“No, thanks…” said Deckland as he eyed the robot with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity before looking at Berenger. “What is this?”
“That’s Wadsworth. He’s my butler.”
“Your butler? What do you need a butler for?”
“For buttling, sir,” Wadsworth replied before he quickly ejected a small vacuum hose from his undercarriage and promptly cleaned all the dust from Deckland’s jacket. “And for future reference, you really should refrain from rousing Master Berenger before he’s completed his sleep cycle. I fear he is not much of a morning person.”
“It’s two in the—nevermind,” grumbled Deckland.
“Will you be requiring a tonic, Master Berenger?” Wadsworth asked.
“Moxi already got me straight,” Berenger said. “Wouldn’t mind a coffee, though.”
“Coming right up, sir. And you, mister tall drink of dirty water? Would you like a coffee, as well?”
“My name is Deckland. Deckland Prescott. And no, I’m fine.”
“As you wish, Deckland Deckland Prescott.”
Wadsworth started to leave until Berenger called out after him. “Oh, and Wadsworth! Get me some fresh dang clothes!”
“As you wish, Master Berenger.”
After Wadsworth had left, Berenger shuffled to a high-backed seat in front of a piloting console and plopped down in it, his knee joints popping audibly as he did so. Deckland slowly glanced around, taking in his surroundings carefully. The bridge was cleaner than the cargo hold had been – at least in terms of clutter. The room was shaped like a half moon, with a large viewscreen at its head in front of a long control panel and two piloting seats. There was a circular holoprojector table in the middle of the floor, and the walls contained transparent plasti-steel encased shelves which contained various knick-knacks and trophies, as well as a variety of weapons. There were a few cushioned benches against the walls to accommodate passengers, a slim door with the markings for a restroom on it, and a small bar fully stocked with various alcohols, which had been installed between two custom dataservers.
“Your butler-bot certainly keeps the bridge tidy,” Deckland commented. “Shame that can’t be said about the rest of the ship.”
“He keeps things the way I want them kept,” Berenger said. “I don’t trust things that are too neat and tidy.”
Deckland frowned, unsure if Berenger were making a statement about him and his well-kept appearance. “I know how you feel,” Deckland replied. “I can’t abide messes. Always have the urge to clean them up.”
“Well, I suppose if the whole Ranger thing doesn’t work out, you could always get a job as a butler yourself, then,” joked Berenger with a sly grin.
Wadsworth re-entered the bridge holding a neatly folded set of fresh clothes on a tin platter.
“Ah! Here we go,” said Berenger standing back up as Wadsworth hovered over to him. Berenger shrugged off his dusty longcoat, fully revealing himself for the first time. Deckland instantly noticed how many scars Berenger had on his torso – both front and back. Some of them showed bio-metal grafts in areas where the wound had obviously been too severe to heal fully on its own. He also confirmed that Berenger’s entire left arm was bionic all the way up to his shoulder.
Then, Wadsworth turned and hovered over toward Deckland. “Pardon me, sir, but I do believe you are in the wrong place,” Wadsworth said.
“People have been saying that all day,” grumbled Deckland. “Tell me, where should I be?”
“Away from the Lampak, sir. He does not take kindly to visitors.”
“Lampak?” said Deckland. “What are you…”
At that moment, Deckland heard what sounded like hoarse laughter coming from behind him. He turned to see a large creature there, sitting on its hind legs and gazing up at him with dark eyes. Its fur was short, bristly, and tan colored. The sharp teeth of its muzzle were visible in a disturbing cross between a snarl and a grin, and its large black nose was twitching as it sniffed at Deckland, taking in his scent.
The appearance of the strange creature startled Deckland, causing him to flinch back – a movement which made the Lampak stand up on all fours in alarm.
“RNGsus!” cried Deckland.
“Down, Spur!” barked Berenger.
Immediately, the Lampak heeled, its dark eyes never leaving Deckland. It emitted a hoarse laugh once more as though it were amused at Deckland’s reaction.
“Don’t mind, Spur,” Berenger said. “He’s mostly harmless. Mostly.”
