Copper Rain

Copper Rain Part 2

The Present

After a couple more snippets of conversation and a sharp decrease in the level of my whisky, Zoie had flounced out of the bar, leaving behind twin parting shots about me having to 'wake the fuck up to reality' and 'to get my fucking game head on'. She'd also left the second of her drinks untouched, so I sweep aside the foliage and toss down the fruity cocktail. I'm still jittery from the adrenaline rush, and my nerves are strung out with unrequited action. I've stashed the black card in a pocket, but not seeing it doesn't make my situation any better. Aside from my own card, I never expected to see one of these again. Those of us with them had made a pact. And the guts of that pact centered on us staying the fuck away from each other.

I'm about to head out when a shadow looms over me. I look around in irritation, then smile. My luck might be in. That unrequited action itch may just now have a scratch.

"You weren't very nice to the lady," says the figure in front of me.

The modern day knight in shining armor is massive. He's also clearly not from around the nub, or he'd know better than to start running his mouth off at me. I slide off the bar stool and stare up at the man. One side of his face is dominated by a navi-monocle, a titanium device bone grafted to his thick skull so the dumb shit doesn't get lost in the middle of space. He has to be crew from one of the HeXtract-hoppers used to transport the crap they mine on this splinter. And judging by the musculature seething beneath his shirt sleeves, he's not afraid of a little beef-me-up gene therapy on the side. Word is the ancient ore-hoppers are so run down that crews often have to shift shit around by hand to get repairs done.

I smile. "You going to buy me a drink first? Or are we just going to get down to it?"

"A drink?"

"Yeah. So we can get to know each other. Before I fuck you up."

The man looks confused, but this is probably just a side effect of a minimally oxygenated work environment and one too many sips on the steroid nozzle.

"A hopper head like you wouldn't even understand what I'm talking about," I continue.

"Hopper head?"

"Shit. You can't even comprehend basic insults. You've been sucking on the vacuum too long, asshole."

The man seems to grow in front of my eyes, his bulging biceps spasm, and the navi-monocle glares a bright red. I take a step towards him, and his real eye flares open in shock. I get in close, jab a finger into his chest and wince. It feels like I'm prodding the ironhard flank of a Heladon demi-boar. Maybe it's me who's going to be the dumb fuck.

Then he roars like the primeval throwback he aspires to be, clenches his fists into giant sledgehammers and proceeds to club them at my delicate skull—only I'm not there. My Xyon City enhancements give me preternatural speed. I sluice beneath his swinging fists and power jam a booted foot down the inside of his shin. He screams in pain as a ribbon of flesh flays away from the tibia like a thin strip of ham. Just like most muscle heads he's focused on the upper body, and whatever is below the waist is only of reg-human standard. And speaking of below the waist . . .

I take a swift step back, rock onto one leg and sear a ferocious kick into his nut sack.

Gong!

"Fuck," I grunt as my boot slams against something hard.

"Not my first rodeo, pretty boy," he snarls.

Swifter than I realize he grabs me by the throat, shakes me like a rag doll and hurls me into the fake bull. I smack my head against the go mechanism, and the damned thing fires up and grinds at me like a horny, well, a horny bull. The twinkling stars I'm now seeing are not the usual constellations in the nub sky, and the ringing in my ears reminds me I'd better get the fuck up, or I'm booking a ticket to Deadsville.