Ron Goulart - Suicide, Inc

“Mom, listen, they sent me out here by mistake,” protested Willow. “The computer fouled up the orders and if you hadn’t insisted that we-”

“You have to grab opportunities when they-”

“Who the heck-I mean honestly, Mom-wants the opportunity to get his backside shot off?”

“There’s no need to talk dirty. Besides, you’re going to be inside this nice safe van with thick armor.” Reaching out, she thunked the side of the TWN vehicle with her calico fist. “Safe as houses, sonny.”

“What I usually do, Mom, for the Trinidad Wallview News outfit is help run the fundraising auctions for our educational channel,” protested the furry broadcaster. “‘Folks, here we have a lovely pair of Venusian antimacassars. Remember that your bids and pledges help bring you the great programming such as tonight’s marvelous old tri-op flick I Slept With A Watermelon, starring-’”

“Are you really content to do that for the rest of your life?”

Willow nodded vehemently. “I surely am, Mom, you bet,” he answered. “It’s a darn lot better than being maimed by some crackbrained religious zealots who…”

Cruz and Smith moved around the bickering mother and son team, heading for the open doorway of the big gunmetal landvan.

From inside came a sudden groan and curse.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Merloo. I thought that was your plaz foot I stepped on.”

“Right’s plaz, left’s still real, bimbo.”

“Sorry,” apologized a sweet feminine voice.

Cruz and Smith climbed up into the van.

A one-eyed lizardman in a two-piece paramilitary cazsuit was hopping on one foot in front of a robotcamera. A slim blonde young woman, carrying a small portable voxunit, was watching.

“What the futz do you want, greaseball?” the lizard-man asked Cruz.

Cruz smiled cordially. “It’s a pleasure meeting a famed war correspondent like you.”

“Obviously it is,” agreed Merloo, his visible eye narrowing. “But that doesn’t explain why you and that skinny gink have come barging into my van, does it now?”

“Balls Merloo,” said Smith, feigning awe, “my boyhood idol.”

The blonde was making anxious shooing motions at them. “Shoo, shoo,” she mouthed. “Flee.”

“We’re hitching a ride,” explained Cruz.

“In a grout’s valise,” said Balls Merloo, adjusting his plaid eyepatch with his plaz left hand.

“Dread,” murmured the blonde, hugging the voxunit tightly to her chest. “He’s going to erupt.”

“The situation is this,” said Smith, grinning. “We have to get to the Oasis and you’re just about the only available means of transport.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, you’re wrong there, buster,” Merloo informed him. “Because I’m going to summon two big vicious goons on my staff and have them kick your skinny ass all the way there.”

“Horrors,” said the shivering young woman.

“Tell you what,” the one-eyed newsman said to Cruz. “I have a sweet and kindly side to me. So I’m going to count all the way up to five before I knock you on your flabby keister. One-”

“Wait now.” Cruz held out his metal hand toward the correspondent. “You really ought to take a gander at this, since you have a fake arm yourself.”

“I’m in no flapping mood to admire some halfassed crip’s prosthetic-”

Zzzzzzzummmmmm!

The thin stunbeam had come humming out of Cruz’ middle finger to hit the lizardman smack in the chest.

Balls Merloo dropped right down to the van floor, his various artificial portions producing assorted clicks, clangs and thunks.

“Calamity,” said the blonde, still shaking.

Smith moved to the doorway, caught the handle of the open door. “Good news, Norbert,” he called out before tugging it shut. “You won’t have to go, after all.”

“Would it be all right if I were to introduce myself?” asked the blonde timidly as the newsvan went barreling along across the desert. “Since we seem to be sharing all this adversity together.”

Cruz was driving the borrowed vehicle. “Forgive our rudeness, fair lady,” he said. “I’m Cruz.”

“Jared Smith.” He’d just finished dragging Merloo’s unconscious body behind a tape-editing unit.

“I’m Jazz Miller,” she said, finally setting the vox-unit aside. “Kind of a dippy name, isn’t it?”

“On the contrary,” said Cruz. “It has a nice lilt to it.”

Jazz shrugged. “It’s always struck me as an unfortunate handle.”

“Change it,” advised Smith as he took the passenger seat next to Cruz.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t ever do that. Daddy would hate that. That’d produce a real misfortune,” she said. “He’s miffed enough as it is because of my chosen profession.”

Smith asked, “Which is?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you, did I? I’m an associate newscaster. Thus far that’s involved mostly schlepping equipment and avoiding Mr. Merloo’s passes.”

“Would you like to cover the conflict at the Oasis?” said Smith.

She pressed her hands to her stomach. “I…I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“Sure you are,” said Cruz.

“Merloo’s unable to function,” Smith pointed out. “You have to step in.”

Cruz added, “It’s the brink of the big time.”

“Actually,” she said, slowly and thoughtfully, “I do know a heck of a lot more about the local political situation than Mr. Merloo does. I was saying to my old Poli Sci prof, Doctor Winiarsky, just last week-”

“Hey, would that be Bryson Winiarsky?” cut in Smith.

“Yes, do you know him or…oh, rack and ruin. I wasn’t supposed to blab about him.”

“He’s on our list,” realized Cruz.

“Yep, and supposedly vanished.”

“He’s only just hiding out,” said Jazz. “Because he got the notion certain people mean him no good. He and I are rather close, which is why I-”

“People do mean him harm,” said Smith. “But I think we can prevent his getting knocked off or even seriously hurt.”

She studied him. “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, Mr. Smith,” she said. “But your face doesn’t exactly inspire faith and confidence in me.”

“He’s trustworthy,” said Cruz.

“You I can believe in, Mr. Cruz. Therefore, I suppose if you vouch for him, then-”

An enormous explosion sounded outside, and the van shook and wobbled.

“Let’s save the character reference stuff,” said Smith. “We’ve arrived at our destination.”

“…the scene here is one of mishap and calamity. The once proud and palatial resort that bloomed here amidst the harsh starkness of the mighty Red Desert, in the very shadow, as it were, of the planet-renowned Shrine, now stretches out before our unbelieving eyes, smoking ruin. Dedicated Qatzir Militiamen are locked in mortal combat with equally dedicated Mizayen Commandos amidst the pathetic pile that was once the majestic Oasis Dinner Theater and…”

From a weaponproof glaz booth up in the domed roof of the parked newsvan, Jazz was describing the battle going on in front of them. A robot camera was prowling outside, circling the fighting.

Smith was crouched, lifting a round panel in the van floor.

“You’ve still got to cover maybe ten yards in the open out there,” said Cruz.

“But not where they’re fighting.”

“The way these exuberant lads do battle, a stray shot from a kilrifle might-”

“The trapdoor to the underground hideaway ought to be directly beyond that hunk of wall yonder,” said Smith. “I’ll drop out, scoot over there and get below to Ruiz.”

“May well be that everybody in that underground nook is dead and done for, old chum.”