Angry Jasper-Twenty

Jazz came in high and fast over Chicago just as the sun was setting. After more than three centuries of war the city lay in ruins. Shadows pooled deep and dark among overlapping foundations and massive craters, concealing untold dangers. Once majestic skyscrapers were now great heaps of twisted steel beams and concrete. They overlapped, erasing boulevards and wide avenues whose bustling traffic long ago ceased. The millions that called the city home were gone as well. Scattered groups of loners, refugees and survivors huddled among the ruins, not daring to venture into the open in the light of day for fear of being targeting by Corporation ships. Those ships arrived periodically to pummel the city, like a frustrated gardener flailing madly at an anthill. Corporation ships kept a judicious distance by necessity, playing a deadly cat and mouse game with rebel gunners hidden throughout the city. The reasons for keeping a prudent distance was the wreckage of dozens of Corporation ships crashed among the ruins.

For the time being the skies were empty of Corporation ships. Jazz wasn’t into pushing his luck. He overshot the city, coming about over what was once the sprwaling suburb of Skokie and dropped hard and fast into the dry gully of the Chicago River’s North branch. The basin was far too narrow for Corporation ships, and cruising at what any sane pilot would describe as a treacherous speed Jazz wasn’t terribly worried about Rebel guns. Still, he had little doubt he was being observed from the ruins clustered to either bank.

Kate intruded on his thoughts once more. He would have preferred to see her one last time before leaving the wheel. Wasn’t that he had any particular sense that things would turn out bad. It was just that he was getting to the age where regrets carried a whole lot more weight.

An alarm told him the weapons array was down again. He'd meant to get it fixrd before leaving the wheel, but there was just no time. Jazz figured there was a short somewhere in the system. The array screen switch off and on unpredictably. A tap of his finger failed to get it going again so Jazz banged the console with his foot until the dull green readings came to life. The array was up and active. Should anyone fire an ARP or laser his way the array would deflect or absorb the round. But as Jazz swung the ship back and forth through and beneath collapsed bridge spans there was one thing he wasn’t prepared for.

Rebel defenders were waiting for Jazz as he rounded the last big bend in the river bed. Another few seconds and he would have been out over the old Lake Michigan Basin. He had hoped to set down there among the dunes and ancient shipwrecks where he would not be seen so easily. But just as he ducked beneath the rusty wreckage of the old La Salle Street Bridge a huge net shot from the south bank. Jazz shouted with surprise. There was no time to react.

The net enveloped the ship and brought it to a bone-jarring stop. If not for the safety harnesses jazz would have been slammed forward into the instrument panel, and seriously injured or worse. As it was the sudden stop nearly knocked him unconscious. He was helpless as the engines stalled with a mournful wail. In their dying gasp the engines surged briefly pitching the bow skywards, incinerating a rebel fighter that had rushed into the riverbed a bit prematurely.

For that heart stopping moment before the engines quit altogether Jazz almost believed the ship would tear through the net, but it held fast, turning the ship over. At that Jazz was looking up at the ground as he tumbled towards it. Figuring he was about to be smashed like a bug Jazz said the only thing that seemed fitting at the moment.

“Should have taken Doc Redhorse's advice!”

Just as suddenly the ship flipped back and landed on its belly with a horrendous bang. Jazz was tossed and thrown violently in the seat, the air forced from his lungs as if two great hands had slapped together with Jazz in the middle. The bow of the ship buried itself deep in the riverbed. It bounced once and came to a stop at last in a cloud of dust and smoke.

The impact had literally thrown Jazz from his seat. He lay for a moment on the floor behind his seat amid all sorts of trash and gear spilled from storage bins and lockers. Only several pressure tight compartments held fast. Somewhere in all that mess was his ARP-21. Jazz felt around in the trash for it, mumbling to himself.

“If I can’t fly outta here, by golly, I’ll shoot my way…

He was still fumbling for the weapon when three rebel soldiers appeared above him. Their weapons were old model ARP-7 assault rifles. They were bulky and not half as powerful as his ARP-21, but for the fact that they had theirs already. Jazz swore, threw up his arms and conceded defeat.

