Tales from the Wheel

“So few people study the history of the Three Realms today. That is why so many are surprised to discover the origins of Dusters of Copper Lane stem from the worker uprisings of the Long Night, not the criminal underworld they are largely associated with today…”

-From “Underbellies & Underworlds: Gangs of the 2900’s” by John A. Coldfire.

Keeping The Home Fires Burning.

Summer, Earth Year 2901- Undisclosed alley, The Copper Lane District, Mars.

“… all a misunderstanding Bob. That punk of yours shoulda watched where he was stepping in Cutter’s Row. Sometimes things can get a tad messy there when the lads are having a little fun.” Tony Slitz’s glassy stoned eyes, annoying voice and the weaselly little dirt stash on his lip already had Bob red faced. It had been a bad enough day to begin with. Kraken had sent half the inner circle on some fool’s errand to the Stretch and now wanted him to negotiate a fee with the Hop Heads for the killing of one of the Dusters’ red coats. The icing on this shit cake of a day, this burnt-out fuck was who he was supposed to deal with.

The Dusters did not have a ridged hierarchy like some corporate or government entity. No strict customs like the Royal Yakuza clans of the belts. But everyone in Copper Lane knew what their colors meant. Black dusters for the bosses and vets, brown for the crew’s soldiers and red for regulars and youngsters.

 Young peeps looking for an alternative to the Consortia’s rat race. The discarded and destitute. The reds often served as messengers and scouts. Some were pickpockets, thieves and street fences. Others helped protect street urchins from cruel tourists or prostitutes from a violent John in exchange for any news and information they came across. But everyone in the district, including the Copper Lane Security Services, understood that they were not soldiers. Busting one if they got caught in shenanigans was all part of the game. But killing a red was the same as targeting a civilian as far as the Dusters where concerned and that had been made crystal clear to the whole Lane a long time ago.

Bob’s own black duster fluttered slightly in the thin Martian breeze, as did the same-colored one worn by the attractive young lady with shoulder length green hair and eyes standing beside him. Nearly the spitting image of her twin sister, Candy’s jacket could not fully conceal the fact that her mechanical left arm was twice as bulky as her flesh one. Poking out of the cuff of her left sleeve was not a hand like on her regular arm, but an attachment that resembled something closer to the barrel of a firearm. Behind them two browns, Skids and David, stood casually, but ready.

Hawk had already taken out the two losers these idiots had stationed on the roofs above without them noticing and she had positioned herself for a kill shot or two if needed. Six other ragged-looking dirtbags idled just behind Tony, all of them clearly jumped up on Copper Hop or some other variant of the drug. “How do you want to settle up?” Tony continued casually, utterly clueless to the obvious boiling anger both Bob and Candy were projecting. “Shots or credits? We’ve got some hot stuff for the market. Not just copper hop but some of the new JP formula as well. It’s prime shit! Easy sales to the overworked drudges here or the stressed-out suits in Dawson.” Through the hop-soaked brain fog Slitz finally clocked Bob’s increasingly sour expression but still failed to understand he was looking at anger, not annoyance. “Come on Bobby boy, why so pissy? Shit happens on the streets. Was that little prick your bastard or something? Hey, Micah told Kraken we’d offer a little compensation. Just keep the reds out of our territory if they can’t handle it.”

“Your territory!!” Bob and Candy both spat in unison. “What was Kraken thinking?” Bob thought, “We can’t let this stand. Hell with that. Hell with these gods dammed junkies!” Around this exact same time in a shitty little hole called Banny’s Place out in the Stretch, Charles was just being thankful that he had the right twin with him for his situation. Funny enough, Bob was also thinking the exact same thing as the human personification of Napalm beside him exploded.

“Your territory!” Candy growled again. “There’s no such fucking thing Hop Head! All Copper Lane is Dusterland, period. You get to squat at Cutters cause your piss drinking, shit licking magot of a boss Micah has paid tribute! You get to make some deals here and there cause it’s fuckin useful for us! The C.L.S.S. haven’t gone in and burnt you mutts out of your hole yet because we don’t let ‘em! You brain rots want to bite the hand that feeds you? Okay then, have a fuckin taste!” Candy’s cyborg arm shot out, a bayonet style blade attachment flipping up just as she did. She rammed the blade directly into Tony’s open mouth so hard that the two Hop Heads directly behind his where splattered with gore as the point of the bayonet exploded through the back of his skull.

