Wings of Steele- The Series, page 176
part #1 of Wings of Steele Series
“You live here?” asked Bobby, noticing the horizontal 4x4 timber used as a bracer bar that secured the side door.
“Ain't much. But it's comfy...” He knelt over Nick where he had laid him on the floor and unbuttoned his shirt, “Don't see no blood. That's a good sign.”
Bobby set the shotgun against the wall and dropped to a knee next to the big man, who he realized had to be six-foot four, and in the neighborhood of three-hundred pounds. His khaki pants were worn but clean, his t-shirt had seen better days, his arms cluttered with tattoos that were difficult to see against his dark skin. But the Eagle, Globe and Anchor was clear enough. “Marine Corps?”
“Oorah, Sergeant.”
“That's Nick, I'm Bobby.”
“Denny.”
The two men worked to remove Omanski's ballistic vest without moving him more than they had to, “What you did out there...”
“Weren't no big thang,” grimaced Denny looking at the softball sized bruise over Omanski's heart. He checked for a pulse on the carotid. “At's a bad hit, boss. Bad spot. He needs a Doc...”
“What the hell did he get hit with?”
Denny flopped the ballistic panel over and pulled on the mangled slug imbedded in the puckered material with his fingernail, “.357 maybe. He dropped the panel and stood up moving to the refrigerator, opening the freezer door. “Never seen a .38 or 9 leave a bruise like dat.” He retrieved a frozen gel pack, mushing it up and wrapping it in a dish towel. “He ain't got a lot of time if he got sumpin' tore up in dere.” He stepped back over to Nick and gently laid the cold pack over the bruise.
Bobby Fortuno tried his radio again, “2047... 2047 to dispatch.” He tried several times with no response, alternately trying Nick's radio with the same results. “Dammit. You wouldn't have a land line, would you?”
Nope.”
“A car, so I can get us out of here?”
“No,” he whispered, bringing his finger to his lips, “sssshhh...” He reached over and turned off the lamp on the end table, leaving them in pitch darkness again. Running feet and urgent voices passed between the garages, stopping in the alley just beyond the overhead door, arguing and swearing for some time, before finally splitting up and moving off. “Think you stuck here fo' a while, boss. Dey ain't givin' up...” Denny reached over in the dark, snapping the light back on again. “Dem boys jus' plain evil. Causin' all sorts of trouble since de end of da World started. Course, dey always been bad, not one of 'em ever been any good. Animals. Robbin', beatin', stealin'...” Denny lifted the gel pack off of Nick, “Don't want it too cold... swellin's gone down some...”
Bobby Fortuno realized his hands were shaking, his body too, the monumental adrenalin dump falling away, his body reacting to the loss like a junky going through detox. He felt weak, nauseous.
Denny studied him for a moment, “You been hit?”
He looked at his arms and hands, “I don't think so...”
Denny stood up grabbing Bobby by his tactical vest and lifting him to his feet, turned him around to examine him. “I don't see nothin', must be adrenalin crash...” He moved him over to the old sofa, continuing to hold him upright before sitting him down. The big man moved over to the refrigerator, retrieving a cold soda and a chocolate candy bar. “Here, you need some sugar... helps take the edge off.” He popped the top of the soda and handed it to Fortuno, “First gunfight?” He set the candy bar on the arm of the sofa before returning to Nick on the floor.
“Yeah...” Bobby sipped the soda, its chill shocking him into focus. “Think I killed that guy on the sidewalk?” His face was a mixture of anguish and steady resolve.
“It'd be my guess. Ain't nothin' he didn't deserve though.” He was examining Nick, finding a goose-egg on the back of his head from the fall he took. “Dat explains why he's still out...” He slid the cold gel pack under his head. “Dat dude you took out under da car was a neat trick.”
“How much did you see?”
“I was on da sidewalk. Ducked between da buildings when da shootin' started. It was an ambush, plain and simple. You was set up. I couldn't do nothin till dat last dude went down.”
“I'm glad you did.”
“Ain't no big thang, boss. Right thing to do is all.”
