Steve is waiting for them outside the Milwaukee Hilton when they arrive. He looks rested and clean. He's carrying some bags and wearing new sunglasses.
"God, who puked?" he asks as he steps inside the Python. "Nevermind, I don't care. God, I miss my spaceship." He takes a look at Thunderhorse's new threads. "I see you got him to wear pants, finally."
"So what's in the bag, Steve?" Doc asks.
"Aha. Eager, are we?" Steve smiles. "Here," he hands Doc a glasses case. "Don't lose these, they cost a bloody fortune." He hands a pair out to everyone.
Inside the case is a pair of sunglasses. They're lightweight and stylish. Doc tries them on. They fit nicely. Once they're resting comfortably, a bright light flashes briefly across his retinas. An HUD lights up inside them. A little splash screen welcomes Doc to the Time Operative ComNet.
Doc's own face suddenly appears in the glasses, lightly superimposed over his own field of view. "They're brainwave reactive. Just think about what you need them to do and they'll do it." Steve's words echo in his head, and Doc realizes Steve had just called him over the glasses, and he's seeing what Dr. Ritenrong is seeing.
"They also have binocular, nightvision, and infrared modes, and are auto-tinting. They have all the functions of your I-Browse. The communication system is encrypted, and that encryption is modulated, so it's extremely difficult to listen in on our conversations. Although, they still work on electromagnetic relay so if you use it, you'll still light up a detector like fireworks. It's also jamming resistant, but not totally jam-proof. As you may have noticed, the retinal scanner as well as the brainwave pattern monitor ensures that no one can use them but you.
"One last detail. They can be loaded with special software to assist in certain tasks. I couldn't afford much of the military grade stuff and I didn't have time to code anything myself, but I've got some basics together. Everybody has translation modules for all languages know to Earth at this time. We can load more later. Thunderhorse, your glasses have been loaded with a text-to-speech program, so you can learn to read. They also have a tactical soft-spot analisys. Hit something exactly where it tells you and you'll probably kill it."
"Doc, yours have a threat alert, which should improve your reaction time and a targeting system which should help your aim. Mark, yours is loaded with a brainwave response feedback system, which should help keep you focused and concentrated."
"What the hell does that mean?" Mark asks.
"It means that it keep you from getting distracted. Alright, one more thing." Dr. Ritenrong reaches into another bag. He pulls out three black jumpsuits and hands them out. "These are even more expensive, so don't lose them either."
"What are they?"
"Body armor. Spider silk, carbon fiber weave, electroeramic reactive plating, and a magnetic field generator powered by your own bioenergy. The magnetic field has two modes- low and high power. Low power will remain on and protect you from limited exposure to charged particles. High power will keep you safe from a much larger exposure for a brief period. The high power burst will drain the microcapaciters, and the neither low power field nor the high power burst will work until they're recharged. Be very careful about using the magnetic fields. Absolutely do not use it in the presense of unsecured, lightweight ferromagnetic metals. For instance, do not activate the high power field while in a knife store. Also, be careful with it around people with pacemakers and unshielded electronics. Also, using the magnetic field at all will light you up like a spotlight on any respectable scanner.
"You should wear it underneath your clothes, and remove any other armors you have, since they'll only block the effectiveness of the reaction plating. Oh, yes, reaction plating. Doc, your military armor had something similar, although far less advanced. This does not require an induction sensor to activate, thus it will work against non-metalic objects including rocks, glass, and ceramic knives. When hit, as you know, the armor will suddenly stiffen as the electroceramic gel hardens up and absorbs the impact. This should protect you from penetration by bullets, but can still cause bruising. The nature of the electroceramics will also help protect you from pain guns and the like."
"I do not understand anything you said," Thunderhorse declares, almost proudly.
"It's new armor and it's better than that damned horse barding you got on," Mark tells him. "Other than that I don't know what the hell he said, either." He looks the jumpsuit over. "Looks like long underwear to me. How the hell do you take a shit with this thing on? It ain't got no fanny-flap!"
"You've got to pull and hold open these two flaps. It's like a dick hole but bigger."
"Well, thanks, Steve," Doc says. "You really care about us staying alive. I appreciate it. So what's the next step?"
"Well, I'm not sure. Sergi attempted defection somewhere towards the very end of the war in the west. The records I've found about him are spotty at best, but I think he was in Prauge when he was captured. I don't have an exact date, but it looks to be about May 1945. Now, we can either go back then now and hope that the Pear is still in the Solar System at the time, or go to Alpha Centuari and get the Pear when we know where it is. There's a luxury cruiser leaving from Saturn today to head over there, and they should be arriving somewhere near when we want to be there, but we can just use the Q-TIP to adjust our timing if it's not exact. What do you think?"
