Two

Mountain View

Like any city, Mountain View had good areas and bad, safe neighborhoods and unsafe neighborhoods. Hector Gomp could move safely through some of these areas, but other members of the Shade Tree crew were required to be more cautious.

Engineering technicians Saskia Miroslava and Michiyo Watanabe were very cautious, but even caution has its limits. The afternoon spent on Mountain View’s expansive beach had long since passed into evening; Tarbos’ 21-hour day made for startlingly short evenings. It was fully dark by the time the girls, walking to save cab fare, turned onto the narrow street where they had booked rooms in a clean but inexpensive hotel.

They had vastly enjoyed their day on the beach. Together, the two girls made a striking contrast – Sassy was tall, blonde, blue-eyed, with finely sculpted Slavic features, while Mickie was petite, black-haired and black-eyed, with the delicate features common to young girls of her native Japan. Add abbreviated bathing suits, suntan oil, and the exuberance of wind, sand and sun after eight weeks cramped aboard ship, and both girls had drawn a lot of attention from young men sharing the stretch of beach.

They didn’t yet know it, but they had drawn some less welcome attention as well.

Several of the street’s municipal area lights were out. The girls were still in their bathing suits, beach towels wrapped around their hips, and the night was growing cool; they were hurrying through the quiet neighborhood, without paying close attention to their surroundings.

“Sassy,” Watanabe asked for the fifth time, “are you sure this is the way to the hotel?”

“Sure. It’s right up this street.”

“I don’t recognize this building,” Mickie complained.

“Mickie,” Sassy said, “relax. See?” She pointed to a dimly lighted sign hanging from a building ahead. “There’s the sign.”

“All right, finally. I’m cold. Let’s get inside.”

The two girls wrapped their beach towels tightly around themselves and hurried up the dark, empty street.

On a rooftop above, two dark-suited figures peered over the flat-topped building’s edge. One whispered into a throat mike. “They’re almost there. Two, tall blonde, little brunette. Catch them when they pass the alley.”

A voice crackled back into the dark figure’s earpiece. “I hear them. Just have the skimmer ready.”

“Don’t worry – these two and the others will be enough for this trip. We’ll be leaving orbit in two hours, so just shut up and do your job.”

“I’m on it.”

In the alley below, another dark-suited figure cradled a specially modified Tangler. An ordinary Tangler fired a web of sticky liquid that hardened into a dense, rubbery substance on impact, effectively trapping its target in a heavy web and fastening to any surface, wall, floor or ground, which it touched. Local police and Marines favored the Tangler for capturing antagonists without a fight; not even the strongest man could break a Tangler web.

The man in the alley cradled a large, bulky weapon that had been built around a Tangler, but had three features the standard Tangler lacked: its web was not sticky except to itself; the launching device was modified to retract the web at the touch of a contact, effectively reeling the quarry in to the weapon’s handler; finally, a large capacitor array delivered a considerable high-voltage, low amperage stun charge through the web on impact.

This modified Tangler could catch a target, stun it, and quickly withdraw it from the target area, at ranges up to fifteen meters. It was a weapon admirably suited for covert abductions.

The slapping sound of the two girl’s beach shoes was growing louder. The man in the alley raised his weapon, braced himself, and waited.

“You know,” Mickie Watanabe was saying, “I’m going to have a hot shower, and a drink, and then we could…” She stopped at the PLUNK of the Tangler firing, but before either girl could react, they were slammed together, encased in the heavy webbing. The stun charge fired, knocking both girls instantly unconscious, a half-second before the retractor reeled their limp forms into the alley.

Only one fallen beach towel lay on the sidewalk.

“I got ‘em both,” the man in the alley reported over this throat mike. “Get that skimmer down here.”

Less than a minute later, a heavy cargo skimmer backed down the alley. The unconscious girls were unceremoniously tossed inside, where another figure quickly administered an air-hypo drug that would keep them asleep for several hours. The skimmer floated onto the street, bound for a small landing field west of the city.

***

Elsewhere

The Buena Vista was not one of Mountain View’s more reputable establishments.  Hector Gomp liked the place, not in spite of that, but because of it. “It’s a good place to blow off steam,” he often said, “after a few months on ship.”

