>From: joan@uncmed.med.unc.edu
Subject: Pizza Delivery (Ken Aubey cont...)
Date: 14 Jan 91 17:01:23 GMT

This is another from friend Ken Aubey - as before, all comments should be
directed to him as I had nothing to do with this one, folks. :-)

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--        Virtual Camera Direction:
-- unmarked paragraphs are shot from narrator's point of view.
-- < > paragraphs are pull-back and show scene.
-- > <  paragraphs are shot with a soft focus lens, the colors are a little
--         subdued, as though bleached and softened by the years
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We just spent an hour in the Metro Police parking garage, waiting. Long enough
to throw the ARES boys off the track. They're out there now, checking inmate
lists and court dockets, I reckon. We're back out on the road, heading for
Argent's place.

We sit in relative silence as the hovercraft carries us through the streets. I
let my mind wander back across the years, remembering my friendship with the
woman we are setting out to rescue.
The woman who now calls herself Liralen Li . . .

>The mountains are wild once again. The traces of civilization that once
befouled the forests are no more. The Tribes rule here, far from the streets
and the zaibatsus. The land is more beautiful here than the flatlands of
Medicine Hawk's youth, but the feeling is the same, a feeling of freedom, a
feeling that with a bike between your knees and the wind in your hair, you are
nearly invincible, nearly immortal. A little voice in the back of Medicine
Hawk's mind warns him to be careful of feelings of invincibility and
immortality. They are not survival traits for a mercenary soldier, even one on
leave.<

>He wears a medicine bag around his neck and a pair of black feathers that
identify him as a member of the Coyote Tribe, even though, or perhaps because,
he is a thousand miles too far West to be in Coyote territory. He is dressed in
moccassins, rough leather pants and a fringed leather shirt. The clothes are
travel-soiled, but still look new. He threw away his old Ghost Dance shirt and
the leggings with the Thunder Shield Society embroidery and beading many years
ago.<

>His gear is packed, but he spends a long time looking out over the valleys
below, just enjoying the beauty of scenery he doesn't have to call in artillery
strikes upon.<

>He sniffs the air like a hound, recognizes a faint scent, slowly draws an
automatic pistol. "Vashna'ti", he thinks, "a ways off." There were a mess of
them here in the Cascades, whole Tribe of them, one of the Seven. He had spent
a large portion of the last eighteen years participating in genocide / xenocide
against that lot on the other side of the Border, and doesn't really feel like
continuing the exercise when he's not on the Legion's timeclock.<

>The bike is well-hidden already. Medicine Hawk fades into the underbrush with
the skill of someone who learned to hunt for his own food before he was five
years old. By now he can hear someone approaching.<

>There is only one, and she arrives very soon. Medicine Hawk is anoyed by his
miscalculation. In his line of work, any miscalculation has the potential to be
terminal. The girl is young, maybe 15 or 16, and human, not Vashna'ti, thin,
underfed. The smell of Vashna'ti clings to her ragged clothing.<

>Medicine Hawk stands, holds out his hand in greeting. He makes some noise so
as not to spook the child. "Hey there, girl, you get away from the Vashna'ti ?"
She sees him but doesn't answer. With a very economical motion, there is an old
knife in her fist, pointing at him.<

>He puts his gun away, slowly, holds up empty hands. "You just get away from
'em? The Vashna'ti ? Escaped? ". Puzzlement in the girl's eyes. He speaks
slowly. "Did you escape from the Vashna'ti ? From the
what-the-hell-ya-call-em-in-English ? From the Orcfolk? You get away from
'em?"<

>Recognition. "Kinda.  Been with 'em for a while. Village got wiped out. On my
own now." The knife point doesn't falter.<

>"What they call ya', girl?", the man asks.  "Pl . . . Li, just Li", she
responds. "Call me Medicine Hawk, Coyote Tribe". He touches the black feathers,
trying to alleviate the fear in her eyes with something familiar. "So, where
ya' headin' ?"<

>Li has lowered the knife point, but not sheathed the weapon. "Down South, to
the City."

>"Need a ride?"<

>She takes her time, slowly looking the stranger up and down with her dark
eyes. It seems she is looking at his soul, not his body. She nods, gravely.
Medicine Hawk doesn't see where the knife disappears.<

>It takes all day and a bit more of backwoods bashing to make the descent onto
one of the old paved roads. The two talk a bit, tell each other some parts of
their respective stories.<

>They come at last to Paco's, a place that's part trading post, part gambling
hell, part whorehouse, part cheap hotel, part Salvation Army mission. It's the
first, or the last, evidence of "civilization" between the City and the Tribe
lands. First or last doesn't really depend on which direction you're
travelling, as much as on your attitude. It's a lot like the Border, in a way,
an interface between two very different worlds. The food's OK, the rooms are
cheap and the water's usually hot. It's the jumping-off place for those off to
make their way in the boonies or in the City and the end of the line for the
ones who fail. Medicine Hawk pays for a room, some time in the sweat lodge and
showers for both of them and sends Li off with a credit chip to pick out some
new clothes. She knows how to operate the shower, betraying a City background.<

>When she returns, he has washed a month's worth of Nature off his hide and is
dressed in grey vaguely military-looking clothes and an openly-worn gun. They
eat a hot meal in the common room. Li's eyes are wide at the strange array of
people, City and Tribe, human and otherwise, who fill the raucous, smoky hall.<

>Upstairs. The room is small, cold and drafty, but relatively clean. Pretty
good for Paco's. Heaven compared to the hollow trees and ditches Li's been
sleeping in of late.  One big old bed. Medicine Hawk takes off his shirt and
flops down onto the bed. He's a soldier, used to crowded conditions, and
falling asleep anywhere he has the chance. He's almost asleep when he senses
movement, proximity.<

>Li is standing next to the bed. She's wearing only her new blue shirt.
Suddenly, she looks both older and younger than the sixteen summers Medicine
Hawk had estimated earlier. There is submission, offering, fear, some hatred in
her stance. He's seen that same body language before, more times than he'd like
to remenber, in his years as a soldier. She raises her face slightly as she
begins to unbutton the shirt <

>He does want her, very much, but he can see the sad look of resignation in her
eyes. Perhaps it is the Coyote respect for the individual, perhaps it is the
streak of fatalistic romanticism inherited from his father, but he doesn't want
this kid to give him her body, perhaps her virginity, if that means anything
special to her Tribe, in return for a ride and a pair of britches.<

>Medicine Hawk sits up. Seated atop the old wooden bed, he's as tall as she is,
he can look directly into her dark, sad eyes.<

>He reaches out, tousles the smooth black hair, grins. " 'bittygirl, I got
*scars* older'n you. Go to sleep."<

>He awakens in the night to find Li, curled up against his broad back for
warmth. He smiles, tucks her in like a child.<

<The hovercraft's jolt brings Medicine Hawk out of his reverie. Out of the gun
port, he can see a very confused guard examining Argent's passcard. The guard,
a typical corporate security steroid case, helps one of the cops load some
boxes into the back of the hovercraft. Four extra-large flat pizza boxes fill
the paddywagon with a wonderful odor. There is an insulated cooler that holds
two cases of cold beer. Six large, heavy rectangular shipping boxes are loaded
last. The bright pink stencilling on these boxes reads "Spokane Express Floral
Deliveries - Say It With Flowers". The "i"s in "Deliveries" are dotted with
yellow smilyfaces.>

As the hover lifts once again to go through the gates, I press the intercom
button on  my headset and say, "I hope none of you guys wanted anchovies."

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-- Ken Aubey  ( kaubey@europa.asd.contel.com)
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