Big Damn Heroes - Chapter 2: Team Building
21 Nov 2016Anna Reid
If you missed the last chapter, it's on my friend Calhoun's page here.It wasn’t hard to figure out how to start our search; find the mark’s ‘commanding officer’ in the Phantom Buzzards. It’s not much of a lead, considering the Buzzards are the type of group to hold recruiting rallies outside of Pilot’s Fed training installations. You know the type; bloated, disorganized and completely incapable of getting anything done, usually sporting some kind of motto or ethos that gets idealistic newjacks all starry-eyed.
Problem is, some psychos use these groups as a way to legitimize their exploits. “I’m bombarding your colony in the name of the Derp Brigade,” or something along those lines. Which is what our friend had been doing in his spare time; he’d used the ‘good name’ of the Buzzards to justify a list of murders, kidnappings and thefts as long as my arm. In all fairness, that pretty much describes my entire business model, but at least I don’t make it out to be some kind of noble cause.
Of course, the Buzzards had denied both responsibility and knowledge of old Conrad’s exploits, and then promptly ignored the accusations.
All that being a roundabout way to say that I- I mean, we are on our way to Herthe to meet Conrad’s direct supervisor. Not that he actually does any supervising, but that’s beside the point.
The point is that he might be able to tell us where to find Conrad, or at least point us in the direction of someone who could. That’s the plan anyway.
The journey is… let’s say, less that pleasant, what with my partner’s incessant need to know things about me. Questions like, “what were you before you became a pilot,” or “where are you based out of,” fill the empty space. I try to answer in the most uninterested monosyllabic monotone I can muster, and he eventually gets the hint. We fly the rest of the way in a blessedly wordless, if a bit uncomfortable, silence.
It isn’t hard to find the HQ of the Buzzards once we’re on station; there are advertisements everywhere, with directions to the “nearest recruiting station” at every junction. These guys probably spend more money on marketing than they do on ammunition.
So we follow the signs, and with each level we go down, we go from having to fight to stay upright to a comfortable .9 G. We’re on the outer hull, where the centripetal force of the station’s rotation is at it’s strongest, with nothing between us and the black but a couple meters of hardened steel alloy. If I was anyone else, it might be unnerving, but staring out of a ten centimeter thick pane of glass for days on end alters your perception somewhat. It is colder down here, but I figure the rich toffs who can afford to live here can spring for more efficient heating systems. Even so, high class living on a coriolis is still poverty when compared to that of an orbis; I should know, I live on one.
The HQ is both grandiose and tacky at the same time; lots of marble and gold and huge vaulted ceilings. They must have paid a fortune in permits for all this wasted space. I roll my eyes and glance down and activate my hand’s holographic display. After scanning over the readout for a few seconds, I close it down and beeline straight for the receptionist’s desk.
The place is silent except for the sharp taps of my boot heels on the stone floor; it’s a dismal kind of silence, infused with a hint of desperation and vaguely funereal. I get the feeling these guys are fighting to keep this all from collapsing around their ears. No wonder they recruit psychos like Conrad; their personnel retention must be abysmal. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have booths outside of Pilot’s Fed academy sites.
The sound of my footsteps alerts the receptionist, who glances up at me with the most adorably shocked expression I’ve ever seen. It must have been weeks since anyone new has shown up, bless her.
I lean up against her desk when I reach it, my hands dangling over the edge. “We’re looking for Commander Michael Jefferson.”
She opens her mouth, says nothing, and closes it again, as if she doesn’t believe I’m real and talking to her. After repeating the gesture a few more times, she finds her voice. “Um, regarding what?”
I shoot her an impatient look and tap my foot against the ground. “We’re just going to ask him a few questions. I promise I won’t shoot him. Well…” I bob my head to the left and briefly scrunch up one side of my face. “At least not at first.”
The receptionist goes from looking confused, to like I had just slapped her, to horrified in rapid succession. I just smile at her, thoroughly enjoying ruining her day.
Calhoun cuts in before anything more can be said. “That was a joke, darlin’.”
I want to slap him. Instead, I give him my best attempt at a playful smile; we need to look like actual partners, and to do that we need to appear to work well together. Anything for a paycheck.
“As far as you know,” I retort, with as little venom as I can manage, before turning back to the receptionist. “So, where is he?”
She regards me with equal parts fear and suspicion, but tells me all the same. “He’s uh, in his office. Third floor, left out of the elevators and-”
Before she can finish, I push myself off from the desk and shoot a little wink her way. “Thanks, love.” Gesturing towards Calhoun, I set off towards the bank of elevators at the back of the hallway, ignoring the calls of the receptionist for us to wait.
