The Adventures of Mirror Mott, Part Two
Posted on 01 Apr 2016 @ 1:33am by Lieutenant Olsam Mott
1,211 words; about a 6 minute read
Previously in The Adventures of Mirror Mott…
"They're gonna f--kin' kill us, doc, they're gonna-"
"Shut up, Biberveldt," Mott growled, clinging to the doorframe for support.
A few hasty commands into the control pad slammed both this door and its companion shut, sealing the room. Another one flipped on Mott's Final Solution. And while he wasn't a man to shy away from the gruesome or grotesque, he started to limp away from the door. Even he had no interest in hearing what was taking place inside as a package in the ceiling opened, a ventilation fan kicked on, and billions of nanites flooded the room, programmed for only one thing: the consumption of organic material.
And now the continuation….
In the Mirror Universe...
After clearing out of his place, Mott had stopped briefly at a nearby stash house to pick up his departure kit - a bag filled with clothes, credit chips, forged credentials, and a low-capacity stun pistol composed of materials likely to make it through scanner checkpoints.
Biberveldt and the other boy had tagged along; during the walk over he'd learned the latter's name was Hedwig. Idiotic name for an idiotic kid. He let them keep the Tal Shiar pistols (though he cautioned them to ditch the weapons before boarding a transport). He'd even printed out credentials to rechristen them Strenger and Lambert, packed them some rations, and loaded them up with enough credit chips to get far away from Lithios Prime. It was the least he could do for two hapless victims of the senseless violence of the Lithian underground. Besides, he owed that much to Dijkstra the Funhouse. He'd have likely done the same for the pair if they stood a snowball's chance in hell of actually making it back to their hideout. They'd just be lucky to make it to the transport hub before getting bolted by either the Pentarch's men or some roving band of Jonah the Flower's gang.
An hour ago he'd wished them well and pointed them in the direction of the nearest interplanetary transport station. There was always the off chance they wouldn't take his advice. They might have taken his money and blown it all on mushacet tabs. But what did he care? He'd done his part. If they wanted to get caught and end up one of the flayed bodies dangling from the street lamps lining the Burned Passage then that was their business. For his part, Mott sure as shit didn't intend to end up that way.
He was making slow time, but he'd finally arrived at his destination. He had tools in the departure kit; he'd even expected to use them. But apparently no one worried about the desecration of the dead, not even on an ethically bereft planet like Lithios Prime. The gate wasn't exactly wide open, but all it took was a little nudge for it to swing wide and admit him. No locks, no security, no surveillance. If it was anything other than a cemetery, Mott might be suspicious.
He knew exactly where he was going, it just took him some time to get there from dragging the useless leg behind him. He'd fashioned a crutch out of some old pieces of conduit back at the stash house, but it could only do so much. The route he recalled from three years prior when the old woman had bit the dust. Such an event was apparently monumental enough for a truce; tragic enough to unite the disparate underworld for the funeral of a venerated figure. Mott hadn't known Jonah the Flower's grandmother very well but every interaction had cast her as a sour old bitch. He'd been glad she died; he had suspected many others felt the same. The universe was a better place for it. But now she'd, at least, serve a purpose.
Lucky for him the Lithians had accessible burial arrangements. The soft limestone-like coffin was completely exposed within the tomb, encircled by bollards and rope. The bollards were evidently secured by some cheap self-sealing stem bolts; the application of a little pressure pried one up from the floor enough for him to work it loose. Five minutes later he'd made quick work of one corner of the coffin and dragged the old woman's body out onto the floor. Another minute later he'd ripped the partially-preserved flesh from her leg to reveal the duranium plate he needed.
Without access to something as sophisticated, prized, and regulated as an osteogenic regenerator, he'd have to do things the old fashioned way. He didn't dare show up at a hospital, though. This would have to be a self-repair job, which required cannibalizing some parts, as it were. The duranium plate holding the old woman's tibia and fibula together - a minor detail he recalled hearing from her funeral three years earlier - would work nicely. The bone was brittle after all this time and cracked with little effort, making removal of the plate an easy task. He stowed it in his bag and dragged himself to his feet to leave. But Mott hesitated, then dropped his bag and leaned heavily on the makeshift crutch. The sound of his pant's zipper echoed in the burial chamber, followed soon after by the sound of a stream of liquid bouncing off the desecrated corpse.
F--k Jonah the Flower and f--k his whole family, too.
The little veterinary clinic had everything he'd needed with easily disabled security. The only downside had been sacrificing the time it took to drag himself to an area of the city wealthy enough to support something as luxurious as a veterinarian, all while avoiding both the central authorities and Jonah the Flowers. By now he'd likely pieced together what happened at Mott's place, making the Bolian doctor a very wanted man.
Setting your own bones and attaching a stabilizing duranium plate sounded hard in theory. In practice, it proved even more difficult. Localized painkillers and his iron will no doubt helped but by the time he was finished Mott felt completely drained. If he'd been in a position to receive normal treatment then he would have had the bone knit together with the osteogenic regenerator; submersed himself into a bioregenerative unit ("tank," in the local parlance); and spent a week in a day spa receiving physical therapy. As it stood the bone would heal awkwardly and incompletely, forcing him to have it broken again and mended at a proper facility once he was off-planet. But it would do for now.
If he didn't have his mind set on leaving Lithios Prime then he might have taken the trouble to clean up; instead, he left the animal clinic slick with his blue, corrosive blood. He had to get off the planet - even if the gangs didn't find him the authorities would investigate a dust-up that big and then he'd be a seriously wanted man on all sides. So, with veins full of stimulants, painkillers, and antibiotics, he pushed through the broken door, leaned for support on his makeshift crutch, and headed toward his next destination…
RSS Feed
Back to Top