Tales of a Dysfunctional Corsair Mafia Family

[Moretti]

[font=viner hand itc]Planet New London,
1 May, 818

The young man, possibly of Hispanian descent, hunched over the meal of pasta in the cramped restaurant, spread a crumpled, dirty piece of paper out on the chequered tablecloth. The man across from him, a Bretonian, glanced at the diagram with a slice of sausage halfway to his mouth. They were both wearing suits, although the Bretonian's tie was of a rather older fashion - tweed - than the younger man's newer monochrome choice.

The Bretonian dropped the fork back onto the plate, snatching the drawing up eagerly. His eyes combed over it. Yes, yes, it was what he wanted. Yes, of course, he could get them the payment within thirty-six hours. He wouldn't miss this opportunity for the world. Of course he wouldn't disappoint them - he was a collector. They shook hands over the table and the spaghetti, and the Bretonian thanked the younger man for the meal. Of course, not at all, his pleasure. He was sorry that he couldn't finish it. That was no matter.

The Bretonian left the restaurant quickly, taking one last look at the piece of paper before shoving it in his jacket's interior pocket as he stepped out into the drizzle. He brought his umbrella up like a cheating fencer as he disappeared down the street. The younger man sat back down in the booth, tucking a cloth napkin into his shirt as he continued to eat the food appreciately, like a fine connoisseur of pasta.


A larger man, very similar looking to the younger man, dropped his bulk - muscular, not fat - into the other side of the booth, sticking his fists on the table. "So. How'd it end up goin', 'Renzo?" His voice had a rather rich accent, a particular dialect of Hispanian roughly analogous to ancient Italian.

The young man finished chewing and wiped his mouth off. "He was real excited when he saw that. Said he could get us the goods for that art in the time we wanted." His accent was similar, though more refined.

"Mean's he's a phoney, Renzo," the larger man said. "He's gonna try to stab us in the back."

"Yeah, yeah, I got that bit already. So, what're we gonna do about him?" The younger man, Renzo, started gathering another forkful of the pasta.

"Make sure he never reaches orbit is what," the larger man said, chuckling a quietly.

[font=viner hand itc]~ M ~

They both stood on the catwalk above the BPA auxiliary landing pad.
Sure enough, the man was there, and his shuttle was parked there as well.

"See, I told you he smelled lousy from the start, Renzo. You gotta pick up on these sorta things."

Renzo ignored this. "He's leaving now, what are we gonna do about it?"

The older man chuckled. "We're going to let him take off then let an accident happen."

"Good thing you bribed the mechanics." Renzo mused, leaning on the railing as he looked down on the man getting into the shuttle after exchanging words. He was a private inspector, and he wasn't going to give the BPA the dirt on them until he had the entire case solved. There was still one vital piece missing, and unbeknownst to him, it had never been there.

The shuttle took off, quickly shooting practically vertical up into banks of clouds. Renzo looked a little nervous nonetheless. "So... you get them to put a bomb in the ship? Blow him to bits?"

The man shook his head. "Naw, that's too obvious. Stuff don't just explode for no reason. You're new to this sorta thing, you hang you with dad at the Council too much. You need to get used to thinkin' dirty like this."

"Yeah, yeah, sure... what are we doin', then?"

"We ain't doin' anything," the man said, leaning on the railing to look up at where the shuttle had disappeared.

"What's gonna happen, then?"

The man smiled. "When he reaches a particular velocity, his shields are most unfortunately going to suddenly stop working. It's a real tragedy."

Renzo felt rather unintelligent, but chuckled at the plan. "That'll finish the sneaky bastard."

"That'll finish him," came the agreeing response.


Within several seconds, a cascade of fiery debris started dropping down through the clouds far above, first appearing as orange splotches of colour on the grey, and then as streaks of fire falling down through the sky. They landed randomly in a neighbourhood several blocks away. A hovercar's alarm started blaring in the distance as metallic crashes could be heard.

The old man removed his hat sarcastically.


Then the parachute appeared from the clouds, with both the pilot and the P.I. safely in their ejection seats. "Son of a bitch!" the older man exclaimed, throwing his hat down on the ground.

"Uh... what now, dad?" Renzo asked rather carefully.

His father spit. "Guess we're gonna have to use Plan B." He reached into his shirt.

"Plan B?" Renzo asked slowly.

The older man, his father, bent down to pick up his hat.
"B's for bomb, dumbass."

He pressed the detonator in his pocket as he stood up and walked down the catwalk, away from the falling debris. Both seats instantly exploded into spangles and arcs of fire and smoke.


Renzo scurried to follow his father away from the scene, feeling slightly vindicated.

---

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