Wheelman
Wheelman was another Traveller promotional piece, dating from around 2002
Harnagh ‘Lifters’ Loursegh is a former grav-car racing champion, and now works as a freelance ‘Mobility Consultant’. He is between jobs and feeling the heat from his last fur-raising escapade. It seems smartest to keep a low profile while he seeks a new client, money is short and there isn’t much to do in mid-tech Rauthermann City, so ‘Lifters’ decides to respond to a mysterious comm call, sweetened with the promise of credits up front….
'Lifters' is a Vargr, a species genetically engineered long ago from Terran canines.
Harnagh ‘Lifters’ Loursegh is a former grav-car racing champion, and now works as a freelance ‘Mobility Consultant’. He is between jobs and feeling the heat from his last fur-raising escapade. It seems smartest to keep a low profile while he seeks a new client, money is short and there isn’t much to do in mid-tech Rauthermann City, so ‘Lifters’ decides to respond to a mysterious comm call, sweetened with the promise of credits up front….
'Lifters' is a Vargr, a species genetically engineered long ago from Terran canines.
Lifters lapped another taste of the bitter black coffee and pushed away his bowl with his left paw. He kept his ears from pricking up as the clients entered the eatery. It wasn’t hard to spot them; the fact that they were trying to act nonchalant and not secretive at all made them stand out all the more. Lifters suppressed a growl of laughter. Amateurs, then. Well, the money better be good. He kept an eye on the door in case this was a performance to distract him while Rauthermann Police Department got their act together outside.
One of the pair, a tall, skinny human in a surplus Scout Service coverall – no way had he ever been a Scout, though – ambled over to the counter and bought a cake and coffee. Good luck to hum there, Lifters thought. The other, a beefy Vargr wearing a sky blue and yellow tunic over crimson trousers, all topped off with a crimson jacket and cap bearing Tukera Lines’ logo’s, scanned the room and caught Lifters’ eye. Lifters nodded slightly and the Vargr stepped towards him, only to pause in mid-step a second later as recognition flared. The Vargr couldn’t hide his pleasure, and all but scurried over to join Lifters at the corner table. A moment later the flatface seated himself.
“You’re…” the Vargr began, but Lifters cut him off.
“Talk.”
“Uh… right. I’m Jar….”
“I don’t care who you are. Now get to business,” Lifters growled. He took his right paw out of his carry-bag, off the butt of the Intimidator. He folded his paws on the table, saw the look on the Vargr’s face as he realized Lifters had been aiming a weapon at him since he came in the door.
The Vargr tried again. “We need ground transport,” he said.
“No…” Lifters replied in his best ‘you-don’t say’ tone.
“We’re paying cash. One thousand credits, half up front. It’s a lot of money for a morning’s work.”
“Details?”
The Vargr shrugged. “We have a courier assignment. It should all be very straightforward, but it might not. If someone tries to slam the door on us we’ll need to get back to the ‘port sharpish. “
Lifters showed his fangs in a gesture of contempt. “Taxi work. Forget it.”
The human looked offended, but the Vargr shushed him with a gesture. “Two thousand, if you can provide a vehicle.”
Lifters considered it for a moment. Breaking cover right now wouldn’t be smart, not with everyone from Naval Intelligence to the neighborhood loan sharks gunning for him. But money was tight, and... well, he was bored. He leaned back in his seat and looked the Vargr over quizzically.
“What do you want, Mr Loursegh?” the Vargr asked at last.
“Passage. And the two thousand.”
“Passage?” the human said.
“Where to?” the Vargr asked, ignoring his companion.
“Next world you get to with a breathable atmosphere and mid-tech or better. For me and one item of luggage,” Lifters said.
“One item?”
“My vehicle.”
“How’d you know we had a ship?” the flatface demanded.
“I have eyes and a brain. Now shut up,” Lifters replied.
“I think I can get the Captain to agree to your terms. We’ll contact you with details later today,” the Vargr said. Lifters gave him a long look, and after a moment the Vargr held out a paw to his human companion, who dropped his small shoulder bag on the table. It rattled with the pleasing sound of plastic credit plaques.
“You not going to count it?” the Vargr said.
“If it’s wrong, I don’t show,” Lifters replied. He picked up the bag and slipped it into his own, less than subtly shifting the Intimidator back to the top and headed for the door.
The flatface finally lost his self-control, and rounded on his partner. Lifters smirked as the argument broke out.
“You didn’t even ask him if he could drive…!”
“DRIVE!” the Vargr barked. “You know who that guy is? Do you?”
“Well, no…”
“That’s Lifters Loursegh, All-Sector champion three years running. If it’s got wheels, lifters, tracks or a plenum chamber, he can drive the pants off it.”
Lifters pushed the door open as the argument faded behind him. Seemed like he’d made someone’s day just by being there. Well, that was nice… then the smirk faded as he realized something.
They’d not counted the money out. That meant they knew in advance exactly what he’d demand for the job. Lifters slipped his hand into the bag and onto the reassuring butt of the Intimidator.
