me.
“Ahhhhh!” I shouted and, pulling with my arms as I pushed with my legs, shot myself out of the pipe like a human cannonball and broke into a full out run. I pushed myself as fast as I could go, but already heard the distinctive sound of a fly craft descending at great speed. I was out in the open, completely exposed, and lacking a direction. I reached my cycle’s debris line and looked up and down it frantically. Panic pushed against my legs and reason pushed against my mind, both demanding that I return to the pipe. I needed a weapon, needed it quick, and the stub wing was far too close now to manage a run back to the drain pipe. I was a sitting duck and could hear the fighter’s guns spinning up.
Oh well, nothing left to loose. I ran and grabbed the biggest thing I had left, my uncle’s old fowling shotgun; mother goose, that’s the name he told me when he gave it to me. This ship was really just a big, metal bird so the choice seemed appropriate. I strode out into the open, the long shotgun resting across a shoulder. As the fighter dropped to firing range I raised the barrel, pressed the butt to my shoulder, and drew aim down the sight.
Despite that I was still out of his range, the jerk opened fire. Still, his guns would have me in range long before I’d have him in mine. I drew in a deep breath, forcing my head and my resolve to stay calm and focused. My only hope, and it was a slim one, was that the crank would fire wildly and randomly hoping to catch me in a massive spread, while I would get only one shot, so I intended to make it a good one.
Bullets formed two lines of dust drawing out ahead of the fast approaching fighter. I stood stock still, lining up my shot with the helmet and goggles inside the canopy. But the jerk got shaky. He started pulling up into a slow arch. My move must have confused him, gotten to his nerves. His shot went wild, cutting a sideways swath across my position. Damn it. I dove to the ground, tucking the gun under me, and then curled into a ball. Bullets rained all around, but nothing even got close. As soon as he passed overhead I propped up on one knee, drew aim, and pulled off a shot—but at that distance it was wasted.
I stood and watched him bank over the now destroyed overpass, knowing that somehow, if I survived this, the cranks would blame the damage on me. One dilemma at a time. Normally I kept one load in mother goose, and three in her stock mounted holster. For some reason I couldn’t remember, there was only one load left. I broke the gun open, ejecting the spent cartage, and loaded my last.
He was coming around for another run, coming for me again, and I doubted I could count on his shaky nerves a second time. I’d gotten unbelievably lucky so far, but I knew good luck to be something fleeting, unstable, and short lived. But what choice did I have? I jammed the shotgun butt against my shoulder and sighted for another shot. He’d probably hit me this time, but I was determined to take him with me—an antique shotgun against a fully armed crank, stub-wing fighter, now that would be a memorable death.
He dropped low, really low, the hull’s distended belly was nearly scrapping the dusty ground. He was waiting now, more confidant and that was bad for me. I got his leather-capped head in my line of fire and put a scoshe of pressure against the trigger. I was going for a head shot. His guns were spinning at firing rate. Another moment and I’d be in range of those large caliber cannons. Steady Jazz, no matter what happens stand and take the shot, you don’t want to die alone.
“Jazz, down!” Two simple words shouted in a high-pitched little voice. I didn’t wait; I pulled my knees up, bent over and went face first into the dirt. Just as the fighter’s guns began to fire I heard a loud pop behind me, then a whoosh of air overhead. I smelled burning kerosene—rocket fuel—and smoke. This was followed by a loud explosion and the clatter of hundreds of pieces of a dozen different materials crashing to, and tumbling over the ground.
I tucked in tighter, covering my exposed head with my arms. Something small and very hot landed on my shoulder blade. “Ahhh!” I screamed, grinding my teeth and squeezed my fists so tightly my fingernails cut my palms. But I didn’t dare move, not yet. I endured until I heard the last parts of the destroyed fighter rumbling away. Then I leapt to my feet, shaking the hot whatever from back.
“Jazz,” DJ called breathlessly. “Jazz, are you OK?”
I didn’t answer because I still wasn’t sure. I tore off my cotton jacket and let it fall, then untied the lace that kept my shirt v-neck closed. I pulled the shirt back from my shoulder, trying to look over it and survey the damage.
“What happened?” DJ slowed from a run to a stop beside me.
“New scar, I’ll live.” I turned and gently set my shirt back over my burned shoulder. “How about you?”
“Me? She asked, sounding somewhat surprised. “I’m fine.”