Back to the Grind
To Love or to Leave
Doc is tempted to screw her. Right here on the kitchen table, just to make things interesting. But it just doesn't seem right.
"Nadine, I want to assure you that I will do everything in my power to set things right. I have a crack team of specialists who can help me change things for the better, and that is what we are going to do."
"You are going to change the past? For me?"
"For everyone. Without Alyss, the entire galaxy is lost. And as much as I would like to sit and share more time with you and get to know you better, I have to go."
"So soon? Don't you need my geneology? Its just in the bedroom closet, we could look for it together! Please stay!"
"My portal only lasts just so long and I have miles to go before I sleep. Take care of yourself and in a week or two look for a package from Russia. And Nadine," Doc's voice takes a serious tone, "remember your promise. You can never tell anyone about me. You can't repeat my name or that I was ever here. If anyone ever asks, I was selling magazines. Much like a birthday wish, if you tell it, it won't come true."
"I promise. You're my secret time traveler. You'll come back, right? Will I ever see you again?"
"Maybe, but if I do my job right, your husband wouldn't appreciate it."
She laughs a teary eyed little chuckle.
"Oh," Doc remembers, "should a couple of oriental looking gentlemen stop by, lock the door and call the cops."
Nadine nods. She looks at her daughter's picture again. She hands the I-Browse back to Doc. "Can you send that file to me? The address is sundialdancer16@yahoogle."
"Sure." Doc fiddles with the thing a bit. "There, I think I got it."
"Thank you."
Doc get up to leave. Nadine escorts him to the door. He pauses. He gives her a nice peck on the cheek, and gets the hell outta there.
"Goodbye!" Nadine calls down the hall. "Good luck!"
------------------------
Thunderhorse is on his third of Doc's PBR tallboys. He's sitting in the pilots seat, his feet kicked up on the console. His boot heel is pressing some button, and an alarm is intermittently buzzing.
"Doc! I'm glad your back. This infernal bird will not cease it's wicked chirping."
Doc knocks his feet off the console. The buzzing stops immediately. Doc snatches up the remainder of his six pack and tears one off the rings. He pops the tab and sucks it back.
"How was your visit? Was the wench as beatiful as her voice?" Thunderhorse asks.
"Yes," Doc replies tersely.
"And did you enjoy her warmth and share in her bed?"
"No."
"Ah. I have some gold to lend if you were short on-"
"How's Mark doing?" Doc interupts.
"He has not stirred. You were not gone long, though."
"Yet you managed to drink half my beer in that time."
"I am sorry. This nectar is sweet as mead but half as potent. It is good."
"I know."
"So, what did happen with the wench? Were you unable to satisfy her?"
"Look, nothing like that happened. We're on a mission, remember? We've got work to do." Doc fires up the engines. "Autopilot?" The computer dings in acknowledgement. "Take us to the DataPlex."
With a quick chirp of confirmation, the Python takes off into the evening sky. The sun is sinking lower behind the endless sea of buildings. Traffic is getting heavier as they approach downtown. Everyone is heading out for food and drinks as the day winds down and the evening begins.
Mark begins to groan and rustle as they approach the DataPlex parking lot. Doc calls Steve over the ship's com.
"Steve, come in. Are you there?"
"Yes, I'm here. How did it go?"
"I met Nadine. Her life is on track with the timeline, but Dmitri isn't here. He's in Russia. I think we need to pay him a visit."
"So they never even met? Where is Dmitri, exactly?"
"Uh," Doc looks up the search records. "Khara, Siberia. It's the only Dmitri Valia I can find. Is it possible he's not listed in the database?"
"No, every human in the solar system is in there, has been since the Exkorean war. He's got to be the guy."
"Well, what about you? Any luck?"
"Not much. I couldn't get into the courier's database. Fucking SecAdmin there's got some balls. I did manage to get into the Department of Interstellar Transportation's system. According to them, the Younger Brother Pear was in the Alpha Centuari System forty years ago. That's the only record I can find and it doesn't mean much. Depending on how fast she was going, she could've left from here last week and arrived there back then."
"How's that?"
"Relativity is a bitch. Anyway, I've got more work to do here. Why don't you go ahead and visit Dmitri on your own and meet me back here when you're done? Find out what happened in his past or his family's past that made him stay in Russia."
