by G J Ogden
Wash then turned her slender frame side-on and pointed a clicker at the back wall. The projected image of the RGF logo then switched to show a still from the gun camera of a patrol craft. Hudson immediately knew what was coming next.
“Now for today’s lesson on how to screw up, courtesy of our evergreen rook on the front row, Officer Hudson Powell.” Wash delivered the line with uncharacteristic brio. Ridiculing Hudson in front of the squad was a sport she relished, and it was one she never failed to pursue during her sporadic visits to the department stations at the scavenger towns.
To begin with, Hudson thought her visits to simply be a sign of diligence and a zeal for the job. However, it had quickly become apparent that Wash’s true motivations were more sordid. In addition to being as crooked as a boomerang, Wash was also a connoisseur of each scavenger town’s more underground pleasures. And the scavenger towns were rife with forms of entertainment that could not be found on the more morally-conservative cities on Earth, the moon and Mars.
Wash pressed a button on the clicker and the video began to play. It was a recording of Hudson and Griff’s earlier engagement with the rogue relic hunter. Wash commented over the top of the recording, like a sports pundit, which drew frequent smatterings of subdued titters from the room. Then the video reached the point where the relic hunter ship had spun itself around to face them, nose-to-nose. Hudson closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable punchline, as Wash hit the clicker and turned up the audio.
“Wait, what’s it doing?”
“It’s going to attack, you moron!”
“But relic hunter vessels aren’t allowed to carry weapons!”
Precisely on cue, there was a ripple of cruel laughter from the room. Even amongst this ugly melee of snorts and guffaws, Hudson could still clearly pick out Logan Griff’s nasal contribution. Wash turned to face the room and then peered down at Hudson, with her lips curving into a thin smile.
“But relic hunter vessels aren’t allowed to carry weapons!” Wash repeated, doing a bad impression of Hudson. It sounded even more shrill than her usual, piercing tones. The sycophants in the room obliged with another ripple of laughter. “If it wasn’t for the fact we need pilots like you, Officer Powell, I’d scrub your worthless ass from this squad in a heartbeat,” Wash added, bitterly. “As it is, it looks like we’re stuck with you, for now.”
“That’s good news, I’d hate to miss out on these inspiring pep talks in the future,” said Hudson, with a straight-faced coolness. He actually heard the sharp intake of breath from the officer next to him after he’d finished delivering the line. Hudson knew the smart thing would have been to just shut his mouth, and take Wash’s reprimand, but he was tired of being the butt of everyone’s jokes.
The crooked smile on Wash’s face vanished faster than chips at one of the scavenger town’s bent casinos. “What do you think your personal quota is this week, Officer Powell?” Wash asked. Her tone was no longer mocking; this was the chief inspector at her most spiteful.
“I don’t know, Chief Inspector Wash,” replied Hudson, managing to sound calm and respectful, despite his face feeling like it was melting. “I’d estimate perhaps eighty, eighty-five percent?”
“Try sixty-five percent, Officer Powell,” Wash corrected him. The anger and disappointment oozed out of her like blood from a needle prick. “And you’d better get that to at least one hundred, Officer Powell, or your next patrol will be on the walls around the sewage recycler.” The room maintained a deathly silence. Wash’s squad was well trained, at least in terms of knowing when to laugh, and when to shut the hell up. Hudson played along – he’d pushed his luck to the limit as it was.
Wash sniffed loudly and then rubbed her nose, which was a slightly hotter pinkish color compared to the rest of her face. Hudson observed that it was also slightly swollen. This was no doubt a side-effect of a recent narcotic extravagance that Wash had enjoyed while in the town. She then hit the button on the clicker again, and turned to face the wall, which now showed a list of the squad’s next assignments.
