Buzz
My name’s Albert ‘Buzz’ Buchanan, and shit’s about to go down.
I’m currently aboard the Coalition of Allied Planetary Systems Trade Federation (CAPS-T) Forecaster, a sixty-person piece of crap civilian transport that’s making a run from Neptune to Proxima Centauri c. The run takes twenty-four hours, comprised of two Under dives, and we’ve just finished the first, exiting the Under with our drives depleted and needing to recharge. We’re two light years from Sol, and two light years from Alpha Centauri, right smack in the middle of deep, empty space.
In the last few weeks, there’s been a series of attacks made against transports just like the one I’m currently on. It’s a fairly standard operation: the transport is hijacked by a group of raiders already on board, disguised as passengers, and they proceed to loot the crew and other passengers of all their valuables. Any cargo and supplies are pillaged as well, and the transport gets stripped of any valuable equipment—comms systems, power supplies, even life-support hardware if that’s all that’s worth taking (and yeah, that means the remaining passengers get to suffocate to death). Once the booty’s been collected, the hijackers signal a nearby waiting vessel to pick them up, and, well, deal done from that point.
Centaurian raiders are the chief suspects, but no official group’s taking credit for the heists. Could be Centaurians, could be Outer Sol pirates, could be Nexian shit-disturbers—none of that matters, because the really fucked up part isn’t who’s doing the raiding, it’s how it’s being done.
See, despite efforts to catch these bastards in the act, every time CAPS Security puts a team of guards aboard the transport, that transport never encounters a problem—the run’s made smooth as a baby’s backside. Every single time.
So why doesn’t CAPS-S put a security team on every transport? Costs, of course—the Neptune to Proxima Centauri run is the cheapest way of leaving the Sol system, used only by the rag-tag punters desperate to get out of the ghettos of Outer Sol and start a new life in the barely more rewarding Centaurian system. No-one but the dirt poor takes the Neptune-Proxima Centauri transports, so spending good credits on bad news just doesn’t make sense. Robbing these people is like scraping the bottom of a barrel that’s been left to rot for the past century, but I guess they’ve still got enough on them to make it worth the while.
But the CAPS-T’s gotta at least show they can run something that resembles a safe transport system, and they’ve been shelling out the creds these past few weeks to put an end to the raids, which has ensured the shuttles make the run, but at an unsustainable cost. I dunno about that last part—something tells me if these were Terrans, Martians, Venusians—hell, even Jovians—humans from one of Sol’s inner most planets, the credits would be found to cover their asses on the way to Proxima Centauri. Saturnian, Uranian, Neptunian and Trans-Neptunian citizens? Forget it—the poor have always had to look out for themselves, and nothing’s changed about that in the three hundred and some years it’s been since we left Earth and started colonising other worlds.
From survivor reports, it seems like it’s the same team of scum that’s causing all the fuss, but every time the CAPS-T tries to set up a sting, the bastards slip the net. CAPS-T figures the raiders must have bribed a mole, letting them know which transports are safe to hit. Some CAPS-T turncoat is snitching any official plan that’s made to catch these fuckers, and some ‘outside the box’ solutions were needed. Enter yours truly.
I don’t work for the CAPS, either the Trade Federation, the Security Service, or any other letter they tag on to their stupid acronym. I’m a freelancer, which is the nice way of saying gun for hire. I’m the muscle you pay for when you need to get your shit sorted, and sorted now. Ten percent up front, the rest when the job’s done, and we part ways after, no strings attached, no long goodbyes. So in this set of circumstances, I’m not on the books as being part of the security detail assigned to the CAPS-T Forecaster: according to official ship’s records, there isn’t any security aboard. Which is just what the CAPS-T wants.