By the time Gomp got off the Skyhook bus and found a droid cab to the Buena Vista, a typical Friday night was already in progress; the metro police were dragging two brawlers out of the front door as Gomp got out of the cab.

“My kind of place,” he said to himself. He swiped his Inter-Visa in the slot on the cab’s door and headed for the bar’s entrance.

Inside, the bar was dark and smoky. A scattering of Navy and Marine uniforms were visible among the crowd of locals; most belonged to a large group of Marines celebrating loudly in a side room. In the back of the bar, in front of a small wooden dance floor, a local band thumped away at something that sounded like a group of maniacs skinning a pack of live wildcats.

Gomp took a seat at the bar.

A middle-aged, scowling bartender in a server’s shirt that had once been white walked down the bar. “What’s yours?”

“Beer,” Gomp replied.

“Wanna run a tab?”

“Yeah.” Gomp scanned his Inter-Visa card in the reader at his elbow.

The bartender yanked a glass mug off the overhead rack, held it under the tap while it dispensed, slid the cold beer across the bar to Gomp.

Beer tastes so much better ashore, Gomp thought, taking a long pull at the frosted mug. He took a critical look around the bar. All the female patrons seemed to be accompanied.  He wasn’t worried; the night was young.

Three hours and four games of holo-pool later, Gomp’s luck in seeking feminine companionship had not improved.  After breaking even on his fourth game, he handed his cue to another player and headed back to the bar.

The band was still caterwauling in the back of the room. The bar had filled up some, mostly with couples and groups, one of the few exceptions being an old man seated at the bar two spaces down from Gomp.  The old man sat with a beer mug in front of him, a morose expression on his face, and a huge cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth; he was watching the crowd in the large mirror behind the bar.

Gomp called for a beer and sat, sipping thoughtfully.  Maybe I should try over at the Anchor. More singles there. Younger crowd.

Moments later, someone walked up to stand beside him.

She was young, blonde, and shapely. Gomp’s interest was piqued, but only for a moment before he recognized her as the girlfriend of one of the locals at the pool tables.

“Hi,” the girl said. “Having fun?”

“Yeah.” Gomp smiled politely, and went back to his contemplating his beer. The girl called for a pitcher of beer, and with this left in the direction of the tables.

I’ll finish this beer, he thought, then head on out. Got to be someplace with more action.

A moment later, there was a tap on Gomp’s shoulder.  “Hey,” a voice said.

Gomp turned on his barstool to look into a red, sweating, jowly face. The face was frowning. It belonged to one of the locals at the pool tables; one whom Gomp had relieved of fifty dollars in a game only an hour earlier.

“What,” Gomp asked him, “you want a rematch?”

“What are you thinking, bum, hitting on my girl?”

“What?” Gomp’s jaw dropped in surprise. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You heard me.”

Recognition snapped in Gomp’s brain. The blonde girl who had just been at the bar had been with the sweating, frowning local in front of him now.

“Buddy, I wasn’t hitting on your girl. Go back to your game.”

The local reached out and shoved Gomp’s shoulder. “You were hitting on her,” he slurred; he evidently had drunk quite a bit since the pool game. “I saw you.”

“Ask her,” Gomp said. He stood up to face the local. In his peripheral vision, he saw the old man down the bar stand up slowly – no doubt getting ready to clear the area.  Several other locals were sidling slowly away, expressions of alarm on their faces; apparently this big, red-faced, sweating man had a reputation.

“Don’t have to.” The local pushed Gomp again. “I can see, can’t I?”

“Don’t push me again,” Gomp warned.

“Fucking Marines,” the local said. “Think you’re all so badass. Well, I’m going to tell you something, jarhead – you’re going to get your ass kicked.” He reached to push Gomp again – and found his hand enclosed in Gomp’s massive fist. The world rotated rapidly around the local as Gomp spun him about and cracked him, chest-first, across the brass railing of the bar. The air shot out of the local’s lungs in a sharp whuff, and he slid to the floor, gasping.

“Morrie!” somebody shouted.  Before Gomp could turn around, a beer glass hit him in the back of the head, stunning him. “Grab him,” somebody shouted.  Through a haze, Gomp saw a hand bearing a heavy glass mug – saw it rise, and smash down again.  The glass hit him on the left eyebrow, splitting it; blood ran into Gomp’s eyes.

