Lawmen- Rook and Berenger

by Matthew Kadish

  The woman frowned as she looked Deckland up and down, as if trying to decide whether or not she should assist him. Finally, she jerked her head toward the back of the room to an area draped in shadow. “He’s over in his booth,” she replied. “Take care in waking him, though. He ain’t much of a morning person.”

  “It’s two in the afternoon,” Deckland stated.

  The woman nodded. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that distinction,” she muttered before going back to cleaning glasses.

  Deckland moved to the area the barmaid had indicated. As he got closer, he could see legs splayed out from one of the booth’s benches. The legs were bare and exposed, leading to feet clad in worn frontiersman boots. A duster longcoat was wrapped around the man there, acting like a blanket, and a widebrim hat was covering the man’s eyes. The only facial feature visible was a slightly opened mouth that was framed by an archstache that traveled from above the man’s lip and down the sides of his mouth to his chin. The archstache was big, bushy, and copper-hued, a color that matched the three-day-old stubble on the rest of the man’s face and neck. Deckland sighed and cleared his throat.

  “Ranger Berenger?” he asked.

  The only response he got was snoring.

  “Ranger Berenger?” he asked again.

  More snoring.

  Deckland frowned. He took out his datapad and called up the image of Berenger on it once more. He glanced from the slightly pixelated profile image to the man before him but couldn’t tell if it were the same person or not.

  A loud snore rumbled from the man before he smacked his lips and began snoring softly once more. Deckland grimaced but quietly approached him. He leaned on the booth’s table and slowly reached toward the man’s hat, so he could move it away in order to verify if it were, indeed, Ranger Berenger.

  He never even got to touch the hat before he felt the barrel of a weapon extend from beneath the longcoat the man was under and fire.

  The blast hit him square in the chest, sending him flying backward a good eight feet before slamming into the floor by the bar. Deckland couldn’t even gasp, the force of whatever had hit him knocking the wind from him. He clutched his chest and struggled to breathe, the room spinning around him in a daze.

  Before he knew it, the man from the booth was towering over him, a large blunderbuss-looking hand cannon aimed down at him. The man’s face was stern, and beneath the widebrim hat was a bionic optical implant that glowed red as it targeted Deckland. The other eye was dark brown and gazed at him intensely. But despite Deckland’s precarious position, he might have been more intimidated if the man had not been nearly completely naked, except for his longcoat, boots, and a pair of dirty boxer shorts.

  “State yer business,” the man said, his voice gravelly and authoritative, despite having a Frontier twang to it.

  Deckland tried to respond, but he still hadn’t recovered from being shot and found he couldn’t form a coherent sentence as he gasped for air.

  “You here for debt collection or revenge?” the man asked. “Speak up, kid, I only gave ya a love tap.”

  Deckland could only wheeze before the woman at the bar leaned toward them. “Relax, Berenger,” she said. “He’s from work.”

  “Work?”

  “Yeah, you know… that thing you do sometimes?”

  The light in Berenger’s bionic eye dimmed as he cautiously lowered his weapon, looking down at Deckland curiously. “He can’t be from work,” Berenger grumbled. “He’s barely old enough to shave. Let alone the fact that he’s got the stink of the core worlds all over him.”

  Deckland clutched at his chest and tried to speak. “Part… part…”

  “What’s that now?” Berenger asked.

  “Partner!” Deckland grunted. “I’m your… new… partner!”

  Berenger laid his blunderbuss across his shoulder and gave Deckland a reproachful look. “Now I know you’re full of bova spunk,” he said. “Cornwallace knows I work alone.”

  “I don’t know, Berenger,” the woman said. “He has a fancy badge and everything.”

  Deckland pointed toward his datapad on the ground where he’d dropped it by the booth. “Assigned… yesterday…” he wheezed, his chest feeling as though it were on fire. “On orders… of Chief… Ormosa…”

  Berenger picked up the datapad and looked at it, his file and the assignment orders on its screen. He frowned and tossed the datapad aside. “Figures,” he muttered. “Leave it to the IIA to ruin a good thing.” He looked down at Deckland with a reluctant gaze. “Well?” he asked, gesturing to his booth. “You gonna lay on the floor all day or you gonna join me?”

