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SCREWTHEALLIANCE

Unfinished Business -- Chapter Fifteen
Monday, March 19, 2007

A couple of good, ol' fashioned surprise attacks.


CATEGORY: FICTION    TIMES READ: 4669    RATING: 10    SERIES: FIREFLY

Unfinished Business

Chapter Fifteen

The alley that snaked behind the buildings facing the waterfront was relatively empty, for this time of day, he noted as his bodyguards carefully checked it out. A few shoppers looking for bargains, a gaggle of Turkish women in colorful burkahs shopping for spices, a few emaciated beggars, but no sign of real problem. He nodded to his guard to continue. Ordinarily he’d take a hovercab to a business meeting like this, but with the rendezvous only a few blocks away from his office, he felt reasonably secure walking the distance – as long as he had plenty of firepower along. Things had been tense along the docks, recently, with bodies showing up unexpectedly and fires breaking out. Things were getting shaky all over the place, actually, ever since that gorram announcement that the Alliance had slaughtered thirty million people and created the dreaded Reavers in an effort to effectively control the huddling masses. That meant a lot of twisted knickers out there. A man in his line of work had to know which knickers were twisted. Things had been sliding downhill since then. Local governments everywhere were in turmoil, and that included Persephone’s august Planetary Parliament. There had been a whole flurry of duels and even an assassination or two. And as shake-ups and resignations, personal feuds and jockeying for power went on, the implicit chaos had started to drift down to the lower sections of Eavesdown. You never knew if the copper you bribed last week would be open to the same agreement this week. You never knew if your contact was providing good, solid data or was setting you up for assassination. You never knew if your rivals or old enemies would try to use the situation as cover to gain control. It paid to be cautious. He heard a noise behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder out of reflex. Merely an old Chinese man slamming down a rice pot lid too hard, he noted with relief, nothing to be worried about. The guards behind him hadn’t even noticed that. But when he turned back around, the two guards in front of him were laid out on the floor of the alley. He stopped, nearly panicked, and two more grunts from behind him told him without looking that something blunt and heavy had just stolen their consciousness. He reached in his coat pocket for a weapon when one of the Turkish women stripped off her head covering and revealed an all too familiar face . . . Badger groaned. “Oh, God, it’s you lot!” he moaned. “Badger, you act like you aren’t happy to see me,” Mal Reynolds said, looking suddenly out of place in his burkah. “’Appy? Do I look bloody ‘appy?” the crime lord said, indignantly. “Last time my orbs lighted on your ugly face I lost four good men!” he accused. “Which is why we went out of our way to merely club them, this time,” Mal assured. “Out of our deep and abiding respect for you.” “Oh, stuff it!” Badger said, crossly, kneeling by his closest bodyguard and picking up the submachine gun the man carried. “You lot ‘ave no idea what you’ve done, do you?” “Not usually, no,” Mal said, not bothering to draw a gun. The other “Turkish women” hadn’t moved, but Badger quickly saw funny bulges under their burkahs where most women wouldn’t have bulged, and noted that none of them was obscuring each others’ line of fire. But he wasn’t worried about the crew of Serenity. “Bloody right, you don’t,” Badger growled. “I’m in the middle of a gorram war, I am, and you’ve seen fit to leave me defenseless!” “A war?” Mal asked, amused. “You didn’t strike me as the type.” “No feh hua, jackass. I’m a peaceable business man, I am. But two months ago some cheeky cutter gets the idea that there’s room for two in my li’l bathtub and starts a bloody street war. My lads start showing up with slit throats, and my establishments have had a rash of mysterious fires.” “And who is this evil genius who torments you so?” Reynolds asked, even more amused. Damn, he hated that casual, superior look. “’E’s the bloody kabob vendor from the south end o’ the docks,” Badger admitted, crossly. “ ‘Is name is Old Kuan. Thought ‘e was ‘armless, I did. Old Chinee selling puppy sticks to the kiddies on their way to school. Ran a li’l game on the side, nothin’ too flashy. But then ‘is son joins ‘im, and ‘e starts ‘irin’ muscle. Now ‘e’s getting into me own personal business, ‘e is.” “That bastard!” Mal said with mock astonishment. “The temerity of some people . . .” “Stuff it, I said!” Badger said crossly. “They call ‘im the ‘Dogfather’, now and – Don’t you bloody laugh! ‘E an’ ‘is son took ‘alf of me best earners, ‘e did. Wiped ‘em out at a meetin’, all in one go. ‘E’s tried to take me out . . . thrice, now!” Badger continued as he started looking around. “And this may well be ‘is perfect opportunity, thanks to you lot!” “My goodness!” Mal continued. “You really should alert the authorities!” “Oh, real ‘elpful, you are!” Badger sneered. “Besides, ‘e’s got the local chief in ‘is pocket, now. Bloody coppers know which way the wind blows, and they got both their filthy mitts out to cash in. And the bloody gangs. And the dock workers. I’m fightin’ for me life, here, Reynolds, and I don’t need your gorram brilliant repartee to keep me amused whilst I’m awaiting my bloody assassination!” “Would you prefer a song?” Reynolds asked, seriously. “I’m a little rusty, but—” “What the ‘ell do you want?” demanded Badger with an exasperated sigh. “Need a favor.” “And I need four new guards and a dental plan,” the diminutive crimelord shot back. “Good. Maybe we can do business.” “What do you want, Reynolds?” “Some information.” “ ‘Ere’s some, free o’ charge: I’m bloody pissed off, I am, and I’ve no time for gorram party games!” “Also,” Reynolds continued without retorting, “a car, some uniforms, some building plans, fake documents, a place to squat for a few hours, maybe a little hired muscle as back-up. And your complete discretion, of course.” “Costs money, that does – real clinking money, not that bum-wipin’ scrip the Alliance uses. Money like you lot ‘aven’t seen.” “I realize that. I’m prepared to be fair,” agreed the spacer captain. “An’ it costs time, something I don’t ‘ave a bloody surplus of at the moment!” “I’m sure you can make the time. And, if you can’t, I think I can find someone – say, someone at the south end of the docks – who will be happy to take my trade.” “That’s extortion,” warned Badger, annoyed. “Which is why I chose it as a bargaining tactic. You think so well on your feet, Badger. Keep it up and you’ll go far in this ‘verse, a respectable businessman like you. Besides, if you don’t help me out . . .” “What? What?” “Then I’ll just . . . walk away. Me and my people. Leaving you here, unprotected and unguarded with four men down and a distinct lack of eyes in the back of your head. Now, if we’re business partners, here, I might could be persuaded to remain here with you until you summon your other guards to escort you home. Either way I need my list filled by sundown, local. So either agree to help, and enjoy my protection, or refuse and enjoy the walk back to your office. Nice sunny day for it, too.” “An’ ‘ere I thought I couldn’t hate you no more than I did,” Badger said, lightly. “Fine. Honor amongst thieves and all that. Let’s go back to my place and discuss this like civilized men, then.” * * *

