Kragen shrugged. “Interesting choice. I see you like pain. No matter.” He motioned to one of his men and tossed me a pipe wrench. He gripped one in his own hand and patted one end against his palm. It fit nicely. “Your move, captain.”
I raised my weapon.
“Wait,” Kragen grunted. “Just to make this more interesting, let’s move the arena closer to the workflow.”
I flashed him a quizzical glance.
“Sometimes Bessy and Zeke get a little sloppy with their janitorial work. Slop acid drips down from the main crucible. See?” He motioned to a place under the catwalks where acid-scored scaffolding ran up in complex configurations. “Real bitch if somebody steps in those acid pools or heaven forbid, falls in it. Last guy did—well, you don’t want to know, Rusbo. I’ll leave it to your imagination.”
I did and I got it loud and clear. “An amusing game,” I murmured. Me, Marty and Deidra followed them over to the crucible pad. “You play this game often?”
“As much as we can. Suffice it to say, a few men are off each week tending to burns and other wounds. This week’s unusual though—three guys laid out.” He grinned. “Just saying.”
I grinned back. “Not surprising.” I examined the bilious yellow pools staining the tarmac. A sulfurous reek wafted from the acid-pocked hardtop. One of the massive crucibles had been recently forklifted away and curls of acrid steam still rose from the spillage.
“Shall we? Day’s getting on.” Kragen gave a brisk flourish.
Mumbling in anticipation, Kragen’s drones climbed the scaffolding to watch. I cast them a menacing leer and an exaggerated salute.
“After you.” I held out my hand to him.
Marty looked on in amusement. “All the luck to you, Rusco.” He slapped me on the back a bit harder than necessary. “Break a leg.”
Wish he’d given me some Myscol earlier on. Bugger. I could handle this creepo game solo. We get the repairs done and scram from this joint, before some bitchface, heavy-hitter dirtbag like Silas sidled back looking for us.
Kragen came in strong, beating me back with his pipe and making me sweat. The clinks of cold metal on metal echoed up the yard. Marty moved in closer for a bird’s eye view. Deidra stood at a distance, her body rigid. The crowd hollered and cheered for Kragen. I backpedaled, narrowly missing a whistling swing that came a hair width from my ear. Christ, was the sod trying to kill me? Sure, why not? Gain a free ship and cargo, once he gets rid of Marty and uses Deidra.
I stepped in a puddle and howled as sizzling smoke rose from the sole of my left boot. I hot-potatoed it out of the way, at the same time shucking off my boot while Kragen grinned, shaking his head in admiration. “Tricky business there, Rusbo. You’re a real acrobat, doing that jitterbug.”
I coursed forward, in a shambling hop, trying to duck under Kragen’s next pipe swings which came faster and more furious while I shouldered up heavy and blocked him with my own tool. Now I was lumbering around with one sock foot. Easy prey to more yellow sludge if I wasn’t careful. Likely lose half my foot if I mis-stepped.
Kragen’s grin grew ever broader. “Good save there, Rusbo. Haven’t seen that done in a long time.” He guffawed. “Think you just won tipsy award of the week.”
He vaulted in and gave me a good wallop with his pipe-wrench that grazed my forearm. Enough of a wicked nick to make me want to howl. But I didn’t howl. Never would give that clown the pleasure of thinking he’d scored even half a point.
Two of his monkeys butted in to shove me closer to his swings.
Deidra came in with both fists to box the first of the two joker’s ears. “You buggers ever hear of fair play?” She held her ground, ready to deal out more. Marty was beside her, sleeves rolled up, hating dirty play as much as she.
One barked out a lewd remark.
“Yeah, your mother too,” Deidra called back.
That last move snapped a wire in my head and now the old Mr. Hyde burned bright and strong. Just an instant hurricane of evil. Not for too long. That mean ugly fucker side wouldn’t need it for long. I feinted left then right, ducked his steel and tripped his heavy padded ass. He fell hard and cried out and I beamed him soundly across the back, prompting a howl and a groan. He fell face first to the tarmac, inches from an acid spill. My ratchet head went up to brain him for good but he held up a restraining hand. “Okay, okay, truce, Rusbo. You won that fair and square. No heavy hitting needed. We go get us some brews, dark ones in the back hangar.”
“Sure, sure…and it’s Rusco.” I took his hand and helped him up. “What of our guns?”
“Nah, no guns. They scare me.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Malley can fix your rig up. He’s our best mechanic. I’ve taken a shine to you, Rusbo, so what’s say I swing you a deal? Fair price.”
“Rusco.”
“If it’s structural, be longer. Internal drive conventional stuff.”
“How long?”
“A week?”
“Fuck, we don’t have a week,” Marty cried, fists pumped. “Sharki’ll be all over us by then.”
I cut Marty off with a chop of my hand. “Not much choice, Marty,” I hissed. “We can scout out Tyrone City in the meantime, see what’s up.”
Deidra’s face looked bleak as a cold winter day. “So what now? We just wait around for some sharpshooter like Silas to blow our brains out?”
“You can lay low here,” Kragen offered. “No one will bother you. I’ve got odd jobs for the lot of you—help pay for those repairs.”
* * *
So we stayed on and joined part of Kragen’s yard gang,
