by G J Ogden
Hudson scowled, “A what?”
“A clobber,” Ma repeated, as if saying it again would make him understand. “Clobber! Claim Robber. An RGF cop, for crying out loud!”
This time the other patrons of the bar did look up. Hudson felt suddenly vulnerable, as if twelve laser sights had just landed on his back. He shifted uncomfortably on his stool, glancing into the room, before looking back at Ma. He noticed that the woman in the leather jacket was also now watching him, while trying not to make it obvious. Hudson met her eyes, and she immediately looked down at her drink. She then smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear, before toying with her whiskey glass, which was empty again.
“I haven’t heard them called that before,” admitted Hudson, turning back to Ma, “but from what I’ve experienced of the RGF so far, it’s not a bad description.”
“Then why the hell did you join them?” asked Ma, cocking her head to the side and looking at him, expectantly. “You must have known what you were getting into?”
“Well, no, not really.” Hudson was starting to feel and sound defensive. “I mean, I’d heard stories, but I didn’t read much into them. You know how people exaggerate, right?”
“Not about the RGF they don’t,” replied Ma, bluntly. “If anything, people underestimate just how shady a bunch of assholes they all are.” Then she held up her hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Sorry…”
Hudson frowned, “Well, I didn’t know, okay? I thought policing the alien wrecks would be something worthwhile. You know, something better than just hopping from one dead-end piloting job to another?”
“I take it you’re having second thoughts then?” said Ma, rocking back and bringing up two glasses from underneath the counter. She then grabbed a square bottle of whiskey, with no label on the side, from the shelf behind her and poured a long measure into each glass.
Hudson met the bartender’s eyes and then downed the shot. It had a kick harder than a champion Thai Boxer, and as it burned its way down the back of Hudson’s throat, he couldn’t help but let out an apologetic cough.
Ma laughed, “You’ve gone soft, Hudson Powell. There was a time when a shot of the good stuff wouldn’t even cause you to blink.”
“Are you sure that’s the good stuff?” croaked Hudson, thumping his chest. Ma laughed again, before necking her own shot as easily as if it were water and then refilling both glasses. Unseen by them both, the woman in the leather jacket at the other side of the bar smiled too.
“I always thought you’d make a good relic hunter,” Ma went on, this time sipping the amber liquid from her glass. “You’re a great pilot, and you’ve always struck me as an honest, dependable kind of guy. Those traits are hard to come by in a partner.”
Hudson also took a sip of the whiskey, which didn’t burn quite so badly this time. This was likely on account of the numbing of his mouth and throat from the last shot. “It certainly has some appeal, I can’t deny that,” he conceded. Then his father’s voice echoed in his ears again, telling him to do something that mattered, and he sighed. “It’s just that I always thought relic hunting was a bit…” He stopped, realizing he was about to talk himself into a corner.
“Go on…” said Ma, raising her carefully tweezered eyebrows a little.
“Well, I suppose a bit, you know, disreputable.”
Ma’s laugh blared out into the bar, drowning out the jukebox and causing one or two of the clientele to shout out at her to be quiet. Ma fired a few blue expletives back at them and then finished her whiskey, before pouring another and topping up Hudson’s half-empty glass. “You waltz in here, wearing a damn clobber’s uniform, and call us scavengers ‘disreputable’?” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “You may be honest, Hudson Powell, but you’re none too bright.”
Hudson had already been mocked enough by Griff and Chief Inspector Wash over the last few months. Ma calling his intelligence into question was different, and much harder to stomach. He didn’t care what Griff or Wash thought of him, but Ma was someone he respected and looked up to. Coming from Ma, it actually hurt.
“Damn it, Ma, I’m not an idiot,” Hudson snapped. “I had some personal stuff to deal with, and I wanted to make good on a promise, that’s all.” Ma was silent; like any good bartender, she knew when to speak and when to listen. “I honestly thought putting on this uniform and policing the wrecks would matter. I wanted to do something important.” He looked down at the hardwood bar, decorated with dozens of overlapping, ring-shaped stains from the bottoms of whiskey glasses. He idly wondered how many other troubled drinkers had once sat where he had, and then necked the shot. It went down easier than the first, but still involuntarily forced him to squint one eye shut.
