Log started on Thursday, 1 Jun 2000, 6:30 PM EST by "Greywolf2" at "Holodeck 2"

Lunar Landscape, Outside City
Grey, silty ground stretches out to the horizon, pocked by craters and jagged ridges, under the starry expanse of space. Here and there, stubborn plants sprout up amidst the rocks and dust, and occasionally a breeze stirs up the silt and sends grey dustdevils whipping across the ground. Patchy clouds drift by overhead, and over a mountain ridge to the east, the undersides of the clouds are illuminated by the glow from Luna City. The only distinguishing landmark in the vicinity is a rusted hulk, generally cylindrical in shape, and large enough to park a couple of Roadkings inside with room to spare. It has the look about it of being part of a wrecked space vehicle, but it is of such antiquity that any identifying markings have long ago been corroded or scoured away.

A battered old truck from the Dawn Alert motor pool -- a not-so-vintage '52 Universal Motors "Everyman" mass-produced junker -- serves as transportation across the silty, bumpy terrain outside Luna City: the land that terraforming forgot. By now, the truck is nearly as grey as the silt around it, including the windows, save for a threesome of wedge-shaped cut-outs on the front windshield and rear window where the squirter has turned the silt into a muddy, tacky sludge, and the wipers have smeared it about into the closest one can get to clear glass without a proper wash.

The Everyman growls and complains before rumbling to a halt a few dozen yards from the tubular wreckage. A banging on the inside door ensues, a couple of sharp raps before the driver spills out into the wasteland, a ventilation mask obscuring most of her features and mirrored sunglasses, somewhat incongrously, hiding the rest. "Dark," she hisses, stretching. "What a nightmare. I need a smoke."

The passenger remains inside the car, riding shotgun, literally and figuratively speaking. The woman's gas mask proves to be most useful against the blasts of silt borne by the winds, without much in the way of plant-like or buildings or other windbreakers to hinder their movements.

The car and the rusted wreckage seem to provide the only shelter from the elements visible within a few miles or so. The wind is not particularly strong, though, so the silt is -- thanks to the face mask -- nothing more than a nuisance at present.

The driver huddles behind her car door for a few moments, using it and the bulk of her vehicle as a windbreak against the dusty tumult. One gloved hand reaches up to smear away the silt building up on her sunglasses, and she curses softly again. "Frak, could they pick a less civilized place for a meet?" she grouses, scanning the horizon and the junked hulk she's parked beside.

It sure doesn't look like they could have. For some time, she's left with just a view of the desolate landscape, and the squeak of the radio station -- the passenger must have switched the station over to the Brotherhood's classical music frequency again. A few specks fly by in the distance -- aircraft and spacecraft -- but finally one of them appears to be actually headed this way, at a fairly low altitude.

"That better be you." The driver's eyes narrow behind her sunglasses, and she reaches into the cab of the truck for a pair of binoculars, unscrewing their caps before putting them to her eyes to peer at the--hopefully--incoming craft.

The binoculars bring the craft into focus, though the silt stubbornly clings to the lenses the longer the driver looks. It looks like a Capitol-made Navigator -- the low end of heavy duty aerospace craft, looking like a squat parody of seaplanes from an ancient age, with a bulging fuselage slung under stubby wings that any school-child should be able to figure out wouldn't have any reasonable chance to support the craft if it were forced to glide. The hum of engines gets louder, and the craft is definitely flying far too low to clear any of the mountain ridges. It slows, relying on its vertically aligned atmospheric thrusters, as it approaches the rusted hulk.

Shaking her head, the driver lowers the binoculars, capping the lenses. "Spacecraft for a 3,000 crown drop? Frak, hardly seems worth the bother," she mutters, possibly to her passenger, possibly to herself.

Just then, a couple of figures walk out of the rusted hulk, wearing thick overcoats. One of them points in the direction of the craft, while the other walks over toward the driver and her car.

Eye caught by the movement of the two people, the woman beside the truck tosses the spyglass back into it, then stuffs her hands into the pockets of her duster and hunches down, keeping a careful watch on the individual approaching her.

The man that walks up is a bit heavy-set, and his face is obscured by a bandanna pulled over his lower face, and goggles on his eyes ... but his general build and his taste for cheap polyester suits underneath his overcoat seem to match the dossier for Candice Frazetti, a.k.a. Dice Domino -- and her contact at the Apollo had hinted that he was the new man in town to do business with when it came to recreational pharmaceuticals, so this is no big surprise, except that he'd bother showing him himself for a deal this small, if he's that much of a big shot.

Frak, the woman thinks as she places the build on her contact, but the mask and sunglasses hide any expression she might have. Hope they're not on to me already. Dark.

