Phoenix Feathers, Part II Chapter 13

From original post: Happy September 30th! Wow, a year ago I started this story, and now it’s starting to heat up! Disclaimer: Joss is Boss, and…and…and all these ideas floating around in my head are mostly his doing. So it’s really just a lesser version of something that he could do much better. And I personally wouldn’t have any complaints if he did…

***

As much as it appreciated the business of the public, the Dyton City Arena catered primarily to wealthy clientele. These interested men and women, hailing mostly from the Core, were treated to the finest shows and services the establishment had to offer. At great expense, the management had worked to overhaul the Arena, making it the jewel of the Colony, a must-see for anyone who was anyone in the celestial neighborhood. They installed top-of-the-line facilities that were reserved for these very important persons, and in return, most of the business, illegal or legitimate, passed through their hands. All that their guests asked in return was some action.

Right now, a room full of them had seen enough.

Sir Stefan Grenville was one of them. He had watched through the massive glass windows as the two Alliance gunships had swooped into the stadium, and had seen the lone figure break from the crowd and dash away from them. Grenville had been sickened at the death of the prize bull, and, even in the safety of the Box, he felt exposed.

His group’s guide, a man paid through the nose to babysit and to look good doing so, pleaded with the two dozen people who wanted out.

“Gentlemen and ladies, please, calm yourselves…” He waved his hands in a half-placating, half-flustered manner and moved to head his charges off before they reached the door to the Box.

A man wearing a collar that had been honed to a razor’s edge sniffed at him. “Young man, step aside this instant!”

A tight-lipped woman bit out a few words into her phone, then snapped it shut and glared at her host. “That was gross, sir. Gross! Federals, here? This is a place of business!”

The rest of the group joined in, each trying to outdo the others in expressing their disgust for the management’s guarantees of safety and security of trade.

The guide looked back and forth wordlessly, struggling to defend himself or his employers from such a unified assault.

“Let me assure you that what you saw had nothing to do with any of our clients. The trouble was entirely unrelated.”

Sir Stefan, standing near the back of the stalled line, shrugged at the man next to him. “Tell that to the clients! Oh, wait- they’re all running for the hills!”

“Do you honestly expect us to do business here?”

“I’m getting out of here, and I’m pulling my funds out of this operation. I don’t need this!”

The chaperone drew himself up and spoke with all the dignity of his Coreworld upbringing. “Now, you needn’t be carried away. The situation is completely under control.”

A blur of gold and dark green separated the man from his vengeful charges for an instant.

Sir Stefan blinked. The door was ajar, and their guide was on the floor, staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling.

The gathered men and women went very, very quiet.

“Was that…him?” someone whispered.

“Must have been! How did he get up here?”

“Who knows! I’m getting the hell out of here, and you should, too!”

The door was open, their guide was no longer objecting, and discretion was definitely the better part of valor. Sir Stefan managed to restrain himself from pushing anyone on his way out of the Box.

***

Phoenix ran down the corridor from the Box, taking a moment to thank the management for limiting the access to certain floors of the Arena. It gave the VIPs their privacy, and it gave Phoenix complete freedom of movement. He scanned a map of the level as he sprinted down the deserted hallway, and saw that a private parking garage was connected directly to the level, presumably reserved for the filthy rich who owned their own ground transports. Access to the facility would undoubtedly be restricted.

Still running full tilt, Phoenix flipped open the wallet and sorted through the small plastic cards until he saw what he was looking for- the tiny hologram of one Sir Stefan Grenville smirking up at him.

***

Agent Randall Murphy was not a happy man. He had watched from a distance as those pig-headed Talon boys had tried to pick a fight with his SpecOps men. He had seen Tracey and Rourke go down, and had known what would happen next. The missile shot had been a proficient one, not inflicting any casualties on his own troops, but it had caused the crowd to go into a blind panic. Murphy had had to step out onto the ledge overlooking the Plaza to keep from being swept away by the stampeding masses. He moved with relative freedom behind the parading holofigures produced by the Downing Circuit, one hand clapped to his earpiece, the other on his Corvue pad.

He had followed the action in the Arena with a sickened feeling, knowing that he had bungled the operation. Sixteen years of field work, eight as section chief, and an exemplary record that would now be marred by this one Op. If he lost this boy, this sixteen-year-old kid who his superiors wanted so very badly, he might as well hand in his resignation that very evening. Still, he couldn’t help being impressed by the boy’s skill.

He had peered through the arches into the stadium and had caught sight of the distinctive red body armor of the Talons. They were working their way into the sea of people who were scrambling for the nearest exit. Murphy had frowned at their frenzied intent on something he hadn’t seen...Suddenly, Murphy had spotted three of the suspect’s accomplices, who were trying desperately to get out of the Arena ahead of their pursuers.

For a moment, the Federal Agent had considered leaving them to their fate. He did not want to aggravate the Talons, whose influence in and around Dyton City could not be underestimated. On the other hand, these petty thieves and bullies had killed his Op, and Murphy hadn’t wanted to give them the satisfaction of completing their own mission.

Murphy had pocketed the Corvue pad after tapping out orders for his backup squads to move in, and slipped back into the crowd. He had forced his way through the press of bodies until he reached the girl, and had brought them past the dangerous bottleneck of the exit.

The Talons, however, had been one step ahead of him. Two fresh Talons, armed to the teeth, had moved in on them, and Murphy swore foully as he ducked back into the crowd to avoid their notice. Seconds later, the three were in the tender care of the Talons. They were hustled off as soon as the Talon leader joined them. Murphy shook his head; the Talons had to maintain their reputation as stone cold killers in order to stay in power, which meant that Murphy would not be seeing those three again, or if he did, chances were that they would be unrecognizable to him.

