Columbia
A Third Tale of Bestimmung Company
by
Chris Pourteau
writing in the world of
Michael Bunker’s Pennsylvania
Text copyright (c) 2015 by James C. Pourteau. All rights reserved.
First Kindle Edition: May 2015
ISBN 978-0-9899813-4-7
Thank you for purchasing this ebook. It is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Aspects of this story are inspired by the world of Pennsylvania, copyright (c) 2014 by Michael Bunker. Used with permission.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design copyright (c) 2015 by Dave Monk Fraser Adams. All rights reserved. Used by permission. http://www.lacunaverse.com/.
Illustrations copyright (c) 2015 by Ben Adams. All rights reserved. Used by permission. http://www.benjadams.com.
Editing by David Gatewood. http://lonetrout.com.
Formatting by Polgarus Studio. http://polgarusstudio.com.
For the fans of B Company
Without you, there’d be no reason to tell the story
Table of Contents
Dedication
A Little Night Work
Obadiah’s Orders
The Tick-Tock of the Okcillium Clock
Up, Up, Up!
Legacy
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
A Little Night Work
The waitress left the bourbon on the table and waited. Sean Hatch extended his uni bracelet and tapped it against the exchange scanner she held.
“Wasn’t sure you’d have one of those,” he said.
“Most people pay by BICE,” she said. “But I know you TRACE types prefer staying off the grid, especially in the City.”
When the waitress didn’t move, Hatch looked up from beneath his fedora and found himself facing a raised eyebrow, expectant and impatient. He sighed, tapped her tip into the reader and received a bored¸ half-satisfied smile in return.
The bourbon better be good at least, Hatch thought, pulling his long coat closer around him. It was chilly in here. Probably used to having more body heat in the place.
He picked up the glass and swirled the bourbon. The dark-brown liquid reflected the low light of the bar as it moved. Hatch pretended to appreciate the contents of his glass, though in reality his eyes peered over its rim, surveying the establishment for threats.
Nearly deserted this close to midnight, the place was furnished with traditional tables and chairs of real wood, something you didn’t see much anymore. For atmosphere, no doubt. Part of its appeal to the locals. Initials engraved on tabletops proved that. In the Age of Okcillium, people still liked carving wood, even in bars—perhaps especially in bars. When a person wanted a drink, they sought out old-fashioned intimacy: the scrape of a chair’s legs on a hardwood floor; the low murmur of half-hidden conversations in a corner unmolested by synthetic light. But this late at night, that particular aspect of atmosphere was missing from this bar, one of the TRACE network’s best-kept secrets.
Intermittent light from a flickering streetlamp beyond the window made the shadows dance. The bar’s sign out front swayed in the breeze. If you watched long enough, you could piece together the name of the place: “Ye Olde World English Tavern.”
Sitting at a table across the bar and facing the door, the other half of Hatch’s team caught his eye for a moment. To anyone looking on, it would appear as though the second man was merely coveting Hatch’s amber elixir. Not that there were many other patrons in the bar to be looking on. And if there had been, it wasn’t likely anyone would challenge the second man. He looked too much like someone had thrown a trench coat and fedora over a small mountain.
All clear then, thought Hatch as he assessed Stug’s impassive gaze and downed his drink. Sitting near the window in his camel-colored coat, Stug returned his watchful eyes to the street outside.
Hatch motioned first to the bartender, then to the empty glass in front of him. The man set down the mug he was drying, picked up a glass and a bottle of bourbon, and made his way to the table.
“You’re hot,” the bartender said.
“I’m not your type.”
Stug snickered from his window seat.
Clucking his tongue, the bartender sat down and poured himself a drink. Remembering the waitress’s quiet efficiency earlier, Hatch raised his own expectant, impatient eyebrow. So the bartender poured him one too.
“I mean, everyone’s looking for you, Hatch. Transport, TRACE … if it’s wearing a uniform, it’s after you. Even your friends are your enemies.”
Hatch aired out his new drink with one hand and pulled his fedora down a bit tighter with the other. From under the brim, he said, “Well, it’s a good thing I’m here then, since the place is practically deserted. You seem to be doing crap for business, Wainwright.” He gestured to the vacant chairs around them with the bourbon in his hand, then emptied his glass again.
“It’s after curfew. And ever since Transport started pulling out of the City, business has been crap all right,” acknowledged the tavern’s owner. Wainwright downed his own drink and made a disgusted sound before pouring himself another. “That’s what happens when you lose paying customers.”
“Ha!” The commentary sounded from behind the bar. The waitress with the entitled eyebrow. Hatch felt her barb aimed right at him.
Even her voice is annoying, he thought, though Hatch didn’t look in her direction; he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. “Try keeping your voice down,” he said to Wainwright. “It’s the latest thing when you’re trying not to be noticed.”
“Miranda? Oh, she’s all right.” The tavern’s owner grunted. “We had a bunch of TRACE VIPs through here recently. Brought a lot of heat with them, too, after the fact. We weathered it, but … yeah, let’s conclude our business, and you and your friend find another place to hole up in.”
Hatch held out his glass. “Well now, Jeff,” he said. “I thought we were friends.”