He lashed out with one fist, caught the figure that had swung the mug, hammered him to the floor. A fist hit him in the left kidney; agony exploded through his midsection as another blow stuck his head. Gomp could and had hold his own against four like the first local, but double that number crowded in now to pummel him.

He struck sideways with a kick and was rewarded with a grunt of pain from someone; he lashed out again and again with fists, feet, making best use of the one advantage he had, that being that he could hit anyone he wanted, while the locals had to look out for their friends and try to hit him.  But there were too many of them, his head was spinning from the blow with the beer mug; he was taking more hits than he delivered. He dropped to one knee, trying to shield his head, unaware that help was only seconds away.

“MARINES!” a voice shouted from down the bar. As Gomp slumped into unconsciousness, he was dimly aware of several Marine uniforms diving into the brawl, scattering the gang of locals like marbles on a glass table.

He awoke slowly some moments later. A strong arm was supporting him, moving him towards the exit. Red flashing lights showed through the door; the police. The yowling of the band had been replaced by shouts and curses.

“Hold on, son,” a voice told him. “I’m getting you out of here.”

“Stop there, sir,” a voice called out. Gomp’s forward motion stopped. He looked up through a haze of blood; his supporter was digging for an ident card. Gomp smelled cigar smoke.

“Here,” his supporter said. “I’ll take care of this one – he’s hurt.”

The policeman: “I can’t just let you take him out…”

“Look at the card.”

A moment’s silence from the policeman.  Then: “I’m sorry, Colonel,” the former Marine turned policeman said, “I didn’t recognize you. Right through that door, sir. You’ll be taking him for medical treatment?”

“That’s right.”

“Very good, sir.”

The cool outside air revived Gomp. He managed to stand up, wiping blood from his eyes, and finally saw his rescuer.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re the old guy at the bar.”

The old man laughed. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I owe you one, then,” Gomp said. “That one guy sucker-punched me. Just too damn many of them.”

“The Corps takes care of its own,” the old man agreed. He handed Gomp a handkerchief. “You saw the other Marines in the bar – you should have called out.”

“Kind of used to handling these things on my own,” Gomp said, “But, yeah, I suppose I should have.”

“How’s your head?”

“Hurts, but I’ll be all right. I’ve taken worse than this.”

The old man looked at Gomp closely. “I’ll bet you have. What’s your name, son?”

Gomp wiped blood from his face. “Gomp. Hector Gomp. But I’m not a Marine – well, not any more.”

“There are no ex-Marines, boy,” the old man laughed. “There are only Marines who are no longer on active duty.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Gomp said.

The old man extended his hand. “Colonel Augustus G. Feller, Confederate Marine Corps, retired. My friends call me Gus. Pleased to meet you, Gomp.”

Gomp shook Feller’s hand, his eyes wide. “Colonel… Feller?  Colonel Feller? Of Earth? The Niicene Rebellion, that Colonel Feller?”

“That’s me.”

“Damn.”

“Come on,” Feller said. “Let’s get off the streets, before those cops change their minds and toss us in the pokey along with everyone else. I pulled a fast one there,” he explained, “that young officer at the door was in the Corps, went through the Combat Leadership course while I was a contract instructor there a couple years ago. We can’t count on being that lucky with the next cop that stops us.” He turned and marched down the walkway, away from the bar, at a fast clip; Gomp had to hurry to keep up.

“Where to, sir?”

Feller stopped and regarded the younger man for a moment.  “Where are you staying, son?”

“Well,” Gomp smiled sheepishly, “I don’t really have a room or anything.  I suppose I could go back to the ship if I had to, but I don’t really want to pay for a shuttle.  See, I was kind of hoping, well, sir…” Gomp’s voice trailed off in some embarrassment.

Feller looked severe for a moment, and then barked out a laugh. “You were hoping to find some pretty young lady willing to ask you to spend the night, isn’t that right?”

“Well,” Gomp admitted, “Yeah.  Something like that.”

“I was a young man once myself, you know,” Feller slapped Gomp on the back. “How often do you end up going back to your ship, anyway?”

Gomp grinned. “Not too often.”

