Riotfish, Inc.: In Debt

The brakes locked hard, tumbling everyone except for Little Timmy, who was holding one of the hand straps.

"Fire in the hole!" yelled Little Timmy.

"Wait!" cried Fleer.

Another explosion, and another spray of animal parts. The largest hornspitter roared and charged. The brakes were locked, but the impact still knocked the Battle Wagon forward three feet, its tires leaving thick black streaks on the road.

"Fine!" Fleer fumed. "We'll go loud. Roger, take that big one out!"

Roger cackled, jammed the barrel of his Borka rifle through the louvers and began firing, his thick tail whipping back and forth in glee. It wasn't clear whether Roger could hit the beast, since he wasn't even looking outside, but the creature bellowed in pain and galloped off into a nearby field. The wounded cry made the rest of the herd skittish, and they backed off, watching the Battle Wagon warily.

The quiet only lasted a moment before Fleer began directing again.

"Okay, let's go see what we can do for our client. Little Timmy, you're with me. Roger, you stay in the Battle Wagon and be ready to help us get Mr. Galloway inside."

The back doors of the Battle Wagon creaked open, and Fleer peered out. The creatures were still nearby, watching him. Fleer gingerly stepped out.

"Do I have to?" Little Timmy whispered.

"Get out here!" Fleer hissed.

They crept toward the limo. The herd didn't move. Fleer crouched down near the rear window of the overturned gravcar.

"Mr. Galloway, can you hear me?" Fleer called as loudly as he dared. He rapped on the glass of the inverted vehicle. "Mr. Gallo-- eep!" He started back as the window buzzed down. Or up, as was the case. Palmer Galloway's grim visage appeared, hanging upside-down from his seat belt. The orientation was doing unusual things with his jowls and saggy cheeks.

He didn't look happy about the situation.

"I am going to have a word with my assistant, a serious word, about her process for hiring mercenaries," Galloway said.

"Ah, I am very sorry, Mr. Galloway. Unforeseen circumstances. Um, let's get you out. Please, let's be as quiet as possible." Fleer drew his slim assassin's blade and sawed through the thick nylon seat belt. Galloway landed in a crunched heap on the ceiling of his car.

The window at the front buzzed open and Little Timmy moved to help the driver.

Fleer helped Galloway to right himself and exit the vehicle while Little Timmy yanked fruitlessly at the driver's seat belt. Fleer waved Little Timmy off and cut through the driver's seat belt. The driver landed with more grace than his boss.

The hornspitters gazed at the quartet as they moved away from the limo. There was no apparent aggression, but Fleer didn't want to set them off again.

The four crept toward the Battle Wagon. Galloway tried his best, but he was not built for stealth. He was built for sitting behind a boardroom table and yelling at subordinates.

"Can they see us?" Galloway huffed, trundling along behind Fleer.

"Probably, sir, but let's just stay quiet and calm."

They were nearly to the Battle Wagon when Galloway poked Fleer in the shoulder with a sausage-thick finger.

"Hey," he whispered. "Wait. I forgot my datapad."

Fleer schooled his expression to stillness, taking a moment to keep his face from costing them this contract.

"Can we leave it? We're nearly safe."

"Not a chance. My assistant Julie puts all my stuff on there. I can't possibly do anything without it."

"I'd advise, sir, in the strongest possible terms--"

"I don't care what you advise. You got us into this mess. I need my datapad."

It was times like these that Fleer had mastered the art of gritting his teeth without it showing.

In the black, he reminded himself. An actual profit this month.

"Do you know where it is, sir? I can go fetch it for you."

"I want to get it. I know just where it is."

"Okay. Okay. Little Timmy, take the driver--" One of the creatures grunted heavily. Everybody froze, but nothing else happened. Fleer continued in a softer tone. "Take the driver to the Battle Wagon and you two strap in. Mr. Galloway and I will be back shortly."

Fleer and Galloway crept back to the limo, a long, tense walk. Galloway crawled back into the limo and started banging around.

"Sir, please be careful about the noise," Fleer said quietly. One of the hornspitters was watching them.

"I can't find it," Galloway called, much louder this time. Apparently he felt more comfortable making noise in his vehicle, topsy-turvy as it was. "Oh, I found the datachip with the quarterly report. I've been needing that."

"Please sir, let's focus," Fleer whispered as the creature snuffled closer.