“Why did you knock me down?”
“I was hollerin' at you, but you both was tunneled... If you turned at the wrong time you would'a shot me. I hadta' be fast.”
“I guess it was a good thing you weren't one of them,” replied Bobby, sipping the soda again.
“Wasn't your time yet, boss. Da man upstairs has a different plan fo' you.” He glanced down at Omanski, “Not sure 'bout this boy yet.”
Static in his ear made Fortuno start, quickly turning down his volume and adjusting the radio's squelch.
Nick Omanski's eyes popped open, his hand drunkenly pulling at the wire to his earpiece. “Oowww...” he drawled. Attempting to focus on the roof of the garage, the dark rafters didn't make sense to him,” What the he...” he groaned. When Denny's face appeared in his field of vision he felt a spark of panic, Bobby Fortuno's face appearing a second later.
“How you doing, Ski?”
“Suurge,” he drawled, recognizing Bobby. “Who's on my chest?” His eyes rolled around like loose marbles.
“You got hit, Nick,” replied Bobby. “But you're going to be OK, your vest caught it.”
“Don't feel like it,” he panted. “I can't hardly breathe...” He mumbled and Bobby leaned in to listen.
“What'd he say?” asked Denny.
“Something about an elephant. And a sledgehammer. Or an elephant with a sledgehammer, I'm not sure.”
“He might have a broke rib or two,” commented Denny.
“Whozat?” mumbled Nick.
“His name is Denny. He's the reason we're still alive. We’re hiding out here in his place...”
“No backup?”
“Radio system is down again, Nick.”
“How many weeks now? Third time today,” he breathed. “They really need to get that fixed... somebody could get hurt...”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NELSON'S POINT SYSTEM - THE PERSEUS : OPERATION DARK COVER
The cargo hold of the Perseus wasn't full by any stretch of the imagination, but, it was stocked with high quality goods. Courtesy of the UFW. Something to bargain with, something to sell or trade, something that didn't make them look like they were just entering the business. Liquor, and lots of it.
Sitting on plastic and carbon-fiber crates, Jack Steele and Chase Holt were comparing notes on their MOBIUS devices, holo-screens floating in front of them, their two dogs running and playing around them.
Chase Holt gazed up over the top of his display at Fritz, watching him rough-house with Allie, “Y'know, it's really remarkable what your guy did for him,” he nodded in the dog's direction. “The guy must be a genius.”
Jack glanced up and back at his screen again, “Genius would be an understatement for Hecken Noer. Though I'm not sure there's a better description for him...”
“He looks completely normal again.”
Steele was scanning through the inventory rolls, “He's definitely an artist... He built my eye too.”
“Wait, what?” Chase shot him a sideways glance, “You have a fake eye?”
Jack turned to look at him, “The left one. And to be accurate, it's not fake, it's mechanical. In fact, it's far superior to my real eye.”
“Uhhh...” Chase shifted from one eye to the other, “I can't tell the difference.”
Jack produced an exaggerated Cheshire cat imitation, “But I can. There's a targeting system, a HUD, a zoom, and it focuses and responds faster than a real eye. Part of it, I suppose, is the CABL system tied to my brain that drives it. It seems to keep improving itself. My original replacement looked a lot like Fritz's eye before his new one...”
“That's... wow, amazing. I would have thought they would, I don't know, clone you an eye or something...”
“Steele nodded, “They have that ability, but for both, me and Fritz, the damage went beyond the eye. There was brain damage behind the eye. So, no way to do a genetic implant. It had to be mechanical with hardware and software to implant it and drive it.”
Chase looked quizzical, “Does it need... batteries?”
Steele smirked, “No, it actually powers off the body's natural electrical field.”
“That's pretty freaky.”
“It's pretty awesome, is what it is,” corrected Jack. “Fritz had major brain damage, almost half of his skull was destroyed. A large portion of his brain is a CABL system...”
“That's why he can talk?”
“Yeah. He's a lot more than a just a dog now. He thinks and processes information more like we do.”