Mother of God
Doc goes to Nadine McClaren's apartment door and knocks. She answers quickly.
"Good evening, ma'am. May I come in?" Doc greets her warmly as the door slides open. He's got his I-Browse in hand, and kicks on the voice recorder.
"Come on in," she says. She's a strawberry blonde with green eyes. She's a slim build, no more than 5'6", in her mid forties. She's wearing business slacks and a rough old T-shirt advising Doc to "respect the rack." She's obviously just home from work; her briefcase and jacket are slung over the nearest chair. "Have a seat," she offers as she clears some clutter from a chair.
Doc sits. "Thank you,"
"Would like some sweet tea?" she asks as she approaches the fridge of the small studio apartment, grabbing a glass off the drying rack.
"Yes, thank you."
She pours two glasses and sits with Doc at the small dining table just off the kitchenette.
"Ms. McClaren, I've come to ask you a bit about your family. I'm working on a ground breaking book that includes the history of the most prominent Milwaukee families. The government has commissioned a healthy stipend for this book and my boss, Mr. T. H. Horse is looking to expand our civil war wing. So if I could just have fifteen minutes of your time I would be truly grateful."
"...okay," she responds. She seems a bit confused. Doc works his magic, focusing on her eyes and peering into her mind. She's open to inquiry, more than she should be to a total stranger. Whoops. Doc's little mind trick has backfired. She's infatuated.
Doc has to keep this conversation under control. "So, uh, tell me about yourself. Where are you from, and why did you come to Milwaukee?"
"Well, I'm from Neoleans. My family has lived there since the Reconstruction in the 2010s. It's kind of a tradition in my family to leave town for a while, see the world and live life outside Louisiana, then move back and raise a family. That's why I came out here, I guess. To find a man and bring him home. I haven't had much luck with that, though. That's why I'm still here."
"When did you move out here?"
"Oh, it's been almost thirty years now. I move out here in, oh, '72? When I was 18. VelociTech was hiring everybody and anybody out of high school all around the planet. They made me a great offer; good pay, free schooling, room and board, food vouchers, even free trips around the globe and across the solar system. I went to Saturn once, stayed at the Casini Hotel in the rings. It was so beautiful there. I always wanted to go back, have a romantic getaway with someone special, you know?"
Doc clears his throat and pretends to take notes. "What do you do at VelociTec?"
"Well, I started out as a seceratary, but now I'm the lead interior designer. I design showrooms mostly, but I also do the investors banquets and other special events. I also keep the home office looking nice. Sorry my place is a wreck right now. I wasn't expecting company."
The apartment is actually very well kept and beautifully furnished. There's only a thin layer of typical house clutter; some business papers, half emtied shopping bags, un-closeted laundry, a couple dirty dishes, etc. Doc can tell she's got an eye for decorating.
"Oh, no. Your home is beautiful."
"Thank, you," Nadine replies, fluttering and blushing. "I want to go into business for myself, but I could never afford to leave my job. The cost of living is just too high for a single girl by herself in the Great Lakes Sprawl."
"Tell me about your family. Who is your father and mother? Your grandparents?"
"Well, my mother, Marla Owens, owned a chocolate shop in downtown Neoleans. My father was Pete McClaren. He was a mechanic. He worked on heavy equipment, cranes and backhoes and things. His father operated them. My father's family worked in construction since they moved to Neoleans in 2012 after all those hurricanes finally did in Old New Orleans. The government was offering big money back then to help rebuild the city. You probably know more about that than I do, you're a historian, right?"
"Yes, I've read a lot about that. Everyone who worked on the construction projects got free housing, tax refunds, health insurance, and government pensions. So how many generations were there? Five or six?"
"Let's see, there's pappa, Pete McClaren, grandpa Taylor, his father was Joseph, and before him was Gabriel McClaren, uh, I forget his dad, but the origional Neoleans McClaren was Tory. So, six. I don't know much about the family before that. I've got a family geneology around here somewhere, would you like to see it?"
"Absolutely," Doc answers overenthusiastically.
Nadine gets up slowly, smiling. She goes over to the bookshelf across the apartment and looks around a bit. She gets up on her tiptoes to reach the top shelf, arching her back and throwing a smile at Doc. She looks around a bit but comes back empty handed.
"It's not out here, it must be in a box in the bedroom closet. Wanna help me look for it?"
"Oh, uh, that's okay for now, I've got a few more questions to get through."
