The Baroness was watching.
The clanging of a klaxon interrupted his nervous embarrassment, and both men jumped. Suddenly the complex around them came alive. Both men pressed themselves against the pavement as flat as they could. From buildings all over the complex, including the igloo, troopers, white-coated civilians, and technicians in work coveralls poured out onto the tarmac like fire ants when you kick their mound. Many walked in pairs or trios, laughing and chatting. Others were performing tasks, playing games or reading the morning news on their PDCs.
Dee and Tiger looked at each other and grinned. Shift change! Even authoritarian institutions like the Authority needed off time. And this was probably the most chaotic, disorganized time of day.
Tiger eyed a line of pre-fab barracks close by, where a squad of troopers was now exiting. It appeared they were the only ones occupying the small portable pod.
“I think I’ve got an idea,” he told Dee. “C’mon! You’ve just been drafted into service for the Greater Good of Sol.”
Dee made a disapproving noise somewhere deep down in his throat, “Why do I gotta feelin’ I’m gonna regret this?”
“Oh, I’m sure you will,” Tiger replied. “C’mon! We’re not gettin’ nowhere layin’ here on the damp ground, worrying about being eaten or bitten by something.”
Dee raised his eyebrow curiously, “Well, since you put it that way …
***
As the morning sun rose over Monte Sano, it bathed the downtown area in its blinding, golden rays. In the high-rise apartments, people were waking, coffee was brewing and bacon was frying as the city came alive again. In offices, labs and shops, lights flickered on and machines whirred to life. It was just another day in the never-ending cycle that used up worker drones. They were born, grew up, got jobs and then died, and some other nameless, faceless drone was plugged in, and the universe spun on as if they never existed.
That was life in the high-rises. Down at ground level, it was a different story. Large sections of the city suffered from urban blight. Plants stood idle, some for decades. Entire shopping malls were boarded up. Whole city blocks were in ruins, their buildings burnt out or crumbling.
Here, at street level, gangs ruled and moonbeam addicts languished. Small-time hoods bought and sold stolen goods, illegal weapons and Martian cigarettes at outlaw flea markets. Unemployed workers who wanted to supplement their ULA could fence stolen property in these so-called “tumbleweed zones.” On street corners, prostitutes turned tricks to johns brave enough to venture down in their shiny hovercars, baby seats strapped in the backseat and stickers with the mascot of their kid’s soccer team on the side. Lately, some illegal Andies had started popping up. They were high risk/ high yield. Pimps didn’t have to pay them a cut for the tricks they turned, but Andies on earth were strictly forbidden. Their presence could mean a lot of heat, a Federal rap and life on Penal One.
The Zone Patrol made occasional forays into these desolate sections, but there were never any regular patrols. The private security forces kept these undesirable elements out of the protected neighborhoods and subdivisions. Sophisticated security systems kept them out of the high rises. Most of the time, if you saw a ZiP in one of these areas, it was because somebody had gone looking for trouble and found it. The Patrol would make a showing for a day or two, come down in force, crack some heads and confiscate some shit. And, of course, there were always crooked ZiPs who occasionally came down to shake down dealers and pimps.
In the back of an old fabricating shop near the downtown area, Gideon, Junior and Ollie examined their newly purchased wares, as Freddy hovered nearby.
“Well, what’d I tell ya?” he asked, obviously proud of the fact he’d been able to come up with the order in such a short time. Of course, other orders would be short. He’d owe a few folks, but all that’d be worked out later. The way Old Man Tuttle threw money around earned him instant precedent. “Did I not tell you I’d have it in a few hours?”
“I gotta hand it to ya,” Gideon nodded in grudging admiration, pulling a Cobra Fang pulse rifle from a shipping case and holding it up to examine. “Mighty fine work.”
“Yessir, Freddy! You shore did good!” Junior echoed the sentiment as he inserted a power pack into a rail pistol. “Didn’t he do good, Paw?”
“I just said that, didn’t I?” Gideon shot back irritably, as he looked around, scanning the boxes and crates spread out before him. “Somethin’s missin’.”
“Ah! The explosives!” Freddy waggled his index finger as if he were chastising himself for forgetting something. “They are running a bit late, but they should be here any second.”
“Well, you’ll get the rest of yore money when they do!” Gideon appeared none too pleased that the weapons dealer had failed to mention this slight oversight. Who’s this little tin Nazi fuck think he’s dealing with? Some fuckin’ Klan clown?
The sound of a hovercar approaching, music blaring, caused Gideon and Junior to instantly crouch, weapons now at the ready, neither taking any chances. Ollie didn’t know what to do, but he awkwardly followed suit. When in Rome …
“Relax, guys!” Freddy waved for them to remain calm. “They’re mine!”
An old hovercar, painted bright orange and blinged out with chrome trim and darkly-tinted windows, set down inside the shop in front of Guenther. As it cycled down, two young men, barely into their twenties, one black and one white, climbed out.
“Gentlemen,” Freddy put a hand on the black man’s shoulder as the pair strode up. “This here’s Crawdad and Papa Doo. Business associates of mine.”
Gideon knew instantly they were members of a local street gang that called themselves The Demon Posse. A black leather vest with a devil’s face patch sewn on the back was their uniform. Black eyeliner and devil tats were also common among the
