

He took out his multibox and cycled up the security service number. On the third ring the line was picked up. “This is the Security Services, Officer Martin speaking. How can I help you?”

Well that's done.

Loaded Type — Sat, 20 Jan 2007 13:18:00 +0000

Ok, so I can finally see my blog. I just need to personalize it. Ho-hum! I sure do love messing around with code (not!). Since I'm on pager over the week-end there's not much else for me to do, I guess. I am starting to wonder if posting my writing in ablog is the most, shall I say 'visually appealing', format to present it in. I mean the horizontal area available for the stories to be viewed is a bit lacking. I'll have to see if I can maybe have the secondary area at the top instead of the side.

Ok, I off to bed again (got paged at 5am).

Starting off

Loaded Type — Sat, 20 Jan 2007 13:11:00 +0000

Let's hope I can see this...!