Rather than pull out, Candy whipped her arm to the right, nearly cutting Slitz’s face completely in half. His astonished eyes cleared even as the life left them and his body fell, truly sober for the first time in months in those last few seconds. The other Hop Heads, all stoned out of their gords struggled to process what just happened. One of the two gals in the crew present even started to laugh uncontrollably. The bayonet retracted instantly to be replaced by that sinister looking weapon barrel.  “You fuckin’ ass eaters like to get cooked, right? Burn then baby! Fuckin burn!” The belch of flame the spewed out of her arm’s flame thrower mod roasted most of the flesh off the first two Hop Heads in less than three seconds. Two more tried to surge forward, but a sharp crack from above dropped one straight away, turning a solid skull into chunky salsa. On a nearby roof, Hawk lined up the rest just in case. She was certain the crew could handle them, but why take unnecessary chances?

Bob didn’t bother to draw his own weapon as Skids and David filled the second charger with so many holes that certain types of cheese would be envious. He knew the boys always had his back.

Candy cackled as the last two actually pulled out Hop ejectors and shot themselves up. “One for the road you dickless rot brains? Why not kill the pain I guess.” Jets of flame consumed them both, the smell of cooked flesh waking up a sleeping hobo several blocks away. But, like two balls of fire, the screaming hop heads surged forward. One of the flaming forms grasped Candy’s cyborg arm with unhuman speed and slammed her up against the alley wall with equally inhuman strength. Bob instinctively lashed out to protect his colleague, landing two quick punches to a face that was already more charred bone than flesh. All he succeeded in doing was burning his own hand. The cooked visage that was already half skull grinned as its hands reached for his throat.

Crack! The first shot from Hawk had prevented the second survivor from reaching Candy and the rest. It staggered back but then tried to surge forward. As Bob struggled with the first, Crack again! Hawk’s second shot removed half of the target’s skull. It staggered but did not fall. “What the fuck? Titans preserve me!” Hawk thought. Her third shot finally dropped him.

Candy was still dazed by the sudden brutal blow, but the initial surprise of the Hop Heads crazy last charge no longer paralyzed David and Skids. They jumped forward and filled the burning form that was attempting to strangle Bob with far more energy bolts than he should have ever been able to take before finally ceasing to breathe.

Bob and David went to help Candy up, but she was already struggling to right herself on her own, and brushed them off, feeling annoyed and a little embarrassed. “What the gods’ dammed fuck was that?” She directed at Bob in particular as she pushed herself back up on her own two feet, still leaning on the alley wall for support. Bob could only shrug, confused and as in the dark as she was. Skids, ever unflappable, was the first to break the silence. “Well, sheep-balls! That JP Hop must really be some good shit!”

****

Once they blew past the district gate, Canuck skirted the main throughfares for a sightly convoluted series of side streets that allowed them to avoid the most crowded areas. Cooper Lane had a few streets that were used for regular vehicle traffic, mostly delivery trucks or messenger and security cars. However, most of the district streets where pedestrians only walkways, although no one made too much of a fuss about the odd hover board, scooter or bike blowing through as long as accidents were kept to a minimum.

   About twenty minutes or so after crossing the district threshold Canuck spotted Farthington Park, just about one click away now. A block of four large and now ancient warehouses that dated back to when the old Earth Alliance still controlled the whole solar system, eventually via time itself, Copper Lane and the Consortia as a whole changed, grew and moved on. The park was never completely abandoned however, as squatters and gangs all fought for a piece for about a century and a half. Eventually an upstart group of the disgruntled and discarded won the clashes and claimed Farthington Park as their own. They were the day laborers with no job security. They were the miners who were forced to work under conditions that would destroy their health. They were the petty thieves who faced the harshest punishments while the larger thieves climbed corporate ladders. They were the technicians and mechanics that kept everything going but were only handed peanuts in return. They were the prostitutes scorned and mocked by the same pimps and clients that used them. They were the first Dusters.

 Since that time as upstarts and rabble rousers to their current status as the unquestioned dominate street crew of the Lane, Fathington Park had been a shelter, a base of operations, a fortress and a home. Slowing as he entered their parameter; Canuck flashed the current single with the swoop’s lights. A quick response from above told him both that the guarding browns were paying attention and that he and Dee wouldn’t be accidentally mistaken for an unfriendly. A good thing on both accounts. Angling towards the first building he slowed even further as a large door lifted open, exposing a makeshift garage.