Best be careful on this one.
* * *
The comm pinged. Lifters reached for his suit jacket, slipping into it and straightening the collar before answering. There was no visual, as he’d expected. Just a recorded artificial voice with a street name and a time. He glanced at the cheap chronometer on the wall of his dingy apartment. They had to be kidding! There? By WHEN? Just as well he was leaving this world; he’d have to just about reach orbital velocity to make the rendezvous.
Despite the ridiculous timeframe, Lifters stuck to his ritual. He didn’t bother locking the apartment door. There was nothing left there anyway; all his possessions were in a holdall in the trunk of his car, but he did slip on his black pseudoleather driving gloves and the wraparound shades as he walked – walked, not ran – to his ground car.
Lifters swung into the driving seat and started the huge, overpowered internal combustion engine. He gunned the throttle for a moment, savoring the roar and the smell of burnt hydrocarbons. Ah! Grav vehicles were faster, but there was nothing like four wheels and a roaring engine to stir the blood!
Lifters set the chronometer on dashboard, gunned the engine again, then put the sleek black ground car into reverse and dropped the clutch. Tires shrieked as he flung the wheel over, changing into first gear even as the car began to skid round. He floored the throttle and fishtailed out of the apartment car park, skidding out onto the main road between a truck and a family car. He accelerated straight across the crossroads, through a red light and between the crossing traffic. Only now, in the grip of adrenaline and speed did he drop his icy persona and give in to the gasoline joy in his veins.
Lifters Loursegh howled with joy as he hurtled through the traffic. Seventeen minutes to get across town, and where to after that? It didn’t matter. The wheelman was back in business.
* * *
The dash chronometer showed fifteen seconds to spare as Lifters slid to a stop in a cloud of gray-white tire smoke. Two figures approached the car. One, a solidly built woman whose manner and bearing said “Imperial Marines” got in the back. The other, a slighter-built man in civilian tunic and trousers, but wearing a very battered Navy officer’s cap and openly sporting a Navy-model gauss pistol, climbed into the passenger seat. Lifters eyed the Intimidator, now sitting in its seat-front holster, but said nothing.
“We’re running late,” the front-seat human said.
“Your fault. Not mine.”
The human nodded, producing a slip of paper. “You know this address?”
“Yes.”
“We need to be there twenty minutes ago.”
“Right,” Lifters floored it, screeching away as if he really could get them to their destination three minutes before he’d left his apartment.
As they screamed round another bend, narrowly missing a furniture van and a parked police car, the front-seat human prized his white-knuckled hands from the dashboard and said, “I’m Paulo; captain of the Eternal Optimist. I can guarantee your passage.”
Lifters glanced sideways at his passenger, making Paulo go yet paler. “Uhhh… junction….” The trader captain almost squeaked. Lifters turned his attention casually back to the road and threaded between the traffic without easing up on the throttle. He flung them around an intersection, sliding wildly sideways before the wheels bit and sent them lunging down an alley. “Dumpster….” Paulo said, but by then it was past and they were back on the main road.
* * *
Lifters sat and listened to the engine. His slightly pale and shaky clients had gone inside the warehouse yard a couple of minutes before, looking for the owner’s office. Lifters could have told him where to find it; he’d driven for the guy often enough. Word on the street was that the director of Kimsaa Exports was either a cross-border gunrunner or a local agent for Naval Intelligence. Or both. It didn’t really matter which; his money was good and he kept his bargains. And when he wanted something done fast and on the quiet, he hired the best Vargr – the best anybody – for the job.
Lifters shrugged his shoulders in the gray suit jacket he always wore to drive; his trademark ever since he became a freelancer. His racing days were over since the crash and the ban; at least officially. Now he raced with the cops and the crime barons’ minions. Raced for the big prize – survival. And mostly he raced with himself, seeking the big challenge.
Today, he realized, might be that big challenge. There was something not right about that van pulling into the far end of the street. And the car behind it….
Lifters went with the hunch. He crashed the car into first gear, hammered the throttle down, and skidded around through ninety degrees. Easing up on the throttle, he let the rear wheels bite. The car surged forward, through the gateway and into the yard where Kimsaa Exports marshaled their goods.
The yard where Paulo and his Marine companion were fighting for their lives.
The Marine had armed herself with a crowbar and was fending off a mob of heavies with it. They’d got her backed up against the warehouse wall though; it was only a matter of time before they brought her down. Her boss was already on the deck, frantically trying to reach his dropped pistol as a couple more heavies pinned him. Two more stood back, submachine-guns ready. Lifters gunned the car at them, sending one diving clear. The other stepped back just out of danger and brought up his weapon. Clever.
Lifters opened his door as he went past.
The subgunner spun away to land in a shattered heap. Lifters yanked the handbrake to lock the back wheels, leveling the Intimidator out of his passenger-side window as the car slid round. The second subgunner rolled to his feet, then froze facing the twin bore of the huge sawnoff shotgun-like weapon. Lifters grinned and waggled his hand cannon. The thug got the message and dropped his SMG.
