Republic of Singapore
It was just after 3:00 AM on the Malaysian Peninsula. While most of the region slept, Mason Fowlkes was picking up a Zirna Zapha operator named Mickey Sloane outside Holland Village, a Dutch community and former British enclave on south central Singapore island.
From there, they flew a short distance to Geylang, a red-light district, which had yet to slumber.
Streets were moderately busy. Mason parked ABL Sthiti Osadhi at two hundred meters altitude, nose down so they could watch the action without tweaking the wraparound cockpit display.
Mickey brought donuts. “Do you like crullers?”
“I’ll take one.” Mason checked the pilot’s junk bin. “Darn.”
“Are you looking for a coffee cup?” Mickey showed him the bottom of his thermos. “This thing comes with two.”
“Great.” Mason checked a tactical map. Fighting drones were poised. “We pulled this together in a hurry, so I have no idea how it’s going to play.”
“Have you ever done anything like this before?”
“Heck, no. I’m a space mechanic by trade. It’s a comedy of circumstances that I’m here.”
“What clan are you associated with?”
Mason coughed. “Brahmarsi.”
“Figures.” Mickey shook his head. “What’s your last name?”
“Fowlkes, but I’m not in the family business.”
“You mean the media business.”
“Right. I don’t work for my parents.”
Mickey cracked a smile. “Right. You’re doing something important, instead.”
They watched the sky. A passenger jet glided toward Changi International Airport. A helicopter flew north over Palau Tekong.
Mickey said, “What kind of boat is this?”
“Battle launch. Sthiti Osadhi means ‘Remedy for Inertia’.”
“Good name for a band.” Mickey listened to a voice in his ear. “Your shooting gear just now blinked inside the clubhouse.”
There was nothing to see on the street except a dingy door facing a clean sidewalk. An audio feed from a fighting drone rattled with the percussive sound of small arms fire.
Mickey said, “I hope the enemy doesn’t put holes in your equipment.”
Mason replied, “Not likely. I selected third generation and newer.”
Banger the size-two maroli appeared on the scene wielding an ordinary police-issue breaching ram. The door split in half. Banger went in.
Mickey yawned. “So far, so good.”
Seconds ticked by. Banger came out of the clubhouse towing a column of shrink-wrapped pallets. Chester Wright (the warehouse-store-shopping size-one maroli) shooed off a gaggle of prostitutes.
Phone cameras flashed. A spectator posed with Banger and the cash. Chester photobombed the shot, tentacles straight up.
A policeman entered the house. When he returned, Chester handed over a shopping bag, ‘condolences for families of the deceased.’
Sunrise was two hours away. Mickey said, “Time to pay the Tiger gang a visit.”