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Hannibal Bishop: Origins - Rudo - 08-05-2009
[font=Arial Narrow]PUERTO RICO SYSTEM.
Vieques Shipyard, Dock Three
Present Day
Bishops long coat flapped in the rush of air as dock three repressurized. His bald head glistened in the harsh overhead lights, except for where his external hardware protruded from his cranium. He could feel the wind rush by his skin, where it still existed. Everywhere else a persistent flow of data to the computer in his mind simply told him there was air rushing by; with stats on direction, velocity and readouts on possible toxic agents or oxygen deficiency. The doctors told him hed eventually get used to the idea of being a cyborg. Ten years had gone by and he still wasnt.
The landing pad had neutralized the freighter descent, resting it on a cushion of equally opposing forces of gravity while anchoring it in place. The pilot leapt from the hatch, a full-color member from the Chisos Blacks, a band of Junkers operating a salvage operation toward the West Dallas scrap field in Texas. Occasionally theyd hook up a smuggling run, or bag an unlucky smuggler themselves. They worked primarily off Beaumont; to find one of them here was unusual to say the least.
The grimy visitors expression shifted from curiosity at the unfamiliar base to unease at Bishops appearance. Flanked by two heavies in powered armor and watted up antipersonnel lasers, Hannibal himself was the cause of the mans expression. He moved with a half-halting, half too-fluid mechanical motion that was as inhuman as the body doing the walking. Beneath his Libertonian businessmans suit, mechanical components shifted under the fabric. His hands were matte black metal gauntlets. Worst of all was the head atop the expensive shirt and coat. LEDs and optronic wiring glinted from the divot in his skull. His pupils were an ice blue, almost white. They too were constructs.
Bishop by now was used to the looks he got from people. The fluidity of his motion and the quietness of his steps made the pilot almost fail to see Bishop storming past and get out of his way, ignoring the mans nervous greeting as he simply walked to the ship.
The Arbiter gave the CSF-class freighter an appraising look, then rotated his torso backward to face the man. His lower half turned to realign with the rest of him as he spoke.
You said this was important. Whats wrong? His tone was equal parts unfeeling and impatient. His voice sounded human enough, at least.
We- we hit a shipment, Mr. Bishop.
Bishops head tilted slightly. If I recall correctly, your organization hits shipments all the time.
Thats true, sir. But this sir, I wouldnt-a come here an wasted my fuel an my time if I didnt hafta.
This concerns all of us, then. Bishops torso spun on its axis again as he turned to face the ship. He began to walk toward the ship, his lower half realigning itself in mid-step.
Yes, sir. The Junker followed Hannibal, the two guards in their full monocast armor nearly as inhuman as Bishop with their closed faceplates.
Bishop paused and turned slightly, looking slightly human as he turned his head and looked at the man from the corner of his eye. Do us both a favor, Smith. Drop the sir.
Yes, s- I mean Mr. Bishop.
Bishop glanced up at the hatch, his neural computer triggering the opening sequence. Who did you hit? He didnt turn around, but every camera in the dock with a view broadcast the Junkers discomfort.
maybe you oughta see the cargo before yask me that.
Hannibal Bishop: Origins - Rudo - 08-05-2009
[font=Arial Narrow]PLANET HOUSTON, TEXAS SYSTEM.
Labour Colony of Truth or Consequences, (contested)
Year 807
and these Daumann pieces are untraceable. Security locks bypassed so anyone can use them without authorization from LPI Watchtowers. He took the energy weapon back from the last civilian militia commander to handle it after passing it around. He pulled out another gun, a chromed shoulder-mounted needler that drew gasps from the small crowd in this barren room in an underground bunker. Reed smiled inwardly, this sale was his. The Shredders are rated for military-grade armor, steel-jacketed uranium propelled by electromagnetic rails. Nasty, but theyll win your war for a fair price.
One man in a Liberty Marine Corps uniform stripped of all insignia and patched over with the markings of the guerilla movement spoke up after chewing on his mustache. Got anythin made in Liberty, suh?
A patriot, I see. Reed set the Daumann piece back inside its crate. As one crate hissed closed, he scanned himself into the other one and paused for dramatic effect. Theyre last years, but theyre from Detroit. Weve made it a point to modify them for greater range of purpose. He pulled his sample from the case. XP-303 Plasma-Hammer, 05 edition. Eyes grew wide with wonder at the sight of the rifle. The juice, as you all know, can be mounted in magazine cells, or if youre interested in a longer burn, backpack batteries.
After showing everyone that the weapon had neither magazines nor a backpack installed, he pointed the business end at the crowd and continued to talk. Minimum aperture for the rifle is 0.050. This makes the range an effective hundred-fifty metres if you can arc your shot effectively. Good for cutting the tops off towers. Or writing your name on the wall. Chuckles broke out all over the room at that last statement. He dilated the aperture to about an inch. Factory-specified maximum aperture is 1.000. This gives you about forty metres and is a lot harder on your power supply. Good for light recon vehicles, but youre going to need to keep it burning a lot longer to take down a tank with an energy shield. You boys ever come up against those?
Eyes around the room met his. Their expressions said it all. Lost some good men to those, I guess. Now you know why they keep them down. Youll like this next bit.
He dilated the aperture to twice its size, the iris now swallowing nearly the entire barrel. Eyes popped at the sight. Pocket sunshine, gentlemen. Full magazine lasts five seconds with this setting, backpack lasts thirty but shell melt in eight unless you ease the hell off and let er cool down. At this setting shell take a full-shielded tank and leave a glass crater before they know what hit em.
A hand went up. One of the associates of the first man. Approximately in his early thirties, with a close-cropped head of hair. Is that safe, Mr. Reed?
Reed gave him a look like hed asked if Maine were made out of cheese. Youre fighting Liberty tanks, son. Nothin safe about that. This is as safe as it gets, Id say.
The man with the coat stood up, the rest standing with him. Well, Im sold. Well take forty of them modified Plasma guns. If they bring boys home, well talk about buyin more.
Reed smiled. Glad to hear it. Lets talk business.