nster Collector in:
Welcome to Nittsburg
season one, episode four
RyFT
Copyright 2011
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to
persons living or dead are purely coincidental.
JAZZ, Monster Collector
Season One: Earth’s Lament
RyFT
Episode-4: Welcome to Nittsburg
The dimensionally merged planets called Mirth, Nittsburg, the continent of Juckstaponia, ninety-seven awm, the initials stood for after worlds merge. Merge was a polite way of saying ‘inter-dimensional hostile takeover,’ and takeover was just what it had been—not that there were many beside me that actually remembered the good, old Earth, and even fewer who would have called the old way of life good. Not in comparison to the life of luxury that most humans now indulged in. My brothers and sisters had, in less than a century, become a lethargic race of leisure seekers, they called it utopia. Given a second chance, I’d do everything I could to keep this supposed Shangri-la from happening. But I was fresh out of chances of any kind.
I was on my street cycle. DJ, my trusty sidekick, was on behind me; her arms were wrapped around me so tightly it was hard to breathe. A glow-post beside us exploded into a mass of molten globules. DJ’s high-pitched scream echoed from inside her full-face helmet. I instinctively ducked, pressing myself tightly to the gas tank, that was, thankfully, nearly full of Jowndis Juice, my own special recipe—gasoline was just about impossible to procure any more, it had gone the way of moist toweletts, pop-tarts, and any real human leadership.
I slid sideways off the seat, hooking my right leg out, and pulled the old Sportster over hard. I gritted my teeth; my left knee hovered a few millimeters above the crumbling asphalt. Sparks flew off the end of the foot-peg as it ground the street. With a screech of tires, I turned the bike two hundred-seventy degrees and aimed at the Duke Street underpass; the needle had been touching the hundred KPH mark. I wouldn’t recommend so sharp a turn at so high a speed to most people, but most people aren’t me.
The crank’s stub-wing fighter was looming in my mirrors, its twin hull cannons glowed with primed proton charges. Proton missiles this close to the city’s airspace—this guy was serious about keeping me from reaching the city limit line. But I was equally serious about making it. I guess we’d see who wanted what more.
I kicked the shifter down two gears, let the clutch fly and twisted the throttle. I heard a rush of air suck into my custom, twin-barrel carburetor and the over-bored V-twin engine roared like thunder. My tire squealed almost as loud as DJ and the bike ripped ahead. The front end went light, so I used my weight to lean the bike into another tight turn and raced for the underpass.
My bike was fast, probably one of the fastest machines on the street, but it was still at a serious speed disadvantage when squared off with a stub-wing fighter. He raced ahead of me, ducked his fighter down so close to us that I felt the heat from his engine nozzle and caught a lungful of deeter-crystal burn off. He fired both cannons at the underpass, and then pulled up into a steep climb. I had no such option.
The underpass had become a tunnel of fire, the structural steel was molten hot, and the rock-simulite was crumbling and beginning to collapse. “Holly scrud!” I shouted, my heart racing. I squeezed the front brake lever until it touched the handlebar. The front wheel locked, the fork springs compressed until they bottomed out and began shoving the bar back up at me with every bounce. I was using the rear brake to steer us through the slide like a rudder, but I was going too fast, way too fast, to stop in time. I had to ditch.
“Hang on!” I screamed to DJ but we were already going down on the left side. I hoped DJ remembered how we’d practiced this, but she was already gone—damn. I hung tightly to the right grip, letting the bike slide out from under me. My right foot was on the frame, I rode the sliding machine like a skateboard for as long as I was able, then, as I felt myself shaking off, pushed the bike away and tucked into a roll. As my momentum decreased, I spread myself out flat, reaching with my arms and legs, spreading the impact over as much of my body as I was able.
I lay there panting, mentally taking inventory damage, as the crank flew over me low and slow. I watched him fly out maybe a quarter mile, then cut into a steep-banked turn. I didn’t need to see to know that he was extending his wing-mounted machine guns.
No more time. I jumped to my feet, which, thankfully, were still on the ends of my legs, and looked all around. “DJ! DJ, where are you?” I could neither hear nor see my little companion and the crank was headed straight for me, coming in low.
“Merk it all to hell!” I turned and ran as fast as my legs had ever carried me. The crank began shooting, still too far away, amateur, but I’d be in range in a dozen heartbeats. I ran, zig-zagging like a squirrel in the line of an oncoming car. Then I spotted a drain pipe and tore straight for it.
The crank was hot on my heels, literally. Large caliber bullets rained down all around me and kicked up dirt and pebbles that clouded the sky and bounced off my legs and ankles. I dove, head first into the drain and prayed that there was nothing blocking the two-foot wide pipe.
“Ooof!” I grunted. The air was driven from my lungs as I came to an abrupt stop. I instinctively covered my head as bullets rained down outside the pipe and the earth it ran under. Once it passed over I dragged myself further inside the pipe where it ran deeper into the earth. Rolling into a tight ball, I just managed to turn around. I heard the stub wing’s engine flair just before a second rain of lead pelted the earth above me, then drilled holes through the free end of the pipe with a ringing of perforated steel.
I caught a glimpse of the fighter flying away, knowing that he’d be back in a flash. Rays of light passed through the free end of the pipe like water through a colander. I heard the stub-wing banking into another turn. I had a couple of minutes at most. I crawled to the end of the pipe, looking every which way for any sign of DJ. I searched as long as I dared, then pushed myself backward along the pipe as fast as I was able. I got myself well back this time, where the earth above me was even thicker. Another torrent of bullets assaulted the pipe and drummed the ground above me.
I doubted that even the crank’s big guns could reach me this well dug in, but now it was a stand off. If I thought I had even the slightest chance the coward would land and come after me on foot I’d wait this out, pummeling a crank into jelly would have felt really good right then, but I knew he’d never do that, not alone and not against me. The cranks and I had been trading blows for a long time, and I’d earned a well deserved reputation as someone you didn’t take on unless you had a good advantage. And with him in his ship and me on the ground, I’d say he had a really good advantage—but maybe not either.
He was still behind me, assumedly lining up for another pass. I waited for a lot longer than I should have needed to. He was up to something, waiting for me to make a move, to expose myself. And who was I to disappoint him. I crept along snake-like on my belly, listening for the jerk’s engine. At the end of the pipe I caught a faint rumble. He was high, probably in a climb. I could guess that he was hoping I’d think he gave it up.
Still no sign of DJ; maybe she was under cover somewhere herself, I hoped so. My bike was laying on its side forty meters away, the rear wheel still spinning. A line of junk, mostly weapons, lay behind it like a trail of breadcrumbs. I was looking for a really big crumb, but at that distance I couldn’t see it, especially in the bright light of day. My eyes had gained the curse of shadow-sight,
the ability to see in near total darkness, but I’d lost the ability to see color, and my vision wasn’t quite as good in bright light, hence why I usually wear sunglasses during the day. But it had to be there, somewhere.
I took one more sweep for my sidekick, and then began taking deep breaths, preparing for the sprint. I could safely assume that the crank would be circling high above, trying to stay out of my hearing range, and was sweeping the area with every sensor and radar his ship had. And if I was him, facing me, he’d probably be calling for reinforcements as well. I wished I could see my target, know precisely where I was headed, but I couldn’t risk waiting a moment more. I gripped the outside rim of the pipe with both hands, drew my weight back and got my feet under