  “You… shot me!” sneered Deckland.

  “Yeah. With a repulsor cannon,” replied Berenger, as though his having shot Deckland was no big deal as he waved his blunderbuss around. “A non-lethal blast of repulsor particles never hurt nobody – not seriously, anyway. I’ve had hangovers that hit harder than this thing. Now man-up, Rookie. If we’re gonna be partnered together, you’re gonna have to show you got more hair on your stones than this.”

  Berenger turned and plopped himself back down in his booth as Deckland struggled to sit up, his chest still hurting something fierce from the blow he’d received. Berenger sighed, looking tired, before he shouted: “MOXI!”

  “What ya want, sugar?” the woman behind the bar asked.

  “Tonic!”

  “Comin’ right up.”

  Berenger burped in a way that suggested he had almost thrown up and rubbed his temples, the intensity of his gun-toting gaze giving way to the miserable look of a hangover. He hunched over, elbows on his knees, his eyes closed. That was when Deckland noticed that one of Berenger’s hands was fully bionic.

  Deckland grunted and crawled to the bar, pulling himself to his feet. When he succeeded in doing so, he came face-to-face with Moxi who was fixing some type of concoction as she smiled at Deckland with an amused look.

  “I tried to warn ya, Hun,” she said. “He ain’t a morning person.”

  Deckland scowled at Moxi and gritted his teeth before turning and approaching Berenger’s booth once more. He nursed his chest as he did so, looking around to notice that none of the other boozskeller patrons seemed the least bit alarmed or interested as to what had just occurred. Deckland took a moment to bend over and pick up his datapad before sliding into the booth opposite Berenger, giving him a poisonous stare the entire time. Berenger turned his head and looked at Deckland with his good eye.

  “What are you so upset about?” Berenger asked.

  “You shot me,” reiterated Deckland.

  “Rook, you gotta learn – never sneak up on a sleeping man out here in the Frontier. If I weren’t an officer of the law, you could have very well gotten yourself killed.”

  “My name is Deckland. Deckland Prescott. And I wasn’t sneaking up on you.”

  “Then what were ya doing?”

  “I was trying to verify your identity,” Deckland grumbled, “because I simply couldn’t believe that you were really the legendary Braxxon Berenger I’ve been hearing so much about.”

  “Legendary, eh?” drawled Berenger. “I don’t know who you been talkin’ to, kid, but the only thing I’m legendary for is bein’ able to stomach this joint’s hot pea chili and, in some circles, the size of my jimmies. Moxi! Where’s my tonic?”

  “Comin’ right up!”

  “That’s not what I’ve been told,” Deckland said. “Both Chief Ormosa and Director Kerpatrick spoke very highly of you. And the information in your personnel file seems to back that up.”

  Berenger sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Okay, fine, I’m a legend. Whatever. But why, pray tell, could you not believe it was me here sleeping?”

  “Well, for starters… I didn’t think a man with your type of credentials would be passed out naked at two in the afternoon on a work day in some hole-in-the-wall dive like this place.”

  “Naked?” Berenger asked. “What are you…”

  B
erenger trailed off as he looked down and seemed to notice for the first time he was missing his pants.

  “Squick on me…” he grumbled before shouting, “Moxi! Why am I indecent?”

  “A product of upbringing, I suppose,” Moxi replied.

  “Y’know what I mean, woman. Where are my dang pants?”

  “Same place I imagine your dang shirt is.”

  Berenger looked down to see he was missing his shirt, as well. “Blast it!” he swore. “I liked that shirt!”

  Now it was Deckland’s turn to massage his temples. “This can’t be for real…” he muttered to himself.

  “There a problem, Rook?” asked Berenger.

  “Name’s Deckland. And the problem is that one of the IIS’s most decorated – and supposedly best – investigators can’t figure out what happened to his own clothes.”