“Were is right. Now TRACE wants you in custody. Anyone finds out you’re here—good guys or bad guys—and I didn’t tell ’em? Jams me up. So chop-chop.”
Hatch wiggled his glass. Wainwright was slow to pour him another, obviously begrudging both the liquor and what little time Hatch would take to drink it.
“All we need is confirmation of where they took her. It’s been a week. I don’t even know if she’s still in the City.”
“Oh, she’s still—”
A chair scraped across the floor in the rear of the bar. Its former occupant stepped unsteadily toward the exit, feeling his way along the backs of chairs. Apparently he’d reached his limit. He passed their table, then Stug’s lookout position in front of the window, and stumbled into the dark, slick street outside.
“As I was saying, she’s still here. Still at the Central Detention Center. Scarface Gutierrez arrived from the Great Shelf today, in fact. So, if you want her in one piece …”
Tap-tap.
Hatch looked up. Stug had turned the empty shot glass over on the table and kicked his hat to the top of his forehead. Seeing the sergeant’s face always reassured Hatch. Unless the big man was drunk. But that wasn’t in the cards for tonight. Stug was their designated hitter. And he’d just given the signal that someone was angling toward the tavern’s front door.
Hatch asked quietly, “This your man?”
Wainwright looked sideways without turning. In walked a short, thick man with lin
es on his face that spoke of a lifetime of anger barely subdued.
“Yeah, that’s him. Name’s Ducky. He’s Pook Rayburn’s second-in-command in the City.”
As the man entered the tavern, Hatch removed his hat and wiped the top of his head once. Stug pulled his own fedora back down over his eyes and returned his shadowy gaze to the street beyond the window.
“Ducky, this is Hatch,” said Wainwright as the man approached their table.
“The guy who’s hot?”
“Ha!” The waitress again from behind the bar.
“Are you sure she can be trusted?” asked Hatch, jerking his thumb in her direction. “She has the ears of a Vulcan.”
“A what?” asked Wainwright.
“Ancient pop culture reference. Answer my question.”
“Yeah. I told you, she’s solid.”
Ducky took a seat at the table. Glancing at the woman behind the bar, he said gruffly, “Hey, luv, bring me a glass, would you?” Back to his tablemates, Ducky said, “A night like this, a hard drink goes down smooth, I can tell ya that.”
Even when ordering a drink this Ducky seems irritated, Hatch thought, sizing him up. “Do you have what I asked for?”
“Sure,” said Ducky, watching the waitress walk around the bar. “Do you have the unis?” His wandering gaze landed squarely on Hatch.
In response, the lieutenant brandished his bracelet.
“How many extra unis do I get for not turning you in to TRACE?” asked Ducky, his eyes level.
Wainwright visibly stiffened. “No, Duck—”
“Just sayin’. This guy’s wanted, and TRACE needs all the unis it can get. We’re this close to driving Transport out of the City for good. This close.”
The waitress approached, and the men at the table fell silent. She placed the empty glass on the wooden surface—warily. She’d heard the challenge in Ducky’s voice too.
Hatch regarded Wainwright’s man coolly as the waitress turned and walked away, this time without waiting around for a tip. “Well, how about this instead of extra unis,” Hatch said. “How about I don’t turn my partner over there loose on you?” Hatch grinned from beneath the shadow over his eyes. His expression invited Ducky to believe every single word he said.
Ducky looked over to the window. Stug kicked back his hat again and winked at the smaller, boar-like entrepreneur, who sneered in response.
“Because I have a feeling that whatever I pay you,” continued Hatch, “would be exactly how much it’d cost to set your bones and bind up your bleeders.”
Ducky turned a death’s-head stare to Hatch and began to rise. Wainwright grabbed the bottle of bourbon quickly and poured two fingers for the short man.
“Duck, maybe you weren’t listening,” offered the tavern’s owner. “This is Sean Hatch. He and his crew took the okcillium at Gettysburg. They pulled the guns out of Columbia—right out from under the noses of Transport—for Logan and his people. The Wild Ones that shepherd food for TRACE from the Amish Zone to Little Gibraltar?” The man’s voice was knowing and suggestive in a way Hatch didn’t understand.
Ducky looked at Wainwright. “That’s this guy?”
Wainwright held the bottle in the air expectantly. Ducky grabbed the shot, downed it, and sat back down. Wainwright poured him four more fingers.
“Yeah, I’m that guy,” said Hatch. “So how about we avoid paying Jeff here for his broken furniture and get down to the business we came here to do.”
“Sure.” Ducky laughed; it wasn’t a pleasant sound. But the air seemed to be cleared. “Sure, no problem. It’s just that Transport’s getting desperate. And we need all the help we can get. There’s just a lot of our people dying out there, ya know? But yeah, I guess you do know. So, BICE ID?”
Hatch blew out a breath. “You kidding? You think I’m gonna give you direct access to my BICE? I wouldn’t do that if you had the backdoor codes for Transport’s foreclosure collections server.”
Ducky spread his hands. “Hey now, given what Jeff just said, I thought we were on the same side.”
