-=Flyin' Iron!=-
Part 2: Slow cooked bacon
You thought for a moment, then another. You could feel the engines purr at your fingertips. Harrier was raring to go, practically chomping at the bit for you to open those throttles and let her stretch her legs. But... but it wasn't to be.
You eased the throttles down to idle. The bassy rumble transmitted through your boat's structure damped into a truly pathetic whimper and you got the distinct impression that you'd just kicked a particularly adorable puppy. You could feel Harrier staring at you with confusion and desperation. She didn't know what she'd done wrong to earn such a punishment. She just wanted to GOFAST.
But you were pilot and she was your boat. There were times you had to think beyond pegging the speedo as high as it'd go. With the engines hauled back you shifted your grip and kicked the wings out to max spread.
"We'n't runnin?" asked Allison. She wasn't even grumbling, all you picked up through her marble-mouthed drawl was sheer bewilderment. Wasn't much surprise to you. When you met Alli she was show-fightin' for scrip on the docks. You're fair certain the only problems she can't solve with bullets she solves with fists.
"My engines'll do it," said Cait. Now
she was insulted. Damn near outraged. If a two percent variance was like calling her baby ugly, not trusting 'em to get you rabbiting was like drop-kicking it off a bridge.
"Maybe," you said. "Probably... but it ain't far from here'a Macchi. We loose 'em they'd just pick us up at the station."
Cait crossed her arms with a huff and sulked. And a mighty powerful sulk it was, but it didn't matter anyhow. With Harrier's engines reefed and her wings all spread she was hemorrhaging speed like a stuck pig on Christmas. The police cutter was closing fast, if they hadn't caught your transponder by now--
"Harrier, level your wings and heave to for routine inspection," curt, clipped tones crackled through the radio with an accent that most certainly weren't from 'round these parts.
"Routine 'spection my ass," Allison growled. She hammered the quick-release on her harness so hard she damn near broke the thing. "Bet'a non's Valentine's boats get'rassed's 'ften."
"Oh, they get inspected," Cait groused. "A full tour of the old coot's pocketbook."
"Ya'll gon' keep that talk under wraps they talk, yeah?" You settled Harrier nice and steady while the cutter hauled up on your dorsal airlock.
"'Course, cap," said Cait.
"Alli?"
"Yeh?" she grunted.
"Don't..." you shook your head. "Don't kill anyone."
"Ay!" she snarled at you. Or at least... half-snarled. The left half of her face stayed still's wax, but the right half was mighty mean. "Ain't'ver killed a cop."
You blinked in honest surprise. Between all the ink and a pugnacious streak that made up essentially her entire personality you half expected Allison to have at least one lawman under her belt. "Really?"
"Ah'sn't stupid," Allison growled. Cait stifled a giggle. "Too'uch heat, no matter's 'ow 'brasive they's get."
"Well play nice, both of you," you said. You couldn't say more before the police cutter clamped itself atop Harrier's back just aft of the crew hump. You felt your girl shudder a little with the mass change. She weren't happy to have a tumor of the porcine variety on her back and she was letting you know in no uncertain terms. "Easy, girl. Cait, you wanna--"
"Yeah, 'm on it." Cait slid into the normally-vacant co-pilot's seat.
"Let's go meet our friends," you motioned for Allison to follow you aft. It was about then you noticed that not only was she glistening with sweat she was positively drenched with the stuff. Her hair was matted and her crop-top was soaked through. "You got a towel or summat?"
"'s inna middle've'a set," drawled Allison.
"You're
always in the middle of a set," you countered.
Allison shrugged and ran her hands down her belly. Which, it had to be said, would make a reasonable field-expedient washboard should the need arise. She certainly had a figure that'd put a pilot like you who spent all your time sittin' down to shame. "Keepin' these's hard work."
"Yeah, and
roids," Cait called from her seat.
Allison shrugged. "We goin' or?"
"Might as." The two of you ducked aft towards the airlock. The pirates--no, sorry,
cops. They had badges which made it all official-like--had finished their capture checks when you arrived and were clambering down the ladder when you reached the airlock.
There were two of them: a fat one and a skinny one--Why was there
always a fat one and a skinny one--and both of 'em had the usual black-on-white patrol suits. Wheelguns on their hips too.
Allison sneered--or half sneered at least, that left side of her face was as glassy smooth's ever--and only just tried to hide it. You knew that look. She'd beheld their allotment of weapons and despaired. Course, you weren't much for small arms yourself, but you knew that Allison could find a gripe in damn near anyone's kit.
Neither of the cops seemed to notice. Either they were used to negative reaction or Allison was just too damn ugly for'em to read. 'Course the thin one wasn't really looking at Allison's
face.
"Howdy, boys," you put on your best winning smile. "Welcome to Harrier, I'm her captain."
The fat one stared at you with a dull expression for several long seconds before
slooowly retrieving a notebook from his belt and thumbing through the pages at a glacial pace. "Says here you're Captain Drake," he drawled at an unimaginably plodding pace. You almost fell asleep three times 'fore he finished that sentence.
"That's me," you said with a little more spring in your voice than normal. Maybe if you started talking fast a little've that speed'd slide his way?
"Mmhm." No dice. He was still moving slower'n a sloth after thanksgiving dinner. The fat one looked back at his notebook again. Finally he found what he was looking for. "Captain--
[ ] --Jason Drake?"
[ ] --Jennifer Drake?"
