Daria 4 Page 6

“Excellent, I’m going to load some scanning gear into the shuttle, and Poe can direct me to the exact spot on the exterior of the station” says Frosty.

  “Rodger that, I’m backing up to the T intersection and try to stay out of site. Hopefully there are no patrolling Hybrids.” I whisper.

  “Whatever you do don’t let them know that we have a positional fix on them or they will run again on us.” replies Frosty.

  I return to the T intersection and shut off cloaking, startling Fred.

  “Jesus Christ, can you warn me when you are going to just pop out of nowhere like that?” he curses.

  “Sorry Fred, be careful with that damned crowbar, the claw end of that thing is nasty.” I say. “Frosty is going to try a scan of the shack from the exterior of the station.”

  “How far to the other rest shack Fred?” xmits Beast.

  “Ah, well about the same distance we have come already, it’s almost over on the other side of the station.” replies Fred.

  “How be Fred and I take a jog over there so we get a positional trace?” xmits Beast

  “Excellent idea,” replies Frosty. “But make sure you are cloaked, I don’t want these fuckers tipped off.”

  “How do you feel about being invisible Fred?” xmits Beast.

  “You bastards are all bat-shit crazy, hang on a minute.” replies Fred as he pees behind a growling machine pump.

  “All set now, giddy up,” as he saddles up on Beast and takes a swig from a silver curved flask, then stuffs it back inside his coveralls.

  “Back in the time it takes Boss,” xmits Beast and they shimmer out of sight.

  “Jesus Christ on the cross!” yelps Fred as they gallop off.

  “Poe,”

  “Yes Matt,”

  “You have anything at all more on the nature of those goddamned Hybrids, there has to be an Achilles heel on them somewhere.”

  “I have reason to believe that excessive vibration may confuse their senses.” replies Poe

  “Vibrations?”

  “Correct, apparently in their Hybrid gene composition they have some reptile genetics which are very sensitive to vibration.”

  “Are you saying if we hit the correct frequency that we defeat there sensor ability?”

  “Exactly, and we are investigating to see what that frequency might be.”

  “Outstanding, let me know when you figure it out.”

  “I certainly will,” replies Poe.

  A nagging thought crosses my mind setting off alarms.

  “Say Fred, do those mech droid that work in these tunnels have a video camera on them?” I ask.

  “Yup sure do, and positional beacons too in case they break down and we have to find them and repair them or haul them out.” he replies.

  “Muther, can you access the database for the mech droids and scan for Hybrid activity or humans that don’t belong. I’m getting a sense that there is more going on here than we think.” I ask.

  “Roger that,”

  “I’m just arriving at the external location co-ordinates of that shack by you Matt,” says Frosty.

  “Dandy, does the scan work?”

  “Like magic guys, just like magic, I can detect a number of life forms in that shack and they are human, not Hybrid,” says Frosty.

  “Human like how,” I ask, knowing the answer.

  “Human as in female, according to the heat scan, has to be half a dozen females in that shack, but none of them are D.” replies Frosty.

  Well isn’t that interesting. Why in the world would there be a half dozen females hiding in a maintenance tunnel shack guarded by a pair of Hybrids that likely work for Fat Art? I have the distinct impression that we are closing in on Fat Art’s cash cow. I’ll bet there are more women in the shack on the other side of the station where Beast and Fred are too. And maybe on other level of the station also.

  Chapter 11: Discovery

  “Boss, Fred and I are close to the second shack. We have guard Hybrids over here too, and I’m sure I could hear Fat Art yelling.” xmits Beast.

  “I’ve got your positional beacon Beast, Frosty will be outside the hull in minutes,” says Poe.

  “On my way,” says Frosty. “Hold your position Matt; I don’t want these fuckers slipping away,”

  “Roger that,” I confirm.

  More waiting, more opportunity for my imagination to run wild with the horrors of what might be happening to D at the hands of Fat Art, or his pet Hybrids. I’m going to kill all the Hybrids and then extend Fat Art’s very painful death out over a few days.... that overweight slimy cocksucker!

