Lawmen- Rook and Berenger

by Matthew Kadish

  “Still, the absence of