CUCKOO - PART 3
While stories take a break for the Summer, I'll still be sharing short fiction - mostly introductory segments from projects I'm rewriting, every other week until August. It's another ambiguous end for Cuckoo, as Dillon blasts off for parts unknown - with a brigand captain and a security chief in tow!
Dillon awoke slowly. How long had he been asleep for? Out of the windows the rolling hills had given way to open stretches over huge chasms, the bottoms of which could not be seen. There was nothing on either side of the bare rails for miles down.
He turned back to the screen, where his latest search had come up with something. Cartographers; more importantly, astral cartographers, who could help him find what he was looking for. The first link was exactly what he needed; he noted down the planet and address. Howland Ltd. Professional star-charters. A long-running business, they were expensive but worth it. Dillon wondered how long he would have to work to buy one of their maps – the prices for the holo-rings themselves seemed outrageous. But then, very few people used holo-rings for this sort of thing, despite their capabilities.
The train jerked and the internet cut off abruptly; the page was sent into a sudden grey box, a sad face looking up at Dillon from the screen. “We're sorry!” it said above the picture. “Technical difficulties have occurred!” It was irritatingly cheerful. Dillon shut off the machine. Howland would have to do, he decided.
He bought some lunch on the train, a meagre sandwich and a hot drink of some description, and found a free seat with no one nearby. With nothing better to do, he took his eReader from his sack and turned it on.
It took just under an hour for the train to finally arrive at Terminus, during which time Dillon read all he could find about cartography. The internet was patchy and it cut out several times as he was mid-sentence, and he had to patiently remind himself not to slap the thing when that happened because that was what had caused the screen to flicker and roll with intermittent static in the first place. Instead, he stared out of the window, watching as the scenery occasionally changed from that abyss being there on the landscape to that abyss being slightly further left on the landscape. The rails seemed to go on forever during those times, and although precious few minutes had passed by the time the internet returned, Dillon considered it a great waste and wished he'd had some archaic, physical books he could at least have glanced over while he waited.
But then the train pulled in close and Terminus was in view for the rest of the journey. Dillon watched, open-mouthed, as they pulled ever closer and the towers seemed to magnify before his eyes. In the distance it had looked impressive, spikes of chrome standing out over the top of rusted metal shacks in the outer districts. But when the journey was nearly at an end and the driver's voice rattled through the tannoy system that Terminus is the final stop, all change, all change, Dillon looked out of the window and saw that those impressive spires were taller than he could have imagined, and even the old rusty shacks were multi-storey things and it all began to look downright intimidating. And then they were under the city, and how could that enormous bulk support itself over what was still essentially deep-mining caverns it was just supported with the rails and maybe a few pillars and those platforms were just cliffs ohgoodnesspleasejustdon'tlookdownagain.
When Dillon opened his eyes again the train was grumbling to a halt, wheels screeching as the brakes were applied. There was a gentle hiss of relief and the whole train seemed to sag with exhaustion before the doors opened and it disgorged its pitiful haul. The people who came out wore cloaks made from scraps of leather, they carried buckets on sticks in which their entirely worldly belongings were kept, or else hauled the day's catch of now-ripe fish to the markets to try and get a last-minute sale. Even in his shabby coat, Dillon stood out.
It was cold under Terminus. The floor was slick with condensation from the hot steam which hissed out of broken pipes and Dillon struggled to keep his footing. He stayed well away from the edge of the platform, and was glad he did so. The platform, already barely peopled, was nearly empty when the train pulled out. One young man had been standing close to it, pacing nervously, and sighed when it finally left the station. He looked down, his gaze drawn magnetically to the centre of the darkness below. Only his mouth peeked out under his hood, and Dillon watched, entranced, as it curved up in a smile before opening slightly in slack-jawed awe. The tracks seemed to thrum with music and sing as he leaned out ever farther.
His feet slipped. He turned, seemed surprised, but he fell down the gap between platform and rail with no more than a sigh, perfectly aimed. Dillon shuddered and found his way to the stairs, keeping one hand on the wall and feeling its rock-solid reassurance.
Terminus station didn't go straight up to the surface; rather it twisted and ran around itself, several paths leading off to substations or to the tube lines. Dillon found one of the less-crowded information desks and cleared his throat. The man sat at the desk glanced up at him before looking down again. He paused and stared up again, eyes wide in shock.
'I need to find a spaceship,' Dillon said. The man was speechless for a moment.
'The docks... the docks are on-'
'On the Inner Line, the yellow one,' Dillon interrupted, 'followed by a change at White Square onto the Interpol Line, the red one. I know. But I need a ship going to a very particular place, not a jumper for a tourist jaunt.'