“You . . . want to snatch someone?” Badger asked, intrigued. He was a lot more amiable to a business discussion when he wasn’t watching out for snipers. He had three men in the room, as did Reynolds. Well, one man – Jayne Cobb – plus Zoe Washburn, who was worth any two men alive, by her reputation. The third figure was smaller, and remained within the burkah. Not Washburn’s husband – he had been killed by Reavers, word was. Maybe that engineer girl? Not that it mattered. Badger had plenty of security here in his office. “Why yes,” Mal replied, putting his feet up on the battered wooden desk. “Just for a little while, though. Older gent, lives in an estate about hundred, hundred an’ fifty miles outside of town. Demeter Hills. Private security firm.” “Demeter ‘ills?” Badger asked, intrigued. That was a high-security enclave of the aristocracy and government flacks. About the priciest real estate on this rock. A kidnapping at that level would be worth quite a ransom, on paper. But something didn’t make sense. Reynolds was an adept smuggler, a decent second-story man, a solid bit of muscle and a respected thief. Kidnapping was far out of his repertoire. Something else was going on here, he knew it. “And to what does he owe the pleasure?” “I’d rather not say.” “And I’d rather not stick me pecker in a beehive, now wouldn’t I?” “You’d think that would be a mistake you wouldn’t repeat,” agreed Mal. “Let’s just say he has some information I’d like to have. And he isn’t likely to just hand it to me.” “What kind of information?” Badger asked, evenly. “Something about the war, old business,” he dismissed. “What’s it about? Money?” Badger asked, a little too eagerly, he realized. “It’s old business, but it’s my business. The gent was an Alliance agent during the War. Ran a lot of the spies in this patch o’ Black. I want to know where someone is, he’s the last one with news. But due to his security and his politics, it is unlikely he’ll talk to me voluntarily.” “Mayhap you loose that old rag you wear and he becomes more cooperative,” Badger said, nodding to his browncoat. “Mayhap,” agreed Reynolds. “But he’s still not likely to hand classified Alliance data over to just anyone. I aim to give him a compelling reason.” “I see,” Badger nodded. “And I am helping you out with this li’l felony out of the kindness of my heart?” Cobb guffawed at that, earning him a look from his boss. “No,” Reynolds said, slowly, “out of enlightened self-interest.” “I fail to see how our interests coincide here.” “Then you ain’t seein’ the big picture,” Reynolds said. “Seems to me that a man in the middle of a war, such as yourself, needs all the allies he can get. Allies what can’t be bought, bribed, or intimidated. Now me an’ mine, we like a safe place to squat between jobs, and frankly Persephone is high on our list for the scenic value and the business opportunities. So this here is the deal: you get us the goods, the intel, and help us out in good faith—” Cobb guffawed again. Reynolds didn’t bother to look up. “—and we might could see our way to helping you out in this scrap of yours.” “And how do you propose to do that?” Badger asked, skeptically. “Way I see it, you lot need me a frightful lot more than I need you. You have, what, three, four gun hands? And a ship? Don’t seem like much to bring to the bloody table.” “You underestimate our abilities, then,” Reynolds nodded. “Which means that your competitor will likely drastically underestimate our abilities. And that’s our advantage.” Badger considered a good, long while. He wouldn’t mind the cash for the set-up, that was true. And Reynolds did have a solid reputation – after what he did to Adelai Niska over that pathetic dust-ball Ezra he had even become somewhat of a legend. Niska was about nine times more powerful than Badger, and for a man to bring his crew in for a strike and carry the day against him was telling. Rumor had it he had also been involved in that Miranda fiasco, somehow. Reynolds got around. And he was a lucky piker, too. Badger considered