thomas
EFF 
Senior Chief Petty Officer
Posts: 327
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Post by thomas on Oct 18, 2009 19:45:28 GMT -5
The tent wasn't much to look at: an old Feddie army thing from the '60s, tattered and sandworn. It looked like any one of the temporary settlements they had found along the way. The motorcycle propped up outside was the only proof of the inhabitant's identity--an old style bike, of obvious Earth manufacture, with flames along the sides and Scandinavian gods peppered along the body. Thor glowered at the approaching Zeon officers.
The officers had come on a motorcycle as well but a sleek space model, with the thick wheels Zeon engineers had imagined would be necessary for Earth terrain. The tall one had driven; the short one had ridden in the side car.
"Raz, this looks like our boy," the short one said, checking the motorcycle against the snapshot they'd been given that morning.
"Let's say good morning," the tall one said, running a hand through his short beard.
Inside the tent, Thorvald was dreaming vaguely of a young girl with short hair, reaching out her long thin, naked fingers to him. She was just about to touch him when a sharp, hard boot collided with his ribs.
"Oooooh," he groaned, rolling over onto his bruised side.
"Morning, Siggurdson. What's the good word?"
Thorvald's eyes fluttered open and just under the brilliant African sun, he made out the figures of two men. Two armed men.
"Can I make you gentlemen some breakfast?" he said with a cough.
Ten minutes later, Thorvald was frying eggs and bacon in a skillet over the engine of his bike.
"Nothing like a home cooked meal," the short officer commented.
"Nothing like it," Thorvald muttered. "When do I get to find out your names, friends?"
"Oh, pardon us!" the tall one said. He was not at all concerned by this impoliteness. "I'm Alfred Raz, Captain."
"Jerrik Toskny, Lieutenant in the Mobile Assault Force."
"Thorvald Siggurdson, man at large. Please to meet you." He took the skillet off the engine and handed the men some forks. They all dug in and ate in silence for a few minutes.
"So, I'm guessing you boys didn't come by just for the eggs and bakey," Thorvald said finally.
"Au contraire. I love to sample the local Earth cuisine," Raz said through a mouthful of eggs.
"We've received some intelligence that you've been selling certain substances on the outskirts of RF-4. Do you know anything about this?" Toskny said.
"RF-4? What's an RF-4?"
"Right answer, boy." Toskny drew a pistol, leveling it at Siggurdson. "Now, what's the answer I want to here?"
"I may have sold some small products to certain people who may or may not have been military... I do a lot of business in this area."
Siggurdson coughed. The two officers glanced around.
"With the bushmen or with the zebras?" Raz finally said and chuckled.
Siggurdson looked glumly at the skillet.
"My point is," Toskny finally said. "Our point is... We're not angry. We're not going to penalize you. We understand that the war is hard on all of us. What we'd like, however, if for you to join the winning side."
"I'm not really much for uniforms and following orders, I gotta' tell you guys," Siggurdson coughed again.
"That's not what we're talking about." From a bag, Raz produced a package.
"I'll level with you, son," Raz said. "We got a kilo of spiked smack. There's increasing Feddie activity in this area. You get this into their hands, let it do its work, and we'll call it even."
Siggurdson was very quiet for several moments. Finally, he sighed.
"What the hell..." He took the package.
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thomas
EFF
Senior Chief Petty Officer
Posts: 327
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Post by thomas on Oct 21, 2009 17:50:16 GMT -5
Two days later, Thorvald sat across a table from another two officers. Feddies, this time.
Captains Chuck Wilson and Terry Wong were known all over Africa for two things--one, they supplied the best smack to the scattered Federation forces across the continent, and two, they ran a casual prostitution ring on the side that, in recent weeks, had grown to be possibly the biggest in Africa. With all the high technology on their side--guns, fighters, tanks, even a mobile suit or two--they had quickly demolished the competition. Every week, dozens of runners from across Africa arrived with the proceeds from thousands of prostitutes.
The higher-ups were less than thrilled about the operation--this was widely known--but they received a sizable cut of the revenues. Such is life, thought the Feddie soldier in the trenches. Such is war.
