In nineteen hundred and ninety-two
A homo from Milwaukee
Warmed up his jets and—
I quieted him with a rabbit punch and tossed him back on the air-scooter, but the damage was done. I hit the control seat again just as Shanig's crew swarmed out of the alley and surrounded us.
The air-scooter took off like a rocket when I gave it the gun, plowing straight through them. I hung on somehow, but Perry wasn't so lucky. He bounced once and pitched off, square into the enemy's hands.
When I looked back at the first street intersection they had scooped him up and were headed toward Solar Shipping in a hurry. The sight reassured me a little. They hadn't blasted Perry on the spot, which meant that they would probably hold him as hostage until they got Cheryl as well. One witness at large was as dangerous to Shanig as two, and the chances were he wouldn't risk beaming out one unless he could be sure of both.
I took the only course left, doubling the air-scooter back and skimming toward Shanig's offices.
V
The way the situation added up reminded me of the old historical thrillers I'd read as a kid, most of them written in the days when our rough-and-ready ancestors bought contraband skohl from underground talk-gentlies and rival groups of uglies hijinked each other with torpedoes. It was something like a present-day telemovie gripper in a sense, only there wasn't any Colonel Super in this plot to lend me a hand.