'You can find all the ships you need at the docks!' the man huffed. 'Now, if there's something you don't already know about the train lines, let me know!' Dillon pulled out his eReader again and typed something quickly. He turned the screen so the young man could read it; he peered at the dimly lit front, deciphering the tiny script.
'Those are coordinates in the Alpha-Alpha-Seven-One star cluster,' Dillon explained. 'They are a planet, official name AA7108, but the residents call it Upmarket. No ships from the docks go remotely close, and it would be more than it's worth to try and get a transfer – the least you could do it in is four ships, each charging individual prices because there's no syndicate on the way there. So what I'm asking is: do you know of any merchants, runners or pirates who cannot park in the dock but who have their own bays in scrapyards and workshops, who would be going there soon, or would be willing to travel there for less than the cost of four individual ships?'
The young man stared. For a moment his mouth worked uncontrollably, working the problem around his head. Then, he picked up the phone and pressed the button for security.
A finger landed on the hammer, ending the call before it could begin. The young man was about to argue, but saw the look on his co-worker's face. She turned to Dillon with a bright smile.
'So,' she said, 'you wanna ship that's going Upmarket? What's a Pov like you got business in Upmarket for?'
'Pov?' Dillon tasted the word in his mouth. 'I am unfamiliar with the term.'
'Impoverished,' the woman said. 'Itinerant, refugee, homeless guy. What's your business in Upmarket? That's a pretty posh planet you're going to.'
'I need to find a cartographer,' Dillon explained. 'A good one. Howland's shop seemed like a good start, they even use holo-rings.'
'Yeah, but they're expensive,' the woman said. 'How are you gonna convince a ship to take you, let alone convince them to just give you a holo-map?'
'I'm a big guy,' Dillon said. 'These things tend to work out in my favour.'
'Yeah,' the woman said. 'Not this time. Hey, if you get out of this, go down to the Rust Heights Dry-Dock, ask for Tena Brava and tell her May sent you.' She ducked back into the office behind the desk before Dillon could say another word. He turned to go.
And that was when he saw the army of security guards.
They were dressed head-to-toe in pristine, navy blue armour, and each carried a baton which crackled with electricity. Only one of them showed their face. She cracked her baton against her hand, sending out a spark of electricity.
'You thinking of boarding an illegal transport?' she asked sternly. Her hair was cut short, stark white in contrast to her uniform, and her eyes narrowed as she stared him down. Dillon returned her stare calmly.
'Yes,' he said.
'Then you're going to have to come with me,' she stated, marching forward. She took a pair of handcuffs from her belt.
'What's your name?' Dillon asked.
'Captain Gravitz,' the woman said. 'Georgia to my friends.'
'Then I'm afraid you're not the one I'm looking for.' The cuffs were coming down but Dillon slipped her grip and ran, leaping the barriers and heading for the platforms again.
The sounds of pursuit were not far behind. His little trick had earned him a moment, and he was fast, but his plan would have him pressing against the flow of people as they got off the train. He stopped a moment on the lower levels, scanning the timetable and looking up a particular train.
'Hey!'
He glanced back. Captain Gravitz was charging full-tilt towards him. He turned and ran on, but the shock-stick still caught him, tightening up his back. He fell, but rolled and turned. Captain Gravitz made to swing again, but leapt back quickly as Dillon swung a wayward arm in her direction. It slammed into the wall, dislodging tiles and cracking the concrete underneath. She stared at him, paralysed. He grunted and turned, his feet pounding on the concrete and echoing off the curved walls. Captain Gravitz took a moment to relax and followed the sound of footsteps.
The platforms were still slick, and Dillon almost fell as his feet slid aside underneath him. But he caught himself and centred himself before running down the platform. The security guards were forming up at either exit, batons at the ready. None of them seemed willing to charge in. Dillon turned to stare down the ranks at the far end of the platform, making his way towards them. He walked carefully, feeling his feet slide around with each step, his arms out slightly to steady himself. He kept a careful eye on the display hanging over the platform, which announced that he had five minutes until his train pulled in.
Then, all at once, the guards charged. They were slipping and sliding too, but enough years chasing people down these platforms had given some of the an instinctual balance; they moved almost with grace, and as such were the first ones to reach Dillon.