I made at least two, possibly three, of the hijackers as soon as I boarded. First one is so obvious he might as well be wearing a shirt that says ‘I’m the baddie’—a big, muscle-bound human, ugly fucker with a face his own mum would look away from. Pity—if you put a bag over his head, he’d be kinda hot—I like the muscly ones, like I am. He’s tall too—a little shy of two metres, near to my height, though I think I’m a good few centimetres taller. Bald, with a brand on his skull, like a bumpy tattoo, in the shape of a wolf—probably some dumb-assed gang symbol, but I don’t care. All I can think is that he definitely needs a bag over his head, the more I study his fugly face.
The second one’s a Brolocon, which is a bit weird. Brolocons are well known for pimping themselves out as hired guns, and they’re not above joining a raiding gang when it suits them, but this job’s gotta be below his pay-grade. Grey-skinned, gargoyle-looking mug, two tentacles on his back, though one of them’s been cut, coming up short against the other, and ending in a blunt stub instead of a tapered, dextrous tip. Huge, as most Brolocons males are—even their women are brutish-looking in stature, compared to humans. Dressed in a rag-tag assortment of gear and clothes, looking like he finds his wardrobe at the bottom of a charity bin. No obvious weapons but I’m certain he’s concealing, just like his butt-ugly cohort.
Third one I’m not too sure about. She’s human, and a jittery looking thing. Cheap-looking cybernetic device is grafted to one side of her head, the other side is a long, messy wave of hair, dyed a shade of mossy green. Pretty sure she’s a ‘jack’—a cybernetically-augmented computer hijacker, what with one of her hands covered in a web of exo-dermic wiring and that chunk of hardware on her skull. Cybernetics are perfectly legal in CAPS territory—lots of people have hardware augmentations, and being a jack’s not necessarily outside of the law—all depends on what system you’re hacking into. So she could be just a passenger, but her nervousness is something of a tell. She keeps her head down for most of the trip, but when she does look up, it’s always to the door leading to the bridge. Pretty sure she’s one of them; I could be wrong, but my gut says to keep an eye on her.
That’s why I got this gig—I’ve a tendency to trust my gut, and that’s paid off for me big-time in the past. Enough so that my rep as a man who gets the job done is well earned, if not as well-known as I’d like. Still, have a contact who found me this job, and it’s a decent one at that: three hundred credits, expenses on top, which is a big score for a one-man operation. There’s a twenty percent bonus, too, if I manage to keep the hijackers alive—hence me being armed with non-lethal ammo for this gig. Well, mostly non-lethal: I do still have Lil’ Pete—my custom-designed plasma pistol I’ve had since my days in the Marines—one quick button-press and I can switch from its high frequency concussion blasts setting to good ol’ plasma bursts, just in case I really need to put one or more of these assholes down for good.
Sure as shit, it’s not five minutes after we’ve breached from the Under that Ugly Dude stands up, pulling out the composite particle shotgun he’s spent most of the trip sneakily building. Gotta hand it to him, he was a pro at his sleight-of-hand, carefully assembling the weapon in a series of next-to-unnoticeable movements that a casual observer would have just brushed off as fidgeting or restlessness. Had he not been on my sensor-grid, I’d probably would’ve ignored him as he put the extremely lethal and dangerous weapon together, but since he was in my sights, I’m ready for him.
‘Alright everybody!’ he booms, his gravelly voice loud inside the small space, but not quite as attention-grabbing as the shotgun he sweeps across the room. ‘You know what’s coming—hands in the air! I see any one of you dirty fuckers reaching down and your head’s ash and dust!’
None of these other passengers are likely armed—there’s pretty decent weapons and contraband detection at the Neptune Departures Gate, and the only reason I’m armed is ‘cause I’ve got the inside pass for this job. However, there are ways around that detection: Ugly’s obviously found one—that shotgun is serious business—at this range and given how jammed in everyone is, he’d probably kill at least three passengers with a single blast from its overcharged particle ammo, not to mention what he could do to the interior hull.
