The Mercenaries’ Tale – 1.08 The Job

The various districts of the City of Light were named according to what plate they resided on rather than what they actually contained. The plates, with the exception of the plate which exclusively allowed airships to land and was referred to purely as the “Skyport”, were numbered according to the order they were established, the first being the plate which contained Salmanic City at the very top of the pipes and the fourth being the lowest plate which contained the religious district and the magical community. Each plate wore a faded, scratched number like an expansive white painted tattoo, remnants of the days where people actually gave a damn about numbering the plates. If anything the numbers were just the Salmanic family reminding those on the lower plates where their social standing was on a grade between one and four.

Plate 3 held the lower-class apartment tenements and cheapo stores. Its streets made dingy by the narrow tenement buildings that loomed and caught what light filtered through from the plates above, Plate 3 had been constructed for the purpose of accommodating more people in the city. This contrasted the others, which had been created with ulterior motives besides providing more living space for the growing population. When Plate 2 had been commissioned, the city planners had been hoping to capitalise on tourism and reserved space for hotels, clubs, restaurants, shopping malls, theatres and even a stadium in the hopes of squeezing more money out of the large number of people flocking to the city that wished to witness the bizarre plate structure. The motive behind Plate 4’s construction was to increase the City of Light’s standing in the realms of academia and spirituality. Space was therefore reserved for temples, cathedrals and a modest university campus¹.

Plate 3 was unique as there hadn’t been any ulterior motives or secret moneymaking schemes outside of increasing real estate to accommodate the ever-raging housing crisis. The buildings themselves were constructed out of the cheapest materials the builders could get their hands on without breaking building regulation codes. Apartments dominated the side closest to the second plate and slowly shrunk down to the more suburban accommodation closer to Plate 4. The south edge of the plate, which looked out onto the Dustlands, acted as the city’s main entrance for those who didn’t wish to arrive by a ferry. Vast building-sized transport elevators carried people up to the plate where they could simply walk or drive into the city or catch a ride on the city’s extensive monorail network. A number of warehouses had been built close to the docking station to store cargo waiting to be transported out of the city by truck².

Harry had given the mercs the address of a warehouse situated on a dead-end street along the edge of the block of storehouses, its entrance hidden down an alley. The area was strangely quiet; there was no obvious activity going on in any of the neighbouring buildings. Nothing was being unloaded or prepared to be shipped. There weren’t even any workers preparing to head home or taking a cigarette break while the weather remained dry. It was all a bit too quiet, save for a couple of homeless people warming their hands on a barrel bonfire and the gang of incongruously suited individuals that were utterly failing to blend into their surroundings while guarding a doorway.

Doug nudged Blaise’s arm upon noticing the Suits, the two mercs exchanging telling glances and amused smiles. The Suits’ attire had been neatly pressed and was spotlessly clean. They wore sunglasses despite the fact that the sky was dominated by grey clouds. In short, they were overdressed for hanging around the warehouses, inspiring thoughts of hired guards and private security. On closer examination, earpieces could be seen tucked into place behind their right ears, one of the Suits having pressed a hand over his earpiece so that he could better hear whatever was being transmitted to him.

The mercs regarded the Suits for a moment.

“Well, I don’t know about you guys,” said Doug, “but if I didn’t know better I’d say that this is the place.”

“What tipped you off, Doug?” replied Blaise. “Was it the fact that they’re wearing suits in a warehouse district? Is it the way they’re standing around completely oblivious to the idea of looking conspicuous? Perhaps it’s because they’re all wearing sunglasses despite it being a fairly overcast and grey day?”

“Bloody comedians, the lot of you,” growled one of the Suits. “I’ve had it up to here with taking lip from you bloody mercenaries, every bastard who’s walked this way has had some snide comment to make.” Doug and Blaise looked at each other, grinning.

“Oooooohh!” they both said, brimming with sarcasm.

“Look, maybe it hasn’t dawned on you that we’re not blending in because we don’t give a shit. Any trouble, and we’ll come down on you like a tonne of bricks!”

“Is that part of what we’ve got to do to get the job? Are you guys the entrance exam?” asked Blaise.

“Hardly seems fair,” said Doug. He bent his human arm behind his back and lifted one leg so it was bent behind him. He hopped up and down a couple of times to keep his balance. “There you go, just need a blindfold and we’re all set. Ready when you are!”