“No one’s on my side but him,” said Hatch, nodding at Stug. “And usually, that’s all I need.” If Ducky was still thinking of selling him out, Hatch’s tone suggested he rethink it.
“Fine.” Ducky pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket. “Log in to this channel. Once you do, the information will be live for five seconds. Then it burns off the drive forever. Backups too.”
Hatch took the paper. “Old school. I like it. These are the schematics for the Columbia Detention Center?”
Ducky nodded. “The Dungeon below, too. And that’s where you’re gonna find her. Not up top in the luxury suites. Now, transfer the unis.” He held up his bracelet.
“After I get the info.” Hatch glanced away as he accessed the Internet with his BICE. The dampening field the Authority maintained in the City, geared to interfere with TRACE’s ability to access and communicate through the Internet, made him wince as always.
Ducky looked at Wainwright. “That’s not what we agreed to,” he said, his tone considerably more irritated than before. “War hero or no, that wasn’t the deal.”
“Maybe not, but that’s how it’s gonna be,” said a gruff voice behind him.
Startled, Ducky began to rise from his chair again. Bear paws landed on his shoulders.
“Not to worry, friend,” said Stug. “We’re all on the same side, remember?”
Ducky returned to his seat. “Tell you one thing, you’re quiet for a big guy.”
“I’m sober tonight,” Stug said simply.
Hatch cleared his throat. “Got it.” He tossed the paper in the candle burning in the middle of the table and extended his hand. Ducky touched his bracelet to Hatch’s, then weathered Transport’s interference long enough to check his account balance.
Nodding, Ducky said, “Our business is concluded, gentlemen,” and rose.
“Good,” breathed Wainwright. “You know the way out.”
Stug stood back and gave Ducky room, then extended a hand. “No hard feelings. We really are on the same side.”
Ducky took it. “Yeah, no hard feelings. In fact, I can hardly feel that grip at all,” he said wryly.
Stug smirked.
Ducky nodded to Wainwright, then headed toward the back of the bar. “Best of luck, gentlemen,” he called, disappearing into the men’s room.
“Where’s he going?” wondered Stug.
“Back door,” said Wainwright. “Now, everyone out before all this Internet activity trips someone’s—”
Stug held up his hand.
The waitress continued noisily cleaning glasses. “Quiet,” hissed her boss.
Then they heard it. The quiet thrum of a Transport drone on the street outside.
“You left your post,” said Hatch, glaring at his sergeant.
“Still an officer I see, even without rank,” breathed Stug, moving quietly toward the window.
“Quiet, both of you,” said Wainwright.
Keeping to the shadows, Stug glanced at the street. “TAC team with a drone escort. They’ll hit the door in twenty, nineteen—”
“This way!” barked Wainwright, hopping up and following Ducky’s exit strategy.
“We can stay and fight,” offered Hatch, following.
“No fighting, just running. Done it before. Do what I tell you.”
Wainwright propped the men’s room door open and ushered them through.
“I don’t much like being trapped like a rat,” growled Stug.
“Flush the toilet on the left.”
“The one marked ‘out of order’?” asked Hatch.
“Do it!”
Wainwright moved back into the bar. An old spring thronged the door closed behind him.
Stug stared at Hatch, concern manifesting on his face. “You look a little flushed.”
“Shut up.”
Hatch entered the stall and pressed the lever on the commode. No water moved through the pipes, but a thin wal
l panel opened next to the seat.
Hatch stared into the darkness beyond, dubious. “You’re not gonna fit,” he said, angling himself to slip through the small space.
“Aw, come on—”
“Don’t say it!”
“I can bear down and squeeze.”
Through the men’s room door came the sounds of Transport entering the tavern. Wainwright was welcoming them in his best salesman’s voice.
Hatch pushed through and found himself in a lightless, claustrophobic passageway lined with sweaty stonework. He offered Stug a hand, but the big man batted it away, then angled himself to move through the hole in the wall. Halfway through, he found himself wedged in tight.
Voices outside. Officer-speak. Wainwright placating, offering free drinks.
The indifferent hum of the escort drone, getting louder.
“Suck in your gut.”
“Then my chest expands.”
Hatch rolled his eyes and held out a hand.
“Don’t tell Bracer and Hawkeye,” said Stug, wrapping his palm around Hatch’s forearm.
Hatch braced one foot against the wall. “I won’t have to if we’re dead.” He grabbed Stug’s arm with both hands, pressed with his foot, and hauled backward. The mountain finally came through with a ripping sound.
Hatch found the old-fashioned pull chain on this side of the wall and yanked it. The panel closed, leaving them in darkness.
“I think I ripped my coat,” groused Stug. “At least I hope it was my coat.”
“Shhhh!”
They both froze as the men’s room door squeaked on its hinges. The hum of a drone echoed around the porcelain fixtures.
“We’re dead,” whispered Stug.
Hatch had a split second to make a decision. Dash down the dark corridor, making all kinds of noise, or pull their weapons and blast through the wall, hoping to hit the drone while drawing Transport’s human soldiers in on them like sharks to blood. There was a third option, but it was a death sentence: do nothing until the drone registered their heat signatures through the wall and opened up with its Gatling laser.
Columbia Page 1
