Fic: Altered Trajectory (cont.)
They landed without incident, Flamer and Mac’s ship settling down beside them. The landing field actually had plenty of room, though several derelict and stripped ships occupied landing pads amidst more serviceable craft. Once they had disembarked a ground car came rolling over the cracked ferroconcrete and a shady looking human backed up by two large creo bodyguards emerged to meet them.
“Welcome back to Bolt Hole, Captain Brushtail,” he greeted. “Who are your friends here?”
“Fellow military entrepreneurs,” Rufus answered, putting a relaxed smile on his face. “What’s the parking fee like these days, Willy?”
“For fighters, two hundred credits a day, each,” Willy answered.
“Two hundred?” Hazel started to sputter, before Rufus waved her back to silence.
“Has it gone down, or am I getting a preferred customer discount?” he asked
“Anything for you, Captain,” Willy said with mock joviality. “But seriously, after Lady Mavra got blown to hell we had a little leadership dust up between the groundside gangs. Cray’s Cutters are in control of the port right now, so they slashed the parking fees to keep everybody quiet and on their side.”
“I thought you said the port was held by all three of them?” Hazel asked Rufus.
“Two of them now,” Willy corrected. “It’s been an interesting few months.”
“Well enough.” Rufus pulled a wad of bills from the pocket of his flight coveralls and handed several to Willy. “Here’s enough for two days.” He peeled off another couple of bills and stuffed them in the front pocket of Willy’s shirt. “And here’s a little for you and your boys, just for old time’s sake.”
Willy’s fake cheer turned into something more genuine. Well, less fake at least. “A pleasure doing business with you Captain Brushtail. I’ll send over a ground car for all of you to use.”
“Not necessary, we have our own transportation. Take care of yourself, Willy.” The greasy human shrugged and headed back to the ground car, leaving them alone again while they stripped out of their spacesuits and lowered the cargo pods from the two fighter’s weapons bays.
“Old friend of yours, ‘Captain Brushtail’?” Mac asked, packing away his suit and strapping a gun belt to his hip.
Rufus did his best to ignore the implied jibe at his old mercenary persona. “Willy is what passes for an honest businessman around here. The little extra I gave him should insure that no one gets too close to our fighters, most especially to notice the extras they have under the bonnet.” He paused, eyes widening as Hazel stripped out of her spacesuit to reveal her civvies underneath. “Hazel dear, you’re not wearing that into town are you?”
“What wrong with it?” Hazel brushed a paw over her shirt. As was customary for her, it was a scooped top that gave a nice view of her cleavage and the Mother’s Amulet at her throat. Over it however she was wearing a white knit cardigan with green trim at the front and the cuffs.
“It’s not very… um… mercenary-ish. The cardigan I mean.”
“Hey, if you expect me to walk around in my undershirt all day like you seem inclined to I’ll pass thanks.” She poked at the sleeveless white shirt he’d chosen to wear, the better to show off his rather ominous artificial arm. He’d once had a human wingman who’d described the style as a “wife-beater”, which was a sufficiently abhorrent description that he figured it was perfect for their cover as questionable pilots-for-hire.
“Could the both of you skip the fashion show and focus on the mission at hand? We need to find out if any pirates have spotted those Galapagos cruisers recently,” Mac said with growing impatience. He was already halfway through unpacking a small ground cycle from its transport crate, pair to the one aboard Rufus and Hazel’s own fighter.
“You go on. We’ll be heading over to Bird’s Place. We’ll keep in radio contact and report anything interesting,” Rufus told him.
Mac’s perpetual smile faded. “I don’t think that’s a very good…”
“You’re a trained Security officer, and this is native territory for me. Just keep from mouthing off to anyone with more armaments than yourself and you should do well enough,” Rufus said, cutting him off. “Now go on. As you said, we’re wasting time.”
Mac gave him a rather sharp look, but said nothing more. He hopped onto the back of the cycle, straddling the pillion behind Flamer, and zoomed off.
“Is pissing him off such a good idea?” Hazel asked, strapping on her own gun.
“Perhaps not, but it is great fun. Besides, I’m a Farm Noble and on a mission that’s independent of his responsibilities as Ship’s Security Officer. Once we left the Falcon Claw what little authority he had over our actions disappeared.”
“Translation, he can go hang by his tail.” Hazel pulled out their own bike from its storage crate, which she retracted back into their fighter’s weapons bay. It unfolded into a small, powerful machine powered by a hydrogen fuel cell. It was just as dangerous as riding a grass chaser, but less likely to eat you when you fell off. “Where are we going anyway?”
“A local bar. Actually has some imported ethanol in it rather than the local swill that makes you go blind.” Rufus swung his leg over the cycle’s seat and pulled his safety helmet on, settling his ears carefully into the their protected slots. Then Hazel sat behind him… ahh… and one of the pleasures of riding with a female passenger was invoked as she pressed her soft frame against his.
“Sounds fun. Let's ride, Rufus!”
He kicked the starter into gear and they zoomed off, heading towards (as the old play went) a wretched hive of scum and villainy.
He wondered how many other old acquaintances he'd find there.
TBC
Author's Note: Yes, those handy little motorbikes bear more than a passing resemblance to Robotech's Cyclones. Alas, I think transforming mecha would be a little over the top in chaypeta's universe.