“Very funny, hopalong. Why don’t you bring your crew in here, presuming you can fit your ego through the door.”

Doug and Blaise continued to laugh as they crossed the threshold and came face-to-face with a security sentry: a robotic camera fitted with rotor blades that whirred and clacked as it hovered at eye level. It was the size of a person’s hand and its body was dominated by a single lens. A flash bulb situated above its lens flared, momentarily blinding the two Mercs as the camera captured their facial information.

“Fuck!” Doug swore as dots danced before his eyes and he lashed out with his bionic arm in an attempt to grab the robot, which nimbly avoided the swipes before flying deeper into the warehouse whilst shrieking electronically. The Suits began to laugh as Doug swore again at having missed the robot.

“What the hell was that about?” Doug complained, furiously blinking away the spots.

“Insurance. The bigwigs upstairs want to be able to run background checks on the lot of you before you’re all given confidential information. We’ve got to be able to keep tabs on you,” one of the Suits explained.

“And, should the information be leaked, I’m sure being able to put a face to a bounty contract is a nice bonus,” Blaise added cynically, rubbing her eyes in a bid to bring back some vision. The Suit beamed a toothpaste-white grin at her.

“Somethin’ like that. Although there’s a problem,” he continued.

“Oh?” she responded.

“Yeah. It doesn’t work out so well if someone’s wearing a mask, like your pal here.” He waved his hand towards Gratin, the others all turning to look at him.

“I am not removing my mask,” the mage stated.

“Well you ain’t coming in then. Company policy.”

“Then I shall wait out here.” Gratin looked to his friends to see if they had any objections. Doug shrugged in response.

“Up to you, Archie. We’ll fill you in when we get out,”

“We won’t be long,” Blaise added. The two Mercenaries entered the warehouse, the doors closing behind them.

Unbeknownst to Gratin, in a van parked further down the street were a second group of Suits. These ones were sitting in the darkened rear of the van and were monitoring a row of screens hooked up to a computer system. The screens showed multiple views of the street outside, of the various docking bays belonging to each of the various warehouses, and a close-up of the mage leaning against the wall of the building where the meeting was being held.

“Well, have you got anything on him yet?” said a Suit to his associates, idly pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee from a thermos. They were busying themselves with the computers.

“Just a minute, I’m applying the facial recognition software³ now. It’ll take a moment for the camera relay up on the warehouse roof to do a mask scan,” replied a second Suit. The monitor he was working on displayed a close up of Gratin’s face, the image slowly changing to reveal a ghostly x-ray view of what he looked like without the mask on. The software then kicked in, contour lines appearing over the pale image as it calculated the exact dimensions of Gratin’s face and cross referenced them with the Police database.

“We have a match. His name is Gratin but there isn’t much information here. He’s a mage, quite a powerful one too. Grade Six⁴. Although, it says here that he’s a Dark Worlder…” the second Suit eventually declared. The first Suit’s brow wrinkled as he absorbed this information.

“Why is he here then? Is he going to cause trouble?”

“I don’t think so. His mate’s ex-PSF. He spent a decade gunning Dark Worlders down. If the mage held a grudge then he’d be toast by now. I think he’s clean,” the second Suit replied. The first considered it, sipping his coffee as he mulled over whether or not it was a good idea to allow Gratin the chance to take the contract.

“Very well,” he eventually said, “but we best keep a close eye on this one. We better make sure he stays out of trouble.”

The interior of the warehouse was not particularly special. In terms of furnishings, it was incredibly bare. It was disused, the industrial shelving you’d usually expect to find in a storage facility having long since been removed, leaving the building as a hollow shell.

The outside light came through a grime-covered skylight which made what little light that trickled through it feel dirty. The centre of the room was reasonably well lit but its sides were drenched in shadows cast by the gantries and roofing above. Armoured men could be seen patrolling these darkened areas, the gloom obscuring the finer details of their outfits but judging by their bulk, their ensemble consisted of metal plates knitted together to protect the entirety of their anatomy and a streamlined helmet that covered the face, giving them an inhuman quality. The less perceptive could have mistaken them for robots due to the way they carried out their patrols with unnerving determination.

The other people occupying the building were, in contrast, animals.