"So, war's going well?" said Thorvald. He had poured both men coffee and cooked them breakfast. The day was already disconcertingly similar to his meeting earlier that week.
"Define well," Chuck said with a scowl. "You ever seen one of those Zaku things? They're fucking scary, man. Fuck. Ing. Scary."
"Business, on the other hand, is a-booming," Terry said. He liked to affect what he thought was an American Southern accent, despite being from London.
"Speaking of business--" Thorvald began. Chuck clapped his hands.
"That's what we came to talk about. I love this guy, Terry. Always business, business, business. Just like us."
Terry nodded vigorously. "Just like us. That's a Scot for you. Where in Scotland're you from, Thorvald?"
"Orkney. But my father is from Iceland. But back to business--"
And before they could cut him off, Thorvald plopped the heroin on the table. The Feddie Captains' eyes widened.
"Listen, I'm getting real nervous carrying this stuff around with me. This is more than I've ever dealt with--I'm a small time dealer, you boys know that. Like a small business owner--admittedly, a small illegal business owner but you see what I'm saying. This is big business, and big business gets me nervous."
"Jesus Christ," whispered Chuck as he lifted the package and dropped it again. "That's a shit ton right. Where'd you get this? I ain't seen this much smack in one place since before the war. "
"I'll sell it to you boys below market price--let's say take a fourth off? It's pretty pure; take a sniff."
"Man, this is too fucking good to be true!" Terry said with a laugh. "What can I say? We'll take it. We'll have it up and down Africa in a week."
"Beautiful," Thorvald said with a sigh and immediately relaxed. Suddenly, he tensed: Terry and Chuck were rolling up their sleeves.
"What do you say we all shoot up? We can crash here for a few hours, can't we, Thorvald?"
"You know, I've actually got to be going," Thorvald said quickly, and began to pack things up. Terry had already begun to unpack a needle.
"C'mon, what's your rush? You can chill for a few hours. Brother, you work too hard!" Chuck came around to Thorvald's side of the table, laid his big hands on his shoulders, and applied pressure. "Man, just relax--you dealers are too nervous."
"You know, I really don't use myself," Thorvald said quickly. "I was actually raised a conservative Lutheran. I don't really approve of heroin use myself. Far be it from me to judge, though, you know?"
Chuck and Terry just stared at Thorvald.
"You know, I have a touch of scotch now and then, a bit of wine with dinner, champagne at weddings--not that I get invited to many weddings out here but you know."
"You'll shoot up with us, then," Terry said and Chuck immediately grabbed Thorvald's arm, pinning it to the table. "We'll pop your smack cherry."
"Man, that's just sick," Chuck laughed.
"No, no, really, this goes against my religion. I have an allergy. I took tylenol this morning and you're not supposed to mix tylenol and heroin." Thorvald strained against Chuck's grip but the bigger man held on tight and Terry finished preparing the needle.
"Man, get ready for a trip," Terry said with a laugh.
Thorvald's wide eyes jumped from Terry to Chuck. The needle came closer. In a moment, Thorvald's hand dropped to his belt, drew his switch blade, and dug it into Chuck's gut. He grunted and fell back.
Terry didn't see the knife or the blood immediately.
"Chuck, you okay?" he said, dropping the needle. Thorvald snatched it up and drove it deep into Terry's arm, injecting the entire contents. Terry grunted and stared at Thorvald, who was scampering out of the tent.
"Get the fuck back here!" he yelled, following the dealer. He saw Thorvald mounting his bike and started towards the jeep he and Chuck had driven in when the heroin hit him.
"Oh... Fuck."
The familiar relaxation and euphoria lasted only a second before being replaced with profound, blinding pain.
"Chuck, Chuck, Chuck..." Terry screamed as he crawled back into the tent. Chuck was still clutching his stomach but had found his way back into a chair.
"Chuck, the shit is spiked! It's fucking spiked!" Terry let out a scream and began to writhe on the ground. A second later, he was dead.
It took Chuck several moments before he was able to stand but, then, he found himself reasonably stable on his feet. He stumbled out to the jeep, and got on the radio.
"Lieutant," he hissed into the radio. "We've got a problem..."
