Interstellar Fighter

Chapter 6: The Interstellar 'Zorro'

David's heart hammered against his ribs. Acting on pure instinct, he shadowed Sophia, maintaining a distance where he could keep her in sight yet melt into the shadows if needed. She navigated through the chaotic heart of Scrap Iron Street and ducked into a narrower, darker alleyway. The air here reeked of burnt circuit boards and the sharp tang of ozone—the electronic waste sector, the final destination for all of Shatterice's illicit dealings.

She stopped at a back door beneath a crooked sign reading "Sato Recycling" in Japanese. After another nervous glance around, she rapped quickly on the door. An Asian man with a surly expression, clad in greasy coveralls, cracked it open. Sophia pulled a small, square object wrapped in rags from inside her jacket and thrust it at him. The man took it, peeked inside, his face flickering with greed before hardening.

"Fifty. Take it or leave it," he muttered, his tone brooking no argument.

Sophia seemed to panic, arguing in heavily accented English. "No! You said at least three hundred! This thing... it's special!"

"Special? This junk?" The man snorted derisively and started to close the door. "Fifty, or get the hell out."

Seeing the deal collapsing and fearing the man might just steal the item, Sophia retreated a helpless step. That's when David moved.

"Hey! Problem here, pal?"

David stepped out of the shadows, trying to project a calm confidence he didn't fully feel. He was tall, and months of mining had added solid muscle. He positioned himself beside Sophia, subtly shielding her.

The Asian man, Sato, narrowed his eyes. "Who the hell are you? Piss off. None of your business."

"She's a friend," David's voice dropped lower. "A deal's a deal. Don't be an asshole."

Sophia looked at David, her green eyes wide with surprise and a flicker of panic, but mostly with relief at finding an ally.

Sato's face twisted. He clearly wasn't interested in fairness. He whistled, and two burly assistants wielding wrenches emerged from the shop.

Shit, David cursed inwardly. A direct fight was a losing proposition. His eyes darted to a pile of discarded power cells and a few exposed, faintly arcing cables nearby. In that split second, a trick he'd read about in a mechanics manual flashed through his mind.

He pretended to back away fearfully, his foot "accidentally" kicking the pile of batteries. Simultaneously, he used the multimeter probe concealed in his hand to swiftly and discreetly bridge the exposed cable, diverting a weak current towards the spilled, volatile battery fluid—

Crack—FWOOM!

A small blue arc of electricity erupted, igniting the leaking fluid and producing a sudden, startling burst of flame and smoke!

"Fire! The batteries!" David yelled with all his might.

Sato and his thugs, startled by the sudden explosion, instinctively recoiled. In the confusion, David snatched the rag-wrapped square from beside the door, grabbed Sophia's wrist.

"Run!"

He yelled, pulling her out of the alley and plunging into the teeming crowds of Scrap Iron Street. Sato's furious shouts faded behind them, swallowed by the market's din. They didn't stop, weaving through the maze of streets until sure they weren't followed, finally collapsing, gasping for air, in a corner piled with discarded oxygen tanks.

Sophia was pale, chest heaving, looking at David with disbelief. "You... why..."

David handed her the still-warm package, leaning against a cold metal tank to catch his own breath. "Just couldn't stand watching, I guess," he panted. "Besides, that guy was clearly a scumbag."

He watched her clutch the small package as if it were her lifeline. "What is that thing? Worth all that risk?"

Sophia hesitated. "We... should talk somewhere else."

She led him away from the market chaos to a densely packed residential area made from stacked, repurposed shipping containers. The air here was barely better than in the mines, thick with poverty and despair. Her "home" was one such cramped container, containing only a simple cot, a small synth-food dispenser, and a seemingly temperamental heater.

Once the door was closed, muffling the outside noise, Sophia relaxed slightly. She offered David a cup of slightly discolored recycled water, then sat on the bed's edge, stroking the wrapped package.

"I... took it from a client," she said softly, avoiding his eyes. "A broker. He was drunk, talkative, bragging about his business... He dropped this, didn't notice. I... hid it."

She looked up, her green eyes filled with the struggle to survive. "I worked at the 'Novyi Kyiv' restaurant, but it closed last month. I have debts, problems with my ID papers... I had to go to the 'Stairway'. If I could sell this, I'd have some money, get settled, maybe... find a proper job." She mentioned she was from Ukraine, the war had destroyed everything, she'd been sent to Europa as a "contract worker," and ended up trapped here.

David listened in silence. He remembered arriving with nothing, but at least he'd had Uncle Perry. He picked up the package and carefully unwrapped it. Inside the rags was a palm-sized, irregularly shaped metal module. It was matte black, with standard military-grade ports and clear German labeling, along with some codes he couldn't decipher. It felt cool to the touch, its workmanship incredibly precise, definitely not a civilian product.

Holy crap… David sucked in a breath. Even as an apprentice, he recognized the pure, military aura it emitted. He immediately scanned the markings with his personal terminal. The fragmented information he found confirmed his suspicion—it was a weapon coordination/fire-control sub-module for NATO-standard mechs, likely the 'Gladiator' model. German-made.

This thing was worth a fortune on the black market.

"We need expert advice," David decided. He contacted Uncle Perry, briefly explained the situation, and sent pictures and markings of the module. "My uncle. He has connections."

A few hours later, the familiar rumble of a hover-engine sounded outside. Uncle Perry's scarred, armed pickup truck parked outside the container. Perry entered, wasted no time, picked up the module, and examined it carefully with a portable micro-scanner, his weathered face unreadable.

"Hmm…" he grunted, tapping the small eagle insignia and German text. "Rheinmetall. NATO universal standard, G-series mech, probably a pulse laser fire-control co-processor for a Gladiator." He looked at David and Sophia, who was trembling with nerves. "Good piece. Very hot."