Port Rats2002 short story by Jonathan Hicks Five years after
Episode IV – A New Hope There were bodies everywhere, but they don’t bother me. I can ignore that kinda thin’. Been doin’ it all my life. When you grow up where I did, in the shadows of the spaceport of Cantarr Bi Romou, you get a thick skin. Not only do you have to put up with the roar of starships takin’ off an puttin’ down, and the law snoopin’ round lookin’ for heads to bust, you have to contend with the other port rats who live in the back alleys. My family lived like the Lords of the Rats, which meant we had an old room just under one of the dilapidated buildin’s the law used to store impounded vessels, and we were spared the less hospitable weather the planet had to offer. Whilst other port rats froze to death in the winter sleet storms, we huddled about the middle of the single room, where the power drainage pipe bled excess heat from the landin’ pads we slept next to. Lovely. My family? Well, there were five of us. My dad, who spent most of his time hookin’ for work on the pads, was a good man but you didn’t make him angry. My mom was great, patient and kind, but a little sad, I think, that the family had ended up in a hole. Brave-faced kinda woman, that’s my mom. My two older sisters, bless their spirits, were cheeky little devils but they knew the law of the port rats world – never travel alone. They were funny but teased me a lot. That, I think, is where I got the attitude. What do you mean, what attitude? What, you think this gun belt and swagger is for show? Anyway, back to the bodies. Well, they’d been amassin’ for a while and I figured there was somethin’ bad goin’ down. No one gathers in numbers in the middle of the night smack dab in the centre of a drop-point landin’ pad. Drop-points? Oh, they were the landin’ pads where ships touched down, dumped their cargo, then zipped off again. No port checks, no waitin’ time, basically a place where vessels could just touch down, empty their holds, and take off again to avoid gettin’ stuck in the traffic that’s always overhead. Take a look at it now; air is thick as flies on poodoo, and it ain’t rush hours, yet. Zoom here, blast there, I’m surprised we didn’t get continual collisions. We lived near a drop-point pad, and my dad would get dayshift work there runnin’ cargo lifters. He was pretty good. His night shift work was basically ‘watch the buildin’ for so-many-credits’ type stuff. Never got much sleep, my dad. I know, I’m gettin’ off the point. Anyway, these bodies. Yeah, well, they’d been massin’ all night. At first I figured they were just a bunch of dockworkers, you know, havin’ a meetin’ or a protest, or somethin’, but I was only fifteen back then, I didn’t know much about the port workers. Dad never had time to teach me, so I kinda picked up the job from watchin’ the workers. I knew my mom was gonna kill me, it was way past Middledark, that’s midnight to you, and I said I was only gonna be gone an hour. I was in for a right wackin’ when I got back! She was a demon with a wooden spoon, I tell ya. She didn’t mind us goin’ out, she knew we’d take care of ourselves, but she did worry. Now, me and my sisters were carryin’ sacks of old cockon wrappers we’d got from the back of a Grease’n’Peace, remember them? Old smuggler’s diners where the food was so bad for you that the only danger was keelin’ over because of the chow! My mom scraped the wrappers and made soup out of it. Resourceful woman, my mom. Okay, keep your horns on. I’m gettin’’ to the point. My bag busts so I send my sisters on and I gather what I dropped, home’s only a couple of minutes away and I knew my dad would be home soon so other port rats knew to stay the hell away. As I’m pickin’ up these packets I see these people gatherin’ on the drop-point. Like I said, that doesn’t happen. I’m watchin’ and wonderin’, and I’m about to forget it and go home when a ship drops from the skylanes and starts a decent. Don’t you love that sound, a ship on final? The engines squeal and the underside bucks as the pilot guns the thrusters to slow decent. That sound used to send me to sleep, when extra big cruisers would take their time on landin’ and the engines would slowly wind up and when they hit the top of their crescendo I’d nod off. Anyway, the engines roar and the gases swamp the pad and floodlights kick in, and I see that all the people are port rats, just like me. Dressed in rags and old clothes, some of them had pummeled old ship platin’ to make makeshift coverin’s that denoted them to some kind of gang, but all of them carried bundles of possessions that made them look as if they were goin’ somewhere. The big ship started to lower it’s ramp before it hit the grid, and a great