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thomas
EFF
Senior Chief Petty Officer
Posts: 327
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Post by thomas on Oct 22, 2009 17:24:55 GMT -5
Presumably, there were establishments worse that Muhammad Zazad's, on the distant outskirts of Mombasa. It's just that, when pressed, no one could name any. Any rustic charm lent by the dirt floor immediately dissipated when your eyes fell on the kids hustling for quarters to play the ancient arcade games in the corner or the old men, half dead from drink and hashish, laying slumped against one another. There hadn't been a shooting near the cafe for nearly a week and Muhammad considered this a great achievement. And the rains had stopped early this year, so the leaky roof was no longer a problem.
The general squalor was what Thorvald liked about the place--if you wanted to find him, you had to find your way to Muhammad's. Most of the time, his pursuers simply decided it wasn't worth it.
"What you have tonight, boss? I roll a good joint for ye, yeah?" Muhammad said when Thorvald, shaking slightly, sat down.
"Just a scotch for me. I was raised to be a conservative Lutheran," Thorvald said, covering and uncovering his mouth with a shaking hand.
Muhammad shrugged. Far be it from him to judge. He plucked a label-less bottle of amber liquid from under the bar, wiped a glass clean, and filled it one third.
"On the rocks, boss? Neat or wif' water?"
"No ice. Neat."
"Dere she is," Muhammad said, sliding him the drink. In a moment, the harsh booze was simpering over Thorvald's tongue and he immediately began to relax. The shaking stopped and he heaved a sigh.
"You know, Muhammad, they should make a law."
"A law, boss?"
"Yeah, a drinking and driving law."
"Dey got dose, boss."
"No, no. Not like the ones they've got. A law that says that people like me aren't allowed to drive till they've had a drink or two."
Muhammad laughed. He understood perfectly.
"Yeah, boss, maybe dey need dose."
Muhammad shuffled off to serve another customer and Thorvald sank into his whisky with pleasure. The first scotch lasted ten minutes and he was half way through the second when the cafe went suddenly quiet. Someone turned off the music and Thorvald heard the driftwood door creak open and boots on the dirt floor.
"We got a tip that there was some illegal drugs and drinks hereabouts. You gentlemen wouldn't know nothing about that, would you?"
The room was silent for a moment before the voice that had spoken burst into a laugh.
"Bunch of cowardly cock-suckers! Muhammad, gimme a beer!"
"You got it, boss."
Three Federation officers sat down next to Thorvald, who was doing his best to sink into his scotch and never come back out.
"Motherfucker," the loud officer said to Thorvald. "You're the first white man I've seen in three weeks. Besides these two faggots."
Thorvald coughed. Normally, he spoke with something that was halfway between the Received Pronunciation and an Iceland accent. Under distress, however, his accent devolved into a comically stereotypical Highland accent.
"J'ss passing tru, y'know. Don't be wanting to be spending much time in this 'ere ars o Africa."
The three officers stared at him.
"Um," said one of them. "I agree. I think."
"It's like me poor ma used to say: Patch an lang sit, build an suin flit."
The officers looked at one another in confusion. Thorvald sighed.
"Noo, it's like 'dis: The wolf micht loss his teeth, but never his nature."
"Oh," said one of the officers. "I... think I get it."
Muhammad came around with three beers and popped them open. Sensing that Thorvald could use some liquid courage, he placed the scotch bottle on the table.
"I know you's good for it, Thorvald, boss," Muhammad said before shuffling off again.
"Thorvald?" asked the loud officer as the very same uncorked the bottle and took a swig.
"Er?"
"That's the name of the dealer who killed Terry and stabbed Chuck."
The three officers looked at one another.
"He's just about the only white man in Africa who's not with Zeon or the Federation."
The officers turned to Thorvald, who smiled sheepishly at them.
"Er, surprise?"
The loud officer started to stand but Thorvald drew his arm back and crashed the bottle into his skull. The man dropped and Thorvald leapt over him and darted out the door.
Twenty minutes later, Thorvald was tearing down the highway leading out of Mombasa.