his current, somewhat precarious position in Eavesdown – every piece of freelance muscle on the market had been snatched up already, either by him or by the Dogfather. The truth was, he had already considered hiring mercenaries from off-world to augment his forces, but he had been hesitant because recent information had come to light that suggested the Dogfather was connected to one of the big Triads. An escalation on his side could well mean an escalation on the other, with disastrous results for long-term business. Besides, mercenaries were costly, unreliable, and subject to switch sides for a bigger paycheck. One thing he knew about Reynolds: he was an honest crook. Once he was bought, he stayed bought, or he gave the money back. Badger sighed. “All right,” he said, finally. “We have ourselves a bargain, don’t we? I help you with your new venture, and you help me with my li’l problem.” “Understood,” agreed Mal. “But this must remain a very discreet matter.” “Oh, I’m the bloody soul of discretion, I am. Right, then, who’s the target?” “Sir Arnold Pau Fa,” Mal said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Sir . . . Arnold . . . Pau Fa. Or as me people call ‘im, ‘Sir Arnold Pi Gu.’ Right pain in the arse, ‘e is. Assistant Muckety-Muck for Planetary Hygiene, or somefing else equally as useful.” “You know the gent?” “ ‘E likes ‘is bit o’ fun when ‘is missus isn’t about, just like the rest o’ that lot from Demeter Hills,” agreed Badger with a malicious grin. “Oh, they put on airs of respectability along wif their silky undies, but they like to shag a whore witless just as much as the common man. And some o’ them have . . . unusual tastes. I know a peer, actually, long time client ‘oo shall remain nameless, unless she quits payin’ me, that ‘as a particular fetish for sweet young girls. Somethin’ left over from some childhood trauma, I’d wager. But she—” “As fascinating as this story might be,” Mal interrupted, “We are on a schedule. I’d like to get to business if we can.” “Let the man tell his story,” urged Jayne, eagerly. “Ain’t polite to interrupt!” “Your Cap’n is right,” agreed Badger, reluctantly. “Sir Arnold is an infrequent customer o’ mine. ‘E don’t even know me. But he patronizes a brothel o’ mine Uptown, a ‘igh-end establishment. To my mind ‘e only calls about twice a month, usually in the middle o’ the day. Always an outcall. Let me check with me madame an’ see what I can find out.” Badger thought, and strummed his fingers. “He’s got private security,” he warned, almost as an afterthought. “Mohinder Associates. Tough guys, almost all Alliance vets. Still, nofin’s impossible for the gent what doesn’t have to do it. So you’re takin’ out Sir Arnold, are you? He was an Alliance agent?” “Is,” Zoe corrected. “He’s just a little inactive. Word we have is that he makes contact about local conditions, generally acts as a station chief.” “Oh, then ‘e’s been a busy li’l bee lately, ‘asn’t ‘e?” Badger noted. “All sorts of feh hua ‘appenin’ in the rarified atmo of Uptown, these days. Party politics, duels, assassinations, scandals . . . it’s enough to make a gent want to move to a better neighborhood. Some o’ your old comrades been makin’ noise again. Most o’ the Independents left on Persephone were barred from the ‘Ouse o’ Lords an’ Commons, but the few what are left are a very vocal group. I’m certain Sir Arnold is in a tizzy finding plots and schemes and conspiracies under every aristocratic arse. Fings that the Central Planets want to know of.” “We might could use that,” Reynolds answered, thoughtfully. “Yes, and I might be able to use the knowledge of the local station chiefs identity to good effect. Naught comin’ to mind at present, but still, useful data. All right, Sergeant, I’ll get you what you need to get Sir Arnold. And then you take care o’ my li’l problem, and we’ll all live ‘appily ever hafter.” Reynolds was grinning that intense, savage grin that put most people on guard. “Actually, Badger, I think we might could kill two swans with one stone on this one.”

