Carlos Wells was thrown with his back against a wall, blood running down in a slim stream over his left cheek.
Breathing heavily, Carlos cleared his throat and spit on the ground. Alright. Time to analyze.
He was on Freeport 6, docking bay #17, about 50 metres from his Switchblade. Surrounding him, two men, miners, one pointing a gun, the other one barehanded, ready to hit him again. There was blood on that second guy's knuckles. Carlos' blood.
"Why don't you tell us where you hid the money, hm?"
That second guy again. Carlos didn't even know his name. He baptized him Ginger, due to his hair. Ginger wasn't very tall, maybe about 1 metre and 70, but his punches sure hurt. No wonder, looking at his muscle-packed body. Ginger also had a stupid face, mostly due to that bold grin.
The other one was more quiet and didn't seem to be the punching type. Mr Yellow - his overall - clutched his pistol tightly, not looking away from Carlos and Ginger. Yellow was tall and thin. His green eyes were wandering between Ginger and Carlos nervously.
Great couple they were.
Carlos breathed in. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, he was helped exhaling. The punch he just received pumped all air out of his lungs.
Gasping, Carlos dropped to his knees.
"You sure talk less once you're faced by a pair of fists, eh?"
Wiping the sleep out of his eyes, he pulled the cockpit chair with himself on it towards the console.
After pressing a few buttons, the darkened canopy glass began to lighten up. Sunlight began to fall in, filling the small cockpit, erasing most shadows.
The Switchblade was hovering in Newcastle's upper planes, waiting for input. After making the jump from Tau-31 the day before, Carlos had been so tired he could barely hold his eyes open.
Even though everyone knows the dangers of sleeping in open space when in command of a ship - especially if it's a fighter-class vessel - Carlos had set the autopilot to a hollowed, middle-sized asteroid, parked his trusty Borderworlds fighter, darkened the cockpit and fallen asleep as soon as he pushed back the seat and stretched out his legs.
Now, approximately ten hours later, he set course to where Cape Wrath should be.
Scratching his head, Carlos set the vessel's comm systems to automatically alert him, should another ship hail and demand his status.
Soon enough, an Outcast patrol appeared on the scanner, indicating that Carlos was flying in the right direction.
It was half an hour later that he reached Cape Wrath.
After the Switchblade had safely debarked, Carlos locked down the ship console, snatched a small package from the cargo bay and took one of the many stairways leading out of the docking bay, towards the management area of the station.
Climbing up the stairs, he put on his purple sunglasses, sighed, and ran his hand through his curled hair.
Which room was it again? Ah, right, number 43.
Carlos stopped and pressed his palm against the sensor next to the door. A laser scanned his crinkles, scars and callus, then the console flashed and became dark. The door opened with a pneumatic whiz.
"Ah, bienvenido Carlos, great to see you!"
The voice came from a rotund man in a dark suit, the gray hair tidily combed back. He stood next to a large office desk, behind it a wide window, opening the view to Newcastle's ice clouds. Holding a glowing Cardamine cigar in his left, he smiled quietly and offered Carlos a seat with the right.
"Thanks Don Ibarrondo, I prefer standing after long flights. Oh, 'n I brought something along from Malta..."
He handed Don Ibarrondo the packet and sketched a bow. Smirking, Ibarrondo weighed the package with his right and gently put it on the desk.
"I appreciate your kindness, Carlos. Well," he took a drag on the cigar "let's get to business."
There's quite a number of terms in use for people like Carlos.
The Maltese syndicates and population call him recadero, or summoner, his non-Maltese friends in Bretonia and Liberty teasingly call him an errand-boy, the police contemptibly calls people like him runners, gofers, or even dealers.
Carlos liked to call himself an agent of the Orange Dream, a swift adventurer, a coyote.
His job was to deliver goods to people - he was no smuggler or trader though.
Whenever a friend of his employers - various syndicate higher-ups and VIPs on Malta - needed something taken somewhere, they turned to Carlos.