"Fucking Feddies," he scowled. "Fucking Zeon. Fucking fucking fuck--"
He heard, distantly, a steady cracking sound. He looked over his shoulder to a bright light bouncing through the African night sky.
"Fucking chopper!" he declared and sped up.
"Thorvald Siggurdson," a voice said out of the night air. "Stop fleeing. You are wanted by the military of the Earth Federation."
"You've got the wrong Thorvald!" Thorvald screamed back, over the roar of the chopper and his biker's motor. "I'm a conservative Lutheran! I'd never do those things! Whatever things that other Thorvald is accused of!"
The chopper answered by letting loose a volley of automatic fire that peppered the road around Thorvald.
"I'm a civilian!" he screamed again, as if reasoning with the helicopter would work.
He turned to focus on the road ahead of him and saw more lights in the distance. Unlike the helicopter's, these lights stood still in the darkness. As he neared them, the darkness suddenly exploded with brightness and standing before him, blocking his way, was a giant, off-white and red robot, machine gun pointed down at him, and glowering.
"No, no, no, no!" Thorvald screamed and brought his bike to a skidding halt. The robot looked down at him, sizing him up. Then, it raised its gun.
"No, no, I'm a conservative Luuuuuuuuuuuutheran!" Thorvald shrieked as he took off in the opposite direction. He'd rather try his luck with the helicopter. Massive machine gun rounds pounded the highway around him as he sped away from the robot. In a moment, he heard its giant footsteps behind him, chasing him.
"This is not happening," Thorvald muttered. "Don't you people have a war to fight? Why're you chasing me?"
The robot didn't answer. It simply pounded on after him, firing at intervals. Its accuracy was terrible but it was only a matter of time before one of the rounds came near him...
Thorvald made a sharp u-turn and started towards the robot. It was obviously confused and stopped dead, trying to adjust its aim. Thorvald accelerated as much as he good, going into the red, and tore down the road--the robot seemed determined to keep its aim on Thorvald and had started to bend forward slightly. In a second, Thorvald shot through its legs and the robot pitched forward, crashing into the highway with an enormous boom.
About half a mile down the highway, Thorvald stopped his bike and looked back at the heap of robotics he had left behind.
"You guys sort of suck, I have to say," he muttered. A second later, he heard the sounds of vehicles approaching. He looked forward. Four Federation jeeps had pulled up in front of him, creating a barricade. Soldiers were piling out, rifles trained on him.
"Touche, Earth Federation. Touche."
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thomas
EFF
Senior Chief Petty Officer
Posts: 327
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Post by thomas on Oct 25, 2009 14:36:53 GMT -5
"I guess y'could say I hate my father, or I should, for not being 'round for me and ma, but I really don't. I give him a call every week, just to see how things are going. He's married again and bought his own fishing boat. I was thinking
bout moving back to Iceland or Scotland and just live out my days, a-fishing and a-drinking and chasing the local skirts like my da--maybe every little boy just wants to be his father. Maybe I'm just imitating him in a way. I remember this one time, round about my thirteenth birthday, he come to visit and brought with him the biggest herring you ever saw..."
Thorvald Siggurdson was handcuffed to a chair--where, he wasn't sure. The Earth Federation had bundled him off in a jeep, blindfolded, and hours later, he was here. His interrogators worked in shifts, so as to keep pressure on him--they had been at it for 53 hours now. Initially Siggurdson had been unresponsive, but gradually, he began to talk more and more. Unfortunately for the interrogators, his favorite topics were the Freudian analysis of his childhood, Scottish and Icelandic nationalism, and Lutheran theology.
"But what Luther realized--"
The two interrogators leapt to their feet from their dozing positions when the door to the room suddenly opened. A tall, handsome, older man, a Major, stepped in, followed by a smaller, stout man with a beard and no uniform.
"At ease," the Major said. "I'm sorry it took me so long to come to see you, Mr. Siggurdson. I trust my friends here have been taking good care of you."
"Very good care," Thorvald said, his head lolling. "I've worked my way through three crises by talking at them. Two psychoanalytic, one existential-theological."
The Major hesitated, glanced at the interrogators, who looked even more exhausted than Siggurdson.
"It's true," one of them muttered.