Hudson scanned the list, while Wash began to read off the assignments, one-by-one. He raced ahead until he found his name, alongside that of Corporal Logan Griff. He looked along the row and saw his assigned portal world – Brahms Three. Great… he thought to himself, trust Wash to assign me to an even bigger dump than this place…
Brahms Three was another CET portal world, but it was on the fringe between CET territory and the Outer Portal World planets. Compared to Vivaldi One, the alien wreck on Brahms Three was still relatively unexploited. This meant that it attracted a higher caliber of relic hunter, and generally more trouble. In addition to these more shrewd and ruthless hunters, Brahms Three was also frequented by pirates and mercenaries. These flew in from various grotty OPW outposts to sell their ill-gotten gains, as well as to enjoy the scavenger town’s delights.
On the scale of ‘beautiful and exciting’ to ‘dangerous and terrifying’, Brahms Three was far towards the latter end of the spectrum. This didn’t especially bother Hudson – he’d flown light freighters in and out of Brahms Three for years, prior to joining the RGF. However, its less tightly regulated status simply afforded Griff more opportunity to dip his bony fingers into the cookie jar.
The scavenger town on Brahms Three was also especially vile. It was a gateway between the more regulated CET inner portal worlds and the OPW planets, where almost anything was trafficked, even including people. Of all the assignments on the board it was the worst. This was no doubt why Wash had given it to him; a fact Griff would not let him forget.
Hudson tuned back into the strident tones of Wash as she finished up the briefing. “You all have your assigned duties, now get to them,” she hollered, so loud that it hurt Hudson’s ears. “I expect to see a marked improvement in claims so that we can close out this week on a high. Get what’s due, and anything else you can. Is that clear?”
There was a chorus of, “yes sir!” from the squad, though Hudson didn’t join in.
“And for those currently behind, such as Officer Screw Up, here,” Wash added, flicking her gaze down to Hudson as she said it, “know that any short-fall will be taken out of your pay.” Then she elevated her voice to add emphasis, “Yours and your partner’s pay…”
Hudson felt a sharp stinging sensation on the back of his neck, and he arched around to see Griff glowering at him. On the floor behind his chair was a half-chewed ball-point pen. Hudson rubbed his neck, and a blob of ink wiped off onto his fingers. It was like being back at school.
“Dismissed!” yelled Wash. There was a sudden screech of chairs against the polished tile floor, as everyone bolted upright, like trained animals. It sounded like the alarm call of a flock of blackbirds. Hudson, however, remained seated.
Griff pushed his way through the throng towards Hudson and bent down to pick up the mangled ball-point pen. He then jabbed the gnawed end into Hudson’s chest. “You’d better step up, rook,” Griff snarled, peering down at him with his bloodshot eyes. “Because if it comes down to losing my share of the cut, or losing you, I won’t hesitate.”
Hudson could have grabbed the pen and shoved it into his beady, brown eyes, but he managed to hold his cool. He took the ball-point between his finger and thumb and eased it away from his body, all the while maintaining eye contact with Griff. “You’ll get what’s due to you, Griff. Of that, I’m certain.”
CHAPTER 4
Hudson powered down the engines of the patrol craft and ran through the post-flight checklist. He also hurriedly opened the rear cargo hatch. The idea was to circulate some fresh air into the cabin, to wash away the stench of Griff’s farts. Unfortunately, the smell inside the ship was merely replaced by the even more unpleasant stench of Brahms Three’s scavenger town.
The distinctive odor was instantly recognizable to Hudson, despite him not having set foot on the planet for several years. Brahms Three was a hot and humid tropical world, which helped to cook up a unique environment. It was a
heady mix of street food, fossil-fuel pollution from the cheap ground and air transports, and spicy incense from the seedier bars and nightclubs. The latter was simply to mask the smell of illegal substances, though this never worked. It all combined to create a pungent, sticky mess. Hudson rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and could already feel the fine grit attaching to his skin. Worse still, he knew that the smell would linger on his clothes for days after departing the planet, no matter how vigorously he washed them.
“Hey, rook,” called Griff, who had previously gone aft to gather up his personal belongings. “Register our arrival; I’m heading off to check out the town. And remember, we’re on duty at second sunrise, local time; don’t be late.”
