Due to the numerous flu cases that had been reported from several of the Mega-Resorts across the planet, Cryer had dispatched discreet teams of six across the site continents to locate and treat those prestigious clients who preferred to venture 'off-radar'.
***
On a beautiful white beach reaching past the horizon Curacaos' elite basked and posed in the glorious sun. Some had come simply to be seen in the latest beach-wear: advertising their own excess, others simply craved the frivolities offered by such a scene. Bronze skinned, enviably athletic looking people eyed each other knowingly as they engaged playfully in volleyball and other beach-games.
The cryer team of six progressed slowly down the beach, laden with bags and equipment, they sweltered in their recognisable yet understated uniforms. Unaware of the excitement and danger that the others teams encountered, they had assumed their assignment to be an easy one since it contained the word 'beach'.
They were dead wrong: this was their eighth mile on this particular stretch of coast, with one hundred vaccinations complete: they had a depressingly long way to go. Exhausted and tetchy, they received little in the way of thanks from their would be patients.
Comments such as 'Nice one nerd-face: now I can do that three-way tonight; this is good for S.T.Ds too right?' and 'Ouch! You screwy-handed quack: are you trying to kill me!?' were about the level of appreciation afforded the doctors.
'Sir wouldn't this have been easier at a hotel or something?' a vexed technician spoke-up.
'Now, now Bolton: you heard the manager, they don't want the hotel to turn into a hospital or disturb the restful activities of the residents. Best we do it while they are more focused on other... things...' The co-ordinators words trailed off as he stood entranced by yet another pink-bikini-clad woman jogging.
'I guess it has other advantages too sir' the technician commented bitterly as he scanned yet another sunbather whilst his superior ogled.
Abruptly the co-ordinators trance was broken 'Alright, enough of this shiz: everybody strip!'
'Sir?'
'you heard me, down to your smalls: we'll bake out here otherwise!'
The team of six doctors shed their uniforms, visibly relieved by the escape from their attire and appreciative of the pleasant breeze. Four of the six still wore their cryer branded underwear, obviously fresh out of their Corporate Allotted Generic Environments.
A few heads turned to observe the motley-crew disrobing, including one of the statuesque 'life-guards'. The man jogged over, redundantly carrying his float-aid 'I'm sorry folks ' I can't let you walk around the beach like this ' you're just not... pretty enough.'
'How dare you! I'll have you know that I'm considered quite the catch in the Yukon. I was awarded most beautific beard 805 you know!' the co-ordinators words almost shook with indignation.
'That may be Sir, but this beach has a very specific policy on aesthetics. I can have suitable attire brought up, or you may provide your own: but your current exposure is...unseemly.'
'Very well, have some lighter garments brought up: we need to continue our work here.'
'Of course sir, four mediums and two extra-large coming right up.' The 'life-guard' stalked away, relaying his orders to an os&c pleasure droid who trotted off merrily.
'extra-large indeed!' the co-ordinator hissed under his breath 'I'm more of a 'generous large' wouldn't you say bertha?' A heavy-set woman looked up distractedly from a plate of seafood, raising a sauce covered thumb in agreement.
'What? Where did you get that? Where's mine?' the co-ordinator glanced around questioningly at his team, who all now reclined or sat sipping from elaborate glasses.
'Just a quick break sir? In honour of Max?'
the co-ordinator sighed 'very well, it's what he would have wanted after all. Ten minutes and then we're back on the crawl.'
A short while later, the Cryer team trod the white sand once more, adorned in their regulation os&c broad-hats and muumuus.
***
At the back of a freezer room in an outrageously expensive Curacao restaurant two cryer employees chatted whilst inspecting the organic produce.
'Just what I had planned: nothing I'd rather do on an a pleasure planet; than stand in freezer staring at imported beef for hours.' The doctors sarcastic tone belied her intolerance of their current assignment.
'look at it this way: no-one around here is gonna care if a side or two of this prime-rib goes missing now are they?' the technicians grin showed white through his frosty visor.
'maybe you missed operations one oh one toothy: we are not thieves, we are not stealing meat or anything else that reminds me of this place.'
'Well...it wouldn't be stealing exactly, just a little 'labour bonus'...'
'Cut the shiz ass-hat, do you wanna explain to the board how your stomach is the reason that they are BARRED from Curacao?'
'...no.'
'Well then shut up and pass me that magnifier noodle-brain'
'mmm noodle-soup...Um.. the glass magnifier?'
'Yes, I wanna see how pretty my gloves look.' the technician began passing a magnifying glass. 'No: The molecular one you foetus!'
With the look of a wounded puppy, Toothy passed her the correct device.
'Alright, now, get me a core probe would you? You remember what one of those looks like right? The big spiky thing with the number thing at one end.'
'Yes I know' the technician moaned 'the big spiky thing with the number thing at the end.' a mocking tone to his flawed repetition.
