I know that I am hardly alone in my opinion that most people who break the law as a matter of the primary livelihood are dumber than a sack of hammers.
Case in point: Rather than reporting to their superiors, trying to arrange an 'accident', or even just waiting to see if I found anything, the three goons who'd been assigned to watch me broke into the records' office and tried to shoot me to death.
If they hadn't shot the receptionist first, I'd never have survived. As it was, I rolled out of the chair barely an instant before the burst of steel needles shredded it almost completely in half.
I hit the floor beside it on toes and fingertips and looked up at them; two holding hardtech pistols and one with a slender rifle-like thing that looked like it was meant to fold up conveniently.
All of which were swinging to aim at me.
I came at them with my best attempt at a sprinter's start but kept as low as I could, and reached behind the small of my back like I was going for a weapon.
I had no such thing, of course. Those few violent skills I possessed were the sort associated with large sharp pointy things rather than anything that could be hidden beneath a pair of fitted jeans, a loose (well, mostly loose) t-shirt, and a leather jacket about four sizes too big.
One pistol shot went wide to my left, and the needler's flachettes crackled harmlessly past over my head, and when I broke right - right across the last man's line of fire - he fired once - missed - and then I was safely behind some sort of desk.
I had time to shove the jacket's sleeve back and punch in the first two commands I needed before the needler burst speared through the flimsy plastic sheltering me and shredded half of my bicep before slashing off to the left.
It hurt, of course, but - thanks to adrenaline or who knows what survival related imperative of the reptile brain - I felt no immediate need to react to it. Instead I hit the last button.
There are a lot of different sorts of space suits, ranging from full hardtech types that weigh hundreds of pounds to ultralight wavetech models like the one I was wearing that day. The latter, by the by, were never intended to be used for spacewalks and such - except in porn, heavier gear was always called for outside the ship. What they were, though, was emergency gear. With a helmet and a battery pack a person wearing one can last as long as most lifepods, and in more comfort... physically, anyway. Without either, their built-in deployable breath masks and power fibers can keep oxygen flowing and rad and meteoroid screens up for several minutes, more than long enough to get to whatever safety may be available.
Besides, they were temperature controlled and quite comfortable. You could wear anything you wanted over them and not have to worry about sweating or anything. The gloves and metal collar you see on the usual image of the 'generic spacer fan' are part of a suit just like mine.
The three keys I had hit had brought its life-saving systems fully online - including a kinetic shield capable of stopping rock fragments the size of a pea and moving at orbital velocities. Handgun bullets and hypersonic sewing needles wouldn't even make it blink, but it drew the same power whether it was being hit or not.
I didn't have much time, especially with one of my arms rendered useless, but I didn't need much, either.
There was a good sized hardback sitting on the desk, just above my head. I picked it up, weighed it a moment in my good hand, then stepped out and charged straight at the smaller pistolier.
I couldn't let them stay on balance, not if I wanted to live. The kinetic shields used on working suits had a weakness, they had to - a total shield surface was frictionless, and, hence, useless for gripping or picking things up. Slow-moving objects were registered and ignored by the simple computer that regulated their power. Chances were that these thugs'd know that, and that a spacer might be wearing one, and would've come equipped to deal with it.
I have good reflexes, but not near good enough to make up for the fact that I don't know how to knife-fight worth a damn, or for that that any one of them could've outweighed me two to one before breakfast.
I hate being short.
They at me for a moment when they first saw me, then set themselves to grab. One charged to meet me, and I swept the book across to knock the pistol from his hand then ducked under his other arm and put my knee into his chest to stop and pushed off, twisting, to snatch the weapon awkwardly in midair before I landed on my back with a thump.
Lean up slightly, safety off, sight on center of mass, squeeze and whap and the man I'd taken the weapon from sank to his knees, looking stunned. Squeeze again what and turn slightly as the biggest of them, the one with the needler, lunges towards me with the weapon outstretched like a club then sprawls as I roll out of the way and bring the gun back under me and up and around until the muzzle is almost touching his ribs. whapwhap I turn and tuck my legs back under my body as I sit up and get ready to stand but the last of them is almost on me before I can get the gun up and there's a flash and a wrench as the knife he aimed at my throat comes in too quickly and triggers the shield and the blow knocks me to the side and makes me miss the shot whap and click as the slide locks back and the toe of his boot comes in and a flash over my ribs and I tumble harshly away and try to get my feet under me before he can follow.
And then the Senshi in the door hits him in the back with a Taser Field and he goes out like a light.
"Thanks," I told her once my brain caught up with events, then glanced back across the room and realized how much of the blood spreading in pools across its floor was mine even if I barely weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.
Passing out felt like a good idea at that point, and I did.
Yay, action hero!
Ja, -n
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"Puripuri puripuri... Bang!"