Gunslinger Foundation 1: Dealing in the New
26 Nov 2017Tarm Wallunga
Block Relay, Satio System25th November, 3303
It’s been literal months since I was last in the Pegasi. Hah. No one calls it “Pegasi Sector”, just the Pegasi. When last I was here, I flew under Black Omega’s colors, and while I kept more or less to myself when not running down some task or other, or ferrying some sort of cargo from point A to point B, I was generally oblivious to the degradations and sheer brutality commonly associated with the Pegasi. But here I am, back in it, and its rank degeneracy are all around like the leather duster I now wear. Black and orange, that coat with the three-piece patch on the back, and a few tags on the front – “First Charter”, “Founder”, and “Block Relay” being the main ones – those are our colors now, we five. Eight or nine months ago I left here with a totally different idea of how the year would play out – in a million years, or a hundred thousand light years, this result was not at all anticipated. All alone in the Deep Black will do that to a man; killing a man might do that to you, too. Killing your own father? Christ, I thought I had avoided all that hard edginess of the Pegasi, thought I had escaped it when I left on the Galactic Highway Project.
But here I am, killing it. Killing my dad. Killing several thousand more, according to the news vids filtering out after us, too, what with blowing up several stories of the Wallunga Tower. I’m not just killing it – I’m fucking laying waste to it.
A green bottle of beer appears before me, and the rustle of leather and boot heels snaps my pontifications back to the here and now. Johnny sits down beside me, the source of the reappearing bottle, and I look over to him as he’s drinking the first pull or two from his own bottle.
“What’s the word, Johnny-bird?” I mutter as I nod my thanks and drink heartily from his offering.
“Couple new prospect types,” Johnny says. “One’s a half-ass pilot, the other a bit more experienced.” He leans into the table, sets his bottle down to free up his hands long enough to light a smoke. “We’ll need to talk about them, but there’s other stuff more pressing.” He pulls hard on the smoke, holds it in a few seconds, and then lets out a nice long stream of steel gray smoke. All the while, he’s eyeballing me, trying to read my soul or some shit, I think, and I just sit and stare back. Say what you’re gonna say – I don’t like being led by a damn tether. But I keep that thought to myself.
I can tell by the furrow in Johnny’s brow he’s waiting to see what I might say, and then that trench deepens as he gives up. “We have a meeting with Clayton in about an hour.”
“Hmph,” is my only response. I drink more beer, set my bottle down, fish out a pre-wrapped tug or two of O, set fire to herb. “The hell’s he want now?” I say before releasing my own cloud of stink.
“The usual – updates on our job list,” Johnny says almost off-handedly, as if this is just an appetizer before the main course.
“What else?” I ask in a tone that’s a bit harder than I really mean.
“He wants to know if we’re going to move to Ford,” Johnny answers.
This again? I grumble somewhere beneath my breath. I take a long hit on the joint, relish the stupid earthy herbal taste and let out another cloud. “Jesus Christ.”
Clayton Hewitt is a senior shot-caller for the Posse of Satio. In the last several days, between six or seven Gunslingers – the five us and a couple wannabe’s, probably the two “prospect types” Johnny mentioned a moment ago – and whatever the grumpy Posse of Satio could throw together, we’ve taken a major stab at the local Blue State Exchange. The BSE used to control the Satio system, but no more. Their former boss – CEO someone or other, I forgot his name – is now serving as a frozen hood ornament to the Coriolis-class star port called Ford Orbital.
I stab out the last of the O into a glass ashtray and swish the beer around in my mouth before swallowing it. “What part of ‘we’re staying at Block’ does that dumb bastard not understand?” I snort.
Our first gig in the Pegasi, hot on the heels of our… forced migration… out of Sol, and the Posse is confused. Whether it’s about our intentions or understanding how this is going to work is still beyond me.
“I don’t know, boss,” Johnny answers. “I sent a hangaround to get the others down here, though, so we can all be on the same page for the meet.”
“You sent a hanground?” I snort again, but with much more humor this time. “To wake up Britta?” I laugh at the knowing look on Johnny’s face.
“Well, they left here as a hanground,” Johnny smirks.
“Yeah,” I laugh a little more. “Alright. Prospects?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Some green boy named Orolos,” Johnny says, “and another guy – Ohen or some shit.”
“What’s your take?” I ask.
“They flew against BSE,” he replies.
I scoff. Sure, the fighting was intense, but it wasn’t all out war, either. “That supposed to mean something?”
Johnny shrugs. “Ohen did a lot, several million creds worth according to the Posse’s count.”
“And the other guy?”
“Not as much,” Johnny offers, “but that’s probably cuz I put him on other stuff, though. Low-key shit back here.”
I ponder for a moment. I’ll have to see these guys for myself, but no matter my reservations, we do need numbers. Lots of them. The Posse won’t always be there as our meatshields, and there are plenty of sharks in the Pegasi. Hungry, devious, beady-eyed sharks. “Fine. Set up a meet. Tonight. Let’s see what they’re about. Bring some of the hangarounds, too. Clayton’s gonna bitch about something, I’m sure, but I got a feeling we’re gonna need more pilots, and quick.”