  “Poe, any word on frequencies to bugger up the Hybrids?” I ask.

  “Not specifically, so we’re installing a variable frequency potentiometer on the vibration generator with a range that we think will do the job. Just clamp it tight to the floor, turn it on and keep raising the frequency until the repulsive Hybrids lose their minds,” says Poe.

  “I’ve located D, and Fat Art and another have dozen women in the rest shack over here. It looks like D is down with a head injury. Fuck, fuck!” hisses Frosty.

  “Frosty, perhaps you could return with the shuttle and take this adjustable frequency generator and get down to Beast and Fred’s location.” suggests Poe.

  “Roger that,” replies Frosty.

  Fuck, more fucking waiting, this is killing me, my heads running in ultra-fast time cycles and the real world is crawling in goddamned molasses. Finally, when I am ready to scream I hear.

  “Fred, you stay here out of sight, operate this frequency generator, Beast and I will move in on these fuckers, you keep slowly turning the frequency higher and when the Hybrids go goofy, we’ll tell you to hold that frequency.” orders Frosty.

  “Do I get a cool gun too,” asks Fred.

  “No, use your crowbar,” snaps Frosty

  “Muther, can you get the Station to disperse a medical team with stretchers to each of our positions, we’re gonna need them.” I say.

  “Roger that,” replies Muther

  I cannot wait, I’m gonna go kill these son of bitches right now, fuck it, I dial down the power of the plasma rifle, just enough to explode a head at fifty yards. Cloak myself and begin the slow sneak back to the rest area. I’m just about there when I hear:

  “That’s it Fred, hold that frequency, the Hybrid are acting drunk.” yells Frosty.

  A couple of more steps for me and the first Hybrid comes into sight. I can feel a tingling in my feet telling me the frequency generator is working over here too. The Hybrid is wobbling and looking unsteady, I put my cross hairs on his face ... PLOP, exploded head, Hybrid in a heap. I hurry another dozen steps to get a line of sight on the second Hybrid, he is acting disorientated too, and stumbling, cross hairs on face ... PLOP, another headless Hybrid. I walk over to the rest shack and shoot the lock to smithereens, I’m cautious about opening the door with no back up around, even if the Hybrids are disorientated and goofy. But I kick the damn thing open anyway.

  Jesus Christ, Just as Frosty saw in the scan, there are six women chained in the rest shack. They are in bad shape, none are ambulatory. I hear Frosty yell;

  “Watch yourself Fred we‘ve got a Hybrid stumbling your way.”

  “Ok, I’ll tag him” says Fred.

  I hear a clang and a thump, and another louder meaty smack.

  “You ok Fred,” asks Frosty

  “Just fine, thanks, Hybrid had an accident.” and he cackles.

  “How’s that medical team coming Muther?” I ask.

  “Should be arriving there right now,” she replies.

  I hear the medics joggling up the hallway and de-cloak and remove my helmet.

  “Over here guys, we have six women in pretty bad shape.” I holler.

  I’ve cut the chains off the women, none are conscious, and the medics load them onto the anti-gravity stretchers, start intravenous flows and administer first aid. Then they begin the journey back out of the tunnel maze. In the meantime I collect my gear and
head for the other rest shack as fast as I can.

  When I arrive, I see Fred sitting on the body of a Hybrid, sipping from his flask. The Hybrid is face down and has a crowbar imbedded in its head.

  “Bagged one did you Fred,” I grin

  “Bet yer ass, sonny, ugly fucker never knew what hit him.” and he cackles!

  Up the hall way I meet Frosty walking by an anti-gravity stretcher carrying D. She has a huge bruise on the side of her face and head and looks very pale.

  “I’m taking her back to the ship for Muther and Poe to have a look at.” he says. “Can you give Beast a hand with Fat Art, and don’t kill him, ok?”

  “I can but if he makes a move I’ll cripple him.” I mutter.