The Marine burst through the mob, leaving a couple behind her on the ground. She sprinted towards the revving car, detouring to nuke one of Paulo’s assailants right in the ribs with her Size 11 combat boot. As the thug flew off him, Paulo got his hand to his gauss pistol and whacked the other heavy around the head with it. Then he was on his feet and backing towards the car, a sharp autofire cracking from the pistol. As Paulo sprayed gauss needles over their heads, the mob dived to the concrete. Paulo ducked into the car, but the Marine ran right past, grabbing the SMG and hammering its owner in the ribs with it. Then she dived into the back seat, and Lifters floored it.
As they screeched around and out onto the street, Lifters took stock of the situation. The road was blocked away to the right by two vanloads of heavies. They weren’t in uniform but they looked like soldiers, not cops or gang thugs. To the left there was a van and a car… and maybe just enough room…
More troopers boiled out of the vehicles and leveled their weapons as Lifters screeched between the vehicles. No, there wasn’t enough room. His passenger-side mirror was gone. But they were clear and…
“Car!” Paulo yelled, as a cop car screamed out of an intersection ahead. Lifters swerved right, almost into a warehouse wall, then cut hard left around the first intersection he came to. Sirens howled behind as the cop flung his vehicle around to give chase. More sirens sounded in the distance.
“Alright… just what is happening here?” Lifters asked, trying to sound calm and unruffled. He almost managed it.
“We do some odd jobs for Naval Intelligence,” Paulo answered, trying to change gauss pistol magazines. “Our contact was Landau Kimsaa.”
“Was,” the Marine put in from the back seat.
“Right. Mr Kimsaa is dead, along with a couple of his staff. Looks like someone decided to take him down... and us with him,” Paulo said. “Someone with a lot of influence. If we hadn’t been late…”
Lifters cocked his head, listening to the sirens, then flicked on his highly illegal Police Intercept radio. “I’d guess one of the Sollie covert cells. Those guys in the vans looked like professionals.”
Paulo nodded, jamming his pistol under his leg and clutching the sides of is seat with both hands. “Figures,” he said. “Mr Kimsaa certainly knew something important. That’s why we were handling the drop… so they’d not know he was onto them.”
“Didn’t work,” Lifters said.
“No, but we got the datachip he was going to pass us. Marie,” Paulo jerked a thumb at the Marine in the back seat, “Somehow managed to take it off one of the reception party. If we can get to the Optimist we can maybe still deliver it.”
“And as a bonus we don’t get killed by Solomani agents or the local cops…” Marie put in. “And by the way, we have a tail.”
“I know,” Lifters said. There’s two of them back there – and a roadblock up ahead.”
Paulo looked up from urgently speaking into his comm. “Do something!” he said.
Lifters bared his fangs, floored the throttle and aimed right at the cop cars blocking the road ahead. Paulo braced himself for impact. The roadblock hurtled closer, but Lifters cut right, up on the kerb. Muzzle flashes sparked among the cops manning the three-car roadblock. The windshield starred, then again. Then they were past, streaking along the roadside walkway until Lifters tickled the car back onto the road. Sounds of screeching tires, then the crash of breaking glass and tortured metal suggested that at least one of their pursuers had tried to follow them through the narrow gap.
And failed.
Lifters took a sharp right, then left, then right again, and began to slow down. He was panting slightly, adrenaline tiring him. The police band was filled with chatter as the cops searched for what someone, probably a dispatcher, was describing as a gang of murderous fugitives who’d gunned down a traffic cop. Paulo and Lifters exchanged a look.
“The Optimist is ready to lift,” Paulo said. “We’ve got to get to the ‘port.”
Lifters nodded then snarled as an unmarked car hurtled more or less sideways out of a sidestreet, steering into a wild skid as the driver sent his vehicle screeching in pursuit. Someone leaned out of the passenger window, firing a shotgun.
“How’d they find us?” Demanded Lifters, flooring it. “Do we have a flashing red arrow above us or something?”
Paulo opened the sunroof as pellets rang and sparked from the rear bodywork. A glance up and back told him what he’d suspected. “Air/Raft,” he said.
Lifters cursed, and Marie hefted the SMG. “Permission to return fire?” she said.
Paulo weighed it up for a second, then decided they had nothing to lose. They’d been painted as murderous thugs already. The cops wouldn’t hesitate to shoot. And whoever the other pursuers were – Solomani agents was still the most likely answer – they were after blood too. “Permission granted” Paulo said. “But not the cops. We’re still the good guys, remember?”
Marie nodded and climbed up on the seat. A moment later the SMG began to bark in her hands, and the pursuing car dropped back.
They raced onward, heading for the spaceport. Lifters’ intercept radio enabled them to avoid another roadblock, but by now their pursuers must surely know where they were headed. There were two unmarked cars back there now, keeping a respectful distance. There’d been a third for a while, but the driver hadn’t been up to the challenge. An encounter with a lamppost ended the chase for him. The air/raft was high up, keeping tabs on them. It didn’t look good.