A horde of around thirty mercenaries were closely packed around a makeshift stage in the centre of the lit area. Within the main horde were smaller gangs and packs, each trying to stay together whilst avoiding anyone who didn’t fit with their group, despite the limited space. Thin paths could be traced between the competing gangs, each one barely one-man thick in width. There was a cacophony of noise as the different groups jeered and guffawed at each other while their members discussed their business amongst themselves. In this particular zoo, one would be forgiven for trying to calm the animals by throwing them some meat.

Scantily-clad Battle Maidens adorned with impressive chain-swords taunted the advances of a group of men wearing leather that followed the stereotype of a biker gang with the addition of having more guns than sense. Another group wearing jackets and waistcoats decorated with teeth and bones claimed to be bounty hunters and were boasting about the size of their past prey to anyone who would listen. A gaggle of cyborgs – each one with less flesh than the last – were speaking to each other via a series of rapid bleeps and screeches that the well traversed would recognise as machine code. A heavily scarred man in a lab coat talked animatedly to his three companions; a long haired man wearing a repurposed fishing vest filled with ammunition for the rifle strapped to his back, a woman with curled, blonde hair wearing an old fashioned military coat and a suited gentleman wielding a cane who wasn’t overdresse, but rather more plain stupidly dressed considering the company he was keeping. The blonde woman appeared to take notice of Blaise as she and Doug waded into the crowd.

“Trust Harry to not keep his mouth shut. He must have advertised this thing to half of Undercit by the looks of this crowd,” Doug commented as he pushed past a squad of individuals wearing mismatched and rusted armour.

“He did say the client was treating this like a bounty. I don’t think Harry was the only one advertising the job,” Blaise pointed out, disappearing from Doug’s view momentarily as she was forced to sidestep around a shoving match between a group of Russians and a couple of Schwarzenites kitted out with crew-cuts and tight vests that clung to their muscled bodies.

“Yeah well he wasn’t joking when he said we’d have competition,” Doug replied before having to apologise to one of the Battle Maidens for accidentally elbowing her in the spine whilst trying to squeeze his way past a giant of a man with a Gatling gun strapped to his back.

“It’ll certainly make things harder. You still interested?” Blaise’s eyes narrowed as she heard one of the bikers encouraging her to remove her coat and join him and the Maidens for some ‘action’.

“Of course. It wouldn’t be as fun if it were easy,” Doug japed, grinning broadly at her, prompting her to do the same as they finally found space for them both to stand in with a decent view of the stage.

“That’s the spirit!” somebody added from somewhere on Doug’s left. He glanced around to look at the speaker in surprise. It belonged to a woman. She was well toned with short, dark hair which had purple highlights dyed into her fringe which, alongside a nose stud, gave her a punkish look. She wore a bullet-proof vest and combat trousers. A submachine gun was holstered around her waist. An arm was crossed against her chest whilst the other supported her chin. Doug surveyed her before engaging the conversation.

“I take it you share my sense of adventure?” he asked quizzically. Blaise, who had been standing to his right, leant forward to catch a glimpse of who he was talking to.

“I think half the people in the room share that way of thinking, mate,” the stranger replied, extending her right hand in greeting. There was a hint of (space)Scouse to her accent.

“The name’s Harper, by the way. Jessie Harper.” Doug took her hand and gave it a firm shake.

“Doug McCracken.”

“Nice to meet you Doug. That’s a nice arm you got there,” she said, nodding towards his bionic arm. “That looks like it used to belong to a XL450-i.”

Doug looked down at his claw and flexed its joints, the arms innards grinding as the hand rotated 360 degrees.

“You know your robots,” Doug observed. Harper grinned at him.

“I consider myself a bit of a gearhead. Me dad used to work at the Skyport. They had a load of ‘bots up there, shifting the heavy cargo. I got to watch ‘em work on the weekends and I’ve been fond of ‘bots ever since,” she admitted. Doug gave her a calculating look.

“You’re not one of those machine cultists are you? Church of Mekanik or whatever?”

“Do I look like one of those wankers?” she replied with a brow raised. “Nah mate. I ain’t one of them so you don’t have to worry about me giving any sermons about ‘the flesh being weak’ and how ‘immortality is in the circuits’ or whatever it is they harp on about.”