"Sure," she says, sitting back down. She leans on the table at him, chin in hand and smiling.
"So, you're single, right?"
"I am," she replies quickly.
"Have you ever been married? Ever have children?"
She leans back away from him a bit. "No, I've never been married and I've never had kids." She's sadder now. "It- I don't know. I've always wanted a daughter. It's like, hmm. I've always felt like a part of me was missing, you know?"
"You don't happen to have a cousin named Nadine McClaren or anything?"
"No, why?"
"I'm looking for someone in particular. I was told she is your daughter."
"What?"
Doc brings up Alyss's entry on his I-Browse and hands it to Nadine.
"Alyss Valia, daughter of yours and Dmitri Valia, your husband of thirty years. She's a gifted student, a war hero, racing champion, and the finest pilot in all of history."
Nadine is confused. "I don't understand. What's this about?"
"Ms. McClaren, may I be frank? I'm about to tell you something that you may never repeat. I am only sharing this with you as you seem like an honest person and I feel I can trust you. Part of my work for the Smithsonian involves fact finding tours to provide vital information to authors and historians the world over. Some of these tours involve time travel. And I totally understand your confusion, as I do this sort of thing so often that I'm not certain if I am coming or going, but the truth of the matter is I'm looking for a person that is somehow related to you. Sure you have heard about the ban on time travel, but the government was crafty enough to include a small clause about 'educational purposes' and here I am. Forgive me if I sound forward, but what do you know about Alyss Lin Valia?"
"Alyss Lin? My grandmother was Linda, her mother was Alice," she's confused to the point of fear, or at least extreme stress. "Time travel? You're a time traveller?"
"Have you ever met anyone by the name of Dmitri Valia? Perhaps working at VelociTech?"
"I don't think so, no. I know everybody there."
"Ever been to Russia? Talk to anyone there online?"
"No, I've never been to Russia. You're telling me I'm supposed to be married to someone from there? And I really am supposed to have a daughter?" She's tearing up. "I thought momma's stupid voodoo tea leaves were wrong all this time!"
"I'm sorry if this is a bit weird," Doc tries to console her.
"I've always known it was supposed to be true!" She strokes the picture of her non-existant daughter, sobbing. "She looks just like my pappa! " Her mood swings a bit, she's in a full on cry. "What happened? Why is she not here? What did I do wrong with my life?!" she screams.
"Nothing! Nothing," Doc tries to calm her down. "Everything in your life seems to be in place."
Her temper shifts quickly towards Doc. "Was it you? What happened? Did you fuck up the past?! Did you break that fucking treaty and start some kind of time war? She's a war hero, right? She'd be a perfect target for some kind of time travel assassination! Did they kill her father? Will they try to kill me?!"
"No, no. It's not like that. Dmitri is alive and living in Siberia. For some reason, you two have never met. I don't know what's changed, but I'm going to find out. Everything you've told me about yourself lines up with the history I know. It's Dmitri's past that seems out of place. He was supposed to be living here in Milawukee with you. Perhaps if you met him, or something-"
"No! It's too late," she cries. "It says here she was born in 2173. Even if I did meet this Dmitri and he was my soul mate, I can't have babies anymore. It- it's just not possible!" she manages to stem the flow of tears and calm down. "I had an operation last year. It... it was cancer! They had to remove my ovaries!" She's crying again.
Doc reaches over and pats her shoulder. She grabs his arm and holds his hand against her face.
"I'm sorry I snapped at you," she says. "I'm sorry I'm a mess. It's just that, my whole life I felt that there was something missing, and here you come and tell me exactly what it is. And I know I'll never have it! I'll never meet her! I'll never have that life!"
"You have, though. Reality has many faces. I've seen a few of them. Somewhere, right now, you do have a daughter, a very special daughter, a loving husband, and an interior design company all your own. It may all be in another dimension, many other dimensions, in fact, perhaps most of them. Your life here is just another facet of your existance. Different, perhaps, but not bad. In another life, you may have never seen Saturn."
"In another life," she sniffles,"I may have never met a hansome time traveller..."
Nadine, Part 2
Doc clears his throat. "Ms. McClaren? I'm Dr. Lucas Shaw. I'm a researcher for the Smithsonian Museum. Perhaps you've heard of it? I'd like to ask you a few questions if I may. Have you got a moment?"
"What is this about?" she asks.
"I'm studying the history of certain American families." Doc replies. He doesn't like to lie outright, but there's no harm in bending the truth a bit. Besides, he's damn good at it. "I'd like to ask you some questions about your family background."