DJ was still dressed in the red leather jumpsuit with the black leg and arm stripes, her action suit she called it. Her long black hair was a dirty, tangled mess, her almond shaped eyes were full of worry. She had some road rash on her right forearm where the leather had run through, but otherwise she looked fine. Good thing she’d been wearing a helmet.
She was eyeing me up and down. “You’re hurt.”
“I’ll be all right.” I turned again, scanning the debris field. With the exception of the two stubby wings, now separated by several hundred yards, there was no part of the ship left that was bigger than a watermelon. Man, I missed watermelon, wish hey hadn’t gone extinct. “Good shot. The Robotusen personal mini-missile launcher and digital music player?”
“Yeah,” she said and I caught the satisfied sound in her voice.
“That’s why I couldn’t find it.” I looked back at her, than around. “So where is it?”
DJ grimaced. “That thing packs a wallop. It knocked me back ten feet when it fired. I left it lying to look for you.” She pointed a direction. “There, somewhere. I can find it.”
“We’ll get it, let’s check the bike first.”
As we walked to the bike DJ gathered as much of our discharged cargo as her little arms could hold, Incendifuego capsules, crossbow bolts, my grappling tentacles and gralek sinew cable, a half-bushel of chili pepper bombs, which, in her haste to gather, DJ dropped one of.
I just managed to catch it. “Hey!” I held it up to her for emphasis. “Be careful with these, I’d like to keep breathing.”
“Sorry,” she said. I stuck the retrieved pepper bomb in my pocket. As we reached the Sportster, DJ carefully laid her harvest in the dust, then, grabbing the rear rack, helped me get the bike standing up. “Is it OK?”
I bent the broken mirror back and forth until it snapped off, and then tossed it over my shoulder. “Let’s find out.” I drained the carburetor bowl, made sure the choke was open, and pressed the starter. Nothing happened. “Humm, that’s weird.” I knelt down and began tracing the starter motor lead back to the fuse box.
DJ dumped our junk back in a saddlebag, and then began tapping me on the shoulder. “Hey boss, you hear that?”
“Here it is.” I held up the end of the broken ground wire. “Scrud, I always meant to re-lace this.” I took the end of the wire in my teeth and began to strip off the insulation.
DJ was tapping me harder. “Jazz, Jazz, we got company.”
“Hold on, I almost—company?” I spat out the end of the wire and stood. As soon as I did I heard the fighters’ engines. Cranks, probably an entire squadron. “Holly scrud. Grab mother goose, and hurry!”
“Got it!” DJ shouted and ran for my old shotgun, her little feet kicking up a small, enthusiastic dust cloud.
I straddled the bike and flipped out the kick start lever. I leap up and kicked as hard as I could. The engine made maybe half a revolution. Damn. I was too light to kick start this big twin. I kicked again, pushing with all my might, and the bike coughed and sputtered a little forward. “Damn it!” I jiggled the shifter up and down, rocking the bike forward and back until I had the transmission in neutral.
“Jazz! Jazz, they’re coming!” DJ’s voice had reached that nearly inaudibly high pitch that told me she was in a st
ate of complete panic.
I glanced in the surviving mirror. DJ, mother goose looking huge in her small arms, was running full out toward me. The horizon was a dark shadow watermarked with lines of rising heat. The shadow began to darken, then took shape, and then separated into many shapes of many crank fighters of varying classes and configurations. It was the Kriscrossa, the cranks elite flying ace squadron. There were no shaky nerved pilots in the Kriscrossa.
We were dead.
I began kicking the bike as hard and as quickly as I could, grunting and cursing with the effort. My shoulder was burning, and my legs were going jelly as I hadn’t eaten or slept in two days. “God-damned extortion pirates!” I kicked the bike again, twisting the throttle. The engine sputtered, coughed, and began to putter with a hint of life. I worked the throttle, coaxing fuel and air into the engine that immediately died.
The bike seat sunk all of a sudden and nearly toppled over as DJ leapt on behind me. “Go, go, go!” She was kicking the bike like it was a race horse.
“Sit still!” I shouted louder and angrier then I intended too. I didn’t need to see her to know that she was pouting. I’d apologize later…if we had a later.
Behind me I heard a baker’s dozen flycraft drop their port flaps into fight position while twice as many proton cannons sung with charging