He may have been strong but he was no fighter; the first shock took him in the chin, a hit which first sent his head high and then abruptly back down as he felt the muscles contract. He grunted and drew back his fist. Even with their experience, the floor was too slick to dodge a fist that big; the guards in front of him either slipped and fell or braced themselves for the inevitable hit. A guard who tried to ambush him was surprised when the telegraphing elbow caught him in the arm and he dropped the shock-stick on the platform. Dillon's fist barrelled forwards as the sparks from the dropped baton leapt up his legs, and his punch landed lower than he'd planned. He knocked the frontmost guard backwards with a hit in the chest which dented the armour before he could no longer stand, and buckled. He fell onto one knee and leaned back to grab the shock-stick, pulling it up and transferring the conduction to his hand. His arm contracted, locking to his chest and on its way tripping up two guards behind him with the baton. With his other hand he grabbed it hilt-first and swung it inexpertly, bashing down at the heads of the guards in front of him. The armour was non-conducting, but he was strong and the stick wasn't exactly light; as they bulldozed him, piling up behind each other and waving their sticks like rioters, he struck back, roaring and bashing down in front of him repeatedly. What shocks they did get in before his scare-tactics turned each row away felt like bug bites and little more.
Shock-sticks are hefty, but they are fragile. After less than a minute of this, the one in Dillon's hand was little more than a lump of circuitry and frayed wires in his fist, sparks hissing off the end of broken wiring as half of it flew off entirely. He discarded it behind him with a wild swing that sent those guards ducking back and slipping, falling over each other, and simply barrelled into the crowd of security guards. The shocks were worse this time, many of his screams now of pain rather than to terrify them. Then, as one, half of the force in front of him found themselves facing the platform as he gathered them up in his outstretched arms, lifting them over his head. And then, slowly, inevitably, he toppled.
There was a collective groan from the heap after they landed, the impact felt even through their armour. Dillon was clutching his head as he got to his feet, the effect of a six-man suplex also turning out to be a six-man dogpile on his head being felt through his neck and shoulders too. He walked forwards again, ready for the fight.
There were very few left who wanted to fight. He'd cracked some helmets, dented some armour, they were nervous. But they charged anyway.
This time he didn't even feel the first shock-stick; he just knew he must have been hit as his entire left side flinched. He unwound the effect with a side swipe to the one who'd done it, sending him sprawling at the edge of the platform, but the slick ground kept him sliding. Dillon saw it, perhaps an instant too late. He turned away from the five guards at his front and threw himself sideways, arm outstretched. The guard was sliding over the edge, too dazed to stop himself.
And then, the next thing he knew, he was sailing towards the wall. He collided with it and groaned. The other surviving guards turned to the platform edge.
Dillon knelt there, arms stretched back as his legs half-hung over the edge. He breathed deep, trying to calm himself, and slowly shuffled himself back onto the platform. He sighed, bending low, eyes tight shut. For a moment, the tracks had sung to him.
And then his back tensed and curved as five shock-sticks simultaneously struck, he groaned as they stayed there, pouring electricity into his body, tensing his muscles. He struggled against it, getting first one leg underneath him, and then the other, but one of the batons left off to strike him against the head; he went down on one knee again, the pain was too much, he opened his eyes as much as he could and he saw down into the abyss, the tracks were singing to him again.
What happened next could only be described as an explosion. Dillon exploded outwards, his arms flinging four of the guards back against the wall, his legs propelling him out. He exploded, he flew.
Captain Gravitz chose this moment to arrive on the platform. She'd lost the footsteps not long after she followed, but she'd seen the commotion from another platform, and several of the guards watching the cameras had given her reports. Now she had arrived, no thanks to the sloppy directions of the guys in the monitor room – 'just tell me which platform!' she'd yelled, minutes previously – and her crew was all out. Except one. He stared dumbly at the rails, where Dillon hung easily by one arm, staring him down.
'What do I do?' he asked, turning to Gravitz. She looked at Dillon, then back along the rails.
Where a train was beginning to pull in.
'Help him up!' she ordered, running across the platform. 'Get him up here or he'll die!'
The guard must have noticed the train, because he swore and knelt down, arm outstretched, yelling at Dillon to swing for his hand. Dillon simply stared, defying the guard as both Gravitz and the train came closer. The brakes screamed out on the train, and it was almost on him when he finally swung up easily and pushed himself up, vaulting over the corner of the train as passed below him and smacked the guard's hand. He landed with the force to crack the floor behind the guard, who turned in shock. He raised his baton but Dillon gave him a shove in the head; his helmet ricocheted off the train and he span to the floor as it slowed to a stop. The doors opened and people flowed out around him, and when it was empty he got on and took a seat. He closed his eyes and relaxed, the doors hissing closed as the train began to pull off.
The click of handcuffs shook him back to reality.
