| |
Marty Mudd enjoyed a conflicted relationship with strangers.
On the one hand, every new face at his bar was a potential new regular customer. Marty liked regular customers. Not with true affection, of course. But he appreciated consistent revenue streams almost as much as he appreciated exotic alcohol. His favorites lived among dockside’s many hard-drinking manic-depressives. Something about living in this neighborhood attracted edgy people the way honey attracted insects. Nobody could down hooch like a manic-depressive. Marty made a lot of money off that type of person, and he had learned to recognize them early. His second-favorite kind of drinker was the brooding tough guys who seemed to think that glowering over a glass of booze was the best way to exorcise whatever demons drove them to drink in the first place. That type tended to drink less than the first, but they also liked the more expensive stuff. The dangerous mystique courted by such customers required that they drink higher quality booze than riffraff. Otherwise, how would anyone notice them? Marty liked to poke at these types because almost without fail they actually wanted to talk about their problems. The gloomy slouch and thousand-yard stare turned out to be less of a disguise and more of a cry for help. Marty could keep a guy like that guzzling top-shelf whiskey for hours at a considerable profit.
Without exception he hated drug addicts. Drug addicts wanted drugs, not booze. They came in many shapes and sizes, yet the game never changed. Always angling, always hustling, Dockside’s army of addicts often frequented the bars and vape dens searching for a sucker who might help them get a fix. They did not spend their money on alcohol, and their presence ruined the carefully crafted atmosphere of conviviality Marty tried very hard to maintain at the Smoking Wreck. Worse, there was no reason for them to come in at all. Dockside’s vape dens provided all manner of chemical distractions from the blandly legal recreational drugs to the dangerously exotic and illegal stuff. The only drugs Marty permitted inside the Wreck were alcohol and self-delusion, yet this rule did little to keep hollow-cheeked addicts away when in the grip of a jones. Marty knew why, of course. He liked to present the Smoking Wreck as a step above the other Dockside dive bars. His booze was better, his prices a touch higher. It stood to reason that his customers had a bit more cash to spend than the lowbrow folks crowding the stools at cheaper places. A poor chump in the throes of blaze withdrawal might try their luck at the Wreck in the hopes of scamming a hard-working dockworker or shopkeeper out of enough money to get a burn going. Marty did not pay a bouncer to deal with this. Usually, he could count on Roland’s presence to keep problems away, and the giant fixer did not mind dealing with anyone not otherwise dissuaded. When Roland’s business took him away from the bar, Marty was left to handle any problems that arose in his own way.
When the first stranger stepped through his doorway that Friday night, Marty felt his hand dart beneath the scarred faux wood of the bar top and reach for the textured grip of his favorite scattergun. Called a Tunnel Brush during his three tours in the Venusian Secession, the weapon’s gaping bore would spew hypersonic beads twenty at a time in a tight cone. He had seen it strip body armor off of terrorists and pulverize the meat beneath with a single shot. Roland was convenient, but Sergeant Martin Emanuel Mudd knew how to take out the trash if it came to that.
The man was tall, with a flat face and wide shoulders. His face betrayed little emotion, though Marty thought he looked annoyed. Gray dungarees, a brown zip-up shirt, and a light brown jacket offered no clues to the stranger’s occupation. Still, Marty could not shake the feeling that something was not right. The clothes fit, though the man inside them wore his outfit as an afterthought. The collar of the jacket sat askew; the shirt seams ran in crooked lines. The man’s boots looked brand new, and a second later Marty realized that all the clothes looked like they had come straight out of their packaging and thrown onto a mannequin.