*

*

*

“There is a . . . young woman who would like to have a moment of your time,” Mr. Tyro, his confidential secretary, said in a low and impeccably discreet voice. Sir Arnold didn’t even spare a glace to the hulking guard with the black, shiny submachine gun on a sling who stood in front of the lift doors while they were in transit – his absolute discretion could be assured. He had been using Mohinder for years, which his wife and his superiors both saw as an unnecessary expense, but they had kept him secure, and kept his secrets. “Is she pretty?” Sir Arnold asked, absently. He often had people with visa problems seek him out to exercise whatever pull he had to overcome them. While he rarely met with them, he was known to make exceptions for pretty girls. “Exceptionally,” Tyro said, objectively. “Time in my schedule?” he asked, an eyebrow raised. He wasn’t adverse to using his power to make things happen if the petitioner seemed willing enough to express her gratitude in an appropriately discreet manner. “Yes, but there is something else . . . she approached invoking a code-phrase. A very old code phrase, from the War. She says she has some information that only you can hear.” “Now isn’t that intriguing?” Sir Arnold said, stroking his chin. “And convenient, too. One of our old contacts coming forward, perhaps?” “Difficult to say,” admitted Tyro, who was in de facto charge of Sir Arnold’s domestic spy ring. “We’ve certainly made our desire for fresh intel well-known, but this has the feel of something else . . . I’ve had her thoroughly scanned for weapons, biologicals and explosives, of course,” he added. A year ago it wouldn’t have mattered, of course, but there had been a spate of assassinations lately, and as remote as he was from the nominal seat of planetary power, he didn’t want to take chances. “I suppose I can spare five minutes before my plane arrives,” agreed Sir Arnold, enthusiastically. While part of him was disappointed that he wouldn’t be trading the lifting of visa restrictions in favor of a clandestine sexual encounter, he was intrigued by the mystery of it. Besides, he could always give Madame Flame a call, have her send over a fresh girl. It had been a couple of weeks, and for such pleasures expense accounts were invented . . . He needed it, after all. Especially before tonight’s wave, and the consequences it would bring. Oh, he loved his wife, a society maven who had been quite fetching when he met her during the War. But the bloom had quickly faded, and while he prized her for her society contacts and impressive demeanor, he had been discreetly finding his stress-relief elsewhere for the last five years. And his stress level, at the moment, was the highest it had been in years. Sir Arnold was tasked to a nominal job as a bureaucrat, but his real vocation involved keeping Persephone’s status as a loyal member of the Alliance secure. Up until a few months ago that had been a relatively easy task. Even during the Occupation, this lovely planet, which had been a hot-bed of sedition and subversion for the Independent Cause, had remained fairly quiet. The last terrorist act by former Browncoats had been seven years ago. But ever since that mysterious wavecast about the Miranda Project had popped up, so had a bunch of high-level bodies. And that was breeding an instability on its own. It had started off slowly enough, with the accidental horseback death of Sir. Rovard Lian coming just days after the new Parliamentary session had opened. The two leading parties had but a razor-thin margin separating them as it was, and Sir Rovard’s death had opened up a can of worms. Ordinarily the Magistrate of the district the MPP represented would appoint another, and life would go on. But in this case the Member of Persephonian Parliament was a member of the ruling Tories (the nick-name of the Persephone Prosperity Union Party, made up of the pro-Alliance victors, Terraforming aristocrats, corporate interests, and the hereditary wealthy), and the Magistrate was a staunch member of the Planetary Agrarian Compact (A “populist” catch-all of freed-indentures, un-landed settlers, the urban proletariat, small merchants and rural smallholders – and a hotbed of former Independent sentiment) who appointed one of his PAC comrades. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t have been more than a minor inconvenience. But the balance of power in Parliament was so close that a single shift in party had profound consequences. The PAC were in the minority by only two votes, then, in the Lower House, and by four in the Upper House. That’s when the assassinations began. Sir Arnold quickly rephrased that in his mind – that’s when the ‘duels’ began. One by one, the old and the weak MPPs on the Tory side had been challenged to duels by PAC stalwarts – all very carefully contrived. Only a fraction of the declared duels actually came to bloodshed – it was custom, backed by the Dueling Codes, that a sitting MPP who withdrew from such a challenge surrender his seat in disgrace. The power balance shifted even more. Then the real