Phoenix Feathers, Part II Chapter 11

Disclaimer: Joss is Boss, and…and…and all these ideas floating around in my head are mostly his doing. So it’s really just a lesser version of something that he could do much better. And I personally wouldn’t have any complaints if he did…

***

Douglas Clarke was hot, sweaty, and footsore, but he would never have admitted the fact to his crewmates. He leaned against the shady side of a deserted alley and gently set down the duffel bag that had been chafing on his shoulders for most of the long walk across Dyton City.

Clarke took off his wide-brimmed hat, sighing as a small breeze cooled him for a few precious seconds. He then resumed scanning the crowded thoroughfare that lay just outside the mouth of the alley, watching for anything that might threaten his crewmates.

He reached up and scratched irritably at the grimy mixture of sweat and dust that had collected around his hairline as his trained eyes sought out his companions amidst the hustle and bustle of the sweltering afternoon streets. He saw a harassed-looking Koyi waiting in line for a public water fountain that was, at best, half-functional. She appeared to be simultaneously carrying on two separate arguments with the men on either side of her, and looked to be winning, at that.

Clarke had seen a marked change in the doctor’s demeanor over the past day- Koyi had warmed to the younger members of the Stallion’s crew, and sometimes included herself in their conversations. She had even developed a new level of tolerance for Cody’s juvenile antics. This newfound familiarity with her crew did little to dilute the scornful looks that she reserved for Clarke.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clarke spotted Nebula and Cody darting through the crowd, playing some childish game of their own devising. Cody was remarkably carefree during his down time, but he retained the boundless reserves of energy and curiosity that made him such a successful tinkerer. For her part, a different side to Nebula seemed to take over whenever she stepped off the Stallion. There, her actions were tempered by her aunt’s iron discipline. Now, she scampered after Cody on the way across the city, passing through one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the ‘Verse as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

Clarke waited for Koyi to take a drink before he donned his hat and slipped the duffel bag onto his shoulders, stepping once more into the street to collect Nebula and Cody. He didn’t even try to find Phoenix in the crowd- the boy had a knack for blending in with his surroundings that the old tracker found somewhat unsettling. Clarke wondered where the boy had learned his craft so well. In any case, he had no doubt that Phoenix was somewhere close by, and he kept an eye out for the elusive boy’s dark green and gold-patterned robe. He motioned to his crewmates and they set off together towards the far side of town.

Behind them, a cloaked figure flitted into and out of view behind the shifting tide of pedestrians and vehicles, effortlessly keeping pace with the crewmembers of the Stallion without alerting them to his presence. His eyes darted left and right, and he saw that his fellows, although noticeably more distinctive in their blood red jumpsuits with golden heraldry, likewise went unnoticed by those they followed.

***

After another hour’s travel along the crowded street, the road spilled out into the expansive Eastern Plaza, a concourse that was dominated by the Dyton City Arena. The five companions stopped, taking in the immensity of the building before them. Nebula was the first to find her voice.

“Well, that’s certainly…”

“Big,” supplied Cody.

“I was going to say ‘ornate.’”

“Ah. Yes, it is that. Look!” The mechanic pointed upwards to the topmost levels of the gargantuan amphitheatre where a dozen blue-tinged figures were flailing about themselves with various weapons. As the group watched, the figures flickered and were replaced by giant words that chased each other around the Arena. They read:

THE DYTON CITY ARENA: LIVE ON THE EDGE!

These were followed by advertisements for upcoming shows or the latest consumer products. The giant blue letters seemed to hold the entire Plaza in thrall.

Cody shook his head in wonder at the impressive display of technology. “That’s a Downing Circuit! They’re really expensive to operate. Mostly you’d only see them in the Core. I wonder how they got one all the way out here?”

Clarke’s gravelly voice answered him. “Most likely the Black Market. In a place like Dyton City, it’s not hard to imagine that the Feds aren’t running the show. There are probably a few men who play both sides against the middle, making this entire Colony into one big business.”

Despite herself, Koyi was interested. “Then why is there so much trade going on? Don’t people know where their money is going?”

A harshly-accented voice from behind them made everyone jump and turn around, but it was only Phoenix who talked. “Relationship with parasite symbiotic, not detrimental. Token loss of income in exchange for security of sale or purchase. Noticeable correlation between quality of goods and life expectancy, however.”

The others just stared at him.

“A pretty seedy place,” he finished.

Cody blinked, then clapped his hands together eagerly. “Right, then. Shall we?”

Koyi directed them towards one of the Arena’s entrances, where they joined a long line of people waiting to go in. It wasn’t long before their small party attracted the attention of one of the scalpers who hustled up and down the long lines, deliberately slowing their progress while they looked for easy marks to whom they would sell their tickets- most faked, some burgled, some the genuine article.

The huge red-haired man who had marked Clarke was selling this last kind, for his job depended upon getting this one group into the Arena. He had paced them as they waited in line, timing his approach, and now he presented himself to them with all the charm of his Irish ancestors back on Earth-That-Was.

“Evening, sir! Would you be interested in some tickets, save you this interminable waitin’? Prime seats, reasonable prices, an’ a special discount for a smile from the pretty lass.” The scalper winked roguishly at Nebula.

“Come on,” nudged Cody. “Let’s get in before the show starts!”

“All right,” Clarke consented. “Do you take Alliance bills?”

The salesman’s face froze in place briefly, but he recovered quickly. “‘Course I does, sir. Call it two hundred apiece?”

Koyi curtly told him what he could do with his offer, and, after a quick bit of haggling, during which the line moved not at all, it was agreed that the man would be paid five hundred creds for the group. It wasn’t exactly cheap, but Clarke suspected that the man could have gotten a lot more from them, as starved for coin as they were, but he had not pushed them at all.

