The Scarman Enigma

[|Scarecrow|]

Starwood Hotel, Landing Platform 17.

“Put your hands on your head. You’re under arrest.” The young officer approached slowly, his energy rifle notched beneath the pit of his arm. With his free hand, he had produced a set of binders and was in the process of priming them. Untethered energy crackled around the exposed ends of each chain-linked cuff, eager to take Marcus into custody. He closed his eyes and complied, placing his palms on his scalp. Fatigue was close to setting in. It felt like hours since he had dropped out of the Danaan Thunderhawk onto the Starwood’s rooftop, but in reality it had been less than one. His entire body ached, and the nauseating smell of his own roasted skin was gently rising throughout his consciousness. It was only a matter of time before his nerves began to report the intense pain of burning. He dreaded to think about the extent of the damage done to his body by the searing engines of Sayne’s stolen transport.

His mind raced. Every second lost was another for Sayne to make good his escape. He had to do something. His lip curled downward as he sifted through his options. None of them were good. The young pilot stepped closer, keeping his gun level. Marcus opened his eyes and took in the youthful face before him. The man was clearly terrified.
“You look in over your head my friend,” Marcus tried a friendly, even tone.
The officer shook his head and brandished the binders, “No talking, put these on.”
“You look fresh from the academy.” Marcus narrowed his eyes, “Is this your first op?”
“I said no talking,” The officer stepped in to slap the cuffs over Marcus’ wrists.
“Please, listen to me, you don’t know what’s going on here.” Marcus knew the plea would have little chance of succeeding, but he had to try. “A child’s life is at stake! I don’t have time to explain it to you, but I need to follow that transport. I need your help!”
“Quiet!” Anger flashed across the man’s face as he repeated his commands. “You’re done! Do as I say!”

Marcus had no choice, “Then- I’m sorry.”
The pilot narrowed his eyes and tensed his body, but it was too late. By now, he had drawn too close to Scarecrow to be able to react. Marcus made his move. With an almost unreal speed, he struck out, grabbing the officer’s wrist. He twisted hard and rotated his body away. The pilot let out a yelp of pain and the rifle cracked with a stab of energy. As expected, the shot went wide as Marcus turned. Freeing his other hand, Marcus quickly disarmed the pilot with an open-palm strike, sending the rifle skittering across the deck. The officer grunted as he unsuccessfully tried to catch and parry Marcus’ attack. He was quickly silenced as Marcus shifted his weight and struck out with another rotating punch from the hip. The strike caught the pilot squarely on the cheek, and he collapsed backward with a look of surprise.

Glancing around nervously, Marcus stepped over the groggy pilot and rolled him over. He quickly bound the man with his own cuffs.
“Sorry mate,” He muttered as he engaged the binders, “I know you’re just doing your duty, but I have to do mine.”
He quickly checked the pilot’s belt and rifled through his pockets, taking his police issue laser pistol and a small computer-slate. Perhaps the slate’s ident would release control of the fighter to him. He pressed the still faint pilot’s thumb to the pad and opened it, flicking swiftly through its internal structure. It was a database of information, and a direct link to the LACPD infosphere. But it wasn’t what he was looking for.
“No,” He hissed. He glanced around and fidgeted with impatience but forced himself to focus.
The slate might still be useful. With his temporary access, he quickly reset the tablet’s security functions before attaching it to his own belt. Then, he returned his attention to the downed pilot and scanned the man again. Marcus quickly spotted a wearable device on the pilot’s wrist.
That had to be it. He quickly undid the strap and grabbed the device before running over to the landed Patriot fighter.

He was right. The handheld computer-slate was some kind of police issue multitool, but it did not govern the fighter’s command network. It was the wearable that held the pilot’s identification and security codes. With it now on his own wrist, Marcus was able to power up the Patriot and prime the engines. Once the batteries were primed and there was heat in the coils, Marcus put his hands on the throttle-and-stick and gently pushed forward. With a howl, the vertically twinned impulsor engines sprung to life, whipping strong gusts around the landing platform. The blast from the engines temporarily lifted the gathering smoke from the two crashed hotel ferries and revealed a scene of absolute carnage. Amongst the wreckage, the decking was burned and broken. Behind the platform, the beleaguered Starwood Hotel stood against a gloomy sky, several columns of smoke pouring from its upper levels. Down below, the pilot looked on helplessly as his fighter slowly rose into the air. Marcus gave the hotel one last look, his thoughts with Victoria.
“Please be safe,” He whispered, before pitching the fighter’s nose upward, and beginning to climb.

As soon as he was clear of the city heights, Marcus stepped on the thruster pedal and gripped the throttle-and-stick as the Patriot jumped forward with a rush of added energy. The power from the thruster ignition pushed him back into the seat, fixing him in place with the high gee load. As he focused on the sky ahead of him, a comm chimed from the console.
“Hawthorne twenty-one-oh-three, this is operation command, report your intent.”
Marcus eyed the console warily, his foot still firmly planted on the thruster pedal.
The communication repeated, “Hawthorne twenty-one-oh-three, we have you on an unscheduled climb that will attain orbital velocity in just over two minutes, please respond.”
With some difficultly, Marcus fought the onslaught of gee-force and reached out toward the console. Before he could shut off the receiver, another call came over the speaker.
“Twenty-one-oh-three, be advised, interception in progress.”

Scowling, Marcus cut the thruster and levelled off. By now, he was well up into the cloud cover and clear of the city. On its less favourable days, the lowland region around LAC was known for its ability to form dense and complex cloud formations, and its production of violent electrical storms. With the encroaching rainstorms and high winds, all signifiers of an incoming squall, a darkening sky had encroached over the capital city. Marcus had climbed into the midst of a thick mixture of nimbostratus and altostratus cloud. Droplets of rain lashed against the Patriot’s canopy and streamed off in all directions, and the faint delicate shapes of ice crystals had begun to spread outward from the metal framework that surrounded the glass paneling. After several seconds of searching through the console commands, Marcus shut off the fighter’s communications, transponder, and external lights. However, there was little he could do about his heat signature, and any further use of the thruster package would light him up like a beacon. He cursed as he looked skyward. By now, Sayne would be in orbit.

Marcus nervously scanned the murky scene before him. He could see nothing but varied striations of grey-on-grey, and the increasing lashings of rain against the glass. The changing intensity of rainwash all around the ship was almost soothing. For what felt like several long minutes, Marcus cruised evenly at high altitude, blind to everything around him. Then, rapidly alternating beams of blue and red light cut through the fog, and three dark shapes whipped up past him at lightning speed. He grasped the stick as his ship was buffeted by the blowback. The pass had been close.
“Fuck-” Marcus gritted his teeth. He couldn’t have another fight, not with Sayne inching away from his grasp. Not that he would have wanted to go toe-to-toe with the native police in starfighter combat. The result for either party was likely fatal at this altitude, in-atmosphere, and Marcus didn’t like the odds.
Marcus looked directly up, through the cockpit’s ceiling glass. Through brief pauses in the higher cloud cover, he could just make out a smattering of stars in the hazy blue of the thinning high atmosphere. He muttered bitterly. “This isn’t over Sayne.”
He then turned his attention back to the controls before him and pushed his stolen Patriot into a steep dive.

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| S C A R E C R O W |

"See you space cowboy..."