Their dress reminded Jazz of ancient Saharan Bedouins. They were wrapped in rags that covered every part of their bodies. Dark goggles were pulled tight over their eyes. They were young men, he noticed by the gap in the shrouds covering their faces. The tattered state of their clothing only underscored the precarious nature of the rebellion. Jazz thought it was a lost cause. The planet had been stripped bare and was now all but lifeless. These poor folks were clinging to the memory of what once was. They clung to the belief that the planet could be restored, but those days were long gone. Mankind had turned to the planets, and would one day travel to the stars and beyond. The Earth would become a distant memory, and in time completely forgotten as its future generations struck out into the universe. Yeah, it was definitely a lost cause, Jazz thought, but then, at the moment, so was he.

He swore under his breath and opened the canopy with a dopey grin, as if to convince them this was all one huge misunderstanding. It opened suddenly, nearly flipping one of the rebels off the ship. Jazz shook his head and frowned at the dope. The other two hauled him up and out of the ship. They patted him down quickly, confiscating his credit pod and a pack of cigarettes in his pocket.

“Hey!” he complained. “Can’t steal a guy’s smokes.”

“Shut up,” one of them said, turning him around a little roughly.

There was an odd moment when everyone just sort of stared at one another. He swore again, this time a curse for not walking away from Madame  when he had the chance. All the credits in the solar system wasn’t worth getting killed.
“No reason we all need to get off on a bad foot,” he said, hoping it might buy him a little consideration. After all, he wasn’t their enemy. Truth be told, Jazz didn’t give a rat’s ass about the rebellion, or the Corporation for that matter.

“Who are you?’ said one of the young fighters.

“Name’s Jasper, Angry Jasper.”

“What’s the angry for?”

“Nothin’,” he replied. “I’m just naturally pissy. Hope you boys won’t take offense.”

“You’re a Corporation spy,” one of the others accused.

Jazz laughed. “Hardly.”

“No matter. You’re our prisoner now.”

“That’s a little harsh,” said Jazz. “What do you say we make a dea…”

Before Jazz could finish the sentence he took a rifle butt to the jaw. Could have been a lot worse. The guy had checked the shot a bit at the last second. Still, it was enough to drop Jazz to the deck. He was shaking it off when he was hauled up to his knees and his head pushed forward. The muzzle of a rebel ARP pressed to the back of his head. That was the first time he felt sure this wouldn’t turn out good. He was made to clasp his hands tightly behind his head. A cold shiver ran down his spine, half expecting to be executed as a spy right there and then. Instead a hood was slipped over his head. With that he was led away

Jazz had the impression of being led through long passage ways, of scrambling across mounds of broken debris and through the blasted remains of structures. They would pause at open places and wide boulevards. All the while Jazz was aware of the warm sun on his face, giving him the vaguest impression which direction they were headed.

After perhaps a half hour or so they came to a place beneath the toppled exspance of an expressway. Jazz could smell wood smoke and meat being cooked. He heard voices from the shadows. Someone came up and poked him hard in the side with a stick, catching him just below his still mending ribs. Jazz cried out and toppled back onto the hard ground. Looking down through the hood he could make out an old woman swinging a stick wildly as one of the rebels tried holding her back. She spit at Jazz, landing a nasty one right on his crotch.

“Corporate pig!” she crowed. “I'll cut his throat and eat his heart!”

“Relax, grandma of the world!” jazz blacked a swipe of the stick with his boot. “Hard to believe you aren't taken.”

“Scum!”

“I ain't on nobody's side,” he said.

“Even worse!”

The rest of her rat-like clan came forward now, whipped up by her hysteria. It was all the rebels could do to retreat quickly, taking their chances in the open with the Corporation ships, chased by a hail of stocks and stones. They were half way across when a Corporation ship appeared overhead. Someone yanked the hood off Jazz' head to reveal a long straight avenue. Collapse roadways and crumbling entrance ramps curved away to desolation, seeming even more so in the waning light. From a small mound of debris a faded green rectangular sigh read:

EISENHOWER EXPRESSWAY
FULLERTON AVENUE
NEXT RIGHT

Beneath it another smaller neon orange sign read:
CONSTRUCTION AHEAD
REDUCE SPEED