“That’s a relief.”

“I’d watch out for those cyborgs though. They have a few too many artificial limbs for it to be an accident. They’re bound to be fanatics.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he threw a glance towards the cyborgs in question. They were still huddled together, avoiding the larger group as a whole. Their figures could only be described as humanoid in the loosest of terms, their bodies almost completely dominated by metallic components. The ones with the least amount of cybernetics owned the cheapest set, their components having been styled in an Art Deco design: harsh angles married with lights and dials that served no purpose other than to look technical. The more advanced Cyborgs were more streamlined and plain, a white plastic casing concealing the limb’s electronics.

There was movement by the entrance of the warehouse, the doors opening wide and bathing the area in light. The more attentive of the mercenaries – Doug and Blaise included – ceased their conversations to see who was arriving. A retinue of the robotic-looking security entered in a tight-knit hexagon formation. They marched forward perfectly in time with one another, crossing the space between the entrance and the mercenaries, cutting a swath through the crowd as they made their way to the stage.

As they entered the light, the details of the armour they wore were revealed to be equally as robotic as their manner. Shades of blue covered the metal plating, the colour scheme doing little to defuse the feeling of cold tension they inspired. A diamond motif had been placed on the armour, all of the joints having it etched into them. The helmet also had a diamond pattern inscribed on top of it, which gave way to large, black lenses that covered the wearer’s eyes and a series of slits that filtered the air the wearer breathed. These two features gave the impression of a skull, all signs of humanity having been removed until only the basic humanoid shape remained. That wasn’t the part that made the mercenaries feel uneasy though, the main cause for concern being the logo pinned smartly across the chest plates: a pair of entwined S’s inlayed over a diamond.

Doug and Blaise exchanged a hesitant glance, Blaise’s eyes widened with anxiety while Doug wore a deeply set frown. Their discomfort passed Harper by, the stranger taking an active full interest in the convoy of guards and the VIP they were escorting to the stage.

“And here we go…” she muttered.

The convoy reached the stage and the guards separated, lining up along the base whilst the VIP climbed a set of steps to reach the centre of the platform and the microphone situated there. She was a woman with her brown hair in a bouffant hairstyle. Her choice of attire was also dark brown, and consisted of a waistcoat, skirt and cream blouse, the ensemble being reminiscent of a secretary from a distant age past, a look which was further complimented by a brown velvet overcoat.

“Lucretia…” Blaise murmured, attracting Doug’s attention. She didn’t elaborate on how she knew the woman’s name, falling silent as Lucretia began to address the crowd.

“Ladies, Gentlemen and Undetermined, I’d like to thank you all for coming on behalf of our esteemed employer,” the sound of her enhanced voice attracted the attention of the mercenaries still engrossed in their conversations, a hush descending over the crowd.

“I’d also like to thank you for cooperating with us. You are probably wondering why we asked you all here today-”

“Too fuckin’ right, Love!” somebody heckled from the back of the crowd. Lucretia continued with her speech, ignoring them.

“You have no doubt noticed that we represent Salmanic Incorporated. This information may cause you to feel uncomfortable as the company’s reputation precedes itself. It is true that we have a low tolerance for failure, that our connections are numerous and we most certainly can and will make life extremely difficult for you if you disappoint us.” There was a series of murmurs from the crowd as the groups conferred amongst themselves over this point. Lucretia continued, “You may be considering leaving now that you know that Salmanic Inc. is the one offering you a job and you are perfectly free to follow that instinct but before you do, consider this: those who prove useful to Mr Salmanic are heavily rewarded. You will be paid handsomely for completing the task we set you and may even earn yourself additional and equally lucrative employment in the future.”  The chatter continued amongst her audience.

“Yeah, ‘cus Salmanic is a beacon of generosity…” Harper commented to no one in particular. Her sentiment was shared by a number of the other mercenaries, several of which broke off from the main crowd and made their way to the exit, leaving the meeting. Blaise looked to Doug to see if he wanted to do the same but he shook his head at her.

“I want to see where this goes,” he told her. She frowned at him, clearly uncomfortable with this decision but ultimately decided to stay by his side.

Lucretia pressed on with her speech, those leaving failing to make an impression on her.