Galloway banged away in the limo, taking his time. "Not in the overhead storage. Huh. I wonder if I left it in the door compartment?"

The hornspitter drew closer.

"Ha! Whaddayaknow? It was in my pocket the whole time. I thought it fell out when we turned over. Last place you look, right? Well at least I got--" Galloway froze as he poked his head out of the limo. Fleer had plastered himself against the side of the overturned limo as one of the massive bulls sniffed at him.

"Sir," Fleer whispered, "please make your way to the Battle Wagon as quickly and quietly as you can."

Galloway nodded, crawled out of the limo, and tiptoed around Fleer and the creature.

He was halfway back to the Battle Wagon when the bull lost interest in Fleer.

It snuffed twice and grunted, turning toward Galloway.

Galloway tried to unobtrusively speed up. The hornspitter, curious, followed. Galloway sped up again and so did the bull. Galloway upgraded to a stiff-legged power walk, and the animal easily matched him.

"Sir, please don't panic," Fleer called.

Galloway was heaving and sweating and clinging to the outer edge of his equanimity. He was actually doing well until the bull got close enough for Galloway to feel the snorting breath on the back of his neck. Losing the last of his restraint, Galloway squealed and broke into the kind of waddling run performed by indifferently-healthy executive types who hadn't exercised since childhood. Faster, and faster, and faster still until the portly executive was sprinting. The animal effortlessly closed the distance.

Fleer bolted after them both, fruitlessly hollering to draw the hornspitter's attention. Fleer was more athletic than Galloway, and faster, but not fast enough.

"Roger!" he yelled. "Open the door!"

The exec was bolting to the rear of the Battle Wagon, but Roger opened the passenger side door and poked his head out.

"The rear door, you maniac!" Galloway panted.

Roger nodded. Galloway, who'd already diverted to reach the passenger door, squawked indignation as Roger slammed it shut. He yanked fruitlessly on the handle a couple times, then turned back to return to the rear of the vehicle. Galloway came face-to-face with the hornspitter.

He squeaked, trapped against the side of the Battle Wagon as the huge creature stared him down.

Knowing his slim blade would be useless against a creature of this size, Fleer tried a flying tackle as he reached the ruminant. He slammed into the bull's flank with a grunt. It snorted annoyance and casually flicked out a hoof that caught Fleer in the ribs and sent him tumbling.

Turning back to Galloway, the hornspitter started huffing. It appeared to grow larger the more it huffed and leaned over the terrified suitman. Fleer struggled to stand; the wind had been knocked out of him.

The bull snorted and lowered its head, its crazed red-and-yellow eyes burning into the exec. It lifted its head and let out a bellowing roar, shattering the stillness. Galloway screamed, splayed out against the side of the Battle Wagon.

The creature suddenly made a sound like a cross between a hard sneeze and a belch, blasting the side of the Battle Wagon with a spray of heavy, cud-laden mucus.

"Aaaaaagh," gurgled Galloway.

The hornspitter, having made its point, huffed, turned, and trotted away.

Fleer, trying to catch his breath, hobbled over to Galloway. He almost turned back again when the smell hit him. It was a heady mix of rotten grass, bile, and ferment. The Battle Wagon sported a patch of nastiness where the spray had hit, with a clean spot in the silhouette of a man on the vehicle. Galloway lay on the grass, retching.

"Are you all right, sir?" Fleer asked, being careful not to breathe through his nose.

"I had my mouth open," Galloway gasped.

"Wheezly bumpkins!" Roger hollered, slamming open the rear doors.

Galloway sat in the back of the Battle Wagon, wrapped in an old camp blanket and Fleer's jacket. His suit lay on the side of the road some distance back, since it was a solid wad of hornspitter sputum.

The gun ports, louvers and windows were all open as far as they would go to give the stench a chance to escape, but the Battle Wagon had been designed for protection, not airflow. Everyone sat as close to the windows as they could.

Galloway fumed and shivered miserably.

"I am very sorry, sir," Fleer apologized again. "Is there anything we can get for you?"

"A tub of acetone to wash in," Galloway snapped. He sniffed, but quickly thought better of it. He gagged a little and pulled the blanket more tightly around himself as they finally pulled up to the gates of Concordium.

"I'm beginning to seriously reconsider my fear of flying," he said.