6.q.
Commander
Credit removed the section of cubicle wall.
Immediately beyond was a corridor, but it was unlike all the previous
hallways. The light was dim. After-hours
dim, like an office at midnight . There
was the occasional fluorescent bulb which cast its dull grey light. Many of these sputtering, giving off a
nervous flicker in the murky space.
The Union
crept down the hallway, instinctively huddling close to Commander Credit and
the greed-gun assurances of where the danger lay.
The commander
froze.
He pivoted
slightly and craned his ear at an odd angle. After a moment he lunged forward,
grabbed a section of cubicle wall, and yanked it free. A small, runty man
hissed at them, his body pulled into a tense ball as he crouched in an
undersized recess.
There was a
collective intake of breath from the Union .
“Jesus! What kind of freaky–” Business Woman started.
Before she
could finish, the runty man sprang from his perch, snarling and swinging like a
rabid baboon. Several blows drum-rolled
over various parts of Franklin Buck’s body, but before an “ouch” or a “hey” or
even a doubled up grunt could be muttered, The Outsourcer had bounded away,
landing on Demand’s shoulders, smacking and head-butting, then vaulting toward
Senior Executive.
Commander
Credit grabbed The Outsourcer by the scruff of the neck and was promptly dealt
several slapping kicks to the face for the effort. The Commander lost his grip and The
Outsourcer hit the ground, handspring up and immediately cuffed Senior
Executive across the temple. He made a
quick succession of twirling flips, growled, and disappeared into a hidden
cubicle panel further down the corridor.
Corporate Man
raced to the panel but when he opened it he found no tunnel, just a section of
carpeted wall.
“What the hell
was that?” Franklin Buck yelled his hands seeking injuries to sooth but unable
to decide between the multiple options.
“Mr.
Outsource,” Corporate Man said.
“Not these
days,” said Senior Executive. “Insists
on being called The Outsourcer.”
“Well whatever
he calls himself, he’s still a pain in the ass,” said Business Woman.
“He’s right
here,” said Commander Credit. He was
standing at the opposite wall, about twenty yards down the corridor. The final light on the greed-gun blinking
red. He tore the carpeted paneling away
and held up his cybernetic arm. A series
of blinding flashes sparked from the end of his hand in a strobe of bug-zapper
clicks.
There was s
squealing, hissing sound.
Commander
Credit shoved his hand into the hidden tunnel space, pulled out The Outsourcer,
and slammed the runty man into the adjacent wall. The Outsourcer made a chocked
sound, like a cat working up a hairball, and then groaned. Commander Credit brought his knee up while
thrusting The Outsourcer down. The
resulting collision caused a thick whitish spray to come spitting our of the
runty man’s thinly mustached lips.
“There’s your
little weasel,” Commander Credit said, tossing The Outsourcer down the
corridor, toward the Union . The runty man rolled, arms flailing, to a
stop at Corporate Man’s feet.
Corporate Man
grabbed The Outsourcer by the hair and yanked his head up so they were face to
face. A slightly startled, more than a
bit concerned, look pinched Corporate Man’s face.
“This isn’t
him,” he said.
“Looks just
like him,” said Senior Executive.
“Except this
guy’s Mexican,” Business Woman said, pointing to the bleeding man Corporate Man
held.
“So,” said
Franklin Buck.
“The
Outsourcer’s a white guy,” she said.
“Who are you?”
Corporate Man asked the man who was not The Outsourcer. “What are you doing here?”
“Working. Just working,” said the outsourcerish man.
“For whom?”
said Senior Executive.
“Don’t
know. They pay me. Ask for me to look like him. Is all I know,” he said.
“Seriously?”
said Senior Executive. “Am I
understanding this correctly? The
Outsourcer outsourced his own job to Mexico ?”