“Some of you may be aware of reports that a few small towns and farming communities to the east have been experiencing power failures. We’ve tried to keep such dire news out of the papers but word of mouth has a way of spreading rumours.” Her nose wrinkled at the prospect of gossipmongers soiling the company name. “The reason for these blackouts is a spate of terrorism. It seems a group of saboteurs have infiltrated the Salmanic Pipeline Network and have taken it upon themselves to cause as much damage to as many integral pipes as they can find. They are assumed to be highly trained as they have bypassed every security measure we have put in place while completely evading being captured on our extensive network of security cameras. We have yet to find a trace of visual evidence of their existence, the only evidence being the aftermath of their work-”

“What the hell do you expect us to do about it?” said one of the Schwarzenites.

“What we ask of you is to find the ones responsible for this heinous act of terrorism and put a stop to their operations. Whoever can provide proof that they have slain the terrorists will be given the reward-” Lucretia tried to continue only to be interrupted again.

“How’re you gonna know if we’ve brought you the right guys?” the man heckled again, evidently deciding that he needed to elaborate on his reason for heckling.

“Our property is heavily monitored, the moment you flush the saboteurs out of their hiding place, we’ll know who they are,” Lucretia assured.

“I’ve got your sabbo-teerrs right here!” a biker yelled, crudely grabbing his crotch. Lucretia took on a look of disgust as most of the crowd of mercenaries replied with a “WAYHEEEEEY!” of approval.

“Quaint. If that answer didn’t satisfy you then how about this one: considering the reputation of Salmanic Inc., would you really be willing to risk attempting to con us? Really?” the question hung uncomfortably in the air, the hecklers quieting down as they considered the ramifications of upsetting the richest and most connected man on the planet. The silence allowed a chance for some more serious questions to be asked.

“How big a hunting ground are we talking about, Missy?” one of the bounty hunters asked. He wore the most teeth sown into his clothes and around his neck which caused Doug to assume that he was the de-facto leader of the hunters.

“Sizeable. The terrorists have been known to move. We have a list of suspected targets that they may attack for you to investigate but you will be expected to travel a fairly large distance,” she replied, her composure remaining intact despite her dislike at having been addressed as ‘missy’.

“There’s one thing I want to know,” to Blaise’s surprise, the new questioner was Doug himself, “why do you need an army of mercenaries when you have your own private security force already? The Salmanic security is supposed to be the best on the planet,” he enquired. Lucretia looked down on him with the same amount of disdain someone might have at finding a fly in their soup. After some deliberation, she decided to answer with the truth. Or at least, a truth.

“You’re expendable.”

“And what exactly is stopping us from going to the press with this?” Doug further questioned. Their eyes were locked together in a stare down, Lucretia remaining calm and collected while Doug pulled a cigarette out of his jacket and inserted it into his mouth.

“Because we know all about you,” she replied.

“Bollocks,” was Doug’s response. He pulled his lighter out of his jacket and lit up. Lucretia watched him carefully, a smile gracing her flawless face. She silently reached into her own coat, brought out a PDA and began to input a few commands into it.

“Douglas McCracken, age 32. You were primarily raised by your mother, Rosaline McCracken until the age of 14, when you were passed into the guardianship of your father. You joined the Planetary Special Forces at 18 and served in over two hundred different campaigns, the most prominent of which being against General Kraken on Jehoth IV where you lost your left arm. Your new arm is modified from a XL450-i series of droid. To date, you’re wanted for several counts of murder, manslaughter, assault, arson, reckless endangerment, petty theft, impersonating a priest, indecent exposure, public urination and over a thousand unpaid parking tickets.” Lucretia reeled the information off as if it were idle gossip. Doug’s cigarette drooped in his mouth as he stared at her, dumbfounded. She wasn’t finished though as she then turned the PDA towards the Schwarzenite that had heckled her.

“Daniel ‘Dan The Man’ Nuschke, age 26. Self-professed ‘super thug’. You flunked out of school at 15 and have been hijacking cars since you were 13. You broke the arm of the social service worker that tried to make you stop skipping school. You are wanted for burglary, assault, murder and you’re suspected of trying to break into the house of a high ranking Russian businessman.”  She turned her PDA on the biker that had cried out before Dan had a chance to comprehend what had just happened to him.