A cop car pulled out ahead, accelerating hard. The driver swerved in front of them, trying to block their progress. A second car joined from a side road, the passenger firing a handgun at their tires. Lifters hoped they were shooting at his tires, anyway. The two unmarked cars dropped back as the cops closed in, telling Lifters something he needed to know. Two lots of pursuers; one probably a Solomani group, the other cops being fed duff information. That was slightly better than a combined operation.
The two cop cars blocked most of the road ahead. Lifters waited until they split to go around an oncoming removal van, then stood on the brakes as if to dive into a sidestreet. The cops were a good second or two later, turning sideways as they braked. Lifters gunned the engine, deliberately clipping the back of one cop car. It spun out of control as he shot past the other, rounding a long left and onto the spaceport approach road. Ahead, port security personnel had lowered the barriers – a pointless gesture – and parked a fire tender across the road. That was a lot more impressive. Lifters went left and though the wire fence instead.
Trailing a length of fence, sparks flying, the battered black ground car raced across the landing apron to where the Eternal Optimist lay waiting, her portside cargo doors open. Two cop cars were streaking in to cut them off, another one was closing from behind, and there were now no less than four unmarked cars behind the cops. Plus the air/raft.
Lifters weighed it all up in a split second, and cut right towards where a Subsidized Merchant was unloading her cargo. Ground crew and cargobots scattered as the car hurtled directly towards the giant front cargo ramp.
“You know, I…” Lifters began as they hit the base of the ramp. The car surged into the air with a scream from the transmission. It skipped halfway up the ramp, threatening to skid into the wall of the cavernous cargo bay. Lifters flung the wheel left as they crested the top of the ramp.
“…really hope…” the car became airborne, turning through sixty degrees before it struck the decking. Lifters steered into the skid for a second, fighting the car’s tendency to flip over. Then he yanked the handbrake and flung the wheel over.
“… the rear doors are…” they slid past a stunned port official with a clipboard who’d been arguing with the Subbie’s purser. As the car turned completely backwards the three occupants got a good view of the yelling, panicked faces of the two men they’d just so narrowly missed. Lifters waved a gloved hand in apology.
“… open!”
And then they were out into the light, flying more or less backwards out of the rear loading doors, down the aft cargo ramp to skid to a halt behind the three-storey cargo ship. Cop cars and unmarked pursuers raced past, braking hard as they realized they’d been had. Lifters floored it and squealed away, back the way they’d come, then swerved right towards the Optimist.
The air/raft had come about and was streaking back at them, a rifle firing from the open passenger compartment. Sparks flashed on the landing apron as Marie stuck her head and shoulders out of the sunroof and shot back. Paulo sprayed gauss needles from his pistol in the general direction of the ‘raft, knowing there was little chance of a hit at this speed.
Then they were sliding again, a tire blowing out, the car fishtailing wildly. Lifters fought it, tickled the throttle and the brakes, got the skid more or less straightened out. His passengers ducked back inside as they hit the Optimist’s cargo ramp. Another tire blew, but they had plenty of momentum. Lifters slammed on the brakes, skidding into the cargo bay to fetch up against a crate of freeze-dried prawns.
Then they were lifting, the port falling behind as the cargo doors slid shut.
Lifters killed the engine and sat quietly for a moment. So did the others. Then Marie said from the back seat, “So, you think there’s something on this datachip worth all that?”
“Could be,” Paulo replied. “Seems like someone decided to take out the Naval Intelligence presence in the region. Probably a Solomani covert ops cell.”
“Among others,” Lifters said suddenly.
“Huh?” Paulo replied.
“Your friend Mr Kimsaa was working for two local crime lords, the Sollies, and a cross-border smuggling operation,” Lifters replied.
“And you knew that?”
“Yes. Getting proof was going to be difficult,” Lifters said, “but I knew. Pretty much everyone in town knew. Except, apparently, your friends in Naval Intelligence.”
“They know more than you think, Mr Loursegh,” Paulo said, climbing shakily out of the car.
“Really?” Lifters stepped out and surveyed the damage sadly.
“Yes, really,” Paulo replied. “They knew your cover was blown, Lieutenant.”
Lifters’ ice-cool demeanor cracked for a second. “What?”
“Lieutenant Loursegh, Ministry of Justice Special Investigations Office… that IS you, right?” Paulo said with a smile.
“Okay, you got me.” Lifters shrugged and went on as Marie finally kicked the dented back door open and climbed out, “Do please explain.”
Paulo said, “Your operation is even more leaky than ours. Your immediate superior was working for Mr Kimsaa. He in turn was reporting to a senior Solomani Security coordinator who may be the hub of their operation on the entire planet. It’s ironic really; I suspect they’ve just taken out one of their own cell leaders. Such is intelligence work.”
“Just as well you hired me… you’d never have gotten out without me!” Lifters declared.
Again, Paulo smiled. “Never intended to.”
“Now it was Lifters’ turn to say, “huh?”
“Just why,” Paulo asked rhetorically, “do you think we came here, if not to get you out?”