assassinations began as the Tories got even, with hired contract killings of prominent PAC leaders and plenty of “accidental deaths” in unusual circumstances. The Prime Minister had intervened last week in a very public display of gentlemanly statesmanship, doing much to calm the torrid political waters with his personal gravitas. The public at large understood that their planetary head-of-state was watching on their behalf, and there hadn’t been so much as a demonstration since his impressive speech. The problem was that in a week’s time the result of a two-year long Federal investigation into corruption allegations would pin the dignified old gent with thirty or more counts of everything from bribery and price fixing to payments for pardons. When that happened, the balance of power would tip hopelessly towards the PAC, and for the first time since the war a party hostile to the Alliance would be in power here. Sir Arnold could not let that happen. Not on his watch. He was scheduled to make a regular report to his superiors at the Citadel on Londimium via wave. Usually he wouldn’t have much to report, nor any real suggestions about what to do. Despite pro-Independent propaganda to the contrary, the Alliance really didn’t like messing around with local affairs. It was messy and expensive. But so was civil war, and that’s where Persephone was heading. Sir Arnold fully intended on recommending augmenting the small garrison here with anti-riot troops (instead of gutting it to reinforce the garrison on Hera, where a more-vocal opposition had gotten kicked up by the Miranda Affair) and a permanent gunboat in orbit. More importantly, he would use every shred of his power to stop the Federal indictment against the PM, on the basis that it could lead to chaos and damage long-term Alliance security. His superiors would no doubt heed his request. He had spent every night for the last two months fretting over it, and blaming the idiots who had dreamt up Miranda – and Paxalon – in the first place. If his relatively minor role in the creation of the near-demonic Reavers (not to mention the deaths of 30 million innocent people) was ever brought to light, his stress level would be high, indeed – probably as high as the nearest convenient treebranch. While the duel to the death was the gentlemanly manner in which to express such ire, impromptu lynchings had happened on Persephone before for less offensive matters than conspiracy to commit genocide. He would be quite happy when the PM was safely on his seat, there was an Alliance gunboat in the sky, and plenty of husky purple-clad riot troops were at a moment’s call. But until that fateful wave was made, things would be a little sketchy, and he needed every scrap of data he could get. Even from mysterious pretty girls. The lift door opened, interrupting his reverie. He paused to let the guard go first – merely a precaution, as he was not a legitimate target for either party. Then he stepped out, followed by Mr. Tyro. The small secretary disappeared for a moment as Sir Arnold waited in the Observation Lounge of the landing stage, waiting for his air car. He reappeared in moments, ushering in a stunning blonde with pale features. Sir Arnold knew at once she was from the country. Had she been from any of the urban centers her hair would have been showered with tiny pastel ribbons in the fashion that had swept Persephone’s upper crust like wildfire in the last few months. Further, her shoes were tasteful boots of real leather, not the cloth slippers the female aristocracy favored while in town. Nor was she accompanied by even a single maidservant, which implied that she was not from one of the major houses. No self-respecting woman of high birth would be caught dead in public without at least one girl in attendance. Obviously a daughter of a lesser house whose estate was far away from the capital. “May I present,” Mr. Tyro intoned with a degree of understated ceremony. “His Excellency, Sir Arnold Pau Fa. This is the young lady I was telling you about.” “Enchanted, my dear,” Sir Arnold said, bowing over her hand. “What might I be able to do for you?” “It’s . . . my lord, it is my sister,” the woman confessed, near tears. “She left home last year when my father attempted to arrange a good marriage that she didn’t approve of – it was the scandal of the district, I assure you!” Sir Arnold nodded, shaking his head sadly. “And I assure you, my dear, it happens even in the best of families.” “That is what I have heard. My poor deluded sister ran away to some squalid hovel in Eavesdown, and took up with a . . . a spacer! They aren’t even married! Just living in sin, and she’s . . . oh God, forgive me for saying it . . . she’s . . . a common barmaid! That’s just a step above a prostitute!” “Oh, dear,” Sir Arnold said, sympathetically. She had glorious boobs, he noted in his peripheral vision. “I came here to try to talk her out of it . . . it’s possible that Father could still find someone who wouldn’t mind the taint of scandal and would consent to marry her, if the dowry was generous enough . . . but while I was here, I overheard her . . . boyfriend,” she pronounced with a shudder, “a pirate, by the looks of him, talking to one of his cronies. About . . . about something happening, some ship coming in yesterday. I wasn’t able to get too many details, but it seemed some organized crime figure in Eavesdown has hired these criminals to—” “SIR! GET DOWN!” bellowed the beefy security officer in his ear, pushing Sir Arnold in the shoulder as he raised his submachine gun. Old reflexes die hard: Sir Arnold grabbed the girl and fell to the floor. While it probably would have looked like gallantry to a bystander, he was actual using her body as a shield against incoming fire. A rifle shot went wheeee! over his head while he buried his nose in her hair, her intoxicating scent mixing suddenly with the acrid smell of gunsmoke. The big guard was standing over them, his weapon raised, firing short controlled bursts that rained hot brass shell casings on them. He was also speaking into his radio as he fired. “This is Jackknife 3 to Valkyrie! We have an attempt happening, 30th floor landing stage south! Request immediate reinforcements and extraction for the package!” he shouted into the mike as he crouched against incoming fire. Sir Arnold ventured a peek over the heaving bosom of miss . . . he hadn’t even gotten her name, had he? There were at least two assailants, he saw, one behind the thick concrete planter on the corner, the other taking cover behind an elegant bench. Both had what looked like lever-actioned frontier rifles, non-descript brown dusters, and both had their faces swathed in cloth to conceal their identities. Mr. Tyro, he noted proudly, was on one knee trying to pick off the attackers with the small, elegant little laser he perpetually carried. It was a powerful weapon, but one with limited capacity – the secretary was wisely waiting for his shot. The other guard was sprawled next to him, shaking his head and grasping for his weapon. Sir Arnold must have hit him on the way down. The woman picked that moment to start squealing uncontrollably. He was tempted to silence her himself, but he didn’t want to waste the initiative on a mere annoyance when death was being flung through the air. “Hey!” the sprawled guard said as he popped up to his knees, gun in hand. “You—!” his sentence was stopped by Mr. Tyro, who noted the weapon was not, infact, being trained on the assailants, but in Sir Arnold’s direction. He spared half a second for a point-blank shot at the man’s heart, and suddenly the smell of charred human flesh was added to the aroma of gunsmoke-and-magnolia. He’d have to commend Tyro later – it wasn’t the first time an assassin had taken up a security guard’s uniform to get close to his target. Quickly recognizing the fact was the only hope for survival, and his secretary had performed admirably. “Gorram it, Valkyrie, where the hell are you?” the guard screamed again into his headset while slapping a fresh magazine into the gun. “I’ve got people down!” “On our way, Jackknife!” Sir Arnold heard the tinny reply, a woman’s voice – combat pilots were often women, because of their superior reflexes, and the security companies scooped them up upon their retirement from military service. “Hurry up, gorram it!” the guard pleaded as he fired another burst and dodged a few in return. “I’m – GRENADE!” he shouted again, throwing himself on top of the girl and Sir Arnold to bravely shield them with his body. Sir Arnold braced for an explosion. He heard the metallic clunk of hardware, and expected a hearty boom to rip away at his protectors’ flesh. But instead there was a pop, a sizzle, and all the hair stood up on the back of his neck. The overhead lights went out. “Only an EMP, Sir!” Mr. Tyro explained after the blast passed. “But my laser is useless, now!” He demonstrated by tossing it to his feet with disgust. “So’s the radio,” the big guard muttered as he struggled to recover. “Someone better get their hand off my ass!” complained the girl, her voice dripping with feminine ire. “I can hold them off here,” the guard said, “security should be here presently to back me up. You,” he said, stabbing a thick gloved finger at Mr. Tyro, “since you’re out of juice, get him out to the landing stage – we have a ship en route. Don’t take the stairs! We don’t know where – DUCK!” he yelled as another shot from the attackers whizzed by. “ – where there might be others around. The ship will be safe. GET HIM ON THAT GORRAM SHIP! Understand?” “Understood!” Mr. Tyro said, nodding firmly. “Great – go ahead, I’ll take care of these knuckleheads,” he said viciously, firing another burst to keep their heads down. “And you’d better hurry, because I have a feeling they want him alive – which means they’ll move in up close, now!” Sir Arnold nodded – that’s what he would have done. They did, indeed, want him alive, else that grenade would have incinerated all of them. He couldn’t be taken alive. He knew too much about too much. While he hadn’t carried a suicide device in ten years, he knew that a bullet in his brainpan or a long walk off