Glittering Darkly
19 Oct 2018Tarm Wallunga
“She’s alive, Boss,” Sigurd said with a tone of voice I don’t think I’ve ever heard him use before. Concern? “Pulse is thready, but it’s there.”Sonuva bitch! This was supposed to have been a simple job, an easy task to see how the new Hang Around handled herself. Now, instead of a simple drop and return, she was bleeding out onto the deck of her own ship, and Sigurd was flying it, instead of his own. How in the shit did it come to this? I shrugged inwardly, and looked at the Digimanus supplicant through the holo-proj.
“Get her back,” I growled. “Alive,” I added with only the slightest break in my normal cadence. After all, she did make the delivery just like she was supposed to, so I suppose there’s something in there to salvage, after all. A quick stab of a finger and the comms are killed, and I turn an icy glare towards Pocky. “Go. Get some rest,” I mutter towards him as I, too, make my way out of my office. “You did good, Slooter.”
Pock-mark made small happy gestures and a weird squeak before bumbling off and away from me. Somewhere inside I sigh shortly; he might never earn his rockers, and probably for the better of all us, but he’s a decent mechanic and dockworker…with a penchant for extracurricular electronics workings too, it would seem. I’ll have to kick a few extra creds his way on payday, though. I suppose.
I’m wandering the corridors of Ford rather aimlessly; I’ve been doing this a lot lately, or so it has been pointed out to me by the Shield Maiden. Been a lot on my mind, apparently. I never notice. I just drink the days away and smoke the nights away; somewhere in there, I’m sleeping, or fucking. Or flying. Or swindling someone. Or pushing another faction towards our goals. It’s tiring, is what that is.
I don’t know how much time went by but the chirp on my wrist breaks whatever errant thoughts I had. We’re here was the only message I got, but I recognized the data-sig; Sigurd’s back. It was faster than I thought it might be, but then again, when you’re running with a bunch of ex-mercs and smugglers, you learn there are much faster ways through the ‘verse than the standard shipping lanes tend to indicate. I look up, take stock of which corridors I’m in, realize I’m only a moment or two’s walk from the central docking core. Turning a corner, I’m already mashing holo-buttons on the wristpiece, getting the word out to everyone to meet in the bay and get Tauslah into some sort of medbay pronto.
I entered the bay at a quick trot, not overly concerned with getting there in a hurry because I know Sigurd is going to do what he can to save her. I wasn’t disappointed. Rounding the final turn and stepping into the cavernous, low-grav bay, I can see that a swarm of people are already surrounding the gangway to Tauslah’s Cobra, a few in lab coats and one of them hauling a quick-stretcher. I draw myself closer, curious and concerned all at once, but damn careful to keep the poker face well in place. I watch over one shoulder as she’s lowered off the ship aboard that same stretcher, half-frayed straps holding her in place, with an orderly at the food and head, and a doctor of some sort –probably whichever ER goon who just happened to be on shift – walking beside her shoulder. I can’t tell if she’s awake or not, too many bodies in my way to get a clear view.
Sigurd finally comes up to me as the docs lead her away and the crowd, with nothing better to do, find a better place to do the whatever it is they do. “Hey boss,” he says quietly. His face is devoid of emotion, and with those fake eyes of his, leaves a strange impression with me.
“The fuck happened, Sigurd?” I growl faintly. We turn and start making our way for the nearest tram. Anyone meandering about give us a wide berth; two guys wearing the tan dusters and sporting the black and orange rockers means to leave us the fuck alone. The local populace learned that a while back. “You were supposed to be keeping an eye on her. Keep her outta trouble, no Black Omega? Some shit like that, right?”
Sigurd doesn’t even bother to reply, just nods almost sullenly. A tram car appears as we arrive; four people in the car get out when they see us, leaving it empty for us, and find another ride to the nowhere they were likely headed to. I don’t say anything – thanks, Dad – and simply wait for Sigurd to open his mouth. Thoughts of a tooth count flit about like angry butterflies in the back of my head.
“I fucked up, boss,” is all he offers. I wanna smash his jaw in with that bullshit line, but I’ll give him another chance. I mean, he’s one of my senior people; can’t go bruising the help all the time, you know.
“So was it the Omegas?” I asked, my glare leveled directly at his bullshit eyes. He’s not looking back at me either, his gaze locked somewhere around my toes.
He nodded again, and I curse under my breath. This is going to make things a little tricky, to say the least. “Goddammit,” I curse again, louder. I start to say something, then catch myself, frown, and then shake myself. “At the Table,” I say instead of whatever else I was about to say. “Get everyone there as soon as she’s settled at the medbay.”
“Got it,” Sigurd replies. He punches the STOP button on the tram and then gets out at the next stop, leaving me to my thoughts as I ride it the rest of the way to the “top” of Ford. A quick glance at my wristpiece tells me it’s still mid-afternoon. That means a stop at the local bar and a bill to collect.