Just then, a couple of panels pop open on the underbelly of the approaching craft, revealing a couple of heavy machine guns, gatling-style, trained in the direction of the hulk. The man who held back and who was pointing at the craft now makes a sprint for the cover of the metal hulk. Domino turns to look toward the ship, jaw visibly gaping underneath his bandanna in surprise.

"Dark!" the driver swears, startled out of her own sullen watch, then reflexes kick in, and she dives for the truck. Jamming her foot onto the gas pedal almost before the ignition is turned, and at about the same time she's trying to shut the door, she orders her passenger, "Hughes, report!" her own attention consumed by the mechanics of getting out of here.

Hughes finishes rolling down the window, and hastily reloads his shotgun with slugs instead of shells -- as if that would really do much against a craft of that size. As supposedly pious as Vincent is rumored to be around the precinct house, his current stream of epithets would earn him more than a few foul looks from the Brothers.

As the car spins around and kicks up silty clouds in its wake, the staccato drumroll of machine gun fire rips into the rusty hulk, caving in large sections of its weathered shell. It has a much more impressive effect on Dice Domino himself, who is seemingly magically transformed into a fine red mist in a matter of seconds.

"Brother, Hughes, keep that peashooter down!" the woman at the wheel commands, catching his motions from the corner of her eye. "Don't give them any more reasons to go after us." She floors gas, more concerned with pointing the truck away from the armed spacecraft than with any particular direction, though she twists the wheel from side to side as she tears across the landscape, in a clumsy attempt at evasive manuevers.

Hughes thinks the better of his chances at even getting a slug anywhere near the craft, let alone piercing its hull, let alone actually doing any good ... and rolls the window back up. "All right -- do we want backup? Or are we still customers? Durand! What is going on out here?"

Although the truck is a sore for sighted eyes, and its fuel efficiency doesn't meet current manufacturing standards, it packs considerable horsepower, and accelerates remarkably, considering the patchy traction afforded by the silt and loose rocks. The Navigator spends a few seconds more seeding the ground with lead as it hovers in place ... then wobbles and starts to rise.

The driver's eyes flick to the rearview mirror, then back to the weaving silt before her. "What's the spacecraft doing?" she says, her words quick but calmer now, a measure of calm forcibly restored, and reinforced by the solid acceleration of her vehicle.

Hughes clambers over the back seat and peers out the back window. "Looks like ... looks like it's making sure nothing's still moving out there. It's not moving after us ye-- Oh, I've jinxed us. It's moving this way."

"Whoo-hoo." Her voice is flat. "Radio headquarters, give 'em a descrip on the craft and have dispatch find us some air support." Shaking her head, eyes still riveted on the road, she adds in a lower voice, "At least that way they may catch the bastards after they paste us."

Hughes climbs back up to the front, and grabs the radio. "Right." He groans, then clicks on the radio. "Dispatch, this is Car X8, we're under fire, and need air support, and FOR THE SAKE OF THE CARDINAL AND ALL THAT'S HOLY, HURRY!"

Hughes continues to bark into the radio handset, doing his best to describe their location and the description of the aircraft.

The craft is now picking up speed, and already it's starting to gain on the truck. For the present, it seems to be far more conservative with its ammunition than it was back at the rusted hulk, since it hasn't yet started any strafing attacks.

Hughes bangs on the radio. "Dispatch? DISPATCH! Do you read me? This is Car X8, I repeat! Please copy!"

Gloved fingers slide slightly as the woman grips the wheel, and she curses again, unconscious of the words. She releases one hand from the wheel to tear the offending glove off with her teeth, then slaps it back down to a white-knuckled grip. Her eyes scan the horizon, looking for any terrain features she might make use of in her rather feeble efforts to evade the pursuer.

There are a few rocks here and there, maybe a few craters to roll into, but the spot seems to be flat and devoid of any good spot to hide behind. Basically, it's a deathtrap for anyone in just the situation that Jet seems to be in. There is a loud rumble of engines as the Navigator passes low overhead, and shadows the hood of the car, then shoots overhead. Up ahead, it slows, and then begins to pivot back around, gradually losing altitude as it does so.

The woman's words come quickly but she holds her voice steady as she speaks. "Ok, Hughes, here's the plan. I'm gonna slow the truck down as we come up the side of that crater. When we...." She stops as the spacecraft roars past them and comes slowly back. "Darkin', are the mothers even after us?" she whispers.

Hughes looks ahead in disbelief. "What ... are they playing with us? Blasted cat and mouse..."

The Navigator slowly lowers to the ground, directly in the path of the truck ... though it's plain enough that the truck can easily change course or stop or turn around -- it's not like there's a road to stay on. The gatlings have folded back into the belly ... though there's no doubt that they could just as easily pop back out again, and that thing probably has other armaments as well.