“Then why didn’t we just drive to the ‘port and leave!”
“Because there was a hit team permanently tasked with taking you out if you made to leave. We had to throw them off the scent.”
“By walking into a trap!” Lifters snarled.
“We were fairly sure we could get out again,” Paulo said. “After all, we hired the best wheelman in the business. Isn’t that right?”
Lifters’ ears flattened as he acknowledged the point. “Okay. You got me there.”
“Come on, let’s get out of the cargo bay,” Paulo said, “We’ll need to get you settled into some quarters before we Jump.”
Lifters followed Paulo and Marie out of the landing bay, eyes downcast and tail drooping. But neither of them saw him smirk at their turned backs.
If that was what Naval Intelligence wanted to believe had just happened, that was fine with him. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
Or him.
One of the pair, a tall, skinny human in a surplus Scout Service coverall – no way had he ever been a Scout, though – ambled over to the counter and bought a cake and coffee. Good luck to hum there, Lifters thought. The other, a beefy Vargr wearing a sky blue and yellow tunic over crimson trousers, all topped off with a crimson jacket and cap bearing Tukera Lines’ logo’s, scanned the room and caught Lifters’ eye. Lifters nodded slightly and the Vargr stepped towards him, only to pause in mid-step a second later as recognition flared. The Vargr couldn’t hide his pleasure, and all but scurried over to join Lifters at the corner table. A moment later the flatface seated himself.
“You’re…” the Vargr began, but Lifters cut him off.
“Talk.”
“Uh… right. I’m Jar….”
“I don’t care who you are. Now get to business,” Lifters growled. He took his right paw out of his carry-bag, off the butt of the Intimidator. He folded his paws on the table, saw the look on the Vargr’s face as he realized Lifters had been aiming a weapon at him since he came in the door.
The Vargr tried again. “We need ground transport,” he said.
“No…” Lifters replied in his best ‘you-don’t say’ tone.
“We’re paying cash. One thousand credits, half up front. It’s a lot of money for a morning’s work.”
“Details?”
The Vargr shrugged. “We have a courier assignment. It should all be very straightforward, but it might not. If someone tries to slam the door on us we’ll need to get back to the ‘port sharpish. “
Lifters showed his fangs in a gesture of contempt. “Taxi work. Forget it.”
The human looked offended, but the Vargr shushed him with a gesture. “Two thousand, if you can provide a vehicle.”
Lifters considered it for a moment. Breaking cover right now wouldn’t be smart, not with everyone from Naval Intelligence to the neighborhood loan sharks gunning for him. But money was tight, and... well, he was bored. He leaned back in his seat and looked the Vargr over quizzically.
“What do you want, Mr Loursegh?” the Vargr asked at last.
“Passage. And the two thousand.”
“Passage?” the human said.
“Where to?” the Vargr asked, ignoring his companion.
“Next world you get to with a breathable atmosphere and mid-tech or better. For me and one item of luggage,” Lifters said.
“One item?”
“My vehicle.”
“How’d you know we had a ship?” the flatface demanded.
“I have eyes and a brain. Now shut up,” Lifters replied.
“I think I can get the Captain to agree to your terms. We’ll contact you with details later today,” the Vargr said. Lifters gave him a long look, and after a moment the Vargr held out a paw to his human companion, who dropped his small shoulder bag on the table. It rattled with the pleasing sound of plastic credit plaques.
“You not going to count it?” the Vargr said.
“If it’s wrong, I don’t show,” Lifters replied. He picked up the bag and slipped it into his own, less than subtly shifting the Intimidator back to the top and headed for the door.
The flatface finally lost his self-control, and rounded on his partner. Lifters smirked as the argument broke out.
“You didn’t even ask him if he could drive…!”
“DRIVE!” the Vargr barked. “You know who that guy is? Do you?”
“Well, no…”
“That’s Lifters Loursegh, All-Sector champion three years running. If it’s got wheels, lifters, tracks or a plenum chamber, he can drive the pants off it.”
Lifters pushed the door open as the argument faded behind him. Seemed like he’d made someone’s day just by being there. Well, that was nice… then the smirk faded as he realized something.
They’d not counted the money out. That meant they knew in advance exactly what he’d demand for the job. Lifters slipped his hand into the bag and onto the reassuring butt of the Intimidator.
Best be careful on this one.
* * *
The comm pinged. Lifters reached for his suit jacket, slipping into it and straightening the collar before answering. There was no visual, as he’d expected. Just a recorded artificial voice with a street name and a time. He glanced at the cheap chronometer on the wall of his dingy apartment. They had to be kidding! There? By WHEN? Just as well he was leaving this world; he’d have to just about reach orbital velocity to make the rendezvous.
Despite the ridiculous timeframe, Lifters stuck to his ritual. He didn’t bother locking the apartment door. There was nothing left there anyway; all his possessions were in a holdall in the trunk of his car, but he did slip on his black pseudoleather driving gloves and the wraparound shades as he walked – walked, not ran – to his ground car.