“You got it, boss.”
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Clayton Hewitt looks like an eighty-year-old man who just discovered that new aggressive punk rock taking over the space lanes. His hair is long and tied back, except for a thick shock of brilliant green that hangs loose on one side, and he hides his old-man eyes behind a pair of space black sunglasses. Truth be told, however, he’s probably only about forty. Such can easily be the way of life in the Pegasi. Is this what my life has become?
I shove that thought aside. Clayton didn’t’ come alone – eight or ten of his guys are scattered about the concrete and metal park that passes for an open causeway, not far off the warehouse sectors of Ford Orbital. Not one of his guys is bothering to hide the fact they are all heavily-armed – and from the looks of it, armed with the same lot of battle weapons I smuggled into Ford not just three nights back. Yeah, I smuggled them in. They’re probably still illegal too, but these guys run the system now, so who cares. But all that steely boxed death on display makes me feel inadequately armed, no matter how good a shot I might be with my matching pair of Sigmund 580’s. And never mind that this is the third pair I’ve had to acquire, either.
“Galactic Gunslingers,” exclaims Clayton as we approach, his arms wide as if expecting me to do the traditional Pegasi embrace. “What a goddamn mouthful such a moniker is.”
“I’ve got other stuff that can be quite the mouthful, too, if you’re interested,” I shoot back with a hardened smirk as I lean in to hug the man. I neglect the cheek kissing; it’s just not my thing. Besides, these bastards owe us, not the other way around, for their recent successes.
“Oh, come now, Tarm,” Clayton says in a jovial tone, “that is not the way for us to solidify our relationship.” His tone is light, but those craggy lines on his face tell a totally different story.
“Cut the shit,” I step in. My arms fall loose at my sides, ready to draw and hoping this isn’t the double cross I think it is. “Why am I here?”
Luther, Sigurd and Britta step back, but Johnny stays close. I’m okay with that, but it looks like Clayton is not that fond. I shrug at him. “Johnny’s my go-to,” I say after a second. “He stays here.”
Clayton clucks his tongue, then motions his people to spread out some more. Now it’s just the three of us.
“You’re here because I tell you to be here,” Clayton answers in a tone meant to be accepted without questions. I don’t like that tone.
“You asked for the meet,” Johnny starts.
“Silence!” Clayton snaps.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, big guy,” I growl. Right hand grips at its pistol, and left is not far behind. Shit, this is not what I wanted to do today. “Let’s not get so testy, eh? Let’s talk. I’m sure your boss has a message for us, otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”
Clayton stabs a sausage thick finger at me, then at Johnny. “Why you no come to Ford with us? The deal was for you to set up here, provide muscle to help us hold it.”
I scoff, hard. In fact, I already want to spit at this guy and see how many teeth I can free from his head in a single punch. “No, no, no, that was not the deal,” I growl. “And you’re not changing it, either!”
“The deal was our support for your big push up here,” Johnny cuts in. “In return, we get Block Relay, we use Ford for the shipyard and trade.”
Clayton grumbles something under his breath, and I’m even closer to a tooth count.
“Fess up,” I order, “what’s the deal?”
I can tell by the grinding motion Clayton’s jaw is making that he’s caught in a tight spot, and this gives me a thought. For the moment, though, I stick that idea into a mental pocket for later; I want to hear his response first. It takes a moment, and maybe a millimeter or two off his molars, too, before he answers.
“We need you and the Gunslingers to shore up Ford,” he says finally. “Gold Electronics took a beating in their war with the Sigma Andro boys, and now Sigma Andro is looking to cash in on our expansion efforts.”
“You serious?” I laugh. Sigma Andromedae United is based out of the aptly named Sigma Andromedae system, a short hop from here. “Sigma Andro is shit. What do they have to do with us? Even the BSE can take them down.”
“Blue is staying low on Satio 9,” Clayton answers. “Lasswitz is their last center of power in Satio. They lose that, they’re done.” Clayton shrugs. “Sigma Andro, on the other hand, have nothing to lose and the firepower to do something. We need bodies,” he says in a tone a few shades shy of begging.
“Bodies is your problem,” I smirk. “Should have thought about all that before leaping to take over Ford.”
“Besides,” Johnny throws in his own two creds on the topic, “we got ground at Block to cover. We’re not coming up to Ford. End of story.”
“But,” I cut in, raising a hand to forestall whatever Clayton’s response might be, “let us deal with Sigma Andro,” I offer. “We keep them down and outta your hair, we hold Block. Deal?” I ask. I even stick out my hand to shake on it.
Clayton chews his cud for a moment.
“Done,” he says finally. “Block is yours, as we agreed.” And then he turns directly me, even pulls his black glasses off to look me dead in the eye. “Keep Sigma Andro off our back. Screw this up, and we will take Block back.”
Keep dreaming, bub, I want to say, but I just nod and grip the shit out of his hand. “Come on,” I offer my cocky smuggler grin, “we got this.” I still want a tooth count, but I guess Clayton gets to keep his teeth.
This time.