"Right," the Major said, taking a seat. The civilian next to him did likewise. "That's why I'm here, naturally. Siggurdson, would you go over your story for me, once more?"
"I've told y'before," Siggurdson sighed. "Some Zeon officers gave me spiked heroin to sell to your boys. I didn't have much of a choice in the matter."
"Your Zeon contacts?"
"They just showed up one day. I didn't take down their names, addresses, mother's maiden names--"
"You realize this is a difficult story for us to believe, Mr. Siggurdson?"
"I'll tell you what's a difficult story to believe: The Diet of Worms. Luther, you see--"
"Mr. Siggurdson, while I admire your obviously excellent grasp of Lutheranism, let's stick to the matter at hand."
"But I've already told you bloody fucks everything that happened!" Siggurdson suddenly yelled. The exertion of yelling seemed to be too much and he immediately flopped his head back. One of the interrogators glanced at the Major and stood up, making to kick Siggurdson and say something about respecting an officer but the Major just waved his hand. The civilian next to him wrote furiously on a clipboard.
"I don't believe you know the entire story. You see, Mr. Siggurdson, in a way, you actually did us a favor. Drugs are a problem in all the theatres right now but none worse than Africa--the combination of little official oversight and an overwhelming Zeonic presence seems to have created a perfect storm of laxity and stress that's been quite conducive to hard drug use. As you know, your two contacts ran practically the entire thing. Now, one of them is dead and the other about to be dishonorably discharged--you've inadvertently crippled the African drug trade. As a dealer, though, I imagine you don't consider this quite as auspicious as we do."
Thorvald shrugged weakly.
"Moreover, myself and my friend here, Dr. Lewis Goldstein, are rather curious about your encounter with the GM on the Mombasa highway."
"GM?"
"That's what the robot you met is called. It's our answer to the Zaku and it's stronger, faster, and hits harder than almost anything Zeon has. The model you saw is configured for Ground Combat and its armor makes it nearly indestructible. Yet you still managed to knock it out of commission."
Now, Dr. Goldstein spoke.
"Thorvald, I'm a psychologist and I'm curious as to--"
"Are you a Freudian?"
"Pardon me?"
"A Freudian."
"Many of Freud's methods are considered obsolete and his conclusion lacking scientific rigor," Dr. Goldstein said. "Yet all psychology owes some dept to Dr. Freud so--yes, in a way, I suppose I have Freudian sympathies at the very least."
"Good, because I've got a complex I need you to take a look at."
"Siggurdson," the Major said unusually loud.
"Thorvald," Goldstein began again. "What we're curious about is why exactly you decided to charge the GM instead of continuing to run from it."
"Damned if I know, honestly."
"Surely you must remember something. 9 out of 10--no, 99 out of 100 men would have run instead of charging. Yet you charged. Why do you think that is?"
"I told you, I don't know. I don't really think about what I do. I just... Do it. I s'ppose... I guess I thought it wouldn't be able to turn around and chase me if I got behind it. But really, I didn't think that through. It was like, I thought that and then I stopped thinking about it and just did it."
The Major and Dr. Goldstein exchanged smiling looks.
"Mr. Siggurdson, I've got a very interesting offer to make you. You know too much about our military capacity in Africa now, so we couldn't possibly let you leave here alive. Moreover, you killed one Federation officer and grievously wounded another. I really ought to execute you. However, we believe you may be just the man we're looking for.
"I propose to you, Siggurdson, Thorvald--that you become one of our pilots. You'll pilot a robot, a GM, like the one you saw. An experimental model. It is... somewhat unstable, based on our simulations, but we believe you've got the perfect psychological make up to be a successful test pilot. A willingness to take risks. Decisiveness. Ingenuity. Prodigious courage. "
"So basically," Thorvald said, pulling his head up and looking all four men in the eyes. "You're saying I'm the only one crazy enough to pilot your new toy."
"If you'd like to look at it that way," the Major said with a small smile. "But compared to the alternative, it's a rather scintillating offer. What do you say?"
Thorvald was silent for several minutes. Eventually, the Major stood up to leave when Thorvald spoke again:
"Oh... What the hell."
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