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+--- Thread: Adrift (/showthread.php?tid=7427)
Adrift - n0cha - 04-02-2008
"Hmm.... Yes....", the fence mumbled, as he lifted his eye from the lens and looked up.
"May I ask how you acquired these specimens, mister... Dalton, was it?" he asked.
"Yeah... And no," the man referred to as mister Dalton replied in a voice that sounded like gravel would sound after it had been beaten up and then forced to run 10 laps around the playing field, followed by some push-ups.
He looked the part too. His face was coarse and unshaven and he had an unhealthy pallor. Although he was a tall man, his posture was sagging and he looked tired and grim.
"I believe you have been had, mister," the fence continued with the same drawl, which did nothing to improve Dalton's mood, apparently without taking any note of the reply.
"These are not the real McCoy, although they are exquisitely crafted replicas, I must admit. The work of a true artist," the fence mumbled with a hint of admiration in his voice, while resuming his inspection of the handful of small glittering objects that were spread out on the backlight in his counter.
"I believe you should be able to get a pretty decent price for them. But not from me I'm afraid. I'm only interested in buying actual diamonds."
"Horsesh*t!" Dalton replied with a sudden burst of angry vigor, which made the fence raise his head and give him a quizzical look, although he didn't seem the least bit startled.
"They're the real deal and you're gonna pay me the standard rate."
"No can do, mister. They're what you would call textbook fugazy's. I could give you.. say.. fifty credits for the lot. Just for novelty value really."
Dalton opened his mouth to yell at the man, but then thought better of it and shut it again. He let out a grumble.
The fence was a rather scrawny man, who looked as if he was at least in his forties. He didn't appear to be armed. Nor were there any guards in sight or anyone in the vicinity that could suddenly develop a case of curiosity.
He could easily overpower the man, break open his safe and take off with the loot long before anyone would find out.
But then what'd he do? He was still stuck on this base until he'd get his ship fixed and he was already in enough trouble as it was.
He hesitated for a couple of seconds, then in one quick stroke swiped the stones from the counter and into a small synthetic leather bag, which he tucked into his jacket.
He turned around and walked out of the gloomy little shop.
That two-timing lowlife. He'd known the guy was shifty as soon as he'd seen him, but what else would you expect of a smuggler?
He should've walked away, but he hadn't had a gig for quite a while and he needed the creds.
The pay was good, or so it seemed.
Just a little protection, the smuggler had said, in case they would have a run-in with some nosy law-enforcers.
Only a couple of jumps.
He had a rule. Well, more of a personal guideline, really. Cash only, half up front.
But when the smuggler had tipped over the pouch and its contents were spilled out on the table in all their shining glory, he knew he couldn't say no.
He walked over to what the sign above the door insisted was the local cantina, although if it would have said junkyard it would have been equally convincing. Probably more so.
After a quick count of the handful of credits in his pocket, he opened the door and walked in.
The place was filled with the rank odor of stale beer with a rancid undertone he couldn't quite place, but might have at one time been vomit.
There was a thick greasy layer on everything, including the small group of locals that appeared to be enjoying a game of cards.
He walked over to the bar, taking care not to lean against it, and glanced at the barkeeper.
The barkeeper returned his glance with the disinterested nod recognized everywhere around the universe to mean "I'll be right with you, whenever I feel like it and after I finish whatever I'm doing at this pace that suggests I've got all the time in the world and If you'd drop dead right there from thirst I couldn't care less," which is quite a lot of words for just a slight movement of the head.
The locals had appeared to show only a passing interest in him when he had walked in, but now one of them had stood up and came walking towards him.
"Hey stranger," the man said, with a cheeriness that seemed awfully out of place in the seedy cantina, "what's your name?"
"Tex," Dalton replied, "what's it to you?"
"Nice ta meet ya, Tex. I'm Jason," the man replied as he stuck out his grease-covered palm towards Tex.
Tex ignored this and just stared at him until the man dropped his hand and shrugged.
"Me and my mates over there were just wondering if you'd be interested in joining us for a little game of cards," the man who had introduced himself as Jason said, while gesturing towards the table behind him.
"Low stakes, nothing fancy, just friendly-like," he added, when it looked as if Tex was about to refuse.
Oh what the hell, Tex thought, why not? I might even be able to get some extra swank out of this and even if I do lose the few measly creds I have, it's not like I would be any further up the creek than I already am.
"Yeah, sure," he said.
By now, the barkeeper seemed to have found some room in his busy schedule to serve his only waiting customer.
"Yeah, whaddaya want?" He slurred, true to the catchphrase of barkeepers since the dawn of time.
"What've you got?" Replied Tex, master of the creative dialog.