“That's incredible. I guess replacing his fur was actually simple compared to the technological aspect...”
“Being a perfectionist,” explained Jack, “Hecken Noer studied Fritz's hair follicles and skin to duplicate it with a biological 3D printer. The hair is biologically real, embedded in a semi-biological, rubberized skin-like material. Then they just bonded it to his metal skull plates...”
“Whoa.”
Fritz, followed by Allie, trotted over and standing on his hind legs put his paw on Jack's knee, staring at him with matching eyes the color of melted chocolate. He dropped a well-worn thoroughly wet tennis ball in his human's lap. “Eww,” frowned Jack, “dog slobber.” He picked it up with his fingertips and tossed it across the hold, the ball bouncing off crates and down an aisle, pursued by the two German Shepherds. “No idea what I'm going to do when he wears out that tennis ball...”
“I'm sure we'll find something,” commented Chase. “Earth can't have the only toy balls in the universe.” He paused mid-scroll on his screen and turned, with a curious look on his face, “Do they have sports out here? Baseball? Football? Basketball...?”
Jack paused as well, looking back at his friend in the same curious manner, “You know, I never thought to ask. I haven't a clue...”
“There's got to be something, right?”
“I don't know...” Steele's eyes glazed for a moment, looking through his holo-screen. “You'd think so...”
“God I hope so...”
“You hope so, what? Asked Ragnaar, walking into the conversation.
“Sports.”
“Sports?”
“You know,” added Chase, “games of sport. Teams competing?”
Ragnaar's blank stare was disturbing, “Oh, that sucks,” mumbled Chase.
“There you go,” offered Jack with a wave to Chase, “You can invent the UFL...”
“UFL?”
“The Universal Football League. You'll be famous. You'll be idolized and worshiped. Rich beyond your wildest imagination - you've just stumbled upon the future you were looking for.”
“Huh,” grunted Chase, contemplating the possibilities.
“Sir?” reminded Ragnaar.
“Right.” Steele turned his holo-screen for Ragnaar to see, “What do you think are our best options for offering here in Nelson's Point?”
Scrolling on the screen, Ragnaar's brow furrowed, wrinkling the tribal style tattoo that covered half of his face. “Most of these will be in demand... Oh,” he pointed, “you can't offer that.”
“Why not?”
“Because that comes from a Federation distillery with a tax production stamp. See the little icons in this column? Anything with that icon originates from a Federation territory distillery.”
“So?”
“So, you offer that to a FreeRanger or neutral territory facility and they're liable to think you can't be trusted. They're going to wonder how you got it. Only a licensed dealer can get it and licensed dealers don't sell to non-Federation facilities - they'd lose their license.” Ragnaar pointed to an entry on the inventory list, “Diterian Brandy for instance, would never be sold outside Fed Territory.”
Jack's eyes widened, “Diterian? Damn I must have missed that...” he scanned the screen. “Hmm. Five cases... yoink,” he gestured, marking them to be moved to his quarters.
“You're taking them all?” asked Chase.
“Drink of the Gods, my friend. Not for sale. This is the good stuff - never tasted anything like it and it's staying with us.” Jack nodded, “You'll see.”
Chase wrinkled his nose, “I hope so, because I can't drink the stuff they pass off as beer out here... I just can't. It's disgusting.”
Ragnaar frowned, “What's wrong with our ale?”
“It tastes like...”
“It's fine,” interrupted Jack. “We're just used to drinking our beer cold and it doesn't taste the same the way you drink it out here...
“But we like it warm...”
“No biggie...” offered Jack, “just a difference in personal taste.” He stood up and patted the big man on the shoulder, turning him away, “Listen Ragnaar, thanks for coming down and helping me out with this, I really appreciate it. Valuable insight, it really helps me decide how I'm going to approach this...”
The former pirate nodded sullenly and headed off to the lift to return to the bridge, venturing a curious glance over his shoulder. Steele waited until he was sure Ragnaar was out of earshot. “For the love of God,” he hissed at Chase, “don't ever insult his beer again.”
