Twit Publishing Presents: PULP!
Summer / Fall 2010
Edited by
Chris Gabrysch
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PULP! Summer / Fall 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Twit Publishing LLC
All authors retain copyrights to the works of fiction contained herein.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
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The following works are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Soldier
by Craig Gabrysch
Sharil was yelling at the youngling axke in the back office of Lukal’s Emporium, “Look, kid, you gotta stay on the ball out there. Just because Lukal ain’t around don’t mean he ain’t watching. See those cameras in the shop? He’s got his eyes on you the whole day.” The kid’s name was Anshon, and he was a good nestling, but had a problem staying on task. “And if he ain’t watching you every second you’re clocked in, I fucking am. The Company wants a profit from this fucking place, and that means you’re out there busting your fucking ass every second for your fucking pay. The Company wants efficiency and the Company will get it. They didn’t fucking drag my furry ass off Axkume 39 to run a damned daycare.”
Anshon just stood there with his back to the office’s metal and glass door, accepting the chewing-out like it was just another part of the job, shuffling his feet and barely looking up from the floor. He involuntarily slicked his ears back and twitched his whiskers and tail. Some signs of emotion a ratling just hadn’t learned to control yet. Anshon looked up after the last shouted sentence finished echoing throughout the little office. “So we done, Sharil?”
Sharil snorted. “Not with that fucking attitude, we ain't,” he said. The older rat sighed and ran a paw back over his gray furred head. Sharil had started this job with black fur. Stress gets to you eventually. “Look, kid, your brood mom sent you out to this fucking rock to learn a trade. Not a great fucking trade, mind you, but one that'll keep you working till the Big Crunch takes us all. And one that'll keep you busy so you ain't home running around with your little ratling buddies causing trouble for her. I know your mom from way back, and she's a good doe. Just looking out for you, same as me. And since you’re here ‘cause of me, you’re my responsibility. That’s how this biz works in the big scheme, Anshon, you take responsibility for who you sponsor.
“Look, bottom line, you keep your whiskers to the grinder and don’t look up ‘til lunch. Then you got your 30 minutes same as the rest of us. ‘Til then, your ass is ours, and Lukal don’t like loafers on his watch. Neither do I. Take your licks like the rest of us, do what you’re fucking told, and maybe, Anshon, just maybe, you’ll be sitting where I am in a couple years.” Now it was the kid’s turn to snort. Sharil just shook his head. “Fine, whatever. Can’t blame a guy for looking out for you, right? Now go on and get outta here so I can get get back to my books. My job ain’t just about busting your balls.”
Anshon just shrugged. After standing for a moment to make sure that really was it, he turned and left, his tail twitching the whole time. Sharil spun around in his chair and pulled back up to the desk. Fucking kids! Just cause you rutted with some she-rat twenty years ago without covering up, you pay for it your whole life. Well, at least Anshon was working and paying his own way, not begging for a fucking handout. Some days, like today, Sharil wondered if he should tell Anshon he was really his father. Maybe that would be what made it all click for the kid. Other days, well, he wanted to shove the kid out of an airlock.
The older axke leaned back in his rolling chair, drumming his fingers on the arms. Lukal’s back office call to chew Anshon out had interrupted his closing of the fiscal period’s books. Sharil dug in the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pack of filterless darnka cigarettes as he scratched his belly. What he wouldn’t give to be at a bar, any bar. Anywhere, too, as long as it was on the other side of the galaxy from this damn shop and its damn accounting. Fuck the books.
There was an array of second-hand monitors on the wall above him and a stack of paperwork on the desktop in front of him. These things he could deal with. Not that he liked dealing with them. He would have vastly preferred the old work he and Lukal had done when they’d first started out with the Company: firebombing shops, breaking fingers, smuggling, piracy. If Lukal had told him managing good for nothing ratlings who thought they knew the Meaning of the Universe already, related to him or not, was included with his promotion’s responsibilities, he’d have told his old friend to fuck off. Not a chance in all the million solar systems would he have agreed, Big Crunch take ‘em all. So what if he’d brought Anshon in? That damn mother of his had pressured Sharil.
Sharil’s gaze followed the younger axke on the various camera monitors as he headed back to the mechanics pit. Absentmindedly, he searched for a lighter in his breastpocket. Anshon walked quickly, but not from any sense of urgency. The kid just seemed agitated, a little more jumpy than normal. Sharil brushed off his concern for the kid. There wasn’t anything wrong. Probably just the chewing-out Sharil gave him.
The kid passed through the storage area on the way back out. Arrayed in stacks, rows, and piles were canisters, generators, storage bins, metal shelving units, old electronics boards, wire baskets of computer chips, mufflers, android limbs, fuel processors, memory chips. Anything you could want for your spacefaring needs, Lukal and Sharil probably had at the shop. And if they didn’t already have it on hand, they could get it. Guaranteed. Just don’t ask where some of the parts came from and your tender sensibilities wouldn’t get mussed.