Lifters swung into the driving seat and started the huge, overpowered internal combustion engine. He gunned the throttle for a moment, savoring the roar and the smell of burnt hydrocarbons. Ah! Grav vehicles were faster, but there was nothing like four wheels and a roaring engine to stir the blood!
Lifters set the chronometer on dashboard, gunned the engine again, then put the sleek black ground car into reverse and dropped the clutch. Tires shrieked as he flung the wheel over, changing into first gear even as the car began to skid round. He floored the throttle and fishtailed out of the apartment car park, skidding out onto the main road between a truck and a family car. He accelerated straight across the crossroads, through a red light and between the crossing traffic. Only now, in the grip of adrenaline and speed did he drop his icy persona and give in to the gasoline joy in his veins.
Lifters Loursegh howled with joy as he hurtled through the traffic. Seventeen minutes to get across town, and where to after that? It didn’t matter. The wheelman was back in business.
* * *
The dash chronometer showed fifteen seconds to spare as Lifters slid to a stop in a cloud of gray-white tire smoke. Two figures approached the car. One, a solidly built woman whose manner and bearing said “Imperial Marines” got in the back. The other, a slighter-built man in civilian tunic and trousers, but wearing a very battered Navy officer’s cap and openly sporting a Navy-model gauss pistol, climbed into the passenger seat. Lifters eyed the Intimidator, now sitting in its seat-front holster, but said nothing.
“We’re running late,” the front-seat human said.
“Your fault. Not mine.”
The human nodded, producing a slip of paper. “You know this address?”
“Yes.”
“We need to be there twenty minutes ago.”
“Right,” Lifters floored it, screeching away as if he really could get them to their destination three minutes before he’d left his apartment.
As they screamed round another bend, narrowly missing a furniture van and a parked police car, the front-seat human prized his white-knuckled hands from the dashboard and said, “I’m Paulo; captain of the Eternal Optimist. I can guarantee your passage.”
Lifters glanced sideways at his passenger, making Paulo go yet paler. “Uhhh… junction….” The trader captain almost squeaked. Lifters turned his attention casually back to the road and threaded between the traffic without easing up on the throttle. He flung them around an intersection, sliding wildly sideways before the wheels bit and sent them lunging down an alley. “Dumpster….” Paulo said, but by then it was past and they were back on the main road.
* * *
Lifters sat and listened to the engine. His slightly pale and shaky clients had gone inside the warehouse yard a couple of minutes before, looking for the owner’s office. Lifters could have told him where to find it; he’d driven for the guy often enough. Word on the street was that the director of Kimsaa Exports was either a cross-border gunrunner or a local agent for Naval Intelligence. Or both. It didn’t really matter which; his money was good and he kept his bargains. And when he wanted something done fast and on the quiet, he hired the best Vargr – the best anybody – for the job.
Lifters shrugged his shoulders in the gray suit jacket he always wore to drive; his trademark ever since he became a freelancer. His racing days were over since the crash and the ban; at least officially. Now he raced with the cops and the crime barons’ minions. Raced for the big prize – survival. And mostly he raced with himself, seeking the big challenge.
Today, he realized, might be that big challenge. There was something not right about that van pulling into the far end of the street. And the car behind it….
Lifters went with the hunch. He crashed the car into first gear, hammered the throttle down, and skidded around through ninety degrees. Easing up on the throttle, he let the rear wheels bite. The car surged forward, through the gateway and into the yard where Kimsaa Exports marshaled their goods.
The yard where Paulo and his Marine companion were fighting for their lives.
The Marine had armed herself with a crowbar and was fending off a mob of heavies with it. They’d got her backed up against the warehouse wall though; it was only a matter of time before they brought her down. Her boss was already on the deck, frantically trying to reach his dropped pistol as a couple more heavies pinned him. Two more stood back, submachine-guns ready. Lifters gunned the car at them, sending one diving clear. The other stepped back just out of danger and brought up his weapon. Clever.
Lifters opened his door as he went past.
The subgunner spun away to land in a shattered heap. Lifters yanked the handbrake to lock the back wheels, leveling the Intimidator out of his passenger-side window as the car slid round. The second subgunner rolled to his feet, then froze facing the twin bore of the huge sawnoff shotgun-like weapon. Lifters grinned and waggled his hand cannon. The thug got the message and dropped his SMG.
The Marine burst through the mob, leaving a couple behind her on the ground. She sprinted towards the revving car, detouring to nuke one of Paulo’s assailants right in the ribs with her Size 11 combat boot. As the thug flew off him, Paulo got his hand to his gauss pistol and whacked the other heavy around the head with it. Then he was on his feet and backing towards the car, a sharp autofire cracking from the pistol. As Paulo sprayed gauss needles over their heads, the mob dived to the concrete. Paulo ducked into the car, but the Marine ran right past, grabbing the SMG and hammering its owner in the ribs with it. Then she dived into the back seat, and Lifters floored it.