  “Well, finding missing clothes is under the purview of the fashion police, not a highly trained and decorated investigator such as myself,” Berenger replied with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Moxi!”

  Moxi slammed a glass of foul-smelling liquid with the consistency of snot on the table in front of Berenger. “Tonic,” she said.

  “Finally,” Berenger muttered as he grabbed the drink and began chugging it. Deckland watched in disgust as the thick yellow liquid from the glass dribbled out the side of Berenger’s mouth and dripped along his archstache and down the man’s neck.

  Berenger eventually swallowed the last drop of the concoction and gave a pleasant sigh before belching loudly. His good eye widened, and he gave his head a vigorous shake before handing the empty glass back to Moxi.

  “Better?” she asked.

  Berenger nodded. “That’s one headache gone,” he muttered before tilting his head toward Deckland. “Got anything for this one?”

  “Sorry, Hun. Don’t have a tonic for that.”

  “Story of my life,” Berenger muttered before looking at Deckland once more. He eyed Deckland with a hint of curiosity that lasted only briefly before he leaned back in his booth. “Are you even old enough to be a Ranger?” he asked. “You look like ya ain’t even hit puberty yet.”

  “I can assure you, I’ve hit what I’ve needed to,” Deckland responded, dryly. “I shave and everything.”

  “Yeah, you core worlders and your babyfaces,” said Berenger with a smile as he rubbed the stubble on his neck. “Take my advice. You’re going to want to grow a moustache or something.”

  “And why would I want to do that?”

  “Other than making you look like you’re out of pre-school? Out here in the Frontier we like our facial hair. It’ll help you fit in.”

  “Regulations require Imperial Agents to remain clean shaven while on active duty.”

  “I’m aware of departmental grooming standards, son. But if you’re going to be working out here, you need to accept that Frontier folk do things differently.”

  “It’s been my understanding that the whole reason for the Galactic Rangers was so that the Frontier folk can start doing things like everyone else does.”

  Berenger chuckled at that. “Well, then, it would seem one of us doesn’t understand anything.”

  “It would seem so,” Deckland agreed. “Now, do you have any more helpful advice you wish to lecture me on, Ranger Berenger? Or can we officially get started on our new assignment?”

  Berenger sighed before nodding reluctantly. “Fine,” he said as he stood up. “But if we’re doing things official-like, you and I should probably do so in my actual office.”

  “About time,” Deckland muttered as he climbed out of the booth and followed Berenger as the man made his way outside.

  Berenger briefly recoiled from the bright light of day when he exited the boozskeller. He quickly snorted and hocked a gob of spit into the dirt. “I can’t help but feel you and I got off on the wrong foot, Rook,” Berenger said as he stepped over the passed out Karkovian at the base of the My Office porch.

  “That tends to happen when you shoot somebody on the first meeting,” grumbled Deckland.

  “Well, I’m sorry for shooting ya. But, in my defense, I’m not much of a morning person.”

  “It’s two in the afternoon!”

  “Well, I’m sure it’s morning somewhere,” Berenger said as he began making his way to the side of the building.

  Deckland gave Berenger a curious look. “Where are you going?”

  “To my office. The other one.”

  “The teleporter to HQ is this way,” Deckland said, pointing down the road.

  “HQ?” Berenger said with a chuckle. “I ain’t goin’ there.”

  “But you said we were going to your actual office.”

  “We are,” Berenger stated as he began approaching the derelict spaceship next door to the boozskeller.

  Then, Deckland heard a screeching groan as the rear loading ramp of the vessel began to lower. Deckland looked at the ship, amazed anything on it actually still worked as the ramp lowered. Berenger made his way halfway up the ramp before turning and looking at Deckland expectantly.

  “Well?” he asked. “You coming?”

  “This… this ship actually works?”

  “Of course, it works!” Berenger said, sounding a little insulted. “What? You think someone would just abandon a perfectly good ship next to Landfall’s best darn boozskeller?”

  “Perfectly good?” replied Deckland, aghast. “This ship’s undercarriage is rusted and full of dents, its hull looks like it’s been cobbled together from salvaged sheet metal, and I’m fairly certain a ship’s wings aren’t supposed to be titled at those angles.”