“I bet.”  The Colonel looked thoughtful for a moment. “What is your ship, son?  What do you do?”

“The Shade Tree, sir, armed privateer. I’m her Chief of Security.”

“The Shade Tree, eh?  Captain… Barrett, is that right?”

“That’s her, sir.”

“I’ve heard of her. The ship and the Captain, as it happens. You folks did some great work during the war.”

“It was exciting at times, but yeah – there were asses that needed kicking, and we kicked them.”

“You sure did. That bit with the Occupation ship will be written into Navy tactics books, I think.” The Colonel stopped at a corner and held up a hand.  One of Mountain View’s roaming robotic cabs stopped, the gull-wing door opening at the curb.

“Hop in,” Feller said.  Gomp shrugged and climbed into the cab.

“Ephesian Towers,” the Colonel said as he climbed in.

“VERY WELL, SIR,” the cab’s robotic voice replied. “PLEASE FASTEN YOUR SAFETY HARNESS.”

“Shaddup,” Feller answered the cab. “Get moving.”

There was a faint whine as the cab’s mag-levs lifted the yellow boxlike droid off the street, and started it towards its destination.

At Colonel Feller’s urging, Gomp spent the ride to the towering condominium complex telling of some of the Shade Tree’s recent adventures and misadventures – charting three new habitable planets on the border with the Grugell, stealing a cargo of smuggled minerals, transporting a team of prospectors to the Kuiper Belt of the Fortune system.  The Colonel listened attentively, thinking as the cab settled to a stop in front of his building, this could be just what I’m looking for.

“Where is your Captain staying, Gomp?” Feller asked as Gomp stood on the sidewalk, eyes wide, looking up, up and up at the gleaming silver façade of the Ephisian Towers.

“The Captain?” Gomp shook himself. “Oh hell, sir, she stays on the ship. She might come down for a night or two, but no more than that. She can’t bear leaving the ship for too long – it’s like she’s worried it won’t be there when she gets back.”

“That’s what I felt like when I was a commander,” Feller agreed. He slapped Gomp on the back. “Son,” he said, “You aren’t going to meet any friendly young ladies with blood all over your face. You’re welcome to pass the night here, clean yourself up, have a cigar or two and a couple of shots of Scotch, swap some war stories – if you’ll do me one favor.”

“You name it, sir,” Gomp grinned.  One didn’t get to hear war stories from a man of Colonel Feller’s reputation very often.

“I’d like to meet your Captain in the morning. I’ll pay for a shuttle from the Skyhook to your ship.”

“Sure, sir, I mean, I’d be glad to – but why?”

“Let’s just say I’m looking for a little excitement. If your Captain isn’t averse to taking a paying passenger, I might just ride around with you folks for a while.”

The mention of money made Gomp grin in spite of his aching head. “I’m pretty sure she’ll agree,” he said. “We don’t get all that many passengers – not paying ones, anyway.”

“Good. Come on up, then.” With that, the Colonel ushered Gomp in the main door, beginning as they went, “Let me tell you about this time when I was stationed at the U.S. Embassy in Brazil on Earth, back then we…”

The door swung slowly shut behind them.

***

A small private landing field

Sassy Miroslava and Mickie Watanabe were still knocked out when the cargo shuttle eased into the cargo bay of a big commercial shuttle. The dark-suited figure from the rooftop jumped out, shouting at the men in the bay. “Stow everything and make it fast. We lift for the ship in ten minutes.”

“You got it, Boss,” several called back.

Two men – one tall, bearded, with a pockmarked face, the other short, squat, with bulging eyes – dragged the inert forms of Mickie and Sassy out of the skimmer.

The short man leered down at Sassy’s bathing suit. Squatting down, he reached inside her suit to fondle her left breast.

“Damn you, Hester,” the leader said. He walked across the bay to the short man and backhanded him, hard; the little man fell backwards with a yelp.

“But Mister Dotsero,” he protested, “I was just…”

“I know what you were ‘just’ doing, Hester,” Dotsero sneered. “And I told you, no touching. The price is better for unused goods. Get these two to the holding cell, and get to your stations.”

“Right away, Boss.” The two men hurried to carry out their orders.

Twelve minutes later, the big cargo shuttle lifted off of the landing pad and angled for orbit.

***

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