Inchon 2064

The Old Order of the 20th Century lingered on life-support into the middle of the 21st Century until its model of economic inequality finally collapsed from its own inequities. The Greatest Depression followed when nation-states fought again for control of dwindling resources. The miraculous cornucopia machine built over a millennium had broken beyond repair leaving meager rations for an anxious and depressed generation at the brink of total war.

Stambaugh was locked into the firing chamber of an automatic rifle from which he could never escape. Stambaugh's mother died on Christmas Eve because of an oxycontin overdose. He was ten years old. His father was an alcoholic and ignored his son except for providing for primal needs such as food, shelter, and clothing. Even then, Stambaugh's father failed, and the young boy survived on the streets of his remnant city. Stambaugh was troubled and searching for a way to save himself from himself. 

He was a compact young man. Stambaugh's strength was average. His height is nothing remarkable. His physical stature lent itself to quick, powerful moves, and punches that broke jawbones. Stambaugh wasn't a bully, but he defended himself. He was neighborhood tough and took punches without whimpering. Stambaugh lived within the boundaries of zero-person land where law enforcement controlled syndriod-security squads from behind rebar and concrete. Stambaugh had grown up faster than his father downed a fifth of genetically modified whiskey. He was all youth and no wisdom.   

"You can jumper a Barracuda?" Stambaugh asked.

"Yes I can," Wilson Smith replied.

"I know where one is." Stambaugh pointed at the end of the block and then wiped the sweat from his brow. The temperature remained in the nineties even at three o'clock in the morning.

"Where's the Barracuda?" Wilson Smith asked. Smith was a trade-school buddy. 

"Oakland Avenue across from Mickey's Tavern."

"Mickey's? Isn't that where your dad worked?" Wilson Smith asked.

"Yup," Stambaugh said. "Over there! Look!"

"The fastest dynamo on the planet," Wilson Smith said.

"Are you ready?" Stambaugh asked.

"I don't know." Smith's confidence drained into the warm concrete.

"We won't get caught," Stambaugh said. "I've got this covered."

"Sure," Wilson Smith said. The tavern door opened, and a woman stepped out into the street.

"Hey! What are you doing?" shouted Jane Prindle.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing," Stambaugh shouted back.

"Time for me to split." Smith waved and then exited into the folds of the night. 

"Chicken shit!" Stambaugh was alone inside the claustrophobic, yellowish tinge of the mercury-vapor street lamp. The red Barracuda taunted him. 

"You weren't trying to steal my car?" Prindle asked. 

She stood flagpole straight just a few meters in front of Stambaugh. Prindle's muscles tightened as she readied to strike. She'd grown tired of teenage thieves like Stambaugh always looking to steal her Barracuda. She'd earned it with her promotion to master sergeant. She was a door gunner attached to the 1st Air Cavalry.  

"No," Stambaugh said. He lied. Stambaugh's lie was natural as breathing air. What stunned Stambaugh the most was a sudden feeling of attraction for the woman standing before him. Prindle terrified and excited him. 

"Bullshit," Prindle said. "Too many of your ilk have tried." She stepped into Stambaugh's space. 

"Okay! I lied. So what," Bobby Stambaugh said. He shrugged his shoulders and kicked at the sidewalk.