  “The Leadbelly just has lots of personality; that’s all,” Berenger said. “Now, you comin’ on board or you gonna stand there slack-jawed all day?”

  Berenger didn’t wait for a response as he moved inside the ship. Deckland could do nothing else but shake his head in consternation and follow.

  Chapter 5

  The rear hold of The Leadbelly was a complete mess, filled with clutter, salvage, cargo containers, and exposed pipes and wiring. Deckland entered, looking around the disheveled bay in abject disbelief at how messy it was as Berenger kicked aside trash, spare parts, and debris while making his way through the disaster zone.

  “How old is this thing?” asked Deckland as he regarded the interior’s rusted and mismatched walls with concern.

  “The Leadbelly? She’s what we around here like to call a ‘classic’.”

  “An ‘antique’ would be more appropriate,” muttered Deckland. “I don’t even recognize its classification.”

  “She’s a Mustag IV class corvette.”

  “A Mustag?” said Deckland with surprise. “I thought those were discontinued before the Hyperspace War!”

  “They were.”

  “And yet, you’re flying one?”

  “Yep.”

  “You do realize that the Ranger Initiative gives ships to their agents, don’t you?” Deckland said. “New ones. State-of-the-art.”

  “State-of-the-art is a fancy way of saying ‘deathtrap’ in my book, at least when it comes to spaceships,” Berenger replied. “I know The Leadbelly don’t look like much, but trust me, she’s earned her spurs. Out here in the Frontier you’re flying in and out of all types of atmospheres and gravities and often landing places no ship is ever meant to land. You not only need a ship that can reliably operate in any situation and environment, but one that can survive a crash or two, as well.”

  “Survive a crash?”

  “Yep. That’s what typically happens in this line of work, Rook. You tend to fall more than ya fly.”

  “Maybe if you actually flew a half-way decent vessel…”

  Berenger turned and gave Deckland a hard stare. “Careful now,” he said. “The Leadbelly ain’t just my ship. She’s my home. Me and her have been through a lot together, and she’s proven herself to be a tough old girl who has it where it counts. Mustags were made to be blockade runners, kid. That means she’s fast and
maneuverable – more so than the sorry ships they make nowadays. I’ve personally installed a great number of modifications in her to ensure she’s not only a fighter, but a survivor, too. Can you say the same about your ‘state-of-the-art’ contraptions?”

  “Yes.”

  Berenger frowned. “Yeah, well, you’re welcome to fly your own ship, Rook. Me? I’m sticking with The Leadbelly.”

  Berenger resumed wading his way through the cargo bay and finally reached the door to the ship’s central corridor, which opened with a hiss. Deckland sighed, lamenting his new partner’s stubbornness, and followed.

  “WADSWORTH!” yelled Berenger as he walked. “Wadsworth! Where are you, ya busted hunk of scrap?”

  The door at the end of the corridor hissed open, revealing a rather odd-looking robot. Deckland had never seen anything like it before. It appeared to have been assembled from spare parts, its upper body wearing a faded black buttonless suit jacket with coattails over a buttoned white vest. It wore a black bowtie around its neck and white gloves over its hands. Its lower half was exposed machinery, tapering down to a wide hover-tread, like the kind used for moving cargo on hoverlifts. Its oval-shaped head had mismatched optical orbs, making it look as though it were wearing a monocle over one eye, even though the optical orbs were just two very different sizes. Finally, the robot had a hand-crafted piece of metal installed over its vocal emitter, making it seem as though the robot sported a large, bushy moustache on its face.

  “Greetings, Master Berenger,” the robot said. “I say, you’re back early. I was not expecting you until much later.”

  “You can thank this tall drink of dirty water behind me,” Berenger muttered, wagging his thumb back toward Deckland.

  The robot regarded Deckland for a moment, its larger optical orb’s iris contracting slightly as it seemed to scan him. “Ah! You’ve brought a guest. Welcome aboard The Leadbelly, sir. May I take your jacket?”