#5 - Longer scene in Weapons Locker, Garrison, Dock CA after difficult first contact w/ Dominique

EVENT: DAY 7, 1000 GMT

Garrison felt heavier than he should have.

This innermost level was supposed to be half-earth gravity. He chalked it up to his state of mind.

He wandered into the Personal Supply Center. It was a typical convenience store. There was an inner door marked “Military Personnel Only.” All the supplies in the outer store were compact zero-g versions of most any sundry available to the general public on Earth. He walked to the inner door and pulled out the military credit—a requisition card that had awaited him this morning in the document slot of his Temp-Dwell. He passed it near a reader next to the entrance. The latch clicked and the door opened. A balding clerk cast him a bored look from his seat at the checkout scanner. Bartell just nodded and went into the back room.

During his years in BUMP he had never embarked from Cylinder Alpha, so he’d never been through this door. As expected, the contrast to the front store was marked. The products for the public were colorful to match their earth-based, commercialized counterparts. The military supplies, on the other hand, were black, white and gray, some with fluorescent bands.

The PX was divided into two areas; signs guided him to his personal needs on the right and his defense needs on the left. No defense requisitions were described in his flight orders, but the array of weaponry was fascinating and alluring. Garrison tore himself away after a few minutes and perused the personal supplies. From a dispenser, he took a large sack and began spilling miscellaneous toiletries into it. He picked up a replacement for his Lazor, and browsed shelves of expedition-grade mylex underwear, good for deep cold but very expensive. As compact as the packages were, he took three each of the uppers and lowers. By the time he’d filled his sack, he had reasoned that there were definitely some defense needs that should be justified. He wanted to take advantage, if possible, with BUMP footing the bill.

Setting his sack down by the door, he noticed a sensometer screen spring to life, displaying a green readout of the personal items that he had piled in the bag.

Interesting...

Near the defense aisles, there were two stacks of folded flexsteel boxes, one large enough to carry one armload of goods, and another sized for about two. Thinking about that inventory screen, he unfolded a small carton, more likely to be allowed exit with a modest selection. Down the equipment aisle he chose an EVA add-vision visor—an augmentation to his sur-mod eye optics. It had add-on receptors for things like x-ray, magnetic sources, lower spectrums, and other talents that he wasn’t sure of yet. The power supply was a lifetime nano-pile. The add-on sticker-spots were there and he affixed one of each type to the visor. He figured that this alone would’ve cost him more than half-a-year’s salary at USUCC pay rates.

Next, weapons: he chose a long-range, holo-sited, compact pistol-stunner. His earlier hope for his adversary to be an alien—big and ugly—seemed humorous now, but why not be totally prepared, so he also chose a collapsible pulse rifle.

Then he turned to the ammo shelves. Ten stunner-charge mags went into the box, followed by twelve pulse cells. His box was filling up. He pondered the explosive racks, noticing a fist-sized device painted black, red and yellow, with a pin activator. Mechanical, reliable. It was a good size for his box, so in it went.

Setting the increasingly weighty carton down, Garrison thought for another moment and selected an ammo-weapons belt to replace his worn, inferior USUCC issue. It had virtually no weight at all. He strapped it on; he would wear it out of the store like a new pair of shoes. He tucked some additional ammo and charges into it; maybe he was pushing his limit but he didn’t care. Picking up his old belt, he stuffed more goods into that, draping it over the carton. Always good to have a back-up. He just managed his box of goodies under one arm. The strap of the rifle went over the opposite shoulder. As he approached the door, he watched the screen take inventory of what he had, adding them at the end of the currently displayed list. He wound his free fist into the neck of the sack and hefted it, then he punched the door activation button with the same fist. It did not open. A flash on the screen—one green line had changed to red, the ‘H-2 explosive grenade’ highlighted. At the bottom of the screen, in red, it read: Handheld explosives not authorized. With only slight disappointment, he dug the red-black-yellow device out of the box and returned it to the shelf. In its place he chose an emergency beacon. This time he was allowed out. He was very pleased with his haul.

The clerk was now a young woman, pleasantly attractive and slightly surprised by his appearance.

“Hi,” she said, eyeing him and his burden with a curious look.

Without military fatigues, he looked quite the adventurer: full belt, rifle over shoulder, ammo for days. “Hello. You sure have changed a lot in a short time,” he joked.

“I have? Do we know each other?”

“No. Actually it’s just that you were a man when I went into the back room.”

“I was? That’s funny. I haven’t noticed my sex change once today.”

Garrison smiled.

She gestured to his goods, “What’s all that? You don’t look military?”

“Oh, this. Well...” His light mood flipped; might she have some authority to disallow his excess of items? He moved sideways toward the exit and justified, “These are things I need for my mission.”

“Yeah? Where ya’ goin’?” Her tone remained light.

He decided she was just flirting and relaxed. “Well, actually I’m on temporary assignment with BUMP, doing some investigating.”

“Really…” she said excitedly, holding up her z-book. It flashed the cover of an ancient classic, a Phillip Marlowe novel. “I just love detective stories. Are you a private eye?”

Garrison could see that this was something he could turn to his advantage. “Yes, I guess you could say that. What’s your name?”

Energetically, she said, “Dominique.”

It sounded like a greeting and he jumped at the name. He spun around awkwardly, ready to see Captain Astra standing behind him. No one was there. Dominique #2 said from behind him, “What’s wrong?”

He turned back to stare, put off by the unfortunate coincidence.

“Are you all right?” she asked, concerned.

He mumbled, “No.” He hurried out the door.

This Astra doesn’t even have to be there to spin me out. The mood perk he felt in the store soured. He found the porter-lockers. His cred chip opened a cabinet big enough for his stash of supplies. Before he closed it, he punched a contact; it flashed a light into his eye. The display read out: Destination – Vessel: QB I; Captain: D. Astra, Docking Slot CA 08 F, etc. That was the destination for his stuff.

No mention of his name. So much for equality.

He slammed the locker for a satisfying crash.