Third Interlude: Napoléon, the Brave Duck
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Scratching his beard, Kassim let his eyes wander over the flickering holographic menu for a long minute. The price of what was left in stock soared with inflation, and reached a gastronomical level. Nevertheless, the tofu du jour certainly remained boiled Styrofoam—and the pork kebab would probably turn out to be barbecued expansion joints. But when his stomach growled so loudly the diner’s bald cat cleared off from the display, the hungry technician ultimately picked up the fried pasta and the unparalleled nutritional value of filtered Mobil oil.
“That soup here will turn us both bald!” his colleague exclaimed as he joined him near the automated cash register.
The tech flattened his French twist, which bounced back as soon as his large fingers covered with dried sludge skirted his hairy neck. “No chance, Rebin... but this place is surely getting worse by the day!”
“You tell me…”
“I regret the Norses. Whatever you find to munch, I’m eager to trade.”
His much leaner, gray-faced friend unwrapped his tunaless tuna sandwich. “Dry bread—Mimas style. Saving the mayonnaise and the slim tomato slices for my daughter.”
“She all right?” Kassim asked, before throwing blue bills into the buzzing machine spitting out a few coins in return.
“Her fever went down last night. Thanks to max antibiotics.”
Rebin paid right after, and the two men headed for the exit of the underground food court.
“From the pharmacist downtown?” the mechanic asked.
“Yes. Naza’s a hell of a warrior, y’know? This morning, she already had her VR glued back on her forehead. Unstoppable, that kid!”
“Just like her father—gotta stick her nose to evil electronics!”
Rebin smiled. “Cleaner than Baltimore engines. Cleaner and safer.”
The two technicians swallowed their bland meal at the top of the stairs. Then, skirting the mountains of garbage gradually burying New Patrie’s astroport, they jumped onto the makeshift path made of rusting billboards leading to the red-painted private hangars.
Kassim whistled happily as he glanced at the last ships of the rebel fleet lined up. They were on the other side of the barbed wire surrounding the adjacent military base of the Engineers Corps. Guarded day and night by heavily armed battle androids, the Freedom League’s new Flickers-XV remained off-limits to him. But not for long. One more tiny certification and he would join the Cause; thus plunge his large hands into the heart of cutting edge thermonuclear reactors recently acquired by General Aboud Mahmoud to defend the capital world.
Meanwhile, Rebin had grabbed his electronic notepad from his overalls’ back pocket, and ran through the afternoon routine tasks. “Our sleazy Czechoslovak supervisor gave us an Alliance cuckoo to check at,” he grumbled, pointing to a remote hangar near the glittering Blue pools below.
Kassim lit his cigarette, sparkling alcoholic fumes. “We still got hunter ships around?” he wondered, glancing at the logbook appearing on his friend’s pad.
“She’s been in dry dock for months. The Alliance techies bolted in the middle of a cooler change and left the boat to dust.”
“Airheads. What’s that?” He pointed to the last three lines of the rental sheet flashing red.
“Several attempted thefts. Probably some punks trying to get away from Mimas. Skipping the draft…”
“I see the break-ins. But the ship’s still here.”
“That’s a Yoyodine scout…” Rebin heaved, climbing down a ladder. Back on the ground, he turned off his notepad, after ordering the gates of the hangar standing in front of them to unlock.
Alas, the puffing engine opening the steel panels died halfway.
“A mining scout?” Kassim exclaimed before swearing so loudly that his tumultuous pleading drowned out the scraping of the door he pushed aside. “And what should we do with her? Strip her down like those girls from the Digue?” He then faced the sorry ship. “What a piece of crap… Deserters would rather get hung than fly this coffin.”
“Forlorn Hope…” read the other technician at the top of the printed datasheet lying on the floor. Like his friend, he stared in dismay at the abandoned nef hidden under an even seedier tarp. His eyes opened wide. “Shit! That’s the jinx.”
“What jinx?”
“She’s haunted, I heard.”
Kassim spat out his cigarette butt. “My ass.”
“The old Jamaican said so.”
“Fuck him. Let’s do the job—what’s the job?”
Rebin stepped closer to the ominous Forlorn before pulling the tarp. “We gotta tear down the reactor hull for Acindina’s tug.”
“Oh yeah?” Smashing the airlock control box with his fist, Kassim huffed, “That bitch needs to leave her precious plastic-rigged orbit. And help herself, for a change!”
“Could save us from dealing with haunted ships.”
“You’re such a wimp believing that voodoo crap. The old man fried his chrome on Sheba and spat nonsense all night long when he’s not wired on his computer. The only danger around would be this cockleshell collapsing on our pretty faces.” The angry technician pulled himself aboard before reaching out to his companion. “You coming, chicken?”
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“To fetch a lead hull?”
“Need you to hold the flashlight.”
Rebin grabbed his friend’s metallic hand which smelled like cold tobacco. “You sound like my father.” And he was hoisted into the Forlorn Hope plunged into darkness.
“What’s the smell?” Kassim growled as he slid into the damp hold. “Turn on your shoulder beam.”
Rebin complied before ordering the smart torch to follow the steel curves of the inner hull. “Odd…”
“What?” Kassim lit another cigarette to dry his lungs.
“This isn’t the usual structure of a scouting ship.”