As they pulled in Canuck saw H and J were on service duty. The two browns were kicked back with their feet up on an old couch, sharing a strong-smelling doobie. Settling the swoop back down on its kickstands, the veteran Duster noted Dee had gone quiet other than the occasional whisper of “too much… too much.” He was relieved to see that the kid actually looked a little less pale than before, though he was still completely exhausted. He helped him off the bike. Dun Dee leaned against it but was able to stand on his own “Oi there mates!” H called out, “The Stretch a little too hot for out little reader there? He looks like…”

“Zip’er Heckle and Jeckle!” Canuck cut H off with a loud whisper. Strolling over he grabbed the joint and inhaled a couple long draws. “The lad was out doing a man’s work while you two been sitting here wasting good bud. He needs a little quiet and a little rest. You two need to clean and tune that swoop, eh.” He handed them back the joint and tossed them the keys as they nodded silently and apologetically. H and J weren’t bad lads, not really. They just unfortunately lacked not only a filter between their thoughts and their mouths, but also any ability to read a room.

Exiting a side door, Dee leaned on his mohawked friend for assistance as they made their way to the back entrance of the second building where the crew’s “barracks” where located. As the youngest black coat, Dunn Dee had his own chamber, but Canuck wasn’t sure if the kid should be left alone yet. A few of the gang’s night owls were quietly snoring away but other than that they only saw four young reds chatting with Jean- Phillipe. Canuck helped Dee to a cot in a quiet corner. Looking a little clearer eyed than before but even more tired, Dee gave his older companion a quick smile and a grateful nod before collapsing onto the cot, his eyes closing almost immediately.

“It was good Jean- Phillipe was around.” Canuck thought as he headed towards him and the others. He could keep an eye on the kid just in case. Jean Phillipe Cote was in his mid-eighties at least and looked it. A face so wrinkly some of the youngsters had nick named him Prun Face. His wiry, thin arms still had enough muscle tone though, that when discussing his past most would not be surprised that he was once considered one of the best pugilists on Mars back in the day. Long retired from the streets, he never really wore his black duster anymore, but continued to act as sort of “Head Janitor” for the crew, putting the youngsters on a regular cleaning and maintenance program so the Park didn’t turn into some Hop Head shithole.

As Canuck closed the distance, he overheard one the youngsters, a firecracker named Damian, whining to Jean- Phillipe, “Tuesday afternoons is just poems and reading shit. It’s stupid!” Eleven-year-old Isabella interrupted, “I kinda of like Tuesday afternoons at Ruby’s…” Damian and the other two groaned loudly as Jean Phillipe, shaking his head in mild disapproval saw and acknowledged Canuck. “Bonjour mon ami.” He stated before switching to English with a thick accent. “Dese younglings want to skip der reading lessons today, go shootin’ and riding instead. I say ‘non’. What do you think boss?” The kids started in, but before Ben could back Damian up and before Yasmina could object to being lumped in with this class cutting conspiracy, Canuck clapped his hands to signal for silence. Looking sternly at the young reds while pointing at himself and Jean Phillipe, “What, you want to be some illiterate thugs like us two old bones? Why do you think I barely got any hair left, eh? Get yourselves to Ruby’s and get studying your words! You want to shoot? You want to learn to ride better? Great! Either Big C or I will teach ya, but first you got to impress us with a reading or a poem that brings a tear to our crusty old eyes. Now get going and no dragging feet or sudden stops.”

Ruby’s Workhouse may have had a slightly ominous name, but the old gal and her partner in crime Renault, local scoundrels who made it good, had been providing shelter and a basic education to abandoned children for almost three decades now. In exchange for protection and some occasional financial assistance, the young among the Dusters are welcome to attend any classes. Canuck was no scholar and was pretty sure he would have had the same attitude about lessons as Damian when he was his age. But the simple wisdom that comes with reflection and age made him wish someone like him now had kicked his ass harder to learn the basics when he was a kid. He didn’t want them to be afraid of a sign, a text or a contract when they were grown up. It sucked.

He filled Jean Phillipe in on Dee’s current condition. The old Frenchman assured him he’d keep a close eye on the kid and put the run to anyone who got too loud while he was recovering. One last stop to update Kraken before jays and beers. If H and J did a good job on the swoop, he’d treat them to show that there were no hard feelings. Giving Cote a quick affectionate slap on the back, he headed to central command.

****

“…The world was fair, the mountains tall, In Elder Days before the fall. Of mighty kings in Nargothrond and Gondolin, who now beyond The Western Seas have passed away…” Mandy paused and looked up from her reading pad as she heard a frustrated grunt coming from Kraken. The twelve-year-old noticed the boss was still sitting at his desk looking at his own text pad with annoyance. He swore a string of expletives under his breath as he banged out a quick response to whatever notice pissed him off in the first place.