Deckland eyed the strange creature as Wadsworth hovered past it toward the bridge’s bar where he began to brew some coffee. “What… what kind of creature is this?” Deckland asked.
“They’re called Lampaks,” Berenger said as he pulled on a pair of jeans. “They’re an indigenous species to Barnholm. Kinda like a cross between a dog and a hyena. They’re mighty talented at tracking and hunting, so Spur can come in handy if I’m looking for someone on the run. He also acts as The Leadbelly’s guard dog, but he’s getting kinda lazy in his old age. When he was a pup, you’d have never made it a foot into the bridge without him clamped onta your leg.”
Judging from how sharp Spur’s teeth looked, Deckland couldn’t help but feel lucky the Lampak had grown lazy. The animal laughed once more before turning and making its way to a corner where it curled up on a throw pillow upon which the word “SPUR” was hand-embroidered, licking its lips before panting quietly.
“Your coffee, Master Berenger,” Wadsworth said as he hovered over to Berenger with a steaming mug decorated with the words You Can Go To Hell, I’ll Go To Barnholm.
“Thank’ya kindly,” Berenger said as he took the mug and sipped at the hot brew. Wadsworth then picked up Berenger’s longcoat and hat, hanging them up on a nearby clothing rack before storing Berenger’s repulsor rifle and blaster holster in one of the bridge’s weapon lockers.
Berenger turned and set his coffee mug down before unfolding the shirt Wadsworth had brought him. For the first time, Deckland noticed a strange implant in the back of Berenger’s neck. It looked like the dull metallic gray of a bio-metal graft at first, but upon closer inspection, he saw the black lens of an ocular orb in the middle of it. Its iris seemed to contract and expand slightly, with a pinpoint of red light at its center. Deckland gazed at it with a mixture of morbid curiosity and disgust.
“I can see you staring at me, y’know,” Berenger said.
“I suppose you can,” Deckland replied. “Sorry, I’ve just never seen a bionic implant in the back of someone’s neck before.”
“Yeah, installing that one wasn’t exactly an outpatient procedure,” Berenger remarked. “But having eyes in the back of my head comes in pretty handy in our line of work.”
“How do you even make sense of the data from it?”
“I can switch the feed from my bionic eye to show what image is coming through from behind me. Most of the time it’s just in my peripheral vision.” Berenger turned and squinted at Deckland who wasn’t doing much to hide his concern over the implants. “You don’t approve?”
“Sorry, it’s just… most people I know would prefer organic limb replacement over bionics.”
“Yeah, most core worlders would, I suppose,” agreed Berenger. “When I was growin’ up, though, Barnholm didn’t exactly have access to advanced medical equipment. We had to make do with what was handy, and that usually meant bionics as opposed to cloned tissue. Not that I mind, though. My eye lets me scan, target, and record all types of things. My arm allows me to draw my blaster faster than average, and I’m able to watch my own back. Maybe when I retire I’ll go organic once more, but for now, these bionics suit me just fine.”
“Yeah, but… being part machine? It just seems so unnatural.”
“That’s me in a nutshell, Rook. Unnatural to a tee,” said Berenger as he put on his shirt and started to button it up. “I’d always heard about how core worlders look down on bionics. Guess that’s a real thing, eh?”
“It�
�s not that we look down on them,” Deckland said, a bit defensively. “It’s just that medicine has advanced so much, they aren’t really needed anymore. Those who have bionics usually choose to have them rather than need to have them.”
“And you think there’s something wrong with a person if he chooses to have them, eh?”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to,” mused Berenger as he sipped at his coffee again. “Don’t ever play Loquir, kiddo. You’re easier to read than a dime novel.”
Deckland bristled at that. “Perhaps what you’re ‘reading’ has less to do with your bionics and more to do with the general state of how you operate,” he replied. “In your personnel file, you come off like a true professional, but in person, well… let’s just say, I now have serious concerns about you.”
Berenger laughed heartily at Deckland’s statement as he tucked in his shirt and fastened his belt with a particularly large and ornate silver buckle featuring an engraved horned bova skull.