Nobody else in the bar appeared to see anything amiss the way Marty did. That did not surprise the bartender. Living in the sulfur-steeped darkness of Venusian colony domes while hunting bands of terrorists for three years changed the way a man looked at details. The stranger walked over to a booth at the edge of the room and sat down. A hand reached out to poke at the menu terminal. Marty waited for the order to hit the service list, and his frown deepened. The stranger ordered the first thing on the menu, a thin lager that tasted like piss but stayed popular with the locals. He supposed that was not so strange a thing to order, yet the jangling of his nerves grew ever more distracting as he reached for the taps to pour. He used the distraction to check the door scanner. The scan revealed that the stranger weighed more than three hundred pounds and had some degree of skeletal enhancement. The scanner struggled to parse out exactly what augmentations the stranger possessed, which irritated Marty. Scanner spoofing was not unheard of, though. What made him long for the grip of his Tunnel Brush came down to exactly how many unusual things the stranger represented.
Something was not right.
Marty finished the pour and took a long second to consider his next move. The scattergun was out of the question and very likely overkill considering how paranoid he was probably being. In truth, there remained a very good chance that the stranger was yet another military vet looking for a beer after getting out. That conceit died instantly when Marty remembered the stranger’s unkempt appearance. Not a veteran. A criminal on the run, then. This could be the case. Dockside produced criminal operatives the way old ladies produced canned goods, in wondrous variety and quantity. If he could get close enough for a better scan, he might be able to track the body mods and learn more about his mysterious new customer. He tucked a tight beam pulse scanner into the front pocket of his shirt and switched it on. Then Marty grabbed the mug of beer in in one hand and slipped an eight-millimeter slug pistol under his apron with a deft flick of the wrist. Nobody saw him do it except Sean, the local kid who bussed tables and swept up. The teenager’s eyes went wide, and Marty winked to calm the boy down. Then he stepped out from behind the bar to deliver the drink.
Crossing the floor, Marty’s suspicions led him to scan the rest of his Friday night crowd with a skeptical eye. In an instant, he picked out at least three more faces he did not recognize. The features varied, as did the clothes, but they all had the same slightly irritated look on their faces. Two sat together at a table and sipped at drinks they clearly did not like. The third slouched in a corner booth with an untouched beer in front of him. Now Marty’s suspicions grew into tangible fear. Old yet familiar feelings burbled up from his memories, and his thoughts brought him back to the dim yellow light of a Venusian colony dome once more.
There was nothing to do but deliver the beer and get back to the bar. No matter who these strangers were, there was a very real chance their nefarious business had nothing to do with him. It was a thin hope, and it failed to unravel the tight knot of fear twisting in his guts. Like an old friend, Marty embraced it and thought of the pistol under his apron. He had patrolled black tunnels so thick with the humid stink of sulfur one could hardly breathe. Lethal enemies lived in every shadow there, and the shadows were legion on Venus. It was a good fear. A fear that brought alertness and focus. He did not like this feeling, but he knew it for what it was. Fuel for the carnage to come.
At the table, all Marty’s hopes for a peaceful resolution faded when the scanner vibrated in three sharp bursts. Marty ground his teeth without letting his smile waver. His scanner only buzzed three times when it found no organic matter to scan. This could be a problem with the device itself, but Marty recalled the problems his door scanner suffered when trying to analyze this patron. Marty accepted the most likely reason for this at face value. No sense getting his hopes up.
Marty could think of no good reason for an android disguised as a person to be wasting good beer in his bar, and the only thing he could do about it was try to get back to the bar and hit the alarm. Marty forced his face into a smile as he plunked the glass down. “Here ya go, pal,” he said with fake amiability. He stepped back before starting his turn to leave, putting himself out of reach of the man before heading back to the bar. He felt the stranger rise rather than hearing it. Of its own accord, a weathered hand slipped beneath the apron and found the butt of the pistol there. The entire sequence probably took no more than a second, yet adrenaline and practice slowed the action to a tortuous crawl. Marty felt the heavy hand of the stranger fall on his shoulder, felt the inhuman strength of the android as it pulled him back. He did not resist. Marty drew the pistol without revealing it, pointed it under his own armpit, and fired without facing the thing.