He got fresh, first-rate Cardamine to Outcasts that based in the Houses.
Anybody in need of rare equipment or the legendary Codename weapons would call him for a delivery.
Researchers on Malta would ask him to get them rare artifacts and technology created by the inhabitants of Sirius.
Collectors would ask him to meet wicked dealers, to be their middleman, to hunt for treasures.
He was a bearer of rarities, getting you what you wanted.
Also, Carlos was an opportunity pirate. Whenever there was a chance to mug some credits from a lone trader, he was sure not to let it pass. Why let those lovely credits go to waste?
However dangerous he used to live though, Carlos hated to fight. He was no skilled shooter, his Switchblade looked more stumbling than dancing in a fight and he was lubberly to boot.
He was good at something though. Running away.
He soon earned himself the nickname 'Coyote'. At first, he was huffy when even his friends started calling him that, but soon enough, he began to enjoy his new name and even registered his Switchblade under his handle: Coyote.Wells
Another punch hit Carlos' face. Why did he space out? This was not a comfortable situation at all...
"Well, I ask ya again, how did we end up here? And, where's the bloody money?!"
Carlos coughed up some more blood again. He needed to get out of here. His Switchblade was within range, if he would just manage to run for it. But with Yellow not pulling his eyes away and Ginger right in front of him, that wasn't going to work, was it.
"Answer, bloody Outcast! Or should I help you vent your words?"
Ginger drew his pistol. And there it was. Carlos had a plan.
"...for Malta's sake, be cursed..." he coughed "... alright, I'll tell you if you let me go."
"Now I think I'm going to like ya, orange-head! Speak up!"
They had no intention of letting him go. Carlos could tell that once he told them, they would just blast him down and leave him to die in this hangar. The locals were probably bribed not to get in here until tomorrow.
"I have... the key... here in my pocket... but I need to get it out..."
Ginger laughed.
"You think I'll fall for that? I'm going to get the key. Which pocket?"
Carlos stared at him. Spit on the ground again.
"Right side of the jacket... the one with the copper button."
Ginger approached him.
"No tricks, scum! Fred has you in checkmate, don't forget that!"
So Yellow was Fred? Not for long.
Ginger reached for the pocket, his pistol still pointed at Carlos' face. He opened it, flipping the copper button around. He reached inside. He froze.
"You..."
And he didn't finish his sentence. With a quick jab of his left, Carlos smashed Ginger's hand against his chest. The miner's look got fuzzy. Carlos grabbed his other hand, took the pistol and, with the more and more unconscious Ginger as a shield, fired straight for Fred.
Seven shots later, Yellow was down for good and Carlos pushed Ginger away from himself. The latter fell down as if dead.
"You're lucky, ya know. Not everyone gets to share some sweet high-concentration orange dreams before they die. And no worries, you will, 'cause I suspect nobody will rescue your body from out there."
Carlos took the rest of the blotter paper inside his pocket - with his gloved hand, of course - and had a good look at how much was left. Synthetic Cardamine was not rare, this high-dose breed though was.
Nobody that wasn't used to Cardamine since birth would be able to survive a shot of this. Even the Dons would get high from that stuff. Any mucous membrane in the body, as well as the skin, was able to absorb the drug within split-seconds via osmosis, spreading it through the entire body.
Ginger's sweaty hand was just perfect.
Carlos walked over to his Switchblade, wiping off the sweat and blood, and climbid into the cockpit.
"Ey. Freeport 6 flight control, please open docking bay number seventeen. Don't worry, the ones that prolly paid you not to do this aren't around any more."
He didn't receive a reply promptly.
"Listen, if I have, I'm gonna come up to your tower and tell you in person how pissed I am. Would you proceed?"
"Outcast Psi 7 slash 7, this is Freeport 6 Flight Control. Good luck out there."
"Was about time."
As the bay doors opened, two bodies were seen being sucked out into space. Following them, a Switchblade, loading up the cruise engines.
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