the side of the landing stage would better serve the Alliance and Persephone than a capture. And he was ready for either. “What about me?” wailed the female. “What about my gorram sister?” “You’ll have to stay here, I’m afraid!” Sir Arnold shouted even as Mr. Tyro was yanking him to his feet. The guard didn’t even look up, he was firing from a kneeling position. “This man will see to you!” “Him?” the young woman said, looking aghast at the guard. “He just saved your life, you stupid sha bi!” Sir Arnold said, viciously. “The least you could do is offer him some ni yin in gratitude for his bravery!” If he couldn’t get the pleasure of those magnificent breasts, then at least someone deserving should. “All right!” grinned the guard as he fired. “Chou wang ba dahn!” the woman spat back acidly. Another burst of gunfire made her put her hands over her ears. As Tyro whisked him away towards the doors to the landing stage, he could see the two attackers advancing on the guard, their rifles slung or discarded and long, wicked looking knives in their hands. “Who’s behind this?” Mr. Tyro shouted in his ear as they passed the second door – just in time to see the dark blue plane descending gracefully towards them. “Find out!” ordered Sir Arnold. “I want to know in four hours! I’ll have them take me to the safehouse in Stenner. Contact me there – I’m going to file my report with the Citadel early, just in case they make another attempt.” The guard was engaging both assailants hand-to-hand, a long knife in one meaty fist. It was an impressive display of close-quarters combat, almost choreographed in its beautiful deadliness. One of the kidnappers had gone down already, his mask pulled down to reveal a square unshaven jaw and a stupid expression – had to be a former browncoat, no doubt about it. The other, a dark-skinned female, seemed to be giving the guard a workout, trading blows in a deadly dance of knifeplay while the stupid blonde twat cowered and screamed hysterically. A pity he hadn’t had a chance to sample her luscious charms. “I’ll get on it, Sir!” Tyro assured. “You just let these folks get you back home in one piece!” “Not directly – they’ll be expecting that,” Sir Arnold shouted as the plane touched down. The side door opened and a woman in a flight suit and helmet was waving him aboard, a machine gun perched jauntily on her hip as she held out her hand. The pilot glanced out the window and threw a casual thumbs-up sign. “Good work, Tyro!” Sir Arnold shouted again, as he stepped on to the plane to safety. “Haven’t had this much fun in years! Just like the good ol’ days!” he said, relieved to be out of danger. His secretary nodded and pulled the sliding door shut with a slam, even as the ship was becoming airborne again. “Strap in, Sir!” the co-pilot insisted politely. “No telling if they have air cover. We might need to take evasive action.” “Yes, yes, quite right,” Sir Arnold acknowledged, his pulse still pounding from the action. He fumbled with the buckles while the ship started to careen between the tall buildings of Uptown. “We’ve notified headquarters, Sir,” the co-pilot continued, helping him arrange the straps securely. “They’ll be sending a mop-up team.” The buckle clicked satisfactorily, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Be damn sure they check them out thoroughly!” Sir Arnold barked. “One of the guards was compromised! If it hadn’t been for the quick action of my secretary . . .” “I’ll look into it, Sir,” assured the guard. The pilot poked her head back over her shoulder to glance at the passenger. “Say, isn’t she a little young . . .” asked Sir Arnold. The woman behind the stick couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, even concealed by her flight helmet he could tell that much. Sir Arnold had an experienced connoisseur’s knowledge of teenaged girls. “Good pilots are hard to find, Sir,” the co-pilot said, apologetically. “But she’s the best. Say, is it true what they say?” she asked, taking a seat beside him. She was thin and wiry, not at all attractive, and carried herself with all the grace of an infantry trooper. “That depends on what was said and who was saying it?” he replied, bemused. “Oh, just that you were responsible for the ambush of the resupply fleet from Yuan to Hera, during the last days of the War?” she asked, conversationally. Sir Arnold smiled. Yes, that had been his crowning achievement as an Alliance spymaster: intercepting intel from the Independent High Command that had revealed the delivery of thousands of tons of war materiel – enough to keep the battered Browncoats battling doggedly for another six months to a year. He had helped end the war early and save countless Alliance lives by arranging the ambuscade of the resupply fleet. “Why yes, I was responsible for that,” he admitted. “But it’s supposed to be a secret.” “Oh, I won’t tell a soul,” the woman assured him, nodding. “I just wanted to make sure I was thanking the right guy.” Then she hit him in the jaw with the heavy metal butt of her machine gun and Sir Arnold retreated to unconsciousness.

