Domus Publica
| As Fast as You Can |
 |  |
Running.
She sees him leap forward, kick against the wall and propel himself up and over the barricade. For the briefest of moments she allows herself
to admire his athleticism — his movements, they’re so precisely measured, so carefully calculated. It’s fascinating watching him move. He
doesn’t have the ballet-like grace that she still retains from her barely remembered previous life. It’s more like watching mathematics in action.
Fascinating.
She doesn’t have the physical strength required to perform his feat of acrobatics. But there’s more than one way to skin a cat, and she
applies her own unique skills to the task. She’s up and over almost as quickly. She’s already got boots on the ground by the time the nearest
whiteshirt’s even gotten started. She can hear him panting for breath. He needs to PT more.
She doesn’t wait for him. She snatches her comlink from her belt and barks orders into it. Tighten the cordon. She’s got him, by the stars and
all the bodies. No escape this time. She’s got him.
Running.
She catches sight of him rounding a corner. He’s changed clothes already. The man has an amazing ability to do that. She calls one of the
slower whiteshirts wheezing their way past that barricade and orders him to collect the clothes for analysis. If there’s even the slightest flake
of skin or a smudged fingerprint —
Nevermind. The clothes are already disintegrating. Some kind of smart fabric. Not the self-pressing flame-resistant stuff the Empire issues as
uniforms, but smarter stuff. Not cheap. A/KT, probably. Impossible to trace.
He’s clever.
Clever like a fox.
This foxhunt is about to end.
She catches sight of movement up ahead, but before she can figure out what he’s doing she’s being tackled. Heavy man. Body armor makes
self-defense reflexes less effective, but body armor’s no good in a close-quarters fight. She throws him off to nurse his newly-acquired broken
wrist and missing teeth when she’s tackled again.
So this is what smashball players feel like.
It takes five of them to wrestle her into submission long enough to slap a pair of binders on her. Her lip is bleeding, her hair is a total mess.
Her uniform is covered with dirt, the flap torn. She growls and hisses threats that would peel the paint off bulkheads.
The butt of a rifle intersects with the back of her head, and a boot finds its way into her rib cage. They’re clearly enjoying this — particularly
after the broken bones and even more broken pride she’s inflicted on them. They look young — barely more than subadults. They’re wearing
CompForce armor.
Probably seconded to Enforcements. The Bureau can always use some reliable muscle, even if some people prefer to hire local color for this
sort of thing.
“We have him!” one of them says excitedly to the whiteshirt — Special Agent (Second Lieutenant) Dozsat — hurrying over from his post
along the perimeter.
“Excellent work!” the young whiteshirt says, looking on her with a sneer. “Not so snide now, are you?” he sneers, punctuating his question
by running his boot across her face at an accelerated speed. He turns to another figure and smiles. “We have him, ma’am!”
“Satisfactory,” comes the answer, in a familiar voice.
“Son of a motherless tjarmut,” she growls as the Enforcement muscle hauls her to her feet. “Dozsat, you stupid, incompetent chuff-sucking
murglak!”
“Charming to the last,” says the familiar voice. “Take him away.”
“Don’t listen to him, you brainless spoggick! That’s obviously him!”
“Don’t be stupid,” her own voice insists. “That’s obviously him.”
“He’s disguised himself as me!”
“Pathetic,” comes the response. “Did you really think my own men wouldn’t recognize me? Your arrogance is disgusting. I can’t believe you
were so brazen as to attempt to impersonate me.”
“Listen to me, Dozsat, you moron!” she says, her rage boiling ever hotter. “I’m — ”
“Shut up!” Dozsat says, backhanding her. “Colonel, where do you want him?”
“Oh, here’s just fine for now,” says the voice. “Here, hold this.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, automatically doing as he’s told. Obedience is a prized quality in the New Order Man. “Ma’am, I th— what the
frack?”
Dozsat looks at the pseudoflesh mask and blonde wig in his hands, looks around for the person who was (in retrospect) obviously wearing it
until a few seconds ago — he does not see him — looks at the mask again, and finally, horror dawning in his eyes, looks at her.
“Oh,” he says. “Nuts.”
“Agent Dozsat,” growls Special Agent (Colonel) Tallisibeth Chambertin — special agent in charge of the Moff Governor’s Special Security
Office — “You’ve got some ’splaining to do.”