  The rest of the women on the stretchers don’t look to be in any better shape that the ones over in the shack on my side.

  “Fred, how many more rest shacks did you guys build when you were working building the trade station?” I ask.

  “Reckon there would be a couple on most every level.” he says. “You figure there are women stored in all of them?”

  “I figure that we need to give their locations to the Station Police so they can check. You better come on back to our ship with us so you can show us where the shacks are.” I reply.

  “This is Muther; I’ve found video of women in the maintenance tunnels on every level Matt.”

  Got you Fat Art, you son of a bitch.

  Beast is sitting with a foot on the chest of a sweating, bleeding shaking Fat Art.

  “Can that piece of shit walk,” I ask.

  “He can if I tell him to walk,” xmits Beast.

  “Ok, get him up and let’s get out of here.” I reply.

  “It’s all just a misunderstanding”, stammers Fat Art. “If we can just sit down and talk about it I’m sure we can come to an amiable agreement.”

  “Oh we’ll come to an agreement all right you fat son of a bitch, but it won’t be the type you will want it to be.” I hiss.

  Chapter 12: Recovery

  D is suffering a concussion; the Hybrid had hit her with a vicious wallop on the side of her head with his fist. Muther and Poe administer nanobots to reduce swelling and promote healing. We transport her into the VR Suite and Poe puts both of us in a tropical island paradise for peaceful, tranquil, very relaxed healing time. He runs the actual to VR time ratio high so D has plenty of healing hours for very little real elapsed real time.

  “Matt,”

  “Yes D,”

  “My head hurts so badly,”

  “You have a concussion, sweetness,”

  “Where are we?”

  “Healing in the VR suite on a tropical island,”

  “My head really hurts, that asshole Hybrid hit me.”

  “He won’t hit anything ever again,”

  “Did you kill him?”

  Yes, shot him in the face, seemed appropriate,”

  “I’m glad you did Matt, he hurt me,”

  “Just lie still here on the sand with me; it will stop hurting very soon,”

  “Matt, I’m so sleepy,”

  “I’m right here, holding you my love,”

  “Matt,”

  “Yes D,”

  “Being human hurts a lot,”

  “Yes D, sometimes it sure does,”

  “I have to nap Matt, love you,”

  “Sleep well D, I love you to.” I whisper, as the tears march their way down my cheeks.

  Much later, we deal with Fat Art Herman. He is just a complete douche bag. Hard to believe that even the criminal environment would tolerate a piece of shit like Fat Art, no matter where he went he is the skunk at the garden party. Utterly no morals whatsoever, just a weasel, hated and feared by all, liked to beat people to death. Surprising really as he was so fat and sweaty, slimy that you would think he would have a heart attack from the effort of beating anyone that bad. Apparently not, seemed he was one tough cockroach to kill. We spent extra time with his interrogation as it yielded a veritable treasure of information on criminal activity and who was dirty at the Trade Station. Turns out a number of businesses’ were receiving goods from the crime syndicate and making windfall profits on sales. In the process we got passwords and pass phrases to servers where Fat Art has his illegal activity records of human shipments, payments in and out, every dirty little activity he conducted. We find a very large bank balance. And references to the church...well, well, well. It looks like the preacher man is really a soul-less piece of shit sinner hiding behind the guise of religion.

  Mike and Frosty report that they have found two more caches of women on subsequent levels in the maintenance tunnel rest shacks. The total is approaching thirty women. In addition three members of Mike’s Station Police force have gone missing. Well, we figured that was going to happen, saves us having to ferret them out.

  Chapter 13: Feeder System

  You ever notice and wonder about the peculiar phenomena of how very tall buildings are laid out. The higher you go in floors the more important the people are. The CEO or equivalent is always on the top floor. As if the view from their lofty perch affords them better perspective at leading in the correct direction. Utter nonsense of course, and yet another ridiculous tradition adhered to by change fearing humans. The Trade Station was laid out in traditional fashion, but in space there is no up and down and no gravity, so why bother. Just a traditional, non-useful holdover of time past, like churches.