“Something from Big C and Bambi or Bob and Candy boss?” She enquired. Hopefully something bad hadn’t happened to one of her sisters, or anyone else for that matter. The middle aged lite skinned man with a long beard that was nearly as salt & peppered as his thinning hair line shook his head along with another loud snort. His dark eyes smoldered with annoyance. “Oh, sorry to interrupt.” Mandy said quietly. After another quick sigh, Kraken looked up and managed a small lopsided grin, “Hey, it ain’t you kid. Personal message. Bad news always travels the fastest, so I wouldn’t worry about the others yet. Say, isn’t it class time at the Workhouse?”

“Yeah, it is boss.” Canuck had just entered the room at the tail end of the conversation. With a wink and a chuckle to Mandy he stated, “I just put the run to a few other youngsters, don’t make me tell you twice too, eh? And no worries about the others. All’s good.” Pulling out the data disc copy and taking it over to Kraken he added quickly, “But the mission ain’t done yet is all.” Mandy, relieved by the news, jumped up and asked Canuck if Isabella was with the others, which he confirmed. Like her friend, Mandy actually liked a lot of the learning they did at Ruby’s. This new novel was just so good she had genuinely lost track of time. “I’d better catch up before the boys drive her crazy.” Remembering her own red duster still sat on couch near the desk where she left it, almost unconsciously she reached out, telekinetically pulling the jacket across the room into her waiting hand. She paused at the exit, chewing her lower lip thoughtfully for a second before asking, “So we’ll have the goodbye for Shun once everyone is back then?”

“Wha, who?” Kraken had been studying the notes Canuck handed him. “The kid who got shot up at Cutter’s Row.” Canuck reminded him.

“Oh yeah. That’s right Mandy. Once everything is wrapped up Charles or Bob will handle it. It’s good to say your goodbyes, I guess. After all, no matter who you are now and where you end up, at the end the best any of us can hope for is a nice patch of dirt and a box to rot in.”

****

After confirming nothing else was required, Canuck left to find some those jays and beers he had been thinking about. Kraken pondered with mild disgust how nice it must be to not have to think too hard about anything. If the local Catholics or the Children of the Titans where wrong and reincarnation was a thing, then maybe in his next life he’ll get to enjoy the peaceful bliss that comes from being an illiterate meat head.

The update from Charles's team was annoying, but not their fault. Gaston had hinted the data from Scav Town would contain the location of Fridge X, not lead them on some scavenger hunt for it. He cursed the string of bad investments that led him to be beholden to such untrustworthy bastard and the truly foul organization he belonged to. Now he really had only two options as he saw it. Continue to help them with their upcoming “project” to settle the debt or attempt to vanish and use the rest of the Dusters as shields. So far, he was sticking with plan ‘A’.

There was one other way out of this mess he had realized. Handing Gaston a significantly powerful asset would certainly clear any debt as well. The problem was the only thing he had access to that would fit the bill was a twelve-year-old child. That poor wretch Dun Dee was a broken mess of a telepath. Useful at times but too unstable. However, Mandy, whose abilities began to manifest when she was just six years old, was clearly an incredibly strong Esper. She would never be able to read thoughts like Dee, but she was low key developing into one of the most powerful telekinetic and mentalists Kraken had ever seen or even heard about.

The hard years of gang life and his own poor choices had scrubbed almost any emotion besides cynicism and bitterness from the Duster Leader’s soul. But, although originally allowing Mandy to stay close, to ‘hang’ with him was all about keeping that power on his side and accessible, he really did like the kid. She loved his little library of books and the way they inspired new thoughts and ways of thinking.

Kraken had loved a good book once too. The ideas they introduced, the assumptions they challenged, the debates they inspired, the learning from and using them to teach others. “Maybe reincarnation was real.” Kraken thought ruefully. After all it felt like that individual had been dead and buried for centuries now and what he was now had replaced him. On those deep dark nights when the past hovers like a ghost and stewing in your own thoughts is unavoidable, sometimes he wished he could be that inspiring learner and teacher for Mandy. The kid was too good for this bull shit.

He looked again at the personal message that had annoyed him so much:

From Gaston:

-Meeting Two went as projected-

-Report to Mori’s Pit tonight, 20:00 for next instructions-

-Acknowledge receipt-

Arrogant bastard ordering him around! He did acknowledge as requested with an angry screen swipe though.

No! Selling her out to that son of a bitch and his wretched crew was never really an option, even at his worst moments. Better plan ‘B’ if it comes to that. He’d make sure she got out with him, even if he had to leave the rest to fend for themselves.