As they screeched around and out onto the street, Lifters took stock of the situation. The road was blocked away to the right by two vanloads of heavies. They weren’t in uniform but they looked like soldiers, not cops or gang thugs. To the left there was a van and a car… and maybe just enough room…
More troopers boiled out of the vehicles and leveled their weapons as Lifters screeched between the vehicles. No, there wasn’t enough room. His passenger-side mirror was gone. But they were clear and…
“Car!” Paulo yelled, as a cop car screamed out of an intersection ahead. Lifters swerved right, almost into a warehouse wall, then cut hard left around the first intersection he came to. Sirens howled behind as the cop flung his vehicle around to give chase. More sirens sounded in the distance.
“Alright… just what is happening here?” Lifters asked, trying to sound calm and unruffled. He almost managed it.
“We do some odd jobs for Naval Intelligence,” Paulo answered, trying to change gauss pistol magazines. “Our contact was Landau Kimsaa.”
“Was,” the Marine put in from the back seat.
“Right. Mr Kimsaa is dead, along with a couple of his staff. Looks like someone decided to take him down... and us with him,” Paulo said. “Someone with a lot of influence. If we hadn’t been late…”
Lifters cocked his head, listening to the sirens, then flicked on his highly illegal Police Intercept radio. “I’d guess one of the Sollie covert cells. Those guys in the vans looked like professionals.”
Paulo nodded, jamming his pistol under his leg and clutching the sides of is seat with both hands. “Figures,” he said. “Mr Kimsaa certainly knew something important. That’s why we were handling the drop… so they’d not know he was onto them.”
“Didn’t work,” Lifters said.
“No, but we got the datachip he was going to pass us. Marie,” Paulo jerked a thumb at the Marine in the back seat, “Somehow managed to take it off one of the reception party. If we can get to the Optimist we can maybe still deliver it.”
“And as a bonus we don’t get killed by Solomani agents or the local cops…” Marie put in. “And by the way, we have a tail.”
“I know,” Lifters said. There’s two of them back there – and a roadblock up ahead.”
Paulo looked up from urgently speaking into his comm. “Do something!” he said.
Lifters bared his fangs, floored the throttle and aimed right at the cop cars blocking the road ahead. Paulo braced himself for impact. The roadblock hurtled closer, but Lifters cut right, up on the kerb. Muzzle flashes sparked among the cops manning the three-car roadblock. The windshield starred, then again. Then they were past, streaking along the roadside walkway until Lifters tickled the car back onto the road. Sounds of screeching tires, then the crash of breaking glass and tortured metal suggested that at least one of their pursuers had tried to follow them through the narrow gap.
And failed.
Lifters took a sharp right, then left, then right again, and began to slow down. He was panting slightly, adrenaline tiring him. The police band was filled with chatter as the cops searched for what someone, probably a dispatcher, was describing as a gang of murderous fugitives who’d gunned down a traffic cop. Paulo and Lifters exchanged a look.
“The Optimist is ready to lift,” Paulo said. “We’ve got to get to the ‘port.”
Lifters nodded then snarled as an unmarked car hurtled more or less sideways out of a sidestreet, steering into a wild skid as the driver sent his vehicle screeching in pursuit. Someone leaned out of the passenger window, firing a shotgun.
“How’d they find us?” Demanded Lifters, flooring it. “Do we have a flashing red arrow above us or something?”
Paulo opened the sunroof as pellets rang and sparked from the rear bodywork. A glance up and back told him what he’d suspected. “Air/Raft,” he said.
Lifters cursed, and Marie hefted the SMG. “Permission to return fire?” she said.
Paulo weighed it up for a second, then decided they had nothing to lose. They’d been painted as murderous thugs already. The cops wouldn’t hesitate to shoot. And whoever the other pursuers were – Solomani agents was still the most likely answer – they were after blood too. “Permission granted” Paulo said. “But not the cops. We’re still the good guys, remember?”
Marie nodded and climbed up on the seat. A moment later the SMG began to bark in her hands, and the pursuing car dropped back.
They raced onward, heading for the spaceport. Lifters’ intercept radio enabled them to avoid another roadblock, but by now their pursuers must surely know where they were headed. There were two unmarked cars back there now, keeping a respectful distance. There’d been a third for a while, but the driver hadn’t been up to the challenge. An encounter with a lamppost ended the chase for him. The air/raft was high up, keeping tabs on them. It didn’t look good.
A cop car pulled out ahead, accelerating hard. The driver swerved in front of them, trying to block their progress. A second car joined from a side road, the passenger firing a handgun at their tires. Lifters hoped they were shooting at his tires, anyway. The two unmarked cars dropped back as the cops closed in, telling Lifters something he needed to know. Two lots of pursuers; one probably a Solomani group, the other cops being fed duff information. That was slightly better than a combined operation.
The two cop cars blocked most of the road ahead. Lifters waited until they split to go around an oncoming removal van, then stood on the brakes as if to dive into a sidestreet. The cops were a good second or two later, turning sideways as they braked. Lifters gunned the engine, deliberately clipping the back of one cop car. It spun out of control as he shot past the other, rounding a long left and onto the spaceport approach road. Ahead, port security personnel had lowered the barriers – a pointless gesture – and parked a fire tender across the road. That was a lot more impressive. Lifters went left and though the wire fence instead.