The Brolocon’s next to stand, his tentacles uncoiling menacingly from his back. He’s armed with a gravity-warping kineto-truncheon, and activates it, the hum of its powered head glowing with a slight blue energy sheen. One hit from this weapon would break any bone it met—hell, with the strength the granite-coloured brute could swing it with, he’d probably shatter body armour with it, too.
‘Make this easy on yourselves, humans,’ the heavy Brolocon rumbles ominously. ‘I’ll be coming around with my collection plate, and you’ll give me everything of value you have. If not, I bash you to pulp, and take it anyway.’
One of his tentacles, the one that’s not a stub, reaches out and taps on the forehead of the nearest passenger, an older, skinny man dressed in a faded CAPS uniform from one of their non-combat divisions. ‘Let’s start with you, little thing.’ The skinny man visibly shudders as the tip of the Brolocon’s tentacle begins to push him back.
I return my attention to Ugly just as he signals the green-haired jack with a nod of his head. I was right, she was one of them, and stands immediately at Ugly’s command, heading to the bridge doors. Her exo-wired hand touches the control panel, and then she’s perfectly still—she’s begun to hack the shuttle, likely sealing the exits to this room, and preventing the pilots from controlling the ship.
‘You heard my friend,’ Ugly commands harshly. ‘Do as the big man says, and you all get to Proxima Centauri alive. Fuck things up for us, and we end you.’
Well, I plan on fucking this whole thing up, buddy, just you wait. I remain calm, my hands in the air just like everyone else, and wait my turn for the Brolocon to rob me. The neuro-electric shock device I’ve got hidden just beneath my gloved left hand should be enough to stun the Brolocon, but if not, Lil’ Pete’s strapped to my left thigh, under my trench coat, which is also conveniently hiding the micro-thin, nanocarbon chest armour I’m wearing. That won’t be enough to stop the Brolocon’s kineto-truncheon, but it should stop at least one direct hit from the particle shotgun at this range. Little Miss Jack is too busy off in cyber-land to be a threat right now, but I’ve not counted her out.
It takes forever, it seems, for the Brolocon to make his way to me, and he’s gotten a half-way decent pile of loot collected so far—cred-chits, jewellery, tech accessories—hell, he made one passenger give up the headscarf she was wearing, all because it’s got a shiny thread stitched over it that looks like it could be gold. He’s rough but not brutal with the passengers; his hefty bulk, coupled with that wicked truncheon and those pushy, demanding tentacles, is more than enough to snuff the defiance out of most of the passengers. One young fellow looks like he’s going to put up a fight, but I catch his eye, and shake my head, slightly, and slowly at him, my eyes boring directly into his. The Brolocon could squash the kid flat with one of his tentacles, let alone the truncheon.
‘Bridge is offline,’ I hear the girl mutter. ‘We’re not going anywhere.’
‘Signal the Slide. We’re nearly done here,’ Ugly replies, quietly. ‘Anything in the cargo hold?’
There’s a pause before her reply, and I imagine she’s going through cyberspace, hunting for the ship’s inventory list. ‘Mostly passenger goods. Some high-grade terraforming supplies. Two crates of medical equipment—bio-scanners and auto-doc parts.’
He grunts approvingly; the cargo must be worth the effort, likely more valuable than whatever the Brolocon’s looting, which is probably just gravy for them. Won’t be gravy when he gets to me though, it’ll be two-thousand volts of neuro-disrupting energy coursing through his system.
‘Your turn, big man,’ the Brolocon growls at me, having finally worked his way through to my seat. ‘Whatever you got, best to give it over. No fussing.’
His good tentacle lowers, meaning to push itself against my forehead, to keep me compliant. I feel its tip, like a strong, fat finger, pressed against me, touching me gently first, then beginning to push, its strength immediately apparent. Normally, from what little I understand of Brolocon culture, what this guy’s doing could be considered flirting—the gesture’s meant as a show of strength, so that the intended can assess the fortitude of the potential suitor, but I somehow doubt the Brolocon’s hitting on me, in that sense at least. He’s not my type either, despite his impressive bulk—nothing personal, I’m just an anthropophile (yeah, yeah, I had to look that word up when someone told me that’s what I was)—but compared to his compatriot, I’d take the gargoyle over Ugly if push came to shove.