Sharil lit a smoke, his index and thumb claws gingerly holding the thin white tube of darnka. They were a nasty habit he’d picked up from one of his many older brothers years ago. Felt like he’d been smoking the damned things for eons, though. He leaned forward and pulled an ashtray from the top drawer of his desk, and set it on the desktop. Sharil looked down at his paperwork and mused over how much longer he’d be stuck working. Probably hours, if not days. The Company was surprisingly strict when it came to deadlines on financials. The axke sighed for what felt like the thousandth time that day and shook his head. He leaned down and opened one of the bottom drawers, rummaged around and pulled a bottle of green liquor out. Bortsti. Well, if Sharil couldn’t get to the bar, the bar would have to come to Sharil. Oh, what he would give for a hammer and some gambler’s thumb. As he began his search for a cup or glass, a bit of movement on one of the monitors caught his eye. He grabbed an old mug off the desktop, inspected it for any fungal growth, and poured himself three fingers of the Bortsti.
There was a ship coming into the air-lock. It was a little two-man shuttle, a make and model he didn’t recognize. A middling class of ship; not a clunker but definitely not a luxury liner. Probably hitched a ride in one of the larger transports that traveled this part of the galaxy. There was no way it had made the whole trip on its own. Probably stolen, but who cared this far out? Certainly not Sharil. Besides, whoever they were and whatever they wanted, the axke working the dock would handle them. Maybe not well or efficiently, but Lukal valued loyalty and mechanical skill over customer service aptitude.
Sharil couldn’t go back to his paperwork, though. The fur on the back of his neck stood on end. He
took a long drag off his cigarette and set his jaw. For some reason the shuttle’s arrival set the axke on edge. Something just wasn’t right. He could feel it all the way from his snout through the tip of his tail. He took a sip from the mug, grimacing as the Bortsti went down.
Maybe it was because he didn’t recognize the shuttle, or maybe it had something to do with the shuttle pilot still being inside. Sharil smelt something burning, something distinctly un-danske-like. He looked down to where the cigarette butt had reached his claws. Sharil yelped and put it out hastily in the ashtray. He looked back up in time to see the axke pulling dock duty, Castin, step through the newly opened rear hatch of the shuttle. Something was wrong. Dockhands didn’t go to pilots, the pilots came to them. Sharil pressed the intercom button that would patch him through to the shuttle bay. Instead of the usual crackly-poppy static, a loud BOOM came back.
“Hey,” Sharil shouted into the intercom, “what the fuck just happened down there?”
No response. Sharil asked again.
Almost as if it was an answer, a white-haired human walked out from the rear hatch. He was a veritable giant of a man, standing just over six feet tall and seeming almost as wide at the shoulders. Sharil stared in amazement as his form filled the view screen. In his right hand he held something long and sleek with a handle underneath it. Sharil was sure it was a firearm. Like the shuttle, he didn’t know the make or model, but he knew a firearm when he saw it. The man dragged the weakly thrashing axke dockhand by his coveralls down the gangplank. Castin was cradling his stomach like it was in pain.
“Hey! What the fuck’s going on down there?” Sharil asked, his voice trembling and finally breaking. The man didn’t even turn. He dropped the axke where he was and bent down over him. He asked Castin something Sharil couldn’t hear. The giant nodded his head, put the firearm to the side of the axke’s head. Sharil held his breath, sure of what was coming next. He waited for it.
The man pulled the trigger. The dockhand’s head exploded across the shuttle’s ramp in a thunderous boom that resounded through the bulkheads. Now the man moved. He pumped the handle towards him, a short piece of plastic tubing flying out in his wake.
Sharil slammed down on the emergency alarm. He looked down at his shaking paw. Shaking like a leaf. It had been too damned long. The adrenaline was pumping. He’d only triggered the alarm once before in his long tenure as the shop’s co-manager. It had been the cops. They’d wanted to search the place and arrest people. This guy? No telling. Sharil finished his drink in a single gulp.
A quick glance at the monitors showed him that all the other axke were scrambling for weapons and cover. He winced as he looked at the camera-monitor that covered the hallway outside the shuttle bay. Two ratmen lay dead, their chests were as bloody and pulpy as a pile of ground namu. What fucking weapon was this guy using?
Lukal called, his voice filling the tiny office with its own boom. Almost as bad as the gun. “What’s going on! Who the fuck is that guy!” he shouted. Sharil could hear fear slithering into Lukal’s voice. At least he wasn’t alone.
“Dunno, Lukal,” Sharil responded, his claw pressing down on another intercom button. He hoped his voice didn’t betray the abject fear he felt. The axke glanced down at the switch board. The button label LPR rhythmically blinked at him. Lukal had triggered his panic room. Ain’t no one getting in there. Not Sharil. Not any of the other axke. Not the terrifying giant with the otherworldly gun. No one. Not that bastard. Sharil wanted to scream.