“Geez, all I said was...”
“Yeah I know, just don't go there,” Jack interrupted. “I've learned he's very sensitive about it.”
“Why does he take it so personally?”
Steele shrugged, “Hell if I know. But he drinks the stuff by the drum.” Chase lifted an eyebrow in disbelief. “OK,” waved Jack, “I'm exaggerating. But just a little.”
Chase's voice was in a forced whisper, “So he's a drunk?”
“No. Actually I've never even seen him the least bit tipsy,” countered Jack. “He must have been weaned on the stuff or something - drinks it like water.”
The broadcast comm pinged once, “Mr. Mercury to the bridge - Mr. Mercury to the bridge please...”
■ ■ ■
A blue station marker appeared on the big screen, “Nelson's Point station in optical range, Skipper.”
“On screen,” commanded Steele, striding through the bridge doors; Chase Holt and the two German Shepherds as part of his entourage.
“Aye, on screen.”
“Magnify please.”
The image of the station zoomed in; distance calculations, size, dimensions and specifications appearing alongside it. The general shape of the station was that of a barbell standing vertically, the center shaft spherical midway between the two discs. The top of the shaft above the upper disc had a slightly flattened orb, the very bottom, pointed with an assortment of delicate antennas and sensor probes protruding from the station's lower hull. Docking structures stuck out from the upper and lower discs like spokes reaching out from a hub, a half dozen or so ships moored in various places, room for at least a dozen more.
“We have a problem...”
“What is it Mr. Ragnaar?”
“There are no ships docked at the station matching the destroyer profiles that we've been following.”
Steele ran his fingers through his hair, “Dammit. Tactical, anything in the system?”
The tactical officer turned, his seat rotating with him, “Nothing matching their profiles within sensor reach.”
Steele rubbed the stubble on his jawline, “Any energy wakes? Anything we can track?”
“Yes sir, it is a relatively busy hub. There are four gates, trackable ion trails to all of them. I have a Pellucidar transport at the edges of our sensors here...” a marker winked into existence on the left side of the big screen. “And he is headed out of system.”
“Can we determine if our destroyers are in the mix out there somewhere?”
The tactical officer shook his head, “I'm afraid not.”
“Well shit.” His head down eyes closed, Steele's mind was trying to come up with solutions. “Doesn't this just suck.”
“Mister...” Ragnaar's mind stumbled over the right address, “Mercury. I believe the jump ship is docked on the upper level.”
Jack's head snapped up, his eyes locked on the zoomed inset of the station, “Show me.” A red outline appeared as a halo around a ship docked on the upper level on the opposite side of the station, partly obscured. “Are you sure that's her?”
“She matches the profile, and she is moored at a repair dock. It's the best I can do from this angle and distance, she is shut down and her ident beacon is off.”
“It's a pretty reasonable assumption,” agreed Jack. “It definitely warrants a look. Skipper, take us in.”
■ ■ ■
“Skipper, we're being hailed.”
Lieutenant Commander Reegan motioned toward the big screen, “On screen.”
A pleasant looking woman dressed in a suit, her hair pulled back, appeared as an inset on the big screen, “Welcome to Nelson's Point Trade Hub. I am traffic coordinator Maydena, can I be of assistance?”
Reegan rose from his command chair, “I am Reegan, captain of the Perseus. We would like clearance to dock...”
“Wonderful. And might I say, what a beautiful ship. Is she new?” Maydena smiled politely.
“Thank you, yes.”
“Will your ship be requiring any service or maintenance? We have wonderful repair technicians.”
“No ma’am, the Perseus is ship-shape.”
“Wonderful. I'm assigning you to berth L-7, just follow the on-screen holo-markers. At the final marker follow the on-screen prompts, the docking master will contact you and secure your vessel. Have a wonderful stay here at Nelson's Point Trade Hub.” The communications square unceremoniously winked out, a series of directions and taxiing markers appearing on screen to an open spoke off the lower hub.
Steele frowned, considering the interaction, “She seemed... rather mechanical?” It was the best way he could think to describe it.
