Over in the recomendation thread, I linked to BT AU called By The Horns. In the story, it's 2025, and the Concordat has recovered a data core. A Taurian core, from the Unification War, which has never been touched (or edited) by either the Star League or Comstar. All of the Intelligence agencies of the Sphere are descending on mass on Taurus in an attempt to recover/copy the core before their rivals do, or before the Taurians decode it.
Here's a recent post:
"I've always wanted to be somebody, but I should have been more specific." - George Carlin
Here's a recent post:
Quote:Quick Pick Convenience Store #1173___________________________
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
November 9, 3025
“What the hell is a taquito?” Phil Sheridan, field agent for MI-4
muttered to himself as he watched the long crispy-appearing cylinders
rotate over a heating element. It looked like a stick of rolled
tortillas—and just about as hard, but a pureed filling leaked out from
the ends, the scent of beef, beans, and spices filling the air.
He grabbed a pair of tongs and lifted one—and he took a sniff. He
winced. But then he sighed and he opened a bag and put the nasty greasy
item inside, followed by another dozen. Along with all four of the
sausages that had rolled on the machine beside them. He put several
packets of salsa and more of sour cream into the bag as well and set in
within the shopping basket he carried, and then he walked over to the
chillers containing cold drinks.
Energy drinks in a dozen flavors all in metal cans, cans of distilled
water, canned iced coffee, canned sweat tea (cans, what the hell was it
with Taurians and cans?) . . . but almost no carbonated
beverages. And the few imports that were present were three times the
price a drink would normally be worth in the heart of the Federated
Suns. But liquor? Beer? Wine? That covered three-quarters of the
wall . . . along with an entire freezer just containing glass bottles of
MILK. Almost the only item NOT in a can, at least, Phil thought with a shudder.
Sighing, he began to put an assortment of the multi-hued cans into his
basket—not even looking at the labels—and then he froze. Son of a . . .
!
Standing four feet away from him (and looking just as shocked) was
Victor Li . . . a Maskirovka agent with whom Phil had often sparred in
the worlds of the Capellan March and the St. Ives thumb. Both men
reached for their waist-bands—for the concealed weapons each carried
under their jackets—but then they stopped at the same time.
Victor shook his head. “Long time, Phil,” he said. “What brings you to
sunny Taurus? The food?” he said, pointing to the basket. “I’ve got
to warn you—those are a bit spicy.”
“I’m on vacation,” Phil answered. “Yourself?”
“Strangely enough, so am I,” Victor replied with a smile. “I heard that the fishing is good off-shore.”
“Fishing? I’ll have to look into that.”
“Never know what you can catch if you spend an afternoon just casting lines, eh?”
“Right,” Phil answered, glancing to his left and right—and noting that
Victor was doing the same. The store wasn’t—quite—full, but it was far
from empty . . . and Phil nodded. Starting a gun-fight here and now
would just bring the local Constabulary down on their asses—and pose
questions that Phil really didn’t want to answer. Nor did Victor, it
seemed, because he nodded and slowly lowered his gun-hand; Phil did so
as well.
“Another time, eh, Phil?” the Capellan asked with a grin.
“Be seeing you around, Victor.”
“Not if I see you fir- . . . SHIT,” the expletive was not shouted, but was heartfelt all the same as Phil felt the barrel of a gun prod him in the back.
“Okay, both of you—why are you two on Taurus?” a harsh voice asked.
“Who are you?” asked Victor.
“I’m asking the questions here, Cappie,” the man spat in a thick Marik accent.
“Wait just a damn minute,” Phil said as he half-turned in recognition of
the voice, and then sighed. “Victor Li, meet Walter Krogh—the SAFE
liaison at the Marik embassy on Taurus.”
“SAFE? SAFE?” Victor asked in disbelief. “What are you planning
to do, Mister Krogh? Shoot us down in the full view of the customers
of this store?” Some of which were beginning to notice the whispers—and
drawn gun—and began to back off, a few dialing numbers in their mobile
phones.
“Both of you are coming back to the Embassy with me to answer
questions,” Walter answered. “If you try to run, I’ll shoot him dead.”
Victor laughed, and Phil groaned. “Did you just tell me—a Capellan—that if I run, you will, as means to stop me, shoot a Davion?”
Krogh didn’t answer, he just jerked his head to one side. “Let’s go.”
“Excuse me, are you paying for those?” a woman asked.
“What?” Krogh said as he half-turned—and grunted as a petite red-haired
woman swung a fist clad in brass knuckles into his jaw. The SAFE agent
dropped like a sack of bricks, and the customers began to applaud—two
even gave wolf-whistles.
“That’ll teach you for trying to rob my boy-friends!” the girl shouted,
and she winked at Victor and Phil before lowering her voice to a
whisper. “Time to run, boys.”
“WHAT THE HELL?” hissed Phil—and then he saw Victor cradle his face in both hands.
“Phil Sheridan, meet Nicky Kirkland—of the Magistracy Intelligence Ministry.”
“MIM? Oh could this cluster-fuck get any worse?” moaned Phil.
A siren sounded outside and flashing blue and red lights began to dance off of the glass.
“You had to ask?” said Victor.
“There’s an exit in the rear,” Nicky said.
“I’ll bet there’s an entrance too,” Phil muttered, drawing a harsh glare
from the Magistracy agent as the three of them left the Marik spy
unconscious on the floor and headed into the backroom.
“HEY! YOU HAVE TO PAY FOR THAT!” the clerk shouted. Phil threw a wad
of 20-Bull notes into the air in answer—and the crowded store erupted as
people started to grab money.
The fire-door opened to an alley way—and a spot-light illuminated the faces of the three agents.
“HALT! SAMANTHA CITY PD—HANDS IN THE AIR!” a voice amplified by a loud-speaker called out.
“Well isn’t this lovely?” asked Phil—and then five gun-shots rang out
and the spotlight died away, leaving two officers bleeding out on the
ground next to their car.
Phil, Victor, and Nicky drew their weapons—but none of them fired as a
fourth man exited the shadows. “I’d advise you to run; they’ve got your
faces on video,” the stranger said, lowering his hood.
“Oh the shit has hit the fan,” muttered Phil. “ROM. Victor, Nicky, meet Adept Robert West—what the hell did you shoot them for?”
The ROM agent smiled. “Because they have your pictures—not mine. And while they are chasing you, they aren’t chasing me.
But I do believe,” he said stepping back into the shadows and into a
doorway set in the wall of the alley, “their fellow officers are rushing
through the store to get back here to the sound of those shots.” He
then closed the door and locked it. “Good night and good luck,” Phil
faintly heard after the lock clicked.
“Suggestions?” he asked.
“Running sounds good,” replied Victor as he put his words into action.
“Yeah, don’t have to outrun the local cops, FedRat,” Nicky said as she took off, “just have to outrun you.”
Damn it all, Phil thought as he too began to run into the night—and I still didn’t get any food!
"I've always wanted to be somebody, but I should have been more specific." - George Carlin