She sees him leap forward, kick against the wall and propel himself up and over the barricade. For the briefest of moments she allows herself
to admire his athleticism — his movements, they’re so precisely measured, so carefully calculated. It’s fascinating watching him move. He
doesn’t have the ballet-like grace that she still retains from her barely remembered previous life. It’s more like watching mathematics in action.
Fascinating.
She doesn’t have the physical strength required to perform his feat of acrobatics. But there’s more than one way to skin a cat, and she
applies her own unique skills to the task. She’s up and over almost as quickly. She’s already got boots on the ground by the time the nearest
whiteshirt’s even gotten started. She can hear him panting for breath. He needs to PT more.
She doesn’t wait for him. She snatches her comlink from her belt and barks orders into it. Tighten the cordon. She’s got him, by the stars and
all the bodies. No escape this time. She’s got him.
Running.
She catches sight of him rounding a corner. He’s changed clothes already. The man has an amazing ability to do that. She calls one of the
slower whiteshirts wheezing their way past that barricade and orders him to collect the clothes for analysis. If there’s even the slightest flake
of skin or a smudged fingerprint —
Nevermind. The clothes are already disintegrating. Some kind of smart fabric. Not the self-pressing flame-resistant stuff the Empire issues as
uniforms, but smarter stuff. Not cheap. A/KT, probably. Impossible to trace.
He’s clever.
Clever like a fox.
This foxhunt is about to end.
She catches sight of movement up ahead, but before she can figure out what he’s doing she’s being tackled. Heavy man. Body armor makes
self-defense reflexes less effective, but body armor’s no good in a close-quarters fight. She throws him off to nurse his newly-acquired broken
wrist and missing teeth when she’s tackled again.
So this is what smashball players feel like.
It takes five of them to wrestle her into submission long enough to slap a pair of binders on her. Her lip is bleeding, her hair is a total mess.
Her uniform is covered with dirt, the flap torn. She growls and hisses threats that would peel the paint off bulkheads.
The butt of a rifle intersects with the back of her head, and a boot finds its way into her rib cage. They’re clearly enjoying this — particularly
after the broken bones and even more broken pride she’s inflicted on them. They look young — barely more than subadults. They’re wearing
CompForce armor.
Probably seconded to Enforcements. The Bureau can always use some reliable muscle, even if some people prefer to hire local color for this
sort of thing.
“We have him!” one of them says excitedly to the whiteshirt — Special Agent (Second Lieutenant) Dozsat — hurrying over from his post
along the perimeter.
“Excellent work!” the young whiteshirt says, looking on her with a sneer. “Not so snide now, are you?” he sneers, punctuating his question
by running his boot across her face at an accelerated speed. He turns to another figure and smiles. “We have him, ma’am!”
“Satisfactory,” comes the answer, in a familiar voice.
“Son of a motherless tjarmut,” she growls as the Enforcement muscle hauls her to her feet. “Dozsat, you stupid, incompetent chuff-sucking
murglak!”
“Charming to the last,” says the familiar voice. “Take him away.”
“Don’t listen to him, you brainless spoggick! That’s obviously him!”
“Don’t be stupid,” her own voice insists. “That’s obviously him.”
“He’s disguised himself as me!”
“Pathetic,” comes the response. “Did you really think my own men wouldn’t recognize me? Your arrogance is disgusting. I can’t believe you
were so brazen as to attempt to impersonate me.”
“Listen to me, Dozsat, you moron!” she says, her rage boiling ever hotter. “I’m — ”
“Shut up!” Dozsat says, backhanding her. “Colonel, where do you want him?”
“Oh, here’s just fine for now,” says the voice. “Here, hold this.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, automatically doing as he’s told. Obedience is a prized quality in the New Order Man. “Ma’am, I th— what the
frack?”
Dozsat looks at the pseudoflesh mask and blonde wig in his hands, looks around for the person who was (in retrospect) obviously wearing it
until a few seconds ago — he does not see him — looks at the mask again, and finally, horror dawning in his eyes, looks at her.
“Oh,” he says. “Nuts.”
“Agent Dozsat,” growls Special Agent (Colonel) Tallisibeth Chambertin — special agent in charge of the Moff Governor’s Special Security
Office — “You’ve got some ’splaining to do.”
This short story was originally published in December 2006 as a post on Mr. Michael Wong’s StarDestroyer.Net (SD.N) forums. It was
republished on 2 February 2007.
republished on 2 February 2007.
| This site is for informational and entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement of any kind is intended. Star Wars and related materials are © Lucasfilm Ltd., which reserves all rights thereto. All original material is © Julius Sykes. Please do not use without permission. |