  The non-denominational church, itself an anomaly and a bastard to all religions, was a couple of levels up in the general shopping area. Rumor was that a store had folded and enough locals had voiced an interest in a church that the Station management had acquiesced. It didn’t look like much of a church; the only religious symbol was a cross by the doorway beside a holograph of the earth globe rotating slowly. The gold lettering on the door indicated this is the Church of the People, Pastor B. Washington presiding. I pushed the door open and walked in.

  The church interior was modest by any measure, no raised dais to orate thunder, hell fire and brimstone from to terrify and intimidate the masses into complacency and obedience. There were several rows of individual seating. The thought crossed my mind wondering if the seats were still called pews, more traditional gobbledygook. I suppose the facilities were used for marriages, or funerals, if anyone still did such things. More likely the Pastor would spend his time tending to the alcoholics, drug addicts, criminals and victims that were hoping for a non-existent mythical entity called God to solve their miseries. There is quiet organ music playing in the background.

  Pastor B. Washington entered from a side office and greeted me. He was fifty something I would estimate, medium height given to overweight by years and sedentary existence. Receding grey hair, wire rim glasses, no facial hair or identifying scars or marks. He wore a cleric collar over dark shirt and slacks. We sat and chatted for a moment.

  “Pastor I’m working with the Station Police investigating some anomalies involving certain residents of the Station and I’m wondering if you might have any information that could help the investigations along.” I say and watch his eyes very closely.

  “I’ll be glad to help out as best I can, most of the folks that I help here have somewhat of a troubled past.” he replies with a smile.

  “Do you help out many young people Pastor?”

  “Unfortunately I do as some of them have developed some very bad habits by the time they reach me.”

  “And what do you do for them Pastor?”

  “Provide assistance with drugs or alcohol addiction, the step program, personal support, self-help groups, and sometimes I can help with employment in some of the local shops for those that make it that far.”

  “Do you see a lot of teenage boys and girls that are victims of prostitution, Pastor?

  I catch the twitch on his face and can see the defensive position in his eyes.

  “I do not inquire as to the nature of that sort of thing other than what they might voluntarily tell me in couns
elling sessions.”

  “My question still stands,”

  “Of those that confided in me I can confirm that yes some of them are victims of prostitution. But I decline to specifically identify any of the youths.”

  “I see, do you recognize any of these five teenage boys, Pastor?” I watch his reaction as I hand the tablet over to him. “It seems they have gone missing, yet we have Station video of them entering your church.”

  Pastor Washington pales considerably and the sweat begins to show on his forehead.

  “I can’t be positive, a couple of them look familiar, but I don’t recall their names.”

  “Do you keep records of those that pass through your church, Pastor?”

  “We are not required by any law to record the names, attributes, or problems of any that seek help here, nor the names of any of our general congregation.”

  “Tell me about your funding for the church Pastor.”

  “Well, it’s by donation really, from the congregation and the generosity of the merchants that we can afford to keep the doors open.”

  “Do you keep records of who made the contributions?”

  “We do, but simply as a record of income and expenses for the church.”

  “And does it afford you much of a salary and compensation package, Pastor.”

  “No it does not, but men of the cloth are not as concerned about compensation as some other individuals might be.”

  His eyes flick momentarily to something behind me; I can see a flicker of someone standing at a doorway behind me reflected in his glasses, it looks like a Hybrid.

  “Thanks for your help Pastor, we’ll be in touch.” I say and rise from my chair and flick a sideways glance at the doorway, but it’s empty.

  If you recall any information on these five missing boys would you please let us know?

  “I certainly will, I hope you find them.”

  “Oh, we will, you can rest assured on that, we are very interested to hear what they have to say.” I smile with lots of teeth.

  Pastor B. Washington visibly pales and sweat pops on his forehead.

  I go out into the mall courtyard and select a seat where I can watch the front of the church and have a coffee.