“She must have been spruced up at least fifty times since she left the main belt—fifty years ago. Like those toffs from Mars.”
“I guess you’re right.”
Rebin’s flashlight blinked. A noise occurred in the cockpit above. It creepily echoed back down the rungs and swiftly lifted a veil of dust around their boots.
“What was that?” the scared techie with the light asked.
“Your manhood flying out the window.”
“Shut up. You got your gun?”
“No…” Kassim puffed. “Just point your light behind that overturned mattress. I seem to have caught a glimpse of the Baltimore hatch.”
But Rebin stopped midway. “What? No way! Yoyodine was Soviet owned during the Hard Reset. This is a Yalta ship.”
“Right. They ran on V-Brauns.”
“Meaning the core should be right under the cockpit, and—fuck!” Rebin swore, jumping.
“What now?” his friend reacted before freezing where he stood. “Crap.”
In the meager light of the shaking halo, the dried corpses of two men in gray military uniforms lay on top of the medical module’s dismembered mattress. Their jaws twisted with pain, the two empty-eyed mummies had almost merged with the floor covered in bird droppings and torn plastic wrappings.
“These two morons turned mushrooms must have locked themselves in…” Kassim grumbled as he stepped over the first deceased, ashing his cigarette into the man’s mouth.
Disgusted, Rebin had pulled up the collar of his shirt to make a makeshift mask. “They’re in really bad shape. Did something eat them or what?”
“Humidity. And, judging by the droppings, pigeons….”
“Pigeons? In the Rings?”
Stamping his second cigarette of the afternoon, Kassim twirled his cruciform screwdriver in his other hand. Kneeling down, he was about to carefully free the access hatch to the Baltimore reactor. “Almost there … just a few hits,” he said, whistling again. “Voilà!” Immediately, the panel slid on the dirty floor.
“That’s no VB for sure,” Rebin declared.
Kassim reached for his Camel pack to find it empty. “Nope. That’s a Baltimore-VII. The popping kind.”
Where should have been a small chamber wide as a restroom stall, appeared instead a wild tangle of chrome-plated Blue piping and ceramic casings. Behind the most expensive cooling system the two men had ever seen, a military-grade Baltimore engine was waiting for them—his thermonuclear core still purring judging by the rows of red LEDs lined against its lead-dotted eggshell.
“That’s the kind of crazy shit you only find in Techno Interceptors…” Kassim whispered, as if speaking louder could wake the snoring dragon.
“Or Canyon Creek…” Rebin breathed, glancing over his shoulder several times. In the darkness of the hold, he had to swear he saw something move.
“Yeah…” his friend replied, opening out his hand. “Let me read your pad.”
“Beat it. The diagnosis is mine.”
“Now you’re interested, uh?”
Rebin crouched down next to his jealous companion. Connecting his notepad to an outlet on an electronic control block above the small rungs leading to the Baltimore room below, he analyzed the data coming from the awakened onboard computer. At the same moment, many auxiliary systems including the ventilation appeared to be back online.
“Found something?” Kassim asked, brushing the other square-shaped plugs with his metallic fingers.
“Darwinhu ʾakbar!” the other techie huffed.
First surprised, his friend laughed. “You swapped to the new guy?”
“He got a beard. Still counts.”
“Your father would kick your ass for blasphemy… Anyway, what’s the deal with your jinx?”
“This isn’t a scout…” the electronics specialist explained. “I’m running a couple of programs on the whole electronic system. This Yalta’s just a nutshell.”
“A nutshell?”
“The hull’s a decoy. The rest of the ship—her guts and nerve centers up there in the cockpit— they’re of the best you could find in the belt—or even Deimos.”
“A decoy? But why?”
“Did you see the name? Her real name isn’t Forlorn Hope.” Rebin exclaimed. “By the Shah’s tongue! That’s the Red Swan!”
“The Swan? From Canyon Creek on Jupiter? What is she doing here? Didn’t she explode when—”
The smashing of an aluminum tray on the metal floor startled both technicians.
Swearing, Rebin pointed his flickering shoulder-light towards the kitchenette. “Is anyone there?”
“Here!” Kassim shouted, showing a drawer a little higher up above the microwave with the flashing clock.
“Where?” He rocked his weakening beam in that direction as well, revealing a curious animal with red plumage. “What the—a pigeon?”
His friend corrected him. “A duck…” Straightening, Kassim walked towards the obviously frightened and hungry bird. “Thanks for the haunted ship—and your ghost stories. That’s just a stupid little duckie.”
“Calm down…” Rebin rebuked him as the lout mechanic came up to the fowl.
“Still scared the crap out of me! But it will be perfect for Thanksgiving. Think about your daughter—she’s gonna love some foie gras. Hurry before your batteries die!”
Rebin hesitated, but his stomach rumbled at the same time. And reluctantly he grabbed the knife stuck in the mattress. There, his optics met the empty sockets of the two rotting corpses. He then slowly looked back at the duck. “Ka—Kassim…” he stuttered.
“What?” the latter growled, reaching for their future dinner.
This one had a strange gleam in his eyes.
“Ta—take out your gun, Kassim…”
“Don’t have it I told you!” the mechanician shouted as the light suddenly went out. “Shit!”
“Quack!”
“What the—help! Argh!”
“Kassim!”
TO BE CONTINUED