Clarke kept a close eye on the man as he led them up to one of the massive entrance gates, fearing that their guide would do a runner with their money, but the group was admitted into the Arena without a problem.

“There we are,” he grinned. “You’ll be sure to enjoy the show now, friends, won’t you?”

The man nodded to Clarke, winked again at Nebula, and disappeared back into the crowd.

Clarke handed the tickets to Koyi, keeping one for himself. “Our aisle is around that way.” He pointed to the left, down one of the massive corridors that ran the length of the giant ellipse that was the Arena. “Follow Koyi, and keep together.”

The doctor’s eyebrow twitched. “Where are you going?”

Clarke’s hand went to the duffel bag at his side. “I’ve got some errands to run. I’ll meet you there.” With that, he turned and began heading away from them through the crowd.

Koyi shook her head. “Come on, kids. Let’s go.”

***

Clarke pushed his way through the overcrowded corridors of the Arena until he found what he’d been searching for- a large neon sign proclaiming BAUER FIREARMS EMPORIUM hanging above a half-closed door. On either side of the door were windows displaying all kinds of guns; pistols, shotguns, ornate rifles- even an ancient blunderbuss that looked old enough to date back to Earth-That-Was. He suspected that it had been aged so as to appear antique, but even so the crafting of the weapon was good enough.

Clarke knew that it was highly unlikely that he would receive a fair price for what he had to sell, but he was willing to trade that for quick coin and no questions asked. The kind of business that he had in mind had to be done right away. Clutching his duffel bag, the tracker entered the weapons store.

It was dark, cool, and dusty- but almost everything on Dyton Colony was this last bit, and Clarke was more than a little grateful for the first two parts. Looking around, he saw several men quietly browsing through shelves of guns. Watching them nervously was the youthful clerk manning the counter, who looked as if he had never been told that there weren’t any bullets in the display guns. Just past him, an old man appraised what looked to be a weapon of his own handiwork at a cluttered workbench in the back of the Emporium.

Clarke approached the boy behind the counter. “‘Scuse me,” he said quietly.

The kid jumped near out of his skin. “Oh. How do, sir? Would you be interested in making a selection today? We just got in a brand-new line of-” Clarke slung the heavy duffel bag onto the desk. It clinked audibly, and the boy’s eyes immediately went to it.

“Say, whatcha got in there?”

“Just a few rarities I was hoping you all would be interested in seein’.” The boy didn’t seem to be comprehending. “I’m here to sell my guns,” Clarke added.

“Oh. Well, we don’t really buy weapons secondhand from private owners.” The clerk’s eyes never left the bag.

“I think you’ll find these are in very good condition.”

The clerk was obviously somewhat in awe of Clarke, but the old tracker was used to having this effect on people. He had an easy confidence born of years of experience in the field, and it showed. Add to that his dark, gunfighter-type garb and the dusty hat that shaded his eyes, and Douglas Clarke looked fairly imposing to most people. Clarke used that power now to do something he never thought he’d be doing- selling his guns.

To a professional such as Clarke, guns were not just handy- they were essential. They had to protect him, provide for him, and publicize him. A professional never went anywhere without at least a sidearm, and it could be said that his weapons were an extension of himself. It was not unknown for men in the field to pay more attention to their weapons than to their own health. Even to a retired man like Clarke, a professional and his guns had a special bond that could not be broken by age or disinterest. So it was only now, forced by his crew’s needs and fueled by his newfound compulsion to protect them, that Clarke sold his guns.

The clerk motioned for Clarke to come around the counter and proceed to the back, where the craftsman waited. The man, who had to be the shop’s proprietor, looked up from his workbench, and took in Clarke with a glance. He smiled slightly and nodded.

“Let me see them,” he said softly.

Clarke complied, opening the zipper on the duffel bag and handing the weapons one by one to the man, who assessed each one carefully before placing it gently on the workbench before him. While the old man’s comments were reserved, the clerk’s reactions gave away the fact that he was selling weapons the likes of which had never passed through the shop before.

The majority of the guns were of real value, but it wasn’t until Clarke pulled the Callahan out of the bag that the man became visibly excited. He took the twenty-eight pound brute of a gun and lifted it as if it was the Holy Grail- which, to a professional, it was. His hands, calloused from countless hours of maintenance and fabrication on weapons of all kinds, ran up and down the rifle, exploring it. He was at once hesitant and eager, and his eyes never left the gleaming weapon.

“Only once before have I had the chance to handle one of these. It belonged to d’Alembord. A great man, he was, and a great tracker. Did you know him?” he asked Clarke absently.

“We've met,” Clarke said evasively.

The man chuckled, remembering his brief encounter with the man who had been the most renowned game hunter of the 25th century.

After another minute of admiring the Callahan, he put it down next to the others and turned back to Clarke.

“ I’d say we can do business.”

He quoted a sum of money that was a good deal more than Clarke had anticipated. Clarke thought that this generosity was because the dealer saw in Clarke a fellow connoisseur, even though Clarke had turned from that path and would not be going back.

Clarke nodded his thanks and shook on the deal, then followed the clerk back to the front desk as the old man reached for his safe. The proprietor emerged a minute later with a bag of coin and handed it to Clarke, which Clarke tucked into the breast pocket of his costume. The man was grinning from ear to ear, and he pumped the ex-tracker’s hand vigorously, finally insisting on escorting him out of the shop.

The young clerk came up to the proprietor and stood beside him as the old man gazed after the tall figure as the man slipped into the crowd of passerby.

“Sir?”

The proprietor blinked, then sighed. “That, my boy, was the real thing.” He patted the younger man on the back and turned back to attend to his new acquisitions.

The clerk followed the old man back under the glowing sign that advertized the Bauer Firearms Emporium and returned to his desk, where another customer was waiting to be helped.

***