Trailing a length of fence, sparks flying, the battered black ground car raced across the landing apron to where the Eternal Optimist lay waiting, her portside cargo doors open. Two cop cars were streaking in to cut them off, another one was closing from behind, and there were now no less than four unmarked cars behind the cops. Plus the air/raft.
Lifters weighed it all up in a split second, and cut right towards where a Subsidized Merchant was unloading her cargo. Ground crew and cargobots scattered as the car hurtled directly towards the giant front cargo ramp.
“You know, I…” Lifters began as they hit the base of the ramp. The car surged into the air with a scream from the transmission. It skipped halfway up the ramp, threatening to skid into the wall of the cavernous cargo bay. Lifters flung the wheel left as they crested the top of the ramp.
“…really hope…” the car became airborne, turning through sixty degrees before it struck the decking. Lifters steered into the skid for a second, fighting the car’s tendency to flip over. Then he yanked the handbrake and flung the wheel over.
“… the rear doors are…” they slid past a stunned port official with a clipboard who’d been arguing with the Subbie’s purser. As the car turned completely backwards the three occupants got a good view of the yelling, panicked faces of the two men they’d just so narrowly missed. Lifters waved a gloved hand in apology.
“… open!”
And then they were out into the light, flying more or less backwards out of the rear loading doors, down the aft cargo ramp to skid to a halt behind the three-storey cargo ship. Cop cars and unmarked pursuers raced past, braking hard as they realized they’d been had. Lifters floored it and squealed away, back the way they’d come, then swerved right towards the Optimist.
The air/raft had come about and was streaking back at them, a rifle firing from the open passenger compartment. Sparks flashed on the landing apron as Marie stuck her head and shoulders out of the sunroof and shot back. Paulo sprayed gauss needles from his pistol in the general direction of the ‘raft, knowing there was little chance of a hit at this speed.
Then they were sliding again, a tire blowing out, the car fishtailing wildly. Lifters fought it, tickled the throttle and the brakes, got the skid more or less straightened out. His passengers ducked back inside as they hit the Optimist’s cargo ramp. Another tire blew, but they had plenty of momentum. Lifters slammed on the brakes, skidding into the cargo bay to fetch up against a crate of freeze-dried prawns.
Then they were lifting, the port falling behind as the cargo doors slid shut.
Lifters killed the engine and sat quietly for a moment. So did the others. Then Marie said from the back seat, “So, you think there’s something on this datachip worth all that?”
“Could be,” Paulo replied. “Seems like someone decided to take out the Naval Intelligence presence in the region. Probably a Solomani covert ops cell.”
“Among others,” Lifters said suddenly.
“Huh?” Paulo replied.
“Your friend Mr Kimsaa was working for two local crime lords, the Sollies, and a cross-border smuggling operation,” Lifters replied.
“And you knew that?”
“Yes. Getting proof was going to be difficult,” Lifters said, “but I knew. Pretty much everyone in town knew. Except, apparently, your friends in Naval Intelligence.”
“They know more than you think, Mr Loursegh,” Paulo said, climbing shakily out of the car.
“Really?” Lifters stepped out and surveyed the damage sadly.
“Yes, really,” Paulo replied. “They knew your cover was blown, Lieutenant.”
Lifters’ ice-cool demeanor cracked for a second. “What?”
“Lieutenant Loursegh, Ministry of Justice Special Investigations Office… that IS you, right?” Paulo said with a smile.
“Okay, you got me.” Lifters shrugged and went on as Marie finally kicked the dented back door open and climbed out, “Do please explain.”
Paulo said, “Your operation is even more leaky than ours. Your immediate superior was working for Mr Kimsaa. He in turn was reporting to a senior Solomani Security coordinator who may be the hub of their operation on the entire planet. It’s ironic really; I suspect they’ve just taken out one of their own cell leaders. Such is intelligence work.”
“Just as well you hired me… you’d never have gotten out without me!” Lifters declared.
Again, Paulo smiled. “Never intended to.”
“Now it was Lifters’ turn to say, “huh?”
“Just why,” Paulo asked rhetorically, “do you think we came here, if not to get you out?”
“Then why didn’t we just drive to the ‘port and leave!”
“Because there was a hit team permanently tasked with taking you out if you made to leave. We had to throw them off the scent.”
“By walking into a trap!” Lifters snarled.
“We were fairly sure we could get out again,” Paulo said. “After all, we hired the best wheelman in the business. Isn’t that right?”
Lifters’ ears flattened as he acknowledged the point. “Okay. You got me there.”
“Come on, let’s get out of the cargo bay,” Paulo said, “We’ll need to get you settled into some quarters before we Jump.”
Lifters followed Paulo and Marie out of the landing bay, eyes downcast and tail drooping. But neither of them saw him smirk at their turned backs.
If that was what Naval Intelligence wanted to believe had just happened, that was fine with him. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
Or him.
