Chapter 3: Hovertrucking for Fun and Profit

THREE THIRTY-EIGHT, GALACTIC AVERAGE TIME.

There are a number of unsettling similarities between tumors and cities that are only readily obvious when one observes both a tumor and an unfamilliar city. The ex-captain Ennings was mulling over these similarities as he attempted to flick a golfball-sized brain tumor off of his lime green hovertruck, now mottled a sickly combination of gray and pink, thanks to the astronomical number of Dirtsharks that valiantly died in what will certainly be compared to some sort of gun-induced Holocaust.

Sikking City suffered from the same issue as many cities back on Earth, that is, any highly populated area with too much population and not enough area will seek out new area, which then encourages the production of more population. This translates to massive amounts of cheap apartments, loan offices, pawn shops, bail-bonds posters, and other seedy organizations that do not shirk at exploiting those unable to defend themselves.

However, approximately none of that was evident to the parti-colored sensory catastrophuck that careened wildly through the narrow dusty streets of the poverty-ridden outskirts of the tumescent lump of a habitation that is Sikking City. The lime green sin against visual stimuli that was Ennings' hijacked hovertruck was coated in a thick grimy soup of liquefied shark innards, a putrescent grayish-pink melange that smelled exactly how it looked. The few areas free of the plasmoid shark-stew were those massive ragged holes chewed into the cargo bay by the Queen. Massive chunks of gum and teeth still clung gamely on to shredded sheets of steel, like fleshy tombstones to the Queen Shark.

The cab, on the other hand, was relatively quiet. Ennings had long since given up trying to un-jam the rifle from the accelerator, and had adjusted to the hairpin turns and sudden twists needed to keep the hovertruck from crashing into something expensive.

Parson had taken to thumbing through the diary that fell out of the glove compartment when his gun had accidentally discharged a hole through the cab. Occasionally he'd nod, turn the page, and make a curious noise deep in his throat. The feeble pounding emanating from the trailer had long since subsided, not that either of the two had noticed.

"Any clue what happened to those guys back at the farm?" Ennings asked, swerving straight at a cart laden with dusty cabbages.

"Yeah, I think so." Parson flipped back a few pages. "From what I can gather, the Galactic Average Bank requisitioned their home a few years back, part of a massive campaign by the 'sequestration front', some giant initiative against the sharks. They got paid a fat load to let developers set something up, and after a while-"

"Wow, that's exactly as boring as I'd think it would be." Ennings snarked. Parson rolled his eyes.

"Don't you want to know what happened to the planet? Why this entire world is one giant mud puddle?"

"Yes." Ennings said carefully. "Which is why I'll ask a native, when we meet one. Forgive me for assuming that a journal found in a truck we stole from an abandoned farm half-sunk into some stinking shit-swamp isn't exactly the best source of historical information. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm kind of focused on making sure we do-HOLY FUCKING SHIT!"

Ennings pulled on the wheel as hard as he could, narrowly dodging a Terran Gigabus taking a wide turn. The truck slammed into a light post, which collapsed like a spry branch attempting to support a giant floating truck. Wires were crossed, a sudden burst of electricity connected with the Magnagrav pads on the bottom of the hovetruck, sending it flying into the air. Ennings and Parson began screaming at exactly the pitch you wouldn't expect to hear from hardened badass spacefuckers.

It sailed over an Angran hive-brothel and landed, safely, in the empty parking lot of an economically challenged mini-mall, the sort of place which is host only to consignment stores, adult boutiques, and the sort of Vysian deli where everything is covered in a thin ichorous film, but you don't complain because your kids like the food and it shuts them up, and it's cheap enough that you can get it pretty frequently. But each time you walk out of those doors, carrying your packages of carefully folded meats and meat-substitutes, you die a little on the inside. The fire in your belly gets a little bit colder, and you grow a little bit closer to crying each time.

You know the place.