“Leighton ‘Big L’ Carter, age 38, you’ve barely been a mercenary for a year. You don’t have as many murder counts to your name as Daniel and Douglas, your specialty being grand theft auto. You’ve been stealing cars and bikes for profit since your early twenties. You also acted as the muscle for your gang and have decided to expand your business, it seems. Good for you, I hope it works out.” She looked at the crowd for a final person to make an example of, picking Blaise who immediately stiffened as Lucretia turned to her.

“Blaise O’Donnell,” Lucretia paused and briefly looked up from her PDA’s screen to catch a better look of the merc’s face. Her mouth twitched as a glimmer of a smirk passed across it.

“Blaise O’Donnell, age estimated at 27, you’ve only started using the alias Blaise three years ago. Sadly your real name isn’t on record but you have been a busy bee over the past three years, haven’t you!” Lucretia paused again to flash Blaise a patronising smile, which the merc responded to with a scowl.

“You’re an expert marksman and you’re wanted for many counts of murder, robbery and arson, most of which you committed alongside Douglas McCracken.”

Satisfied, Lucretia turned the PDA to an elderly man in a coat for one last appraisal. She raised an eyebrow of disapproval as she read over his file.

“Oh, ohh no. Why are you even here? Thank you for wearing clothes tonight, at least,” she scorned. One of her entourage leaned in towards her.

“I think that guy’s just a hobo who lives in this building, Miss,” they murmured.

“Oh. Of course. I knew that. Ahem.”

She turned the PDA off and returned it to her coat before facing Doug once more, “I hope that little display was enough to dispel your doubts. Take this as a fair warning; fuck with us and we’ll do far worse to you, clear?” Doug puffed on his cigarette as he contemplated her statement before grinning at her.

“Crystal,” he replied. Lucretia beamed sweetly back at him before addressing the room as a whole.

“For all those wishing to partake in this deal, you are instructed to go to the following coordinates: latitude -17.58.43.4382, longitude 0.42.11.25. You will be greeted by the plant’s chief of security and given a full briefing upon your arrival. Gods-speed and good luck!” she finished, adjourning the meeting. The security guarding the stage arranged themselves into their convoy formation once more, Lucretia inserting herself in the middle as they swiftly escorted her out.

The din of noise returned as the mercenaries began to discuss what they had just heard, the crowd breaking up as the smaller groups began to filter out. Doug fumbled in his pockets, finding a pen and a scrap of old receipt to write on. Placing the paper on his bionic arm, he tried to write.

“Lessee, I got minus seventeen…fifty-er…fifty-three? Longi-something…er…shit. Did anyone-”

“Latitude -17.58.43.4382, longitude 0.42.11.25.”

He looked up and saw that Harper was holding out a pocket recorder, a wry smile on her lips.

“Well aren’t you clever,” said Doug. “Play it again, sister.”

Doug scribbled down the coordinates as the recording played again. Blaise didn’t have the heart to tell him that she had them memorised, she was good at remembering coordinates. Pocketing the recorder, Harper stretched the kinks out of her back as she yawned.

“Sounds like it’s off to Galmanoc then,” she commented at Doug. “I take it I’ll be seeing you again, big man?” she asked flirtatiously, flashing him a smile. Doug’s attention wasn’t fully on her as he was watching Blaise, who was still tensed up from having her details read aloud to her.

“I’m considering it so yeah, probably,” he replied absent-mindedly. Harper shrugged and began walking towards the exit.

“Well then, I’ll look forward to it. Ciao,” she gave him a mock salute before disappearing into the vacating crowd. Doug placed his human hand on Blaise’s shoulder.

“You okay?” he asked. She nodded.

“I don’t like it, Doug. There was more on that file than she let on,” she shook the unpleasantness away with a sharp head motion before stepping towards the exit.

“C’mon, Gratin’ll be wondering where we are,” she said as she went. Doug stood back for a moment, puffing thoughtfully on his cigarette as he stared towards the stage, contemplating the job before making up his mind and following Blaise outside.

---

Post by Sean Patrick Payne | October 20, 2013 at 3:51 pm | The Mercenaries' Tale | No comment

Tags: Blaise, Doug McCracken, Gratin, Jessie Harper, Lucretia Velarina, Salmanic Incorporated, Salmanic pipeline, The City of Light, the Mercs

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