His chosen weapon combined considerable power with a small profile, which engendered certain compromises. Most of the pistol’s mass consisted of a power cell, which left little room for heat sinks or a large magazine. Marty perceived the searing burn along his left flank and ignored it. The pistol bucked sharply under recoil, forcing Marty to bear down with his grip. The eight-millimeter slug tore into the guts of his assailant with the sound of whip cracking and a spray of viscous gray fluid. Marty fired once more before turning and fixing the gun in a two-handed grip. He emptied his remaining eight rounds into the android’s face at a distance of less than two feet.
He might have paused to watch the nearly headless android fall, except there were three more behind him and his gun was dry. He dropped to a crouch and dove for the bar. Rolling to his feet he saw his tunnel brush arcing in his direction and behind it the terrified face of his bar back. He snatched it from the air and whispered silent thanks for Sean’s presence of mind under fire. He vowed to give the kid a raise if any of them lived through this. He spun to take in the scene before making his next move and gasped.
The bar was in chaos.
Customers fled screaming for the exits, with a scant few of Dockside’s doughtier scrappers taking ungainly swings at the now obvious enemies. The unaugmented humans had no chance, and as a fighting force they accomplished nothing but the spoiling of Marty’s aim. Marty’s eyes grew even wider when he remembered seeing these androids before. Not three weeks back, a flock of them had tried to shake him down for protection money. They were tough, with some kind of weird fluid in their bodies, but not unkillable. From behind the bar, he sighted down the bore of his scattergun and squeezed the trigger. A tight swarm of beads lanced across the bar and stripped all the fake skin off the head of an android in a gory spray of gray goo and flesh-colored mesh. A silver skull pockmarked with smoking holes grinned back to Marty, and the freakish automaton threw itself in his direction. The Tunnel Brush belched white fire once again, and the android’s ruined head disappeared in an explosion of sparks and cloying smoke.
Something struck Marty from the side, and his world exploded into white flashes and vertigo. Somehow, he managed to keep a desperate grip on his gun even as the floor rose up to meet his back like a runaway truck. The impact blasted the air from his lungs in an explosive cough, and his limbs refused to obey commands for a full second. An android leaped astride the fallen bartender, crushing him back down even as he tried to rise. Marty snarled and tried to turn his gun in a helpful direction, but the android held him down and raised a fist to pulp his skull. He opened his mouth to cry out, not in fear or anger, but in terror at what he saw behind the monster.
His voice croaked. “No!” But Sean would not listen. Marty struggled like a man possessed while a one-hundred-and-sixty-pound teenager threw himself against the back of a powerful combat android. Dockside bred few cowards, and poor little Sean showed the courage of a fool while clinging to the raised arm and smashing fists into the face of an unfeeling juggernaut. The android shrugged the boy away like a man shaking an insect from his sleeve. Sean struck the bar with a sickening crunch and slumped to the floorboards. He lay still and quiet in a way that pissed Marty Mudd off more than anything had in a very long time. When the android returned to finish off Marty, it saw only the bore of the scattergun before it lost its head exactly as its brother had a moment earlier.
Sparks and gray fluid rained down on Marty, and the android slumped atop him. Marty bucked and heaved, trying to dislodge the monster before the final two arrived to finish the job. In truth, Marty could not understand why they were not on him already. He was clearly the only credible threat in the room. When he dragged himself back up to the bar top, he saw where his reprieve had come from.
A tall lanky man in a long duster and a wide-brimmed hat stood in the center of the bar. His eyes glowed with internal orange fire, and he wielded a brace of enormous pistols, one in each hand. The thunder of those guns rolled across the bar in a long rumbling wave, the heavy slugs shredding the torso of a staggering android with hits too fast and numerous to count. A small smirk turned one corner of his mouth; the other half clamped down on an old-fashioned cheroot. The posture stood out for the casual grace he radiated in the midst of the chaos around him.