The doctor irritatedly stabbed the once-cow and took her readings 'alright, tag this one as clear. And don't push your luck technician: in the freezer, no-one can hear you scream.'
'Why you gotta be so mean to me doc? Is it because I'm prettier than you?'
The doctor froze in her task 'What did you just say...you're prettier than ~me~ ?' a terrible frigidity edged her words. 'That's it' she gestured widely around the freezer 'Choose your weapon.'
*
The pair stood at either side of the massive fridge, facing each other. The technician with a pizza-base and chicken, the doctor hefting a heavy, deadly looking sausage.
The technician nervously shifted his stance, the doctor cricked her neck.
'I hope you like hospital food brick-face.'
'Your ass is rockitt-salad bish.'
The two accelerated toward one another, their voices rising as was customary for battle. With a yell toothy launched an overhand swing with his chicken, even as the doctor spun to his side, narrowly missing the cauliflower flourets.
Landing and immediately spinning on his heel, toothy threw a wild hook at the doctor, his speed too great: the chicken flew from his hand to thud wetly against a hanging carcass. The doctor stepped in range repeatedly battering at the quailing toothy, the sausage slapping against the visor again and again.
Their momentous battle reached the discarded chicken, the two glanced to the technicians sole hope. Hurling the sausage into Toothys' face, the doctor immediately scooped up the chicken and deftly planted it over the head of the stumbling technician. Blinded, with a chicken for a head, the technician seemed to fall backward in slow motion smacking onto the floor like unwanted hors d'oeuvre.
'Okay...you win, sorry doctor.' the muffled voice of Toothy echoed from within the chicken.
'Shush your spoiling it!' the doctor snapped, and resumed her heroic celebration.
The doctor could almost hear her victory theme playing as she placed one foot on her defeated foe, and looked distantly at the wall. 'So you see, now I am the master.'
A sizeable fishing yacht bobbed in the waves of the vast ocean of Curacao, for miles in every direction the seas expanse lies unbroken, deserted. Onboard, executive broker and long term cardamine user, 'Von braun' was taking his leisure.
At the apex of the craft the captain had time to look up at the dark sky quizzically: puzzled by the distant whirring hiss; before the Cryer transport swooped in at breakneck speed, its bay agape, ready to swallow the ship and surrounding sea.
The pressure differential pushed at the crew, who all now stood paralysed as they stared at the cavernous mouth of oncoming transport. The bottom of the spacecraft disappeared below the dark waves, water rushed in a torrent chaotically even as the shadow of the transport encompassed the yacht, taking everything in its path within like some kind of devouring sky-whale. In seconds the transports bay doors begun closing as the craft lifted once more into the sky, its quarry safe within the massive hold.
'You can be my wingman anytime' the pilot of the transport smiled as the cabin crew praised him for an expert piece of precision flying. 'Aerial One reporting in: target secure' they transmitted to their co-ordinator before checking the condition of their ill-gotten cargo.
- "He's all over three landing patterns"
- "Make it four"
- "He's either drunk or high on something"
- "You bet! And to think people like him are treating the guests"
Raven's Talon slowed the descent and landed quite smoothly on the most distant landing pad available. The two flight controllers were wrong though. Andrew Ross was neither drunk nor high, just lacking practice of buttoning up his overall and making a planetary landing at the same time.
He was late, but not in hurry at all. When your technicians have been waiting you for three days a few hours here and there won't make any difference. They can handle the mundane tasks just as well without his presence.
Andrew stepped to ground and took a careful look at people in landing area. Once sure that previous owner of Talon is not among them, he calmly strolled in the general direction of the remote hotel his team supposedly was doing their job at the moment.
***
- "Will that hurt?"
- "No"
- "That's reassuring, I've never liked vaccinations, but if you say... Ow!"
Chester Tuft even tried to smile as he missed the vein and stuck the needle deep in the muscle of the respectable businessman's upper arm.
- "Did you really have to do that, Ches?", another technician turned to Tuft after the businessman had left the impromptu vaccination center in hurry, nursing his arm.
- "I didn't like him"
- "You don't like anyone"
- "Just shut up and tell the next rich sod to move on"
The technician was right. Chester hated people, space, planets, his work and life in general. There were rumors around that the only thing he doesn't hate is himself, as Chester never missed a chance to practice his only hobby. Which was making other people hate life for at least a moment as well.
Tuft liked to claim that his behavior is caused by a deep existential sadness that no-one but him could fathom. But even the most philosophical of minds still stood by the opinion that Chester just enjoys being an antisocial jerk.
The next guest was a girl the age of four. Chester calmly prepared the vaccine and waved the girl to come closer.
