Freddie’s hand moves to my right shoulder and I’m spinning to my
left. I blink and then Freddie isn’t where he was anymore. In the literal
blink of an eye, he has Wart’s arm extended in a full arm bar and has spun him
into the wall, pinning him there. Wart’s wrist is bent in a direction it wasn’t
designed to go. Freddie growls as the others start to move forward. Without
thinking I place my hand on my pistol, and someone—I don’t see who—shoots a
grazing shot across my arm. Ow! That hurt! I cup my hand over the wound
to keep it from bleeding any worse.
Freddie’s lips are curled back in a feral snarl. He
looks…well he looks like a rabid dog. “Okay, boys,” he growls, “We’ve all made
our statements. Drop my gear over there by the door, I’ll let Wart go and then
everybody goes back to whatever—or whoever—they were doing.”
Wart tries to break free but yields to the inevitable
outcome. “Do what he says,” he grumbles in defeat.
“Reba, the money is in my back pocket.” That bitch could
have killed me! “Reba!” Oh crud, that’s me! I reach into his
pocket and pull out a wad of cash. Nice butt! I peel off forty five
thousand and throw it into the fetid air. The notes disperse and flutter to
the floor. The bikers all start chasing them. I figure they don’t deserve the
extra five grand and I impose a five thousand-credit jerk tax. “Now,
pick up that duffle and go through the door,” Freddie tells me. I sling the
bag over one shoulder. It’s heavy. I can hear and feel the weapons shifting
inside it. I stagger through the door. Damned heels! Leave it to a faggot
to get something I can’t walk in! Freddie throws Wart at the approaching
crowd, turns, snatches the bag from my shoulder, grabs me by the hand and we
start running. “We have about twenty seconds.” He says quietly.
My boots clack like crazy. We duck around the next corner
half a heartbeat before the shooting starts, but we are out of the line of
fire. He takes a second to throw me over his shoulder in a modified Wounded
Trooper carry. The mag train is at the platform. So Freddie starts to run.
Wart’s buddies are spilling out of the alley. I grab my pistol and throw some
suppressive fire at them, but the way Freddie is bouncing me around I can’t aim
effectively. Oddly, this would be a great time for my shotgun. Freddie runs
onto the train. As the doors close, we see Wart and his cronies pour from the
alley. The train moves out of the station, accelerating rapidly. A few rounds
ping against the train anyway.
Freddie calls Stan, “We have the bundle,” he tells him. “I
got one more pickup at the starport. We’re coming back to the launch first.”
“Roger, we’ll meet you there,” Stan says.
The reality of what has just happened begins to sink in on
me. Freddie pockets his perCom and turns to me. “How you doin’, kid?” I just
mumble a bit. “Sonia, can you hear me?” Freddie stands in front of me,
holding my face in his hands. The bag is on the bench. We’re standing up on
the rushing train. He lowers me to the seat. He slaps my cheek, not very
softly. My eyes focus on him.
“I’ve never been shot before,” I mumble. “Am I going to
die? Isn’t that what happens when you get shot? That’s what happens in the
movies, isn’t it? Don’t you get shot and then die?”
He slaps me again. “Stay with me, Princess.” His knife
flicks open. He makes two small cuts in the sleeve. He gently peels away the
material and exposes the wound. “Oh, please, I’ve gotten wounds worse than that
with some of my rowdier boyfriends.” He puts a medi-press bandage on it and
gives me two small pink capsules. “Chew one and swallow the other. Count to
ten.” The pill sticks in my throat. Freddie hands me a bottle of water. I
chew the second one. Mmmm! Cotton Candy! I make it to five and start
giggling.
“Can I
left. I blink and then Freddie isn’t where he was anymore. In the literal
blink of an eye, he has Wart’s arm extended in a full arm bar and has spun him
into the wall, pinning him there. Wart’s wrist is bent in a direction it wasn’t
designed to go. Freddie growls as the others start to move forward. Without
thinking I place my hand on my pistol, and someone—I don’t see who—shoots a
grazing shot across my arm. Ow! That hurt! I cup my hand over the wound
to keep it from bleeding any worse.
Freddie’s lips are curled back in a feral snarl. He
looks…well he looks like a rabid dog. “Okay, boys,” he growls, “We’ve all made
our statements. Drop my gear over there by the door, I’ll let Wart go and then
everybody goes back to whatever—or whoever—they were doing.”
Wart tries to break free but yields to the inevitable
outcome. “Do what he says,” he grumbles in defeat.
“Reba, the money is in my back pocket.” That bitch could
have killed me! “Reba!” Oh crud, that’s me! I reach into his
pocket and pull out a wad of cash. Nice butt! I peel off forty five
thousand and throw it into the fetid air. The notes disperse and flutter to
the floor. The bikers all start chasing them. I figure they don’t deserve the
extra five grand and I impose a five thousand-credit jerk tax. “Now,
pick up that duffle and go through the door,” Freddie tells me. I sling the
bag over one shoulder. It’s heavy. I can hear and feel the weapons shifting
inside it. I stagger through the door. Damned heels! Leave it to a faggot
to get something I can’t walk in! Freddie throws Wart at the approaching
crowd, turns, snatches the bag from my shoulder, grabs me by the hand and we
start running. “We have about twenty seconds.” He says quietly.
My boots clack like crazy. We duck around the next corner
half a heartbeat before the shooting starts, but we are out of the line of
fire. He takes a second to throw me over his shoulder in a modified Wounded
Trooper carry. The mag train is at the platform. So Freddie starts to run.
Wart’s buddies are spilling out of the alley. I grab my pistol and throw some
suppressive fire at them, but the way Freddie is bouncing me around I can’t aim
effectively. Oddly, this would be a great time for my shotgun. Freddie runs
onto the train. As the doors close, we see Wart and his cronies pour from the
alley. The train moves out of the station, accelerating rapidly. A few rounds
ping against the train anyway.
Freddie calls Stan, “We have the bundle,” he tells him. “I
got one more pickup at the starport. We’re coming back to the launch first.”
“Roger, we’ll meet you there,” Stan says.
The reality of what has just happened begins to sink in on
me. Freddie pockets his perCom and turns to me. “How you doin’, kid?” I just
mumble a bit. “Sonia, can you hear me?” Freddie stands in front of me,
holding my face in his hands. The bag is on the bench. We’re standing up on
the rushing train. He lowers me to the seat. He slaps my cheek, not very
softly. My eyes focus on him.
“I’ve never been shot before,” I mumble. “Am I going to
die? Isn’t that what happens when you get shot? That’s what happens in the
movies, isn’t it? Don’t you get shot and then die?”
He slaps me again. “Stay with me, Princess.” His knife
flicks open. He makes two small cuts in the sleeve. He gently peels away the
material and exposes the wound. “Oh, please, I’ve gotten wounds worse than that
with some of my rowdier boyfriends.” He puts a medi-press bandage on it and
gives me two small pink capsules. “Chew one and swallow the other. Count to
ten.” The pill sticks in my throat. Freddie hands me a bottle of water. I
chew the second one. Mmmm! Cotton Candy! I make it to five and start
giggling.
“Can I
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