big voice blasted out of the speakers that dotted the underside. It started boomin’ somethin’ out that they were here to pick them all up, as arranged, to take them off the planet to a better life, and all they had to do was work it off. Job done. Well, what can I say? I was quite surprised when a whole bunch of guys came walkin’ down the ramp, blasters blazin’, rockets leavin’ trails of smoke, flamethrowers flarin’. Port rats started dyin’, screamin’, runnin’. Explosions, sparks, light and death. That pretty much sums up the next hour or so. So, down comes these armoured killers, at their head is a guy all in black with a heavy assault blaster, targetin’ monocle over one eye, tactical scanner on the back of his weapon, pumpin’ shot after shot into the crowd. All ages, all races. All fell under the onslaught. Hand signals because the sound was deafenin’, that’s how they had to communicate. It was like watchin’ a bunch of pest exterminators wipe out a Scraw Rat nest, and by the looks on their faces they were about as compassionate. So, about a quarter of those who had amassed on the pad had gotten off and down into the maze of the place. I just stood transfixed, as if the beams and bolts had hypnotised me. Smoking bodies crawled for safety but they were finished off by a few pistol carryin’ beings following the heavily armed men, executin’ the ones that were not needed. Some, younger port rats that had survived the attack or been pinned under bodies, were hauled to their feet and checked over like beasts, slave collars slapped about their necks and ushered into the big ship. An explosion like a party cracker by my ear made me move, and I started to run back home. It was like a dream, almost, with the eerie far-off screams echoin’ down the tunnels and alleyways, the smoke and acrid stench from the pad cloggin’ eyes and ears and mouth. I stumbled with a horrible fear of a sudden, violent death strikin’ me in the back, as if the attackers were playin’ with me, allowin’ me to get what I believed was safety and then blastin’ me in the back. My legs wouldn’t work, my arms hung limply and I ran like my mind had been robbed from my skull. I didn’t know where I was goin’, what I was doin’. For those few, terrifiyin’ minutes, I didn’t know where I was. I stumbled past some discarded, rusty power converters and pressed myself against the dark wall, lookin’ back down the alley and watchin’ for pursuit. Staggerin’ figures came out of the gloom and either dragged themselves past me or fell helpless from their wounds. The darkness was oppressive, the smoke thickenin’. Then I saw the searchlights and the killers came. The doors that lined the one wall of the alleyway were systematically either kicked in or blown in. One of the attackers would throw in a grenade, they’d wait for the flash and boom, and then another would sweep the room with the flamethrower. Others set charges on heavier doors, others walked about and checked the bodies on the floor. All the while, the tall man in black would direct, point, and generally control the whole proceedin’s. The others, a mis-match of races in various armour and clothes and toting a variety of weapons, followed his orders without question. They wiped out every thing they came across with technical precision. They came closer to where I was pressed against the wall. I knew I should have kept runnin’ but there was somethin’ inside, some part of me that was so terrified, so unbelievably timid, that would not allow my limbs to work and forced me to hide. Of course, my mind was so filled up with fear at that point it left me little room to think rationally. Like, why am I just pressed up against the wall where they can see me? Idiot. There’s no fight back. There’s no sudden regrouping of port rats, no sudden charge to stop the killers. We are our namesakes; rodents, terrified, freezin’ in the glare of bright lights, scurryin’ for the illusion of safety in the dark corners and dirt of the industrial complex as fast as our six legs can carry us. In fact, the only thing we don’t have in common is the fact that we fight back when cornered. We just whimper, beg for our lives, and die. No wonder these men with guns found it so easy to kill us. Of course, all this is retrospection. These were last things going through my head. At that moment, I was just waitin’ for bright flashy death. I do remember thinkin’ if I’d smell my cooked wound before I died. Then I thought of my family. My legs started workin’ then, I can tell you. I’m off down the alley, jumpin’ over trashed starship parts and puddles, leapin’ like a Jedi on a grav-trampoline. I heard shouts behind me but I’d already gotten quite far down the alley and the shots that followed my