Heavier, stronger booms followed, and Marty whipped his eyes to the left where a dark man nearly as large as Roland wielded a Tunnel Brush not unlike Marty’s. His body shrugged off recoil while strong hands cycled the gun faster than any regular man could hope to match. His suit was black and impeccable. The body beneath both thick and stocky. No more agitated than his partner in the duster, the giant stalked down the final android behind enormous muzzle flashes and clenched teeth. He fired from the hip, driving a horizontal wind of beads and pellets that bisected the final android at the waist. He stopped shooting to leave the pieces flopping and spewing oily fluid in ruddy streaks across the fake wood of the floor.
In an instant, all went silent.
Marty slumped back down to check on Sean. The boy stirred at his touch and groaned.
“You hurt kid?” Marty asked.
“Only—” Sean hacked and coughed “—only when I move or breathe,” he finally managed to say. “I think... I think I’m okay, though.”
Marty was not so sure. He fumbled under the bar top for the hidden alarm button and jabbed it. “Cops and EMS will be here soon enough, kid.”
“I doubt it,” said a familiar voice. “The cops are really fucking busy tonight. You ain’t the only guy with unwanted visitors.”
Marty wiped his face with a hand and stood up once more. “Nice timing, McGinty,” he said by way of greeting. He nodded to the two gunmen responsible for his rescue. “Reinhart, McClintock. Thanks for the assist.”
The redheaded man seated in a lone chair laughed. “I bet that was hard to say out loud, eh, Mudd?”
“I ain’t that proud, McGinty. I know when my ass has been saved. Nice shooting, boys.”
The big man Marty called Reinhart nodded back. “You too.” He pointed a thick finger at Marty’s scattergun. “That original?”
Marty nodded. “Carried in on Venus a few decades back. Nice to meet a fellow connoisseur.”
Reinhart hefted his weapon and smiled. “Best thing in the world for indoor work. You should look into the newer models. Great features.”
The redhead stood. “Okay, goons, enough shop talk. How’s the kid, Marty? He really need EMS? I can call a guy.”
“He’ll live,” Marty said. “It’s a long trip from Big Woo to my little bar, McGinty. I suppose you ain’t here just to have a drink, then?”
“We seem to have a mutual problem,” McGinty replied. He waved a hand toward the ruined androids strewn about the place. “A pest problem that’s currently popping up all over the megalopolis, including Uptown. I was just heading over here after talking to The Dwarf about it.”
“Shit,” Marty said. “I just want to sell booze. I don’t want any of your criminal drama.”
“Yeah, but your relationship to a certain giant armored idiot has put you into the game.”
Marty actually chuckled. “He’s more work than he’s worth sometimes. But he’s also the kind of friend who would murder half the planet to keep me in business. I suppose I can spot him this one.” Marty furrowed his brow. “What of The Dwarf?”
McGinty winced. “A couple of these things tussled with Mook over at hideaway. They hurt him pretty good until he got...” McGinty’s voice trailed off.
McClintock finished the thought with his long country drawl. “Until he got ornery. You ever seen that big fella get really pissed?”
“I didn’t think Mook could get pissed,” Marty replied. “He’s such a nice boy.”
“Turns out he can,” McGinty said. “Went a bit nuts. Androids are now scrap. But The Dwarf is not happy with the situation and as usual he’s looking out for himself. We need a meeting and without Roland around that is going to be hard to do. People are tense. We need neutral ground.”
“Fuck,” said Marty. “Not my bar...”
“You got a better place? Fuckers are going to keep coming here whether you help us or not.”
“No. Crap.” Marty dropped his gun to the bar with a clatter and blew an enormous sigh. “Set it up, McGinty. Let’s get this over with.”
“Hey!” Reinhart’s exclamation rang with true excitement.
“What?” Marty and McGinty said as one.
Reinhart pointed to one of the taps. “You really got Ten-Penny Ale here?”
Marty grinned. “Amongst many other fine brews, my boy. Belly up, big fella. You are in for a treat.”