Hudson turned to acknowledge Griff, but he was already half-way down the cargo ramp. “Yes, sir…” he said out loud, “I hope you don’t catch anything nasty and die horribly…” Then he unclipped his harness, which retracted neatly into the seat back, and stretched out his arms, as if he’d just woken from a restful slumber. Though, in reality, his journey had been long and uncomfortable, made worse by the company. The release of pressure across his chest was welcome, but it also reminded him of how tired he was. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and again felt the moist, gritty air of the scavenger town against his skin. “Welcome to paradise…” Hudson muttered to himself as he stood up, his legs feeling like sacks of oats. “Another glorious day in the RGF…”
The journey to Brahms Three had required four portal transitions and had taken over sixteen hours. The farting carcass of Logan Griff had slept for ten of these hours, and been entirely unhelpful for all sixteen. Reaching Brahms was still quicker than traveling to a Martian Protectorate territory. However, the requirement to run through portal checkpoint procedures meant there was relatively little time to relax in-between transitions. If you were lucky to travel when the distance between Earth and Mars was relatively short, and were happy to sustain a little more than one-g, it was possible to sleep for a good part of the journey to MP territory. All Hudson wanted to do now was sleep. Sadly, he had a feeling that Brahms Three would offer him little opportunity for rest.
Hudson secured the cockpit and headed into the rear compartment, grabbing his bag en-route. He then stepped down the cargo ramp into the wall of sticky heat outside. The scavenger town was only a hundred meters beyond the razor-wired border fence of the small RGF airbase. The flickering neon light tubes and thump, thump, thump of the nightclub sound systems were already threatening to give him a headache. He logged their arrival at the docking checkpoint computer and then headed into the main RGF complex. This was nothing more than a hodge-podge collection of crudely interconnected shipping containers. They had been left over from when the base was established, twenty years earlier. It was supposed to have been a temporary structure, but budget cuts and the sheer distance from Earth meant Brahms Three had to make do with what it had.
“Officer Hudson Powell, checking in,” Hudson said to the sergeant behind the makeshift main desk. He had tried to sound enthusiastic, but failed miserably. The sergeant was a stout, rough-shaven man in his early sixties. He was slouched over the desk, reading the latest news on an epaper.
“Corporal Griff checked you in already, Officer Hudson Powell,” the Sergeant said, without looking up from the epaper. Hudson peered over and saw that he was actually turned to the celebrity gossip section. “You’re in luck; you get your own room,” he added, casually slinging a key card across the desk. Hudson just caught it before it slid onto the filthy floor. “Strangely enough, we don’t get many officers staying here.”
“That’s the first bit of good news I’ve had in a while, thanks,” said Hudson, holding the key card as if it were a winning lottery ticket. Sixteen hours cooped up with Griff’s snoring and farting was about as much as his sanity could take.
“You haven’t seen the room yet,” said the Sergeant, a wry smile curling his hairy top lip. Though he still hadn’t looked up from the epaper. “Crew quarters are just down the main hall and off to the right.”
“Where’s the canteen?” asked Hudson. In addition to being dog tired, he was also starving.
“Kitchen’s closed,” answered the Sergeant, “A whole army of damn rodents came in with the last supply shipment. Rat shit all over the place. You’ll have to go into the town, not that any of the eateries out there are any cleaner.”
“Right,” said Hudson, closing his eyes and trying to stay calm, “good to know.”
“Good hunting, Officer Hudson Powell,” said the Sergeant, with a dismissive waft of his hand. He then returned to his epaper and swiped across to the next section of salacious gossip.
Hudson shifted his pack further up onto his shoulder and set off into the complex. The whole place was as hot as a sauna and stank of stale sweat and mildew. He found his room – number 101, which even in his foul mood managed to elicit a slight chuckle – and pressed the key card to the lock. The door swung open to reveal a space that looked more like a prison cell. There was a narrow single bed, a single storage locker and a small basin. Overall, there was barely enough space to swing one of the base’s new rodent inhabitants. Hudson sighed, slung his pack onto the bed, which barely made a dent in the rock-hard mattress, and turned on the faucet. A gurgling noise belched down the spout for several seconds, until a lukewarm, brownish-yellow liquid started to flow out.