Calhoun lags behind for a moment, an apologetic expression on his face. “You’ve been really helpful, sweetheart,” he says, before setting off at a brisk pace to catch up with my long strides.
He reaches me just before I get to the rather plain and industrial looking elevator, it’s appearance at odds with the grandeur around it, and we step into it together. Giving him a quick sidelong glance and suppressing a snide comment, I hit the button for the third floor. With a light jolt and a mechanical whirring, the elevator shoots up. Like all elevator rides, it’s silent and vaguely awkward, but short enough where we don’t make it any worse by trying to make small talk.
With a second jolt and a satisfying swish, the doors slide open, revealing a darkened and empty hall with equally dark and empty offices on either side. The only door with light behind it is at the end of the row. Scoffing and shaking my head at the general air of desperation and depression about the place, I set off towards the door at a brisk pace.
“So,” Calhoun interjects from slightly behind me, “What are you thinking; good cop, bad cop?”
Not bothering to look back, I let my lips curl into a slight smirk. “I was thinking more like ‘hardened assassin and indifferent mercenary.’”
He lets out a slight chuckle. “You’re goin’ to be the assassin, I take it?”
I snort as we come up on the door. “Of course; what else would I be?” Without preamble, and without waiting for a response, I open the door and step inside.
Hunched over a desk mounted console is the most average looking man I have ever seen in my entire life; brown hair, brown eyes, average height, average build, features that aren’t ugly, but not attractive, and certainly aren’t memorable. He’s the type of person you’d pass on the street and never remember even seeing. He’s almost remarkable in his un-remarkableness. Almost.
“Tess, I told you not to distu-” He looks up at us with a frustrated expression that quickly turns to confusion when he notices that we’re not Tess (the receptionist, I assume). “Oh. I wasn’t expecting visitors. Are you here to join?”
Calhoun lets off another chuckle, followed by a snide remark almost under his breath. “Heh, called it.”
I plop down in one of the chairs in front of his desk and prop my feet on top of a small pile of papers in front of him, eliciting a frown from him. “Not even if you paid me. Which, looking at the state of this place,” I take a dramatic and disdainful look around the cluttered office, “You probably couldn’t even manage that.”
Calhoun takes a controlled stance behind me, contrasting my relaxed demeanor with that of someone calm and collected, but ready to do violence at a moment’s notice. Perfect; exactly what I needed him to do.
“Well,” he turns off his console and clasps his hands in front of him, eyes darting from me to Calhoun and back again. “How can I help you, miss…?” He trails off, obviously expecting me to introduce myself.
Instead, I reach into my jacket and pull out my pack of cigarettes, deliberately letting it flop open to reveal the butt of my pistol in it’s shoulder rig. “Mind if I smoke?”
His eyes snap to the weapon and widen slightly. “Actually,” his voice has risen a few octaves. “I’d prefer it if you-” The click of my lighter cuts him off, and when he doesn’t protest any further, it’s all I can do not to smile. Too easy.
“Thanks,” I say, exhaling smoke. “Hey, you want one?”
Jefferson opens his mouth to, presumably, refuse, but Calhoun cuts him off this time. “Yeah, I’ll have one.”
I’m seriously struggling not to smile now; Calhoun is hitting every cue I toss his way without a hint of hesitation. With an idle motion, I toss the pack and the lighter over my shoulder. After a few seconds I hear the click of the lighter and Calhoun passes the pack back to me.
“Now,” I say, taking a drag. “Here’s what’s going to happen; you’re going to tell me where I can find Conrad Komisch, or we’re going to get really well acquainted.” I punctuate my threat with a cloud of smoke and a wolfish grin.
He takes a very audible gulp.
“I really wish he hadn’t caved so quickly; it’s always more fun when they hold on a little longer.” We’re walking back to the hangar bay from the Buzzard HQ after getting all the information we could out of Jefferson; the man spilled his guts so fast that he started confessing shit that we hadn’t even asked about. It was all I could do to get him to shut up once he got going.
“You were very persuasive.”
A small breath of laughter escapes from me. “I always am.”
We walk for a few minutes in self satisfied silence, gravity getting weaker with every step we take, until Calhoun draws a sharp breath.
“So, what's the plan?” He asks, in a bored sounding drawl.
I stretch and yawn before answering. “First, I’m catching a few winks. After that? Well, find this Rags character and, with some luck, he’ll be able to point us at Conrad.” I turn my head towards Calhoun, a lazy smile on my lips. “I just hope this one holds out for longer; I didn’t get the chance to enjoy myself this time.”