retreat were hasty and inaccurate. Sparks and thumps heralded my exit from the scene and I continued on to my home. Well, it’s obvious what had happened, isn’t it? The killers had already torched the place. Bright orange and white flames virtually leaped from the windows and I knew, I just knew, that my family were still in there. The door had been sealed from the outside. Well, I can’t remember what I felt. I guess it was disbelief, anguish. I can’t remember there being any rage. I never imagined what must have happened to them. I still don’t. I don’t dare. My legs took over, then. I guess I was on pure instinct. I knew which direction to go – basically away from the explosions, screams and blasts – and I let myself go. I suppose some people would say that they would have at least tried to get a weapon, form a fight back, maybe take a few of the killers with them, but that’s just rhetoric. I was a kid. I had known the rules of the port rats, and outsiders had savagely broken those rules. All that was left to do was run. I cleared eight port districts before my breath finally left me and my limbs gave up. I hit the ground, trying to force myself on, but dehydration, lack of food; many things stopped me. I ended up collapsin’ in the middle of one of the most expensive port malls on the planet, surrounded by well-dressed shoppers and visitors. They were disgusted, of course, this smelly ragged kid crawlin’ through their midst. I was kicked out of the way a couple of times, someone even threw me a few creds and told me to take off. I couldn’t speak – not for want of tryin’ – and I couldn’t see properly. In the end, I was picked up by lawdroids and taken into care. One week later, there were huge holoboards up all about a new starship yard and shoppin’ district, all being constructed on the soon-to-be demolished drop-point landin’ bays, all financed by the Glann Cipple Interest Society. Obviously, the Society had taken care of the ‘re-location’ of the bay’s denizens with minimum fuss and money. The Cipple Bay Quarter, as it later became known, had been built on the blood of hundreds. I never knew if anyone else made it out. In a way, I’m glad I never found anyone who did, as I won’t have to talk about it with them. Sounds weird, I know, and maybe a little cruel. What do I do now? I’m a Lawkeeper. Officer Elzen Pells. Good one, too. I average eight arrests a week, with a sixty percent conviction rate, which, for this sector, is pretty good. It’s an obvious job for me to do, really, because I’ve seen first hand what these ganglords do to the Setnin Sector and that puts me in a unique position. You see, these people, and I accept that’s probably a broad use of the term, are idolised. Some citizens’ think they’re sector heroes, defyin’ the law, defyin’ the government, defyin’ what they pretend is democracy. They’re seen as heart-of-gold rascals, with glintin’ smiles and happy-go-lucky attitudes. The killers are respected, as if a guy walkin’ up and down the street shootin’ people he judges are dangerous is acceptable, smugglers are beloved and the need for laws and rules to be broken are accepted as if this is the only way things can get done in the Setnin Sector. They kid themselves that if they keep their noses out or just accept the way things are they’ll be left alone. So, considerin’ that the port rats never intruded into the outside world to even get slightly mixed up in all this, what had we done wrong? It’s a big joke to me, sometimes. Even those lawbreakers who just do the smallest things are workin’ in tandem with the killers, and are basically condonin’ the deaths and murders of innocent civilians. The old phrases ‘we deal with it our own way’ or ‘we take care of our own’ is the biggest pile of rubbish I’ve ever come across. Do they really think that all the illegal things they do don’t have an impact on the sector, on the citizens themselves? Who do they think they’re killin’ and hurtin’ with they’re guns and spice and crossfire? So, yeah, I’m in a unique position. When anyone tells me that I should accept the way things are, or when any of the scum I track ever offers me a bribe, I just think of my sister’s smiles, my mother’s laugh and my father’s passion. Then I think of blasts, explosions and fire. And I get on with my job. Port Rats2002 short story by Jonathan Hicks Five years after
Episode IV – A New Hope Histories – A tale from the era when Glann Cipple
could practically get away with anything – even murder. Showing how deep his touch ran, this cruel
tale shows the levels he would descend to in attaining his goals. And never did he get his own hands dirty –
an unnamed, black-clad assassin often did his work for him…
Cast of Characters Elzen Pells |