After a moment of fascinated attention, Jet re-rails her train of thought. "Hughes, I'm gonna slow and turn broadside to that crater. You dive for it. With the silt and the crater wall they may not realize you got out. Understood?" While she speaks, she fits action to words, turning the truck from where it was aimed towards the spacecraft and bringing it, bumpily, alongside one of the craters pocking the surface.

Hughes has no time to give Jet any acknowledgement except to obey her order as soon as the truck is properly aligned. The officer and his shotgun go rolling into the crater, lost in the wake of silty dust kicked up by the truck.

The truck's remaining occupant continues her quasi-evasive driving, while she rips her sunglasses off and tossing them to the seat beside her. Her gaze flicks from the rearview-mirrors to the blurred landscape before her, as she tries to apprise the Navigator's next move.

The Navigator hovers not far over the ground, continuing to position itself in front of the truck, nose facing it.

After the second or third time the craft re-positions itself before her, Jet gives another shake of her head. She eases off the gas and switches to the brakes, groping on the seat beside her for her sunglasses and castoff glove. "Ok, darkers, you want me, you got me," she says, letting her truck coast to a stop several hundred yards from the crater she dropped Hughes into. Silt clouds billow about her vehicle as she slides her glasses back in place and slips the glove back on, before banging on the door to get it open.

As the clouds of silt spread out, and then clear up a bit, Jet can hear the whine of the Navigator's engines drop in intensity, as it lands. By the time she gets out, a boarding ramp has dropped from under the gawky nose of the ungainly-looking ship. A few men in suits and coats -- and facemasks or cloth wraps -- walk down the plank -- At least one of them walks like someone important. Most of them walk like bodyguards. The Panzerknacker assault rifles they casually hold to their sides emphasize this role.

Sliding out of the truck to her feet, Jet moves slowly around the truck door, leaving it open. She keeps her hands up and in the clear while she moves to face the disembarking men, her shoulders hunched and her head ducked slightly between them as she surveys the others from behind her smeared sunglasses.

The clouds settle down, and one of the men in the middle of the group dares to pull the bundled cloth down from his face for a bit, as he coughs into a fist. His gaunt features and hawkish nose strike a familiar chord, not only because of the general Bauhausian look ... but because this is a face that Jet has seen many a time on wanted posters. Oslo Borgia, a member of the core family of House Borgia, blatant in his involvement in organized crime, often rumored to be dead, but quite evidently alive and well, here in the flesh.

And he raises his hands out as if he were greeting a relative he hasn't seen since last Winter Holiday. "Ah! Please pardon the drama ... but I wished to thank you." His smile looks almost pleasant, though having heavily armed thugs surrounding him and a Navigator behind him does something diminish the warmth of the greeting -- not to mention the fact that Dice Domino just got wasted a few moments ago.

"Whatever it was, you're welcome, I'm sure," the woman answers, striving to keep her voice level and light. She doesn't change her own posture, hands still held up and out, a foot or so before her chest, in a non-threatening pose. "Anything else I can do for you, Mr...?" She lets the sentance trail off.

"Borgia," the man answers, confirming appearances. "But you can call me Oslo. Yes ... I saw you in concert. Lovely, lovely singing voice you have. And your music has a certain ... ah ..." He looks to his bodyguards as if they were actually capable of giving him any sort of creative support, but then shrugs and turns back to Jet. "Your songs have something to say. I like that."

The woman coughs. "Ah," she manages, after a moment. "You're welcome, Mr. Borgia," she continues, regaining some equilibrium. "I must say this is a very unusual backdrop you've picked in which to deliver your praise. I can't say I've ever experienced anything quite like it."

Borgia smiles. "No, no, not my first choice. But Frazetti was overdue for a bit of a lesson ... and I don't think he would learn from it, either. I don't think I would have been terribly happy if the concert had ended in a 'bang', you see. I appreciate what you and your friends did to make sure that didn't happen. That's why we're standing here, talking. Being friendly."

"And I appreciate your bein' friendly, too, Mr. Borgia," the detective replies. Sure wouldn't want you to be UNfriendly, she thinks privately, before continuing. "I'll confess me and my friends were wondering if your people were aware of his particular sidelines." She jerks her head vaguely in the direction of the cyclindrical wreckage and the red mist formerly known as Dice Domino.

"Yes, yes, I'm aware of that. And I don't approve," Borgia says, "not one bit. This 'Blue Heaven' business ... that was something that Frazetti got himself mixed up in. And now everyone's saying 'Borgia, Borgia, Borgia' ..." Oslo shakes his head. "Borgia trying to blow up the Dukes, so they can move in and become a more powerful house." He pshaws. "That's not our style."