Ma seemed to realize that she had tickled a nerve, and her tone softened a little. “Clothes don’t make a man,” she said, grabbing a ragged cloth and mopping the bar, where she’d spilled some of the whiskey. “Or a woman for that matter. But I’ll tell you this for nothing; you won’t find what you’re looking for wearing that uniform.”
“Doesn’t matter now anyway,” replied Hudson, as Ma topped up his glass again. He was filled with the warm fuzzy sensation that came from drinking strong liquor too quickly, and it had also helped loosen his tongue. “As much as I want to, you don’t get to just quit RGF. Basically, I’m screwed.”
There was a shout from one of the other patrons at the far end of the bar. Ma answered it with another expletive, before she ducked down under the counter and returned with a bottle of beer, covered with a light frosting of ice. She slid the neck down sharply across the counter, popping off the metal cap with a satisfying fizz, and then placed it in front of Hudson.
“This one’s on the house,” she said, before yelling again at the impatient punter and strutting towards him.
Hudson took a swig of the beer, which felt blissful, like jumping into a cool shower after a hot sauna. He then glanced along the bar to see where Ma had got too. Instead, he caught the eye of the woman in the leather jacket that was too big for her. In his warm and fuzzy-headed state, Hudson decided to smile and shoot up a conversation.
“Don’t worry, I’m not here to arrest you,” he began, believing it to be a witty and charming opening. The woman just looked away sharply and concentrated on her whiskey glass instead, which was empty. Realizing that his joke was perhaps not as funny as he’d thought, given the RGF’s reputation, he tried again. “Hey, sorry, bad joke. For what it’s worth, I think I probably dislike the people who wear this uniform far more than you do.”
The woman glanced across, half-smiled at him, and then started to play with the empty glass, running her finger around the rim. Encouraged, Hudson tried again to engage with her. He wasn’t trying to hit on her; he was just happy-drunk and feeling chatty. Though now that he looked more closely, the woman was certainly pretty, in a mysterious, grungy kind of way. “How’s the hunt going. Made your fortune yet?”
“If I had then I’m sure you RGF assholes would only try to take it away from me,” the woman replied, huffily. She was still playing with the rim of the glass.
“Not me, I’m one of the good bad guys,” Hudson replied, before taking another swig of beer. He was unwilling to let this stranger darken his inebriated high spirits.
The woman pushed back the stool, which screeched across the floor like someone drawing their fingernails across a blackboard. She tossed a few hardbucks on the bar, before heading for the door. She stopped alongside Hudson and shot him a sideways glance. “I’m afraid I didn’t score this time. And you’re not going to score either, hotshot. Enjoy your beer.”
There was a cackle of laughter from the regulars, followed by the more familiar chuckle of Ma. The hunter-turned-barkeep then moved over to pick up the money and clear away the woman’s glass. “Nice try, Hudson Powell. Seems that not everyone likes a man in uniform…”
However, Hudson wasn’t paying attention to Ma’s friendly jibe. As the woman had got up to leave, her leather jacket had briefly swaye
d open. It was only for a second, but it was enough for an object tucked into an inside pocket to catch Hudson’s eye. It had a metallic luster, and was rough-cut, like a shard of crystal, but it also reflected and refracted the light in the bar in a way he’d never seen before. In fact, the best description Hudson could think of was that it looked ‘alien’.
Hudson sat back and set his inebriated mind to the task of analyzing what it could be, and why she was carrying it with her. If it was a relic she already owned, perhaps from a previous score, then it would be foolish to carry it around. This was especially the case at night, in a town as dangerous as Brahms Three. Relic hunters were hardly averse to risk, but most were smart enough to be paranoid. And a smart hunter would keep their valuable finds safely locked away from potential thieves, or disreputable fellow hunters.