- "That uncle that just came out didn't look too happy, mister"
- "Don't you worry, kid. This will hurt a lot less than when your parents will finally admit to you that they lied and Santa doesn't exist"
Sarin wriggled uncomfortably in the tight fitting uniform of the Curacao Coast Guard, already missing her expensive civilian attire. The picture on her identification was, obviously, an unflattering shot: featuring the savage wound crossing her left cheek. Indeed she drew no-few stares from the disgusted few they had met on the way to the harbour. Without a mask to hide behind, she felt naked, exposed. Thankfully the team she had been assigned to were bound out to sea, in search of some executives on a Norfin hunt or Pirasharq or some fish-related-killing: so hopefully she would not have to endure the attention for long.
***
The small boat holding six Cryer operatives sped across the waves, toward the tastefully designed yacht bobbing below the horizon. Their presence betrayed by little, save its wake and the Coast guard identifiers plastered over the hull, the team quickly caught up to the yacht, waving their friendly intentions upon approach.
The first guard to meet them wore a confused smile on his face as he greeted and admitted the team. 'What's that? We gotta make port?'
'Yeah that's right, see that storm front moving in...' the disguised cryer technician pointed to the darkening skies of the east.
'Yeah I see...huh!...' the guard softly exclaimed as he was struck with a needle, and soon slumped to the deck aided by two of the apparent 'Coast guard'. The team exchanged nods and quickly split up, subduing any crew they met in a similar style.
***
Near the prow of the ship, Sarin and two of the team advanced on the fishing executive, their target for this mission. Michael Vincent Bueren: an elite member of the brokering community, and suspected long term cardamine user.
The man turned casually, his mood quickly faltering to alarm as the two cryer men closed from either side.
'What! How did you get on my Yacht?! Why are you disturbing my fishing?!'
'Relax Mister Bueren, we're doctors: trust us.'
Sarin surveyed the man, casting her gaze over him from head to toe. Nothing appeared outwardly awry: in fact even whilst taking his ease at fishing, the executive dressed in the latest Robert Geller: cutting quite the dapper figure.
Her ocular implant detected an artificial cavity within the mans' forearm. She nodded to the two technicians flanking the well-dressed man.
'So, executive Bueren, how long have you been using?'
'How dare you slattern! Do you know who I am?!' Bueren struggled futilely, his voice near cracking.
Sarin quickly stepped into his reach and immediately dragged his sleeve up. 'Open it.'
'Don't touch me you wretch! Open what?! My arm?!'
Sarin drew a small knife and quickly struck at the exposed flesh, a small piece of synthetic skin flew to the deck.
'Aaa! Crazy Whore! What the..'
His words were cut short as Sarin pointed the blade at the (now exposed) small display blinking on the mans arm.
'Open it.' Sarins repeated, a tone of impatience carried with her words.
'O christ' The well-dressed man seemed to visibly sag, as his arms were released and he tapped at the interface in his left forearm. Momentarily the technicians to either side relaxed, assuming Buerens co-operation.
A heartbeat later, Sarin stood shocked as Bueren threw a lightning right hook into the technician on his left, before propelling himself over the already falling Cryer man, toward the ships port side rail. The second standing technicians gave chase, unfolding his baton with a quick whip of his arm. Upon reaching the rail, Bueren spun around to face his armed pursuer, his face set in an uncharacteristically defiant grimace.
The technician kept his pace, taking a ugly overarm swing at Bueren. His haste cost him, as Bueren pivoted, grabbed handfuls of the technicians garb, and threw him over the rail. The sound of the technician shouting his alarm was immediately followed by a large splash. Sarin arrived near the rail, sparing a brief glance at the water and the flailing technician.
Bueren stood for a moment, his attention on the splashing cryer employee re-diverted Sarins' gaze once more. As the technician splashed and shouted, churning white spume into the air, a large spined dorsal-fin rose above the waves. A cruel smile painted Buerens face, whilst Sarin held the bridge of her nose in disappointed resignation. The beast rose just above the water-line, it's maw of spiny teeth held open to consume its prey. The first of a terrible dirge of visceral screams erupted from the technician as the shark brought its teeth down, messily tearing into flesh. The thrashing site of white water suddenly shifted to pink as gallons of blood seeped into the sea. Bueren turned to Sarin as the primal display closed.
'Fancy your chances scar-face?'
'Give it up Bueren: your men are unconscious or worse; I have three more capable men below deck. Unless you want to end up like that poor sod, come with us, we'll take good care of you I promise.'
'And what: spend a month being poked and prodded by you goons?'
'Something like that' Sarin grinned as one of the three cryer men she alluded to, crept up behind the distracted executive. 'Sweet dreams Bueren'.
The executive started to speak, before his words were cut short as the stealthy security operative shot him in the back of the neck. The small dart wobbled as the man instantly crumpled to the ground, the effects of the general anaesthetic quickly took hold. 'Nicely' said Sarin as she winked at the Cryer operative. She opened her line to their shared communications link 'Alright ladies and gents, looks like we got our catch of the day: let's clean up here, call the transport in, and get the target off-world.'
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