Sharil tried to master the panic welling up inside. His mouth was dry and he could suddenly smell his pheromones rolling off the glands hidden beneath layers of fur and skin. He hit the button again and said quietly, “Lukal, who the fuck did you piss off?”
“I didn’t piss anyone off,” Lukal said back.
“Is he from the Company then?” Sharil asked.
“Why would he be? We’re fine on the books, still turning a profit. Look at that guy, though. He’s systematic, Sharil,” Lukal said. Fear had taken root. “You got your gun still laying around, that one I got you when we opened this place?” A loud boom resounded somewhere within the garage to punctuate Lukal’s words. This one was closer. Sharil looked at the monitors and searched through the various information streams to find the attacker. The human was stopped over Anshon’s prone form. Anshon wasn’t moving. His son. Shit. Oh no . . . what was the kid’s mom going to say?
Sharil groaned, the simple sound grinding on the dry flesh of his throat. The giant was doing something to his firearm, thumbing two inch long red tubes into the underside. The man pumped the handle and began rummaging through Anshon’s coveralls. “Hey, Sharil, where the fuck did you go?”
“I’m here, Lukal. Did you see him get Anshon?” Sharil said back. Damn, he wanted another drink.
“Yeah,” Lukal said, “I saw him. What’s that gun he’s got? Shit, fuck his gun. You get yours and wait for him. Looks like he doesn’t have any body armor. When he comes in, pop the fucker.” The pistol was a top of the line Sirius Model-18 laser. Compact, but stylish in its sleek design. The pistol was a perfect match to the Company up-and-comer Sharil had once been. The grip bonded with the skin on the palm so you couldn’t ever be disarmed unless you wanted to. You needed to press the tips of your fingers in a special way on the pommel. He hoped he still remembered how to when this was all over. But Sharil didn’t care about all that. He just cared that the pistol unleashed a concentrated beam of light that would burn through the toughest armor and any flesh, muscle, or bone beneath it. And no matter how big, how fast, how professional this unnamed invader was, he was still flesh and bone.
Sharil marveled at the invader’s graceful walk as he moved down the hallways from monitor to monitor. Sharil was almost envious of the ease with which he stalked the chopshop. The skill. When the man came to a corner he’d poke his head around it three times. The first was just a peek, the second was for a better look, third and final was for the full view. Once he was satisfied that the hallway was clear, he’d move in a crouch that kept his bulky profile as small as possible. The casual, just-another-day-at-the-office style with which the man performed these maneuvers made Sharil groan again. This guy was a professional. Probably a hitman. If he wasn’t from the Company, he’d been hired by someone else. That much was for damned sure. But, most importantly, the invader was closing the distance between him and the office with each stride.
Sharil went to grab his pistol. He kept it locked in a nondescript stashbox hidden beneath the desk. Fuck, it had been so long since he’d fired the damn thing. He cursed himself silently for all his mistakes: not going to the gun range often enough, not keeping his gun closer, not making his shophands go to the gun range, not installing a fucking panic room in his own fucking office like that fucking Lukal. He tried bending over all the way but the bulk of his belly got in the way. Sharil scrambled out of his chair and down onto his knees. He added another curse to the litany: not exercising.
Lukal’s direct intercom came on again. There was a long, pregnant, static filled moment, then heavy breathing. Lukal said over the intercom, “He’s coming, Sharil. You need to hurry.”
A very brief moment of elation filled the axke as his claw dragged across the polycarbonate casing of the stashbox. He fumbled with the latch and finally managed to pop it open.
The axke looked at the meter on the left side of the pommel to make sure the minicore had held its charge. It was still going strong. Sharil felt a mild bit of relief. Reliability. That’s what you get when you buy premium gear. He’d just take this guy out on his own. Damned ratlings out there. Getting themselves killed. It just takes a fucking rat to do a ratling’s job.
The intercom piped on, Lukal’s voice sounding terrified and small, “Sharil!”
Sharil gripped his pistol tighter, crawled backwards and bumped into his desk chair. It didn’t budge. He started t
o turn around to give it a harder shove. “Sharil, he’s on top of you!”
The axke turned, bringing his pistol around with him. It wasn’t the chair he’d bumped into. The invader loomed over him, his bulk filling Sharil’s vision. The hitman’s face was a slab of granite with a firm grimace chiseled into it. Too many scars to count were traced on his leathery face.
In his hands was the gun, gleaming darkly in the dull light. Sharil could smell something burning, maybe coming from the barrel of the gun. He didn’t know. Sharil brought the pistol around as fast as he could. The man was faster. He hammered the stock of his firearm into the rat’s face, fracturing his snout. Sharil fired the pistol wildly, cutting a black arc in the ceiling. The man smashed him in the face two more times.
Sharil’s world went black.
The Soldier Page 1