The alternative was that she had scored it from the alien wreck on Brahms Three. However, if that were true then it should have been locked up in the claims vault, ready for auction or transfer to her ship, not tucked inside her jacket pocket. Hudson may not have been an RGF cop for long, but he knew enough to spot a smuggler. His hunch was that this woman was gearing up to run a unique new artefact off world, without paying taxes to the CET and the RGF.
“What’s her story?” Hudson asked Ma, while twirling the neck of the bottle between his thumb and forefinger.
“I guess she just doesn’t like you,” said Ma, with a smirk.
Hudson rolled his eyes, “I mean it Ma, there’s something about her that’s… off. And I don’t just mean that my charms didn’t work on her.”
Ma moved back in front of Hudson and picked up the whiskey that she’d left there earlier. “She’s been coming here for a couple of days, but doesn’t say that much,” said Ma, with a nonchalant shrug of her toned shoulder muscles. “If I recall, her ship is pretty beat up. Some crappy old lease from a shipyard in Hunter’s Point, from what I gathered.”
Hudson snorted a laugh, “Hunter’s Point? That’s where I’m from. Bayview, I mean, born and bred.”
“Seems that it’s written in the stars for you two then…” said Ma, wickedly.
Hudson shook his head and took another swig of the beer. Ma filled the silence with the remainder of what she knew about the mysterious woman.
“All I remember is that she talked about needing a big score to pay off some debts at home. Has a family there, I gathered,” Ma went on, sipping the whiskey again. “But she’s out here alone, and Brahms Three is no place to go hunting solo. I told her she should stick to the safer near-Earth portal worlds, but she seemed pretty determined. Can’t say I blame her; it’s hard to bag a decent score from the near-Earth wrecks now. Hunters have mostly picked them clean.”
As Ma was talking, three men got out of their chairs from the back corner of the room and quickly walked to the door. None of them spoke, or acknowledged Ma when she called out to thank them. Hudson looked at their table and saw three beer glasses, all still about three-quarters full. He scowled and wrinkled his nose, before turning back to Ma. “Who were those guys?”
“Never seen them before,” said Ma, with another shrug. “Came in just after the girl did.” Then she snapped her fingers, “Ericka, that’s her name. I knew I knew it.”
Hudson had a bad feeling in his gut, and he was sure it wasn’t just from the combination of whiskey and beer. Either way, his instincts told him something was up, and that he had to follow. “I’ll catch you later, Ma, thanks for the drinks.”
“Hey, the beer is on the house, the whiskey is on you,” replied Ma, with an undertone that said pay up quickly, or else.
Hudson smiled, “Fine, pass me the credit scanner.”
“Hardbucks only, mister,” said Ma, rubbing her finger and thumb together.
“Seriously?” said Hudson, patting himself down. Hardbucks was the more colloquial name given to physical currency, which was almost entirely phased out back on Earth. He knew he had some hardbucks on him somewhere and eventually found a few notes, scrunched up in the bottom of his back pocket. He dropped a mangled hundred on the bar and said, “Here, keep the change.”
Ma grabbed the note and stuffed it into her skinny jeans. Hudson then slipped off the stool – almost literally because of the huge amount of alcohol he’d imbibed – and hurried to the door.
“I hope you get lucky, Hudson Powell!” Ma called out to him, as the door swung shut. Hudson didn’t answer, and just ran out into the night. He was following a hunch, and most likely also following trouble.
CHAPTER 6
Hudson nearly gave himself whiplash as he twisted his head from side to side, peering down the side-streets outside the Landing Strip. There was no sight of Ericka, or the three men that he suspected had followed her out into the night. Instead, there was just the usual assortment of drunks, night workers and street workers. They were all either minding their own business or soliciting for some.
Which way, damn it? Hudson asked himself. He was now regretting the numerous shots of whiskey, which had turned his brains to mush. Think, damn it, think… he urged himself, where would she be going? He doubted Ericka would be headed to another bar, unless his company and jokes really had been that bad. The alternative was back to her hotel or hostel. “She’s strapped for cash, so a hotel is unlikely, which leaves the main hostel,” Hudson reasoned, “but where the hell is it?” He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember how the scavenger town was laid out, picturing it in his mind like a map. Slowly the alcohol-induced fuzz resolved, and he recalled the layout more clearly, but he still couldn’t picture the hostel.