“You find that funny?” asked Deckland.
“What I find funny, Rook, is that I have my fair share of concerns about you, as well,” Berenger replied as he sat back down in the pilot’s chair, swiveling it to face Deckland.
“What concerns could you possibly have about me?”
Berenger chewed on his lower lip with amusement. “Oh, let’s start with… everything?”
Deckland gave Berenger a reproachful look. “With all due respect, Ranger Berenger, you don’t know a thing about me.”
Berenger chuckled. “Squick, son, I know all I need to know just by looking at you.”
“That so?”
“You forget, I am a highly trained investigator with a keen deductive mind.”
“Okay then. I’m game. Tell me – what do you know?”
Berenger smiled mischievously. “Sure you want me to do this?”
“Go ahead. I’m curious to hear what your ‘keen deductive mind’ thinks it knows about me.”
Berenger nodded as he leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head as he looked Deckland up and down. “Well, you’re extremely by-the-book, which tells me you had a strict upbringing that drilled into you that you should always follow the rules. You’re a little too well-groomed to be working class, so my guess is you come from money. That rules out the notion your parents are peacekeepers, which means they are probably lawyers. Both of them, in fact, judging by how uptight you are. You seem to be pretty sharp and well-spoken, not to mention a tad full of yourself, so I’m betting you were top of your class at university where you probably studied both law and civics, most likely as a double-major. My guess is you were recruited out of university by the IIA. You chose to follow that path as opposed to being becoming a lawyer like your parents because even though you’re a conformist, you’re independent enough to want to forge your own path in life. The fact that you’re out here in the backend of space rather than in the thick of things within the core worlds says you’re ambitious, since the lack of personnel out here means you’ll be fast-tracked to senior positions quicker. Your skin has a slightly darker tint to it than your average Regal, which means you grew up under a red sun. There aren’t many planets with a red sun in the core, but that, combined with your unique voice inflection leads me to believe you come from the Archibald system, most likely the main planet of Algerion. Your reaction to my boozskeller, my ship, and my person leads me to believe you have a mild case of obsessive-compulsive disorder, which, of course, has been diagnosed and for which you’re receiving treatment – though in my opinion that treatment don’t seem to be working too well. Since you don’t wear a wedding band and you just recently trekked here across the Great Expanse, you no doubt left any romantic attachments behind and are currently single. That explains why you’re so gung-ho about your job, since you got nothing better going on in your life. Oh, and your firearm is holstered on the left side, which means you’re a southpaw. How’d I do?”
Deckland blinked at Berenger as the older man looked at him smugly. Deckland was surprised at how accurate the man’s deductions were. He was almost impressed… at least until he saw Berenger’s bionic eye dim slightly. He glared at Berenger knowingly.
“You accessed my personnel file remotely and just spun a load of bova spunk while reading all those details off your bionic eye, didn’t you?” he said.
Berenger smirked. “Well now, you’re smarter than you look, Rook,” he replied. “In my defense, that wasn’t all from your file.”
“Yeah, I’m sure which hand I favor was a real hard one to figure out.”
“One thing I can deduce is that, aside from you being an obvious pain in the rear, you must be a very promising agent for Ormosa and Cornwallace to assign you to me. However, all the promise in the world ain’t gonna keep ya from getting yourself, and by extension me, killed out in the field. Not if you can’t accept the fact that the reality of this job differs from the concept behind it.”
“I don’t see how the ‘reality’ of this job and the way you seem to operate relate to each other.”
“Of course, you don’t. And that’s the problem,” said Berenger. “Wadsworth! Stogie.”
Wadsworth hovered over to Berenger, handing him a lowbacco cigar. Berenger bit the tip of the cigar off and spit it onto the floor as Wadsworth produced a small robotic arm with a lighter at its end, igniting the cigar as Berenger puffed at it. Deckland stood with his arms crossed as Berenger blew the stinky smoke out of his mouth, the haze of lowbacco curling in on itself as it wafted away.