But Agent Murphy had more pressing matters to deal with. His pilots of were clamoring for orders, while the sergeant of the pursuing squad was screaming that the suspect had disappeared in the tunnels under the Arena. Murphy brought out his Corvue pad and started organizing the search for the missing fugitive.

He put out an all-network alert with the boy’s description, but did not post any kind of reward. Years of experience on the streets of Dyton Colony had taught him that the most reliable information was either free, or very, very expensive. A reward would only buy more time for the kid to escape.

It wasn’t long before he got a positive return: A tussle in the VIP Box. Murphy suspected that those who paid to see fighting done normally wouldn’t get too riled up themselves, especially when they spent most of their time swapping stocks on the I.P.S.E., so he headed over, directing one of his squads to meet him there.

Swinging out over the East Plaza made for less crowds, and Murphy got there in time to help the confused and somewhat groggy chaperone restore order. Some opportunistic men had broken out onto the floor, and were busy ransacking the place. The VIPs, their dignity forgotten, had barricaded themselves back in their private Box, and would let him in only after he slid his ID under the door.

Murphy questioned the eyewitnesses quickly as his men detained the less attentive looters in the area. They all agreed that the boy had been in their Box, and had ran off down the corridor after knocking out their guide. An anxious bloke who called himself Sir Grenville approached Murphy and told him about the missing ID and how Yes, he was sure that it was there before the raid and No, he hadn’t lost it to the looters.

Murphy said the appropriate words, gave him a number to call about the theft, and then politely but firmly locked the VIPs back in their Box. He then tapped rapid-fire on his Corvue pad, calling up the schematics for the level. What he found did nothing to lighten his disposition. Murphy shouted for his men to head off down the corridor after the boy, who had a good five minute lead on them.

He just hoped they could make it to the garage before the kid got wheels.

Two minutes later, he was standing at the Off-ramp of the garage with his sergeant, who was explaining to him how a guardrail was not strong enough to stop a speeding car. Murphy was getting reports from his pilots, who were chasing the car (a very nice sports car that was putting their skiffs through their paces,) down the highway (courtesy of the Dyton City Arena management, for Your Convenience and Safety,) at top speed.

He kicked at the splintered remains of the guardrail and stomped back into the dimly lit garage, less one sports car, thanks to advanced locking mechanisms coming up against a few well-learned lessons in carjacking. As far as he was concerned, this day couldn’t get any worse.

“Don’t look ‘round.”

Scratch that. It just got worse.

“It’s you.”

“Yeh. ‘S me.”

Murphy licked suddenly dry lips. “What do you want?”

“I could ask you the very same thing, couldn’t I? And seeing as I’m here on your invitation, the least you can do is go first, so if you wouldn’t mind, just who the bloody ‘ell are you and what the bloody ‘ell do you want with me?”

Murphy frowned. “You don’t know?”

“Well, I’m guessing you’re a local Fed Agent, with some serious pull from the way I got bounced by those two skiffs right after you left, but that doesn’t answer the second bit…”

Careful not to move too quickly, Murphy began working his right hand across his body, from the Corvue pad to his left armpit, where he kept a holdout pistol in a shoulder holster. He shrugged to cover the motion. “Look, pal, I’m just upholding the law. You got issues, you go talk to the Parliament.”

“The Parliament?”

“Well, they’re not too happy with you. You’ve got just about the highest priority I’ve ever seen. Whatever you did to them, I don’t think it was appreciated. You’ll have every body what’s wearin’ a purple uniform out after you, and none a them’s as nice as my own self. I’m givin’ you a chance to turn yourself in, chum, which is a bit more than you’ll get from anyone else.”

The boy was silent for a while, and Murphy started to work the gun out of its holster. Blast! Where were his men?

“Where are my friends?”

“In a fair bit a trouble themselves. You come in with me, and I’ll see what I can do about tracking them down.”

“What’s happened to them?”

“They got pinched by that Talon mob. They’re likely to be smelling their own guts in a few hours. Don’t know why you picked a fight with them too. Rash, some would say. Irresponsible, even.” Almost free…

“Where are they being taken to?”

“Talons work outta the West side of town, cafés and such abound. Big machine shop called Mick’s what serves as their headquarters. Can’t miss it, really. My question to you is, what kind of a person thinks ‘e can take on a building full a thugs?” There! He had the gun out, and he tensed, ready to turn and fire if the kid wouldn’t come willingly.

“I took you on, didn’t I?” said the kid.

“That you did, that you did. But let’s just think about this for a tic. You, building full of thugs. The math just don’t add up, friend. Best to be coming with old Murphy.”

The Agent whirled, dropping to one knee to evade the gunshot he knew was coming, and aimed for the torso. There was no gunshot, and there was no torso. The boy had disappeared.

Murphy’s earpiece crackled. “Sir, Flash. We’ve captured the vehicle. Umm…there wasn’t anybody in it. Looks like somebody hacked the guidance software and programmed in a destination. We’re returning to base for refueling. Be a while before we can swing by for evac. Sorry, sir. Flash out.”

So the kid was gone, and he would have a sizeable head start on his pursuers. Fortunately, Murphy knew where he was headed, and with this Op being top priority, he had the pull to put together another raid, this one deep into hostile territory. His superiors would not be happy.

Murphy grinned in spite of himself. The kid definitely had style.

***