“You know, talking to yourself is a sign of madness,” came a voice from behind him. It was Ma, resting against the doorframe. She pulled a thin cigar out of the front pocket of her skinny jeans and placed it in her mouth, before lighting it with an ancient Harley Davidson zippo.
“Ma, the hostel! How do I get to the hostel?!” Hudson blurted out. He was doing nothing to dispel the perception that he might have gone a little crazy.
“Down the boulevard and right along Heide,” said Ma. She pointed to where Hudson needed to go, and then blew a plume of smoke in the same direction.
“Thanks!” said Hudson, immediately setting off at a sprint. The hot night air whistled past his ears, though he still managed to catch Ma calling out, “Be careful, you damn fool!”
Hudson reached the junction between the Boulevard and Heide Street and slid around the corner. He collided with a couple of drunks, who shouted expletives at him, and then picked up the pace again. His legs and lungs burned even hotter than Ma’s cigar, but the sudden burst of adrenalin had started to clear his head, and now he was questioning what the hell he was doing. Racing off into the night after a stranger, based solely on a hunch was mad enough. However, his clearer head also reminded him that Heide was one of the streets best avoided, especially at night.
The hostel was about a hundred meters ahead when he passed by a narrow alley and heard glass shattering. Sliding to a stop, he backed up and peered down the alley, which threaded behind a row of bars and clubs. His heart started thumping even harder as he saw the three men, one of whom was already on the floor with blood leaking from his bald head. The woman, Ericka, was there too, holding a short, twisted piece of copper pipe. His hunch had been right, but his sixth sense hadn’t prepared him for what to do next. In the absence of any better ideas, Hudson did what he usually did, which was to go with his instincts.
“Hey, what’s going on down there?!” Hudson yelled. This immediately grabbed the attention of all three men, including the injured man, who was climbing back to his feet.
“Piss off!” one of them shouted back to him, before turning to face Ericka again.
“RGF, stand down now or I will arrest you!” Hudson called out. He seized his RGF badge from inside his jacket and held it out, as if it had some sort of magical power to subdue criminals. He wished he’d brought his sidearm, even though regulations forbade him to carry it while off duty. It’s not lik
e the RGF gives a shit about following regulations… Hudson thought. He also didn’t know why he imagined identifying himself as RGF would have any effect. Nor did he know how he was going to arrest three belligerent men on his own, especially since he was half-cut and out of breath. Nevertheless, his order certainly did the trick of stopping the muggers in their tracks.
The man who appeared to be the ring-leader turned around and held out his arms, smiling. “Oh, look boys, it’s the RGF,” he said, mockingly. “We’d better do as he says then, hadn’t we?” There was a smattering of laughter from the other two, though neither looked particularly amused. Then the ring-leader lowered his arms and his smile twisted downward. He turned to the bald man and said, “Wilkes, sort out the filthy clobber, while we handle the nice lady here.”
The bald man broke off and started to pace towards Hudson, grimacing as if he was chewing a wasp. He reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out something metallic, which he then proceeded to slip over his fingers.
A knuckle duster? You have got to be kidding me… Hudson thought as the man who had been identified as ‘Wilkes’ approached, narrowed eyes locked on to his.
He looked about the same height as Hudson, but was carrying perhaps fifty pounds more. He moved with a calm confidence and swagger that suggested he could handle himself. Hudson had dealt with his type before. His many years spent piloting freighters and taxi flyers had given him experience of more than his fair share of cocky troublemakers. Even so, he still hoped he hadn’t bitten off more than he could chew.
“Hold it there, I’m warning you!” Hudson yelled, holding a hand out like a traffic cop, but the man just smiled and raised his fist.
“None of your bent buddies are here to help you now, clobber,” he said, edging closer to Hudson, fist pulled back, ready to strike. “RGF scumbags have stolen plenty from us in the past, so I’m gonna enjoy getting my money’s worth outta you.”