From: quirke_a@kosmos.wcc.govt.nz
Subject: Graveyard Shift
Date: 20 Jan 93 04:54:23 GMT


                             Graveyard Shift.

   Used to be night was a relief from the godawful ugliness of the urban Zone.
Maybe it still is when you're not stuck in a hopper, vibration from the ducted
fans pounding your butt as you try and place your position through the night-
sights. Lotta shit hanging in the air in the Zone, microwave horns, radio
aerials, even overhead wiring now and then. Tipper-G, he's a hot-shit pilot.
Tells nasty stories about flying in Poland during the Rock-War. Still, it ain't
paranoia if it saves your life.
   Coming down now. Street centre. Seems those portable traffic-control sibyls
the city purchased actually work. We got triage teams scattered around, fucking
around with the casualties. When the Blades decided to run a blitz through the
yuppie havens, they didn't fuck around. Must be hundred, hundred and twenty
statistics down there. Course, *we* knew when and almost where the street
psychos were going to get some action, but if the city-cops didn't, that's
their look-out. That's why we were in the bloody evacer, freezing our asses off
at ten thousand feet in this sector.
   Down. Back doors open, ramp down. Fast. Parker's out already, getting the
city EmMeds to pass us our share of the Triage. Hoffer General is small-time,
but they got contracts with some of the smaller independants around here. Hell,
with this many stats, and not enough ambulances, we should be able to load up
with reciprocals. Excellent.
   Grabbed by one of the city EmMed boys. Raps out orders, so I stick my hands
wrist deep in some suits insides, putting pressure on the vein. Shit, this is
what combat medic training is all about, ain't it ? More work in a week in the
Zone than in any number of "police actions". Of course, there be too many
grunts like me, expecting basic med training and experience to be worth
something in the World. So you bounce from job to job, getting less and less
cash in the hand. That's why I'm teamed up now with Tipper-G and Parker.
   Parker grabs me. Ok, so the suit isn't gonna bleed immediately, but the
Trauma Team boy wants us to stick around. Fuck that. Parker lays down the law.
She one tough castrating bitch when she needs to be. Private medicine goes
where it pays. Fuck you, Jack. The city boy seems barely outta med-school, goes
white, not understanding. Must have been a long night.
   We loaded, air-ready. Got our load of six, three contractees, three
reciprocals, plus two ambulatories. Yuppie suit, cracked up over one of the
statistics, female with a bad stomach wound. Must be his wife. With him got
some sort of bodyguard, shoulder-wound, obvious chromed arm, probably laced
with wire inside. Wonderful.
   So, as we lift off, Parker persuades him to take some sedative, for the
pain. On the grounds that he can still do his job under the influence, he
accepts the airspray, and the relief is evident almost immediately. The suit
is still crying over his squeeze, so I assure him she'll be fine. Got IV's
pumping flurocarbon substitute into her veins, she'll live. Gotta admit he's
loyal to her. Ain't true love grand ?
   Tipper-G's moving the hopper through air-space, talking into the comm with
the clip-on unit I designed, assuring all the good people back in Hoffer Gen
that it's all fine, that we coming in. All is copaecetic till the suit notices
that his bodyguard has closed his eyes. Parker tries to calm him down, but he's
getting mad. So I shoot him through the back of the head, single needle. Hell,
we can keep the corpse static till they unload it.
   Hit the ECM now. Ex-milgrade specs, works fine on city traffic-nets. We drop
out of sight, into the nowhere. Head for our contact, and for the shadows. Pull
up, under cover of domes and roofs, stop satellite eyes from snooping. Tipper-
G, he one FINE pilot. Even the Cheese say so, as his boys downloading the
statistics.
   Parker, she our negotiator. At twenty five thou a corpse, the Cheese makes
his profit on the black-market organ banks, and moves the ambulance as parts
as well. We get our money from the stiffs and the hopper, with the chrome from
the guard thrown in as cream. Nice operation, but it's a one shot. Hoffer Gen
too small to afford proper security, and with Parker's know-how and a bit of
electronic whizz from your's truely, we exploit their security holes, but only
once. Dunno if Hoffer Gen gonna fold, or ride out the loss, but no hospital in
the city going to settle for such shoddy security again. ECM and a vocal unit
so Tipper-G can sound like the regular is my contribution. That and a little
muscle was all it took. Simple, and we's hundred and thirty thou up each after
expenses.
   Think I'll hit Vladivostok for three or four months 'till the heat dies
down. Parker and Tipper-G seem to have a thing going, but I hear tales about
the Chinese sector there that make me happy to be unattached.
   Oh yeah, a man's gotta look after himself.

   Tony Quirke, 1993. Any comments ?
--
Tony Quirke, Wellington, New Zealand (Quirke_A@kosmos.wcc.govt.nz)
"Only the free have disposition to be truthful.
 Only the truthful have the interest to be just.
 Only the just possess the willpower to be free." - WH Auden.