'There's nowhere to run,' Gravitz said, tightening it around his wrist. 'You're coming back to Terminus station and we're gonna-'
Dillon hit her with the back of his hand, straight across the head. She felt the impact on the other side, against the pole by the door, and fell, her eyes awash with blackness.
Dillon stared at her for a moment. Then, he reached down and put his fingers against her neck. He sighed, propped her up next to him and began searching her for the handcuff keys.
Sparks bounced off Tena Brava's mask and the hissing of the blowtorch drowned out any sound around her. She welded scraps of metal together, the flame roaring bright blue then hot white as it touched the rusty shards.
The flame shut off as the door banged open and a shape loomed in the doorway. Tena lifted the mask over her head and let her hands sway down beside the pistols on her belt.
'I'm busy,' she said simply. The silhouette strode inside so that the light didn't obscure his features, and he resolved into an enormous man in a dirty overcoat. In his arms, a young woman.
Tena gasped.
'Out!' she demanded. 'Out, now!'
'Ms Brava?' Dillon asked, but Tena was upon him, guns out.
'Get outta here!' she yelled. 'Get out of my scrapyard, get out of this district, and you'd best get out of this town for your own safety! Do you know who you've carrying there, moron?'
'This is Georgia Gravtiz,' Dillon stated. 'She was with the security in the train terminal.'
'Yeah she was,' Tena said. 'She was the head of security. And you've brought her – a law enforcement official – here, to my illegal space port. Get her out now, before she wakes up, and go with her.'
'No,' Dillon said, and Tena was surprised to find that he was now looming over her. She hesitated.
'She is only here because she is handcuffed to me,' Dillon continued. 'If you can remove the cuffs, then I-'
'No,' Tena interrupted. 'I've got a gun pointed at your face; you might be a big guy, but can you survive that? I doubt it. Get out.'
'Ms Brava,' Dillon said, 'I am willing to pay handsomely to get to Upmarket fast. I understand that this may bring some police activity down upon you, but they will already know I am here so it is best we get moving. Now, where is your ship? We can remove Captain Gravitz en-route and jettison her.'
Tena stared at him.
'You're all cold logic, aren't you?' she asked sourly. 'What's in there, a steel ball or something?' At this, she gestured at Dillon's head.
'Ma'am, we don't have time to-'
'This is my home, moron,' Tena spoke over him. 'Look around you, take some time because I'm not going anywhere yet. What do you see?'
Dillon took in the room. It was little more than a barn, crowded with scraps of metal. On the walls hung several designs made with the scrap, welded together in patterns or strange shapes. All over the floors were hatstand-like spruces of metal, again welded together from the scrap piles all around. Dust covered every surface; it hung in the air, motes of gold amongst the brown and grey.
'There's a lot of scrap around the place,' he said eventually. 'Why are these bits welded together?' He indicated the latest project of Tena's, which occupied pride of place in the centre of the building.
'It's called art, numbskull,' Tena said. 'I make art. Y'know, I try to make an honest living, but there's not much call for artists on this backwater planet and I'm a damn good pilot too. Until I can scrape together the cash to renew my pilot's license, I take what I can get. It's this or the mines, buddy, but I doubt they'd give you that choice.' Dillon leaned in.
'I will pay,' he said quietly. 'Please, remove the cuffs.'
From anyone else, it could have been a threat. From Dillon, there was nothing in the eyes which said it was anything otherwise.
A gunshot. Gravitz awoke with a start and looked around. She bristled when she found herself staring down the barrel of a gun.
'Leave her here,' Tena said to Dillon. She turned to Georgia. 'You: if any of your men come by, they're to stand down. I can take you out from a hundred feet, just so you know.'
'We've been watching this place for a long time, Brava,' Georgia replied calmly. 'I doubt you'll even get to your ship.'
'We go, now,' Tena said. Dillon nodded, dropping Georgia unceremoniously.
Dillon shielded his eyes from the bright sun as they left the barn.
'Where's your ship?' he asked Tena; she ran towards a heap of hazardously-piled scrap.
'In here,' she said, ducking behind the mountain of metal. Dillon followed her, dislodging a mini-avalanche of rust and springs in his wake. They cascaded down, tinkling against the dust behind him.
'They're already surrounding us,' Tena noted, leaping into the pilot's seat and strapping herself in. She started up the launch sequence. 'Close the damn door, moron!'
Dillon turned and pulled at the door with his enormous hand. As he pulled it, a boot wedged it open, and Dillon gasped as Gravitz forced herself into the space.
'You're not going anywhere!' Gravitz snapped. 'You're my prisoner, you hear me?' Out came the shock-stick, and she swung it at Dillon's head. He dodged and grabbed Gravitz by the wrist.
And the ship rocketed upwards.