My left hand, the one armed with the neuro-electric disruptor, grabs a hold of the tentacle touching me, and I press down hard, twice, giving the signal that activates the device. The Brolocon’s fast, and begins to withdraw his tentacle, raising his truncheon, but the device triggers, and thousands of volts of neuro-electrical chaos rips along his tentacle, up to his body a split second later.
The Brolocon convulses as the waves of electricity override his nervous system, but he doesn’t collapse. I stand, yanking on that tentacle to bring his stunned body toward me, then punch him right in that wide jaw with a hefty right hook. I see his orange eyes, solid except for black pupils, look at me in defiance, but only for another instant before my fist connects again with his jaw. His body goes limp, and I pull the heavy man against me, using him as a shield against what’s to come next.
Ugly’s got his shotgun raised and pointed at me, but hesitates as he sees his unconscious friend doubling as my own personal body armour, and that hesitation is the window I’m looking for. Out comes Lil’ Pete, pointed directly at him, and I don’t give a warning, I just fire the instant I’ve got my gun aimed.
Lil’ Pete (as in, Little Repeater) spits three bolts of non-lethal concussive rounds at Ugly, all inside of a nanosecond. The ultra-high frequency sonic projectiles slam successively into him, knocking him up off his feet and into the bulkhead behind him. He’s down, immediately out, even before he hits the bulkhead—each one of those shots would have dropped him, and I’m sure all three landed straight in the middle of his chest. He’s not getting up anytime soon, but he will get up—next week, maybe.
Miss Jack, still connected to the system, doesn’t notice that her cohorts are offline, let alone me coming up behind her. I’m no gentleman, but I am not going to knock her out while she’s still connected to the system—I don’t know enough about what she’s doing and I don’t want to, I dunno, fry her brain because I disconnect her from the ship. Instead, I tap her on the shoulder.
‘Pardon me, miss, but you’re busted. Disconnect immediately or I’ll do that for you, the hard way,’ I say, firmly.
Her eyes flutter open, and it takes a moment for them to focus on the here and now, and when she does, she glares at me, defiantly.
‘Drop your weapon or I blow us to kingdom…’ she starts out.
My fist lands in her face, rocking her head back, and sending her to La-La Land. She crumples like a marionette with its strings cut, her hand falling away from the control panel, and slumps to the floor.
I frown. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I can’t have her following through on her threat. She’ll be alright, I clocked her with only enough strength to put her down, not break anything—she’ll have a nasty headache and a sore jaw, but nothing more.
With the jack taken care of, I scan the room, seeing if there’s any other hijackers I’ll need to contend with, but I only see a crowd of shocked faces staring back at me.
‘We’re good here, folks,’ I address the stunned crowd, and some murmuring starts up. ‘Everyone return to your seats. You,’ I say to the young man who was thinking of causing trouble. His back straightens at my voice, and I reach behind me, taking out a pair of gravity-distorting manacles from one of my belt pouches. I toss him the restraints, which use a localised artificial gravity field to bind together the limbs they’re attached to, and then nod in the direction of the Brolocon.
‘Put his hands behind his back, and lock these on. I’ll see to his tentacles when I finish securing this one,’ I order, nudging Ugly with my boot. I then regard the skinny man in the CAPS uniform. ‘Grab what the Brolocon collected, and start giving people back their things.’