“To hell with this, already,” Hudson said, staring at himself in the mirror. “I need a drink.”
He grabbed his key card and left the room, yanking the door closed behind him. A fat brown rat scurried past along the corridor, seemingly untroubled by Hudson’s presence. “Maybe he knows a good place to drink…” Hudson muttered to himself. He then followed the rodent until he found a sign that said, ‘To The Scavenger Town’.
CHAPTER 5
Walking through the streets of the scavenger town on Brahms Three was the last place Hudson expected to find himself that night. It was also the last place he wanted to be, besides in a cockpit with Griff. The night air was hot, musky and oppressive, and he was exhausted. However, he desperately needed a drink, and knew exactly where to get one. Though, from memory, the liquor in question was probably as likely to kill him as the vile liquid that had spluttered from the faucet in his prison-cell room.
Hudson meandered along the main boulevard, which was lined on either side by an eclectic assortment of night-time establishments. Like the RGF compound, these were built from converted shipping containers, stacked two or three high. Hudson wasn’t interested in any of these illicit businesses, though. He was keeping a suspicious eye on everyone else out for a promenade that night, to avoid getting mugged or pickpocketed. Even so, before he’d even reached the first crossroads, Hudson counted that he’d been offered three different kinds of sex, five different varieties of narcotic, and four invitations out for a fight. For Brahms Three, that still counted as a pretty quiet night.
Despite not having visited the town for over three years, nothing much had changed, Hudson mused. He noticed a few boarded-up bars and nightclubs, alongside several new ones that had probably stolen their trade. Nevertheless, he still recognized all of the places to avoid. This included the scant number of establishments where RGF officers were tolerated. Though, as with most portal worlds, those wearing the RGF uniform were never outright welcomed.
He reached the door of his intended venue, which was themed as a classic twentieth century American-style dive bar. It was called ‘The Landing Strip’ which, contrary to its suggestive title, wasn’t actually a strip club. This was a frequent cause of disappointment for most of the passing trade who entered through its doors. As such, it was more of a haunt for locals, or those, like Hudson, who knew the owner. She was a straight-talking, but generally good-humored retired relic hunter called Martina, or Ma for short. She didn’t stand for any nonsense, or for any of the more sordid services provided by other bars and clubs on the boulevard. Consequently, Hudson could pret
ty much guarantee that Griff wouldn’t be in there to ruin his chances of enjoying a quiet drink.
He pushed through the door and the sound of the jukebox playing late twentieth century rock music filled his ears. There were about a dozen other people in the bar, but none of them looked up to see who had entered, and Hudson didn’t hang around long enough to give them any reason to. He stepped further inside the bar, his RGF-issue boots thudding resonantly on the solid wooden floor, and slid onto a stool at the bar.
“Well, I’ll be damned… If it isn’t Hudson Powell,” said Ma, who was the only person who had looked up to see who’d entered. She poured a top-up for a woman wearing on over-sized, dark tan leather jacket, and then shuffled across towards Hudson. There was an awkward pause, where Hudson wasn’t sure if Ma was going to punch him or kiss him. It made him wonder if he’d forgotten to pay his tab the last time he’d been there. Then Ma reached over the counter and pulled him into an uncomfortable embrace. “How long has it been? A year? Two years?” she added, finally releasing him.
Hudson stretched his neck, trying to iron out the crease that Ma had just added. Her years spent as a relic hunter, climbing around inside alien space ships and fighting off competitors had tempered her into a formidable physical presence, and retirement had done nothing to lessen her athletic stature. If she hadn’t been a relic hunter, Ma would have made an epic cage fighter, Hudson had always thought. “A little over three, I think,” he answered, rubbing his shoulder.
“That long?” said Ma, appearing genuinely shocked. “Well, I’m glad you’re back. I miss your kind around here. Most of the losers who wind up at Brahms Three these days are more crooked than an RGF cop.” Then she noticed the uniform that Hudson was wearing, did a double take, and recoiled from him. “What the hell, Hudson, are you a clobber now?”