Nadine hesitates a moment. "You got ID?" she asks.
Doc just so happens to have his Smithsonian ID badge in his wallet, even though it's a hundred years outdated now. He hopes she can't see the expiration date as he produces it for her.
"Okay," she replies, to Doc's relief. "Come on down."
The intercom disconnects and the elevator door slides open.
"Stay with the ship," Doc tells Thunderhorse. "Don't let anyone poke their nose around it. Tell Kom-Pu-Tor to call me if there's trouble."
"I understand," says Thunderhorse, anxious to get back to drinking. "Good luck."
"Don't drink all my beer, either."
"I will try."
Doc gets on the elevator. It already knows where to take him. He checks his I-Browse on the way down. Still no Q-Net connection, since there's no quantum routers in this era, and the Younger Brother Pear is nowhere in range. Fortunately, Dr. Ritenrong had sent all the information he'd gathered to Doc's device during the mission briefing. Doc reviews the entries on Alyss Valia.
Nadine
"Well maybe they met over the internet. Computer, take me to Nadine McClaren's apartment."
The HUD lights up the flight path. Doc pulls back on the stick. The Python jumps into the air with a sudden jolt.
"Careful! I almost spilled my beer!" Thunderhorse shouts from behind him. He's holding one of Doc's tallboys.
"Hey! That's my beer!"
"Then you should want less to spill it," Thunderhorse retorts. He continues chugging.
Doc rolls his eyes as he eases the throttle forward. He notices a light asking him if he wishes to engage the autopilot. He cancels it, figuring now is a good time to practice flying. Now it tells him to increase speed. He does so.
The flight path leads a very quick jump through the skylanes to the south side of the city. They fly from the highest buildings down towards the mid levels, cruising between the towers just over the fog that obscures the street levels.
Only two minutes later, the Python's computer is instructing Doc to land on the roof of an apartment building. This rooftop parking lot is another stripmall island in the clouds. There's a small grocery store, a chinese caryout, and a pharmacy.
Doc lands the Python with a heavy thump. A few warning alarms scream at him briefly. Doc gets the hatch open. He and Thunderhorse climb out, leaving Mark behind.
They cross the busy parking lot. People cast sidelong glances at the strange pair. Doc himself is rather inconspicuous, but the leather clad giant next to him is a strange sight. Doc makes a mental note: find Thunderhorse something more appropriate to wear in public. They must think he's a masochist and Thunderhorse is his gimp.
In the small arcade between the caryout and the pharmacy is an elevator. Nadine's apartment is on the 15th floor, nine stories down. Unfortunately, the elevator doors won't open without a key.
There's a small video intercom on the wall next to the elevator. Doc hits the button. "Nadine McClaren?" he asks the device. He tells Thunderhorse to stand aside, away from the intercom's small camera.
The video tells him that it's trying to call her. After a couple cycles, it tells him she's activated the intercom, one way viewing. "Who are you?" a woman's voice comes over the com.
Some Confusion of Causality.
With little difficulty, Doc gets the Python fired up. "Go to Sundial Studios," he asks the computer.
The computer responds with a list of companies registered as Sundial Studios.
Doc refines the search. "Sundial Studios, Milwaukee, Wisconsin."
No results.
"What the hell? Okay, give me the listings for Nadine Valia."
No results.
"Fuck me runnin'. Show me the listings for Nadine McClaren, Milwaukee, Wisconsin"
There is one entry. Her home address is a mid level apartment on the south side. Her work address is at VelociTech Stardrive Systems near the Milwaukee Mile race track.
"Okay, what about Dmitri Valia?"
No results.
"Show me Dmitri Valia anywhere on Earth?"
One result. It's in Khara, a small mining village in the middle of Siberia.
"Something ain't right at all."
Fist Fight at the Laundromat
Doc calmly finishes packing up his satchel. "No knives ladies. He's a dumb ass and has this coming, but I'm his doctor and I can't have you cutting him up, but a few new knots on his head would be okay."
"Shut your hoopdy maw, jackalack, or I'll jib you, too!" Kelley yells at him, using peculiar vernacular.
Mark has his hands in the air. "Okay, ladies. We can take this outside. I lost, fair and square, and if you wanna kick my butt, I'll let you have a fair chance. But if'n you keep that blade out, I'll have to even the odds." He pushes the door open with his ass. "After you."
Kelley puts the knife away. She and Janet head for the door. They stop where Mark is holding it open for them. "You first. We insist."