“I’ve been an officer of the law here in the Frontier since I was 16 cycles of age, son,” Berenger said. “And in my time on the job, I’ve discovered there’s a right way to do things, and a wrong way to do things. And my way is the right way.”
“Like drinking yourself into a coma in a dive skeller and shooting people who try to wake you?” asked Deckland. “Is living in a decrepit and messy spaceship a vital aspect of your investigative process? Tell me, Ranger Berenger, what part of all this is the right way of doing things as opposed to being an unsupervised maverick who’s been on the job for so long no one bothers to correct him anymore?”
Berenger took a long drag off his cigar. “We all got our quirks,” he said. “But right way or wrong way, you’re gonna learn things the hard way if’n you insist on thinking you already know it all, Rook.”
“Would you stop calling me that?” snapped Deckland. “I have a name. It’s Deckland. Ranger Deckland Prescott. I’m not your son. I’m not a kid. And I’m certainly not a ‘Rook’.”
“Alright,” drawled Berenger. “Answer me this, Ranger Prescott… how many cases have you worked?”
The question seemed to catch Deckland off guard. “Cases?” he asked.
“Yeah,” replied Berenger. “How many actual cases of a law enforcement nature have you investigated out in the field and solved?”
“None… as of yet,” Deckland admitted reluctantly.
Berenger smiled, smugly. “Well now, I don’t know what term they use in the core worlds, but ‘round these parts, we refer to a novice lacking in any real-world experience who can’t seem to distinguish his elbow from his cornhole as a ‘Rookie’. But seeing as how this is one of the most volatile and dangerous areas of the Empire to be in law enforcement and you’re so green as to be mistaken for a head of cabbage, you don’t even rate that high, which is why you are, and shall forever be, a ‘Rook’. At least in my book.”
Deckland nodded in annoyance. “I know you don’t think much of me,” he said. “Pretty much everyone I’ve met in the Frontier thus far just sees me as an outsider who doesn’t belong here. But believe it or not, I worked my rear off to be where I currently am. You were right, I was top of my class. My parents are wealthy and influential people. I could have had my choice of assignments, but I chose the Frontier. I chose to be here because I believe I can make a difference where it is needed most. I’m smart, I’m dedicated, and I am deserving of res
pect. So, if you wish to address me, you will do so by my name.”
Berenger slow clapped. “Bravo!” he said. “Great speech, kiddo. Got me right the feels. But I hate to break it to you… respect is something you earn, not something you deserve. You want a name? Earn it. Until then you’re nothing but a rookie.”
“That is not acceptable.”
Berenger sighed. “Fine, you want me to call you by your name? Then answer me one question correctly.”
“What?”
“Are you a Lawman?”
Deckland hesitated for a moment, looking confused. “I don’t understand what you’re asking,” he said.
“Are. You. A. Lawman?” Berenger reiterated.
“Of course, I am. You know my credentials.”
“I know ya got yourself a shiny badge and a fancy university degree. But there’s a difference between being a government agent and being a Lawman.”
“How’s that? Both enforce the law.”
“Not in my experience,” Berenger replied. “Government agents, they enforce the law. But enforcing the law doesn’t always mean ensuring justice is served. Now, a Lawman… a true Lawman… that’s someone who puts a priority on justice, even if that justice flies in the face of the law.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Deckland said. “Justice comes from the rule of law. Enforcing any law should ensure justice is served.”
“Spoken like a true rookie,” Berenger said. “Your answer may be correct out in the core worlds of the Empire, but out here in the Frontier, justice is more important than the rule of law. At the end of the day, what’s right and what’s wrong are absolute, and that’s the only law that need be enforced out here where civilization don’t count for spit.”
“If you’re implying that it is up to us to act as judge, jury, and executioner simply because we operate in a quadrant where the Empire has not yet established itself, then I’m afraid I can’t agree with you, Ranger Berenger. As officers of the law, it is our duty to help establish law and order based on Imperial governance out here where there is none. What you’re talking about seems more akin to vigilante justice than to actual law enforcement, which goes against the very reason for the Ranger Initiative’s existence.”
Lawmen- Rook and Berenger Page 5