"So I can see." Jet shifts her feet, and leans one shoulder lightly against the door of her truck, but still keeping her hands in roughly the same forward position. "You're aware, I'm sure, that I'm particularly concerned with the people who did try to "blow up the Dukes," as it were? Would this be a concern that, perhaps, we share?"

Borgia nods soberly. "My family has many ... lucrative interests in Luna City. And, of course, we're as faithful as any noble house." He quickly and somewhat sloppily makes the form of the Brotherhood cross over his chest.

The woman moves her hands at last, to mirror the gesture almost reflexively, her dancer's training resulting in a more graceful execution. She returns her hands quickly to the neutral position, eyes flicking to the bodyguards for signs on increased wariness in them. "I'm pleased to hear you confirm that, Mr. Borgia. Might you be in a position to help us in this matter? Perhaps you have information we do not on how Frazetti was acquiring the "Blue Heaven," or the people to whom he was selling it?"

The guards don't seem to be especially jumpy, but the facemasks and their bulky gear does something to hide any subtle movements. They don't seem to be slacking off, but their guns are still to the side, not trained on Jet, so she doesn't seem to be in immediate danger of being riddled with bullets.

Borgia nods. "Yes, that I can do, though, alas, I do not think that I would qualify as a ... ah ... reputable source. The buyers of this 'Blue Heaven' were the Armageddonists we all know and deplore, and let us hope the Brotherhood finally has them under control. While there seem to be a number of these 'Gaians' here on Luna City, they don't have free control over shipments to and from Dark Eden. They tend to attract special attention when they try to acquire the requisite equipment for such endeavors. That would be where Mister Frazetti came in."

After guaging the men's reactions, Jet gradually lets her hands drop to her sides, though she still avoids making any quick gestures. She listens attentively to Borgia's commentary, nodding at him as offered encouragement to continue.

Borgia says, "The 'Blue Heaven' came from Dark Eden, of course, and it went to the Edeners -- and their fool recruits -- here on Luna. Frazetti, I think, sought to set himself up as an opportunist ... take advantage of the Armageddonists' quixotic plan, and urge them on ... in directions to his perceived benefit, of course. And taking out several heads of major bauhaus families, I suppose, seemed to be part of that benefit. And, while he was at it ... I suppose he thought he could do without me as well. Eh? How's that for gratitude?"

The man grins, then says, "In any case ... he won't be causing us any more trouble, now will he?"

"Deplorable," Jet murmurs sympathetically, in response to Borgia's first rhetorical question.. "You're well rid of him. But does that rid you safely of his smuggling operation to Dark Eden, as well?"

Borgia smiles. "I think he's taken care of. Now, as for smuggling in general..." The man gives a mock innocent shrug. "Who can say? Boys will be boys!"

The woman makes a similar slight shrug. "It's the Armageddonists I'm especially concerned with, Mr. Borgia. They may be quixotic, but as Antonia's concert demonstrated, they're quite capable of doing a great deal of damage by tilting at their particular windmills. I hope the Brotherhood's got them under control...but I'm paranoid. I'm sure you understand."

Borgia throws up his hands. "Aren't we all! Aren't we all ..." He shakes his head, then says, "Well ... I think I've taken enough of your time. Now, by all means, you keep on doing your job. And as for me ... well, I'm just happy to have a chance to help clean up a little mess. Now, if you'll excuse me..." He turns back toward the top of the ramp.

Jet gives a short bow as the noble departs. "A pleasure to have met you, Mr. Borgia. Any time," she offers cordially. "If you should stumble uon any details you think might be helpful, please do keep me in mind, sir."

Oslo Borgia nods in response ... and then makes his way up the gangplank, flanked by his bodyguards. At last, the ramp rises, sealing flush with the underside of the nose ... and the engines rise in pitch, lifting the Navigator off the ground ... and kicking up clouds of silt again as it does so.

The detective lifts her duster with one hand, ducking her head as she uses the duster and her arm to shield her masked face from the rising dust. As the noise dies away and the silt settles, she lifts her head free, then turns to look around. "Hey, Hughes!" she shouts. "You around here?"

A silt-caked figure, nearly dragging his shotgun behind him, lumbers through the cloud. He pulls down a cloth over his face, revealing a patch of non-grey flesh, and hacks several times. "Yeah. How did it go?"

"Crappy. They gunned down my best lead and wanted me to make appreciative noises for it." She clambers back into the truck and kicks open the passenger door for the other officer. "But, on the bright side ... at least they didn't gun us down."

*** GM Note: 3 hero points awarded to Jet

(Log stopped Thu Jun 1 1900 07:20 PM by "Greywolf2" at "Holodeck 2")