"Ale," replied the barman, clearly not in the mood to invest any more effort in this conversation than strictly necessary.
"Just ale? Then why'd you ask?" Tex asked, slightly annoyed.
"Got water too," the barman explained, seemingly undisturbed, "but I wouldn't drink it if I wuz you."
"Great. Fine. Ale then," Tex suggested and shrugged, rolling his eyes when the barkeeper turned away to grab a glass.
The glass got filled with something that looked like unrefined oil and smelled vaguely like coolant fluid when it was unceremoniously shoved in front of Tex, as if the arm holding it just happened to be going that direction anyway and although it was doing him a huge favor might as well drop it off.
At least now he knew where that foul smell had come from.
The barkeeper didn't appear to be about to spend any of his valuable energy by telling him what the charge was, so Tex slapped a one credit chip on the counter, grabbed the dubious beverage and walked over to the table where the four men were playing cards.
Tex Dalton. It wasn't his real name, it was just a name he had adopted for use while he was in this stinking dump that appeared to pass as an excuse for a base around here.
A new place, a new name. Every now and then a different ship.
A man in his line of work couldn't afford to leave a trail that easy to follow. And his clients had their ways of finding him anyway. They always did.
To them he was known as Max Power. Mercenary, thug for hire, thief, hitman. Or any odd job that paid well enough.
And even some that didn't pay very well, if he happened to be strapped for cash and not in a position to be choosy, which was more often than he would care to admit.
It wasn't always dirty work. He'd done escorts too. And package delivery and VIP transports. He'd even been a bodyguard a couple of times.
It was just that the jobs on the wrong side of the law always tended to pay rather better and to Max, that was what mattered.
In fact, he preferred to stay on the edge, not so far towards the deep end as to be an outright criminal, but just enough to preserve the link to that part of his clientele which provided him with the more lucrative offers.
But somehow it never really worked out that way. He'd always get into trouble one way or the other.
The bounty hunters had been after him for most of what for want of a better word would have to be called his career and although he had tried all sorts of bribes and ruses, it never seemed to completely rub off.
And now the Kusari police was after him as well, courtesy of that double-crossing punk smuggler.
He'd almost come full circle.
Stranded in this rundown rinky dink cesspit, with a ship that was hanging together by a couple of bolts, nothing of value to his name except a small bag full of artfully crafted but utterly worthless pieces of glass and a serious craving for some synthetic Mary J.
That was an addiction he had picked up as a teenager, working as an errand-boy and small-time dealer for the local mobster on Freeport 10, an Outcast by the name of Luiz Perrone, who would often pay him with a bit of the product, rather than a cut of the profit.
He'd grown up there living with his father, who was a Zoner, although in the case of his dad this meant that he was mostly zoned out on cardamine, whenever he wasn't out scrounging or panhandling to finance his next fix.
He'd never known his mother and the only thing his dad would tell him about her was that "she's gone, boy. And she's probably a lot better off where she is now than the both of us." After which he would invariably take another hit of cardie and refused to say anything else on the subject.
He'd never touched the stuff himself though, but the marihuana was bad enough.
It didn't exactly help his focus when on the job, which in Max' case could mean the difference between life and death, as it already too often had.
He'd been trying to quit for several years, but he kept falling back whenever he needed to calm his nerves, which as it turned out happened to be on a quite regular basis.
Max Power. That wasn't his real name either, of course.
He'd made it up. That is, he'd read it off the control panel off his ship and had figured it sounded right, back when he had just left Freeport 10 behind him to embark on a life of adventure, determined to cut all ties to his former life. His doped-up dad, the squalor in which they lived, his work as a two-bit drug dealer.
It hadn't exactly worked out as planned.
Having no education, no connections and no money except what he had sunk in his ship, he soon had to resort to hiring himself out for any old job.
It was a life of sorts.
At least it was better than what some of the poor buggers had that he found in the more depressing places he visited. Like these locals here. Or his dad, for that matter.
And adventure, yeah, he'd had that. He'd had his fill. Although he'd had to adjust his meaning of the word a bit.
To the little boy on Freeport 10 it had meant discovering strange places and new planets. Vanquishing powerful foes and scary aliens. To be rewarded with fame, glory and recognition.
Right now, it meant flying for his life while dodging enemy fire and chunks of rock, being pursued by people who were after his cargo, his blood or worse, while his ship was falling apart around him. And all he had to look forward to was staying alive long enough to find a place to catch his breath and have a quiet smoke.
Of course he'd had some lucky breaks. Some of the jobs he'd done had paid rather well, but most of it was usually spent on repairs, equipment, bribes and of course the smaller pleasures in life.
It never really took long before he had to find another gig. And these days, the gig sometimes found him.
(To be continued.)