Ennings continued to jerk the wheel like it was the only way to get it to stop crying, navigating an obstacle course of abandoned cars, shopping carts, and the cement pylons of streetlights that had long since been stripped for parts.

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!" He screamed, hammering uselessly at the non-responsive pedals beneath him. However, some combination of swerving to the right and kicking at the gun managed to finally dislodge the rifle, sending it clattering about the cab like a skittish dog with too-long nails. Ennings continued to scream as he stood on the brake with all his weight, continuing to navigate the ever-slowing truck around the cracked and battered parking lot.

Eventually, the truck skidded to a stop, narrowly caught between a shopping-cart fort constructed by an adventurous hobo and the burned-out husk of a family sedan.
"Christ." Parson muttered. "I was just thinking that we weren't going to make it out of there alive." Ennings nodded silently.

A moment later, the Magnagrav pads exploded. A sudden crack, the sound of porcelain breaking, and the once-hovertruck fell solidly upon the ground.

"Well." Ennings said. "That was. . . "

"Yeah." Parson agreed, as he pulled the door open and jumped out of the cab.
Philo punched a respectable hole in the side of the truck and dragged Gizmo's vomit-encrusted form over to a nearby car. Parson and Ennings followed them.

"Plans, boss?" Philo asked. Gizmo's eyes rolled into the back of his head as he leaned heavily to one side, and vomited on the sidewalk.

"Oh dear, has he been doing that a lot?" Parson asked, oblivious to the evidence spewed over his uniform.

"By my calculations, he's somehow vomited almost twice his stomach capacity." Philo rubbed his chin.

"Wow, fantastic. I'm so glad you told me that." Ennings scowled hard. "Anyway, so, plans. Parson, I want you here with Gizmo. Make sure he doesn't, you know, die. Philo and I will go requisition a junker we can use to get to the brain-trust on that asteroid, so we can load Greg's head on them. I'm sick of hauling that freeloader around, anyway." Ennings scratched his nose absentmindedly. "Anything else?"

"The Valet has been destroyed." Philo said. "We aren't going to be able to buy a ship." Ennings froze.

"Shit. Okay, new plan." Ennings ran his hands through his hair in a desperate ploy to think of something. "Right, Philo, I'm going to need you to help me steal a car. After that, I want the rest of you out there looting through the cheapest god-damned junkyard you can find. Whatever you have to do, find something that runs. I'll be back in a few hours, hopefully with a fat stack of creds."

"What are you going to do?" Parson asked. Ennings reached into his uniform's secret pocket, pulling forth the little vial they stole from Dr. Clockwerx.

"There's a Galactic Average Hospital in this city, right? I'm going to see how much they can pay for Clockwerx's miracle cure."

"Sir, they're not going to be able to afford even a tenth of what that's worth." Parson cautioned. "If we're lucky, it'll be enough for a lifeboat, but we sure as Hell won't be able to afford something with a Sub-Aethra drive."

"Well, do you have any other ideas?" Ennings asked, desperate.

"We could always steal something. It's worked for us before." Parson shrugged.
"Right, that only worked because the Perse could out-gun anything the Provincial Officers could throw at us. We steal a starship, that's a capital felony. We'd have Millitary grunts coming after us in no time, and we just don't have the resources to deal with that right now." Ennings kicked at a piece of scrap near his feet. "Besides, now that we don't have a Valet, there's nothing connecting us to our criminal record. We can start all over again!"

"And you're going to start your new life by stealing a car?" Parson asked ironically.

"Well, yeah." Ennings said, not skipping a beat. "Baby steps." He said, walking towards the road. "Philo, I need your help, remember?" Philo left Gizmo's still-vomiting side, and walked swiftly towards the Captain.

"One thing." Parson said, catching Gizmo's arm. Make sure the car he steals doesn't have, you know, people in it?" Philo nodded, and continued walking. Parson sat down on the gritty pavement, brushing broken glass and pointy rocks out from underneath him.

"Man, I know one thing." He said to Gizmo's comatose form. "This is going to end spectacularly."