COMMENTS

Monday, March 19, 2007 7:37 AM

SCREWTHEALLIANCE


OK, trying to make a few corrections, won't let me update. I'll keep trying. In the meantime, enjoy and ignore the irritating little errors. I know I do.

And shout out to Our Mr. Badger, Mark Sheppard, who is absolutely KILLING in Battlestar Galactica!

ScrewtheAlliance

Monday, March 19, 2007 10:11 AM

INDI


Woohoo! New STA chapter!

Delightful fun, as always, and I love the way you write Badger -- I could see him spitting those lines at a smirky Mal.

Monday, March 19, 2007 10:49 AM

RELFEXIVE


Shiny. Fights and schemes and plans and fights. The bestest.

Monday, March 19, 2007 11:09 AM

HIIAMJANET


This is just a preemptive rave!
Yay!

Monday, March 19, 2007 11:24 AM

BLUEEYEDBRIGADIER


Sweet googily moogily! A ScrewtheAlliance update! Hallelujah!

;D

Utterly brilliant and beautiful work here, Screw! Dialogue...perfect. Action sequences....perfect. Big Damn Plan...perfect! So, all in all...perfect!

:D

BEB

Monday, March 19, 2007 11:58 AM

WHODIED


Big Damn Heroes.Mohinder Associates.Hmm...

Wednesday, March 21, 2007 9:02 PM

LOESJE58


Loved it, simply loved it!

Thursday, March 22, 2007 8:38 AM

HIIAMJANET


postemptive rave!
Yay!
this was tighter and fast-paced
than some of your earlier stuff
and i'm Digging it!

Thursday, March 22, 2007 6:17 PM

DAWGFATHERJR


How could I not give a chapter that has a dogfather and the words "husky purple" in it? :-)

(even if "dogfather" isn't the widely-accepted spelling of this word...) ;-)

Thursday, March 22, 2007 6:18 PM

DAWGFATHERJR


How could I not give a 10 to a chapter that has a dogfather and the words "husky purple" in it? :-)

(even if "dogfather" isn't the widely-accepted spelling of this word...) ;-)

Monday, March 26, 2007 1:49 PM

NUTLUCK


Very cool as always.

Monday, April 2, 2007 11:52 AM

BRERRABBIT


LOVE YOUR WORK!!!!!! I've read all your series so far, and I'm always blown away by your plotlines. Why the hell weren't you writing for the show...we'd still be on the air. Hope to see the next chapter soon. Also, as a personal note, I've always enjoyed the longer stories on this site, because they allow better development of the ideas. Also, I just like reading.


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