t’ere!”
“Lone Stars?” asked Thumbs, mentally calculating percentages.
“Der waz. But some suits in a slickmobile chased ’em way. Ya wan me ta go down and act casually like? See wa I kin see?”
Jesus, Buddah, and Zeus, no! Even on a good day, which this was obviously not, Beaver possessed all the adroit acting ability of a busted chair. Maybe less.
“No need. It’s arctic,” Thumbs replied, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of a hand. The tiny ridges of the cyberware exits on his arm rubbed his face in a pleasantly familiar manner. So, this halfer had more than just Lone Star after him. A limo on the scene had to mean a corp was in on this too. And that meant real trouble and real money. Thumbs’ price just tripled.
“Ah, Thumbs, like, when can I get my nuyen?” asked Beaver, licking the stub of his busted tusk.
Across the street, the dwarf got served his food and began walking away, slurping down the noodles barely chewed. It was good protective cover—fugitives didn’t stop, for lunch. His own stomach rumbled in sympathy. Thumbs had missed breakfast, and lunch didn’t look like it was coming for quite awhile. “Get ’em from Lucky Pete. Tell him I said it’s chill.”
“Null perspiration. T’anks!”
Without saying goodbye, Thumbs disconnected and quickly moved after the departing dwarf. This could be the score of his life. Maybe he shouldn’t wait to see if the dwarf had more work, but let the guy run to his bolthole and then turn him in to whoever was after him. Surely, there’d be some reward in it.
Thumbs hated the idea of dealing with a corp, even just for a minute and indirectly, but that angle could be safer and would probably pay more. When the time was right, he’d give the halfer one opportunity to hire him, and if he refused, then the corp goons would get him gift-wrapped. But either way, the guy was nuyen in the bank. Then the dwarf turned northeast, heading for General Gomez Park.
Drek! Thumbs slowed his advance, but still kept going. The idiot was heading straight out of Slammers’ turf and directly into Latin Kings territory. Sworn blood enemies of Thumbs’ gang, and rabid policlubbers. Racists with guns, not exactly the sort of folk he really wanted to be dealing with at the present moment. He already had Lone Star and some corp security goons after the little guy.
In a heartbeat, he made his decision. Okay, time to talk with the halfer and tell him about the bottom line. Amid a traffic jam, Thumbs briskly maneuvered his massive bulk between the slow-moving cars, roaring speedsters, and darting beach bikes, trying to reach the hurrying dwarf as his tiny form disappeared and re-appeared within the bustling crowd.
Dodging around a road crew making big potholes out of little ones, the halfer cut through General Gomez Park. Thumbs couldn’t call out. It would draw unwanted attention to him as well. Come on, Shorty, slow down! Thumbs got tense, but didn’t let it show. Little guy could be going anywhere. Stay arctic. Kids were playing on the concrete slabs as a makeshift jungle gym, couple of oldsters with obviously nothing to steal or take were sunning themselves on the splintery benches, and ork gangers in ballistic vests were sweating out the noon sun in the shade of the few leafy oak trees, slightly wilted but still standing valiant against the temperatures from above and dog urine from below.
Charging straight through the DMZ of the park, the dwarf was watched by a hundred eyes, but nobody stirred from the precious shade to roust a tourist. At night, he’d never have made it whole or alive to the old marble fountain. Long dry and now full of sea gulls. Noisy, smelly, and they tasted awful no matter how much ketchup you put on ’em.
Along the way, a dozen gutterkin reached out to beg, or offer a guided tour, sex, guns, chips, and other things that would have made the average visitor recoil. Here the halfer gave himself away by not blanching at the
“Lone Stars?” asked Thumbs, mentally calculating percentages.
“Der waz. But some suits in a slickmobile chased ’em way. Ya wan me ta go down and act casually like? See wa I kin see?”
Jesus, Buddah, and Zeus, no! Even on a good day, which this was obviously not, Beaver possessed all the adroit acting ability of a busted chair. Maybe less.
“No need. It’s arctic,” Thumbs replied, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of a hand. The tiny ridges of the cyberware exits on his arm rubbed his face in a pleasantly familiar manner. So, this halfer had more than just Lone Star after him. A limo on the scene had to mean a corp was in on this too. And that meant real trouble and real money. Thumbs’ price just tripled.
“Ah, Thumbs, like, when can I get my nuyen?” asked Beaver, licking the stub of his busted tusk.
Across the street, the dwarf got served his food and began walking away, slurping down the noodles barely chewed. It was good protective cover—fugitives didn’t stop, for lunch. His own stomach rumbled in sympathy. Thumbs had missed breakfast, and lunch didn’t look like it was coming for quite awhile. “Get ’em from Lucky Pete. Tell him I said it’s chill.”
“Null perspiration. T’anks!”
Without saying goodbye, Thumbs disconnected and quickly moved after the departing dwarf. This could be the score of his life. Maybe he shouldn’t wait to see if the dwarf had more work, but let the guy run to his bolthole and then turn him in to whoever was after him. Surely, there’d be some reward in it.
Thumbs hated the idea of dealing with a corp, even just for a minute and indirectly, but that angle could be safer and would probably pay more. When the time was right, he’d give the halfer one opportunity to hire him, and if he refused, then the corp goons would get him gift-wrapped. But either way, the guy was nuyen in the bank. Then the dwarf turned northeast, heading for General Gomez Park.
Drek! Thumbs slowed his advance, but still kept going. The idiot was heading straight out of Slammers’ turf and directly into Latin Kings territory. Sworn blood enemies of Thumbs’ gang, and rabid policlubbers. Racists with guns, not exactly the sort of folk he really wanted to be dealing with at the present moment. He already had Lone Star and some corp security goons after the little guy.
In a heartbeat, he made his decision. Okay, time to talk with the halfer and tell him about the bottom line. Amid a traffic jam, Thumbs briskly maneuvered his massive bulk between the slow-moving cars, roaring speedsters, and darting beach bikes, trying to reach the hurrying dwarf as his tiny form disappeared and re-appeared within the bustling crowd.
Dodging around a road crew making big potholes out of little ones, the halfer cut through General Gomez Park. Thumbs couldn’t call out. It would draw unwanted attention to him as well. Come on, Shorty, slow down! Thumbs got tense, but didn’t let it show. Little guy could be going anywhere. Stay arctic. Kids were playing on the concrete slabs as a makeshift jungle gym, couple of oldsters with obviously nothing to steal or take were sunning themselves on the splintery benches, and ork gangers in ballistic vests were sweating out the noon sun in the shade of the few leafy oak trees, slightly wilted but still standing valiant against the temperatures from above and dog urine from below.
Charging straight through the DMZ of the park, the dwarf was watched by a hundred eyes, but nobody stirred from the precious shade to roust a tourist. At night, he’d never have made it whole or alive to the old marble fountain. Long dry and now full of sea gulls. Noisy, smelly, and they tasted awful no matter how much ketchup you put on ’em.
Along the way, a dozen gutterkin reached out to beg, or offer a guided tour, sex, guns, chips, and other things that would have made the average visitor recoil. Here the halfer gave himself away by not blanching at the
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