Mark respectfully obeys. The three head outside.
Thunderhorse tosses the rest of his beer down his throat. "[Daniels is going to get clobbered by women. This I cannot miss.]" He goes outside to watch.
Doc heads back to the bar to finish his round and get a six-pack to go.
As they step outside, Kelley pulls back for a sucker punch, but Mark swings around and catches her in the forehead with his elbow. Her swing goes nowhere as she's momentarily knocked off balance. She catches herself quickly, though, and responds with an upper cut from the left into his jaw. Mark throws a left hook into her eye, then follows with a right hook. Kelley steps back in time to miss the second blow, then lunges forward and jabs him right in the groin.
Mark loses his wind and goes down. Thunderhorse laughs his ass off. Kelley kicks him for good measure.
Janet hocks a loogie on him. "See you next time, cowboy." The two bikers get on their skycycles. Their engines roar with a guttural scream. They take off into the sky.
Doc comes outside with a six pack of Pabst tallboys, followed by Steve. "Help me get him in the ship, Thunderhorse," Steve asks. Thunderhorse obeys.
They chuck Mark in the backseat and climb into their own chairs.
"So why are we here in Milwaukee, Steve?" Doc asks as he gets back into his own shirt and out of the Exkorean's, which is two sizes too small.
Steve fires up the ships engines and starts lifting off. "Our primary mission is to find out why Alyss Valia does not exist on this time line. She's the only starfighter pilot in all of history who can possibly stop that warship from entering into the galactic destruction zone. Second, I want to find out what the fuck happened to my space ship. To do that, I'll have to hack into an interstellar courier's database and find out what solar system she's in, because she's sure as shit not in this one." Steve is understandably upset about this.
"So what do we do next?"
"Well, I need to go to the DataPlex supercomputing center downtown. I'd like you to try to find out anything you can about Dmitri Valia and Nadine McClaren, Alyss's parents. I only have some preliminary information on them. They're supposed to be married and living somewhere here in Milwaukee. Dmitri is a design engineer at VelociTech Stardrive Systems, and Nadine was his secretary before they were married but is now manager of a graphics design firm, Sundial Studios or something like that. Their 30th anniversary is coming up in about a month. Nadine is originally from Neorleans and Dmitri was born in Moscow."
The ship sets down on a much nicer rooftop parking lot, high in the sky. Steve opens the cabin and jumps out. "I'll call you when I'm ready to go. There's a small chance I'll have to make a quick exit, if so I'll tell you where you can find me. Just tell the ship where you want to go and the GPS navigator will guide you there. Good luck."
Pick your Games
"You go right on ahead. I've got a beer to drink," Doc tells Mark. It's probably about time Mark learned some manners.
Mark returns to the pool table. "I guess it's just me against you, honey. Trust me, you'll enjoy having me against you." His smug attitude begins to wain when the butch biker lesbian smashes the balls across the table on the break.
Doc ignores the next few minutes of clacking. Mark has gone silent except for the occasional swear and frustrated remark. The ladies are laughing at him.
A buzzer signals that Doc's laundry is done. These machines work remarkably fast. He finishes off his beer and heads back to grab the clothes. He glances at the pool table. The biker has sunk everything but the eight. Mark is shooting. He has three stripes still up, all in good position, except that the cue ball is expertly trapped behind the eight.
Doc grabs the clothes. The stain on his leather jacket is miraculously removed. He folds the rest and packs them in his satchel.
There is a final clack. "Bullshit!" It appears Mark has sunk the eight, losing the game. He throws the cue on the table.
"You lose, cowboy," says the victorious biker. "Kelley, he's all yours."
"Thank you, Janet," replies the spectating biker. She stands up and tightens her studded knuckle gloves. This woman is short and heavy. It would take a truck to knock her over.
"Kelley!" shouts the bartender. "Take it outside, please! You'll set off the disturbance alarms again, and I don't want to deal with cops today."
"That's 'cause you're the one who's gonna hafta bail her out, Lance," Janet chuckles.
Kelley pulls a switchblade. "Let's dance outside, cowboy. I don't wanna shit where I eat."
Pool, anyone?
"Okay fellows, let's get cleaned up. Mark, see if there are some clothes we can change into while this stuff is in the wash."
"There's a couple white shirts and some slacks in the backpacks." He produces them.
"Alright, everybody, give me your bloody clothes." Doc orders. He's got a big red splotch on his shirt and a spot or two on his jeans. As he takes his marine jacket off, he notices a small stain on the breast of the leather garment. Shit.
Mark's linen undershirt is a disaster. At least he had the foresight to remove his flannel jacket. Dr. Ritenrong throws his labcoat back to the middle seats. It has a few red speckles on it, but more noticeably it's almost grey with grease splotches, chemical burns, and unidentified filth. It's no wonder, Doc has never seen him out of it. He's wearing an ornate, Japanese styled silk t-shirt underneath it.
Thunderhorse is another story entirely. While it's nearly impossible to identify the new stains from the old on his greasy leather armor, almost all of his exposed flesh is smeared red. It's clear he's been rubbing it in, reveling in some kind of viking bloodlust.
"Thunderhorse, we're going to have to hose you off." Doc says. He grabs a canteen from one of the backpacks. He wets his own dirty shirt and hands it to the messy bastard. "Here, wipe down as good as you can. We'll just have to find you a shower."
Thunderhorse grumbles. He's been getting grumpier as the day has gone on. He hasn't had a drink since this morning, and he's really starting to get cranky about it. Thunderhorse reluctantly grabs shirt and cleans his face, arms, and legs. He throws the shirt back at Doc.
Doc changes into the MiBs' slacks and shirt. He hands the other set to Thunderhorse, telling him to put them on. There's a ripping noise as Thunderhorse forces his huge form into the tiny slacks, armor and all. He tears the arms off the shirt before putting it on, leaving it unbuttoned.
"Okay, weapons. Mark, take a pistol and a stun baton."
"Fuck that baton crap. I'll keep my sword, thank you very much. But a pistol sounds just dandy," Mark replies, taking the gun from Doc.
"Steve, can you show Mark how to use that pistol?"
"Shit, son, I'll show you how to use it," Mark says, indignantly. He clicks off the safety. It whirs slightly as power coarses through it from it's battery. He shuts it back off, twirls it on his finger, and puts it in his belt.
Doc hands the baton to Thunderhorse, who straps it to his side. Doc takes the other pistols. He decides to leave the assault rifles behind for now. It doesn't fit into his satchel and is impossible to conceal, and besides, this is a Milwaukee laundromat. If he were still in DC he'd take both, no question.
Doc and Thunderhorse step out of the ship into the rooftop laundromat parking lot. The fog below the building stinks to high heaven. It smells like Swamp Thing took a gigantic shit and then killed himself a month ago. These are just the occasional wafts that are swept up from the depths by the cool breeze.
"Ugh, it smells like a bag of rotting assholes," Thunderhorse remarks, holding his arm to his nose as they cross the parking lot swiftly.
Inside Suds is everything advertised outside. Pool tables divide the room between bar and laundromat. The bulk of the patrons, middle aged, middle class, middle weight women sit at the bar drinking while the machines whir along with their chores. A couple of butch, leather clad women, the Harley owners judging by the insignia and iron crosses all over their jackets, bandannas, and chaps, are playing pool and enjoying a pitcher of beer apiece.
Everyone turns to Doc and Thunderhorse as they walk in. Thunderhorse goes straight to a bar stool. Doc goes over to an empty washing machine and starts loading it up. The washing machines are all combination washer dryers with a few automatic dry cleaning options, and they all inject their own cleaning solutions, fabric softeners, bleach, and everything. Just throw in the clothes (still have to separate them), select the appropriate options, and hit go. Doc can even clean his leather jacket. He loads up the machines and swipes his ID card. It works. The machines spring to life.
Doc joins Thunderhorse at the bar. The bartender, a heavyset blond guy. is having trouble understanding the Tutonic monster. There is a translator, but it doesn't work as well as Doc's Thunderhorse is getting irate, and the bartender is getting scared.
"[Stout! I said a pitcher of stout!]"
"Impudently! I said an impudent water jug!" the translator echoes.
"I... I'm sorry. I don't, uh..." the bartender stammers. The bar is becoming interested in the scene.
Fortunately Doc arrives in time to settle things. "Just bring us a pitcher. Whatever's on tap," he tells the bartender. The bartender nods, relieved.
It's not long before Mark and Steve decide to join them. Mark is wearing his blue jacket, unbuttoned with no undershirt. He's not carrying his sword.
"Whoo-ee. There sure are some fine fillies in here," he exclaims as he enters the place. He strides confidently towards the two ladies playing pool. "Howdy, ladies. I ain't never seen no woman play billiards before."
The two butch lesbians look at each other, confused at Mark's behavior.
"You ladies think you can handle those sticks?" Mark continues.