It takes a minute or two, but I get Ugly and Miss Jack clamped in manacles, then repeat the process for the Brolocon’s tentacles, checking that the young man did a decent job of binding the brute’s arms. All that’s left now is to contact the bridge and let them know things are secured, and …
I see it from the corner of my eye—a figure dressed in rags, covered by a heavy cloak, taking out a weapon. It’s a pistol, and it’s pointed directly at me. The crowd gasps and someone screams, and I quickly scan for cover, but there’s nothing …
He fires, the laser beam a searing red as it streaks through the air, directly into my chest. I feel my skin begin to blister, but my carbon armour has taken the brunt of the shot—otherwise I’d have a hole right through my sternum, through my spine, and out my back.
I manage to get a retaliatory shot off with Lil’ Pete, the concussion blasts connecting with this fourth hijacker’s shoulder, spinning him around as it lifts him off his feet, sending him sailing back further into the cabin. I immediately close the distance between us, firing another shot into his prone body, making sure he’ll not be getting up any time soon.
Damn rookie mistake, thinking the area was secure before ensuring it was. I look down at the neat little burn mark in the middle of my chest—the small, scorched hole is a perfectly centre-mass shot, and I’d be dead right now if I’d not been wearing my armour.
‘Are you alright?’ the skinny CAPS man asks, and I just grunt, nodding my head, as I continue to scan the crowd to see if there’s a fifth hijacker I’ll need to worry about. No-one else seems to want to take a pot-shot at me, and so I give the CAPS guy a hard look.
‘Contact the Bridge,’ I order. ‘Let them know we’ve retaken the main cabin. Tell them to prep for an emergency dive—the hijackers’ve signalled for their back-up.’
‘Yes, yes of course,’ the nervous man answers, and scrambles to follow through with my instructions. I secure the laser pistol man in manacles, making sure I take his weapon from him for good measure, and proceed to collect the other weapons from the rest of the hijackers. These are mine, now, and I’ll turn a tidy profit on them, but I think I’ll hang on to the laser pistol for a while—a reminder not to be so stupid in the future. It’s a piece of crap weapon, I can tell, but it nearly killed me, so, lesson learnt. You’d think with over twenty-five years’ worth of combat experience I would have checked the damn room properly. Sloppy.
The cabin secured and the crowd settling down, I sit back in my original seat, and people come by to thank me for my efforts. I’m quizzed on who I am, and I answer simply and truthfully: Buzz Buchanan, working freelance for the CAPS-T. Some of the folks try and press some cred-chits in my hand, in thanks for my rescue, but I refuse—every one of them needs the creds more than I do, but I do accept the packet of NeoCrisps a kid gives me—I’m hungry and the salty recombinated potato-based snack will do me some good.
This could’ve gone better I ruminate as I munch on the crisps and rub the centre of my chest. I’ll have a nice fat burn mark on my chest to worry about, at least until I get to a med-station. Still, I’ve saved the day, and I’ll get my bonus for keeping all four of the hijackers alive—they’ll be interrogated, no doubt, by CAPS-S, to learn who’s the mole they’ve got helping them. Plus the weapons I can sell—all in, I figure I’ve scored about five, maybe six hundred credits today, less the cost of repairing my armour and my chest, but that won’t be too bad.
In a few minutes, we get the signal from the Bridge to prepare for the emergency dive, and not long thereafter, the Forecaster spools its Under drives, and we make good our escape. As we dive into the Under, a parallel universe with three dimensions, but not the fourth of time, we cross millions of kilometres in what is to us a blink of an eye, emerging back into our universe, a safe distance away from where we once were. The hijackers’ support vessel won’t be able to reach us now, not without spending precious time trying to find us, and it’s more than likely CAPS-S vessels are en route to ensure we make it to Proxima Centauri c without further trouble.
I’ll take the first shuttle back to Sol as soon as we reach our destination. I need some down time, plus a chance to repair, and I figure I’ve earned myself a little treat, despite all things.
Time to hit up Bow Ties, the all-day-every-day space-station cum nightclub, and get myself some action of the non-combat type. It’s currently orbiting Ganymede, so a bit of a hike to get there, but it’ll be worth it.
It always is.