Their confusion turns to anger. "You want to take us on you little prick?" one says.
"Heh. You women think you can beat me at a man's game? I'll take that wager."
The speaker has to restrain her partner firmly with a stiff palm as she nearly leaps at him. She shoves her back down on the stool. "What's the bet?"
"Well, I ain't had a warm bed for a spell. I reckon I could use one for a night."
The other, angrier one speaks. "How about if you win, we won't kill him. If we win, I get to gut him right fucking here."
"Oooh, feisty. I like that." Mark continues, oblivious to the grave misunderstanding he's just blundered into.
"No, Kelley," says the first. "If he wins, we'll show him the night of his life." There's something between the lines that Mark doesn't catch, but is totally obvious to everyone else. "If we win, then you can kill him."
"Haha, whatever you say, sweetheart. So we playin' doubles or what?" He turns to Doc.
Laundromat in the Sky
"Well, let's hope they still brew beer. I could go for a few. Mark, see if you can find some moist towelettes so I can get some of this blood of. We look like we just butchered a hog," Doc says.
"Moist towelettes? What? This ain't no brothel, brother," Mark replies, confused.
"Wet napkins. Something to clean up with."
"Oh. There ain't nothing like that back here."
"We'll stop at a laundromat or something," Steve says as he punches in the coordinates to take them to Milwaukee. The HUD tunnel changes course. Steve takes the controls and guides the ship in. Their orbit lowers through a cleared section of the junk field into a heavily trafficked space lane. They merge behind a light freight shuttle. Smaller, faster ships zip past them on an inside orbit. After a few minutes, they drop towards the Earth.
The Python burns through the Earth's atmosphere smoothly. It's quite a fireworks show watching hot plasma burn all around the tinted glass roof of the cabin. The descent is quick and not as rough as in the Pu. Within minutes they're back over North America, once again flying at hypersonic speeds towards the Great Lakes.
The North American wilderness, however, is now replaced by sprawling circuitboards of cities, reaching suburban tendrils through sparse quilts of farmland. There is plenty of traffic in the air. Several other ships came down from the space lane off ramp, each breaking off in turn as they head to their destinations across North America.
Dr. Ritenrong slows the ship and descends as they approach Lake Michigan. It's hard to tell what city is what. Chicago seems to have spread across the entire Great Lakes region, as if concrete, glass and steel were crystalizing, creating a crust around the waterways like calcium deposits around a long clogged kitchen sink. The ship's HUD seems to know where it's going, though, and leads them on a winding slolem through Milwaukee airspace.
The buildings are very, very tall. Doc remembers the construction boom after the Middle East crisis. Lots of large office towers were built all across North America with the intention of creating jobs in construction, architecture, and interior design. However, that plan all came apart when it turned out there was no one to rent office space except construction contracting companies, architectural firms, and interior designers. So, a lot of empty office buildings were transformed into residential apartments and people from overcrowded cities around the world moved in to take advantage of desperately low prices. This lowered the employment percentage drastically, and that is about where Doc left it.
Things seem to have picked up, though. The air is clear of smog, the temperature is in the mid 80's (practically a snow day in Doc's time), and the city looks clean, kept, and economically fertile. Glass office buildings as blue as the sky are busy with luxurious flying cars landing and leaving at many levels. Green terraces and rooftop parks are filled with fit pedestrians and energetic dogs. The upper part of the city looks well-to-do.
The lower levels don't look so good, though. Steve pilots the ship down through the mid levels, which still get some sunlight, like the streets of the New York Doc remembers. Below them is nothing but shadows and fog. Dr. Ritenrong brings the ship down on a rooftop which rises just a few floors above the darkness.
They land in the parking lot, which is on the roof of a large apartment building almost entirely obscured by thick, grey fog. There's another building on top of this building. It's like they stopped at a store in the clouds in a valley of rectangular and cylindrical mountains. The holographic sign over the door reads "Suds" sandwiched between a cartoonish beer glass frothing over and a washing machine doing the same, all underlined by a pool que and punctuated with an eight-ball.
The other vehicles in the lot are much smaller than the Python, much older, and in various states of disrepair. None of them are designed for space flight, only atmostpheric transit, and probably not very far at that. The nicest looking vehicles are a pair of well ridden Harley Davidson skycycles. A few people are coming and going, pushing wheeled carts or carrying baskets and bags full of clothes. They are mostly older, or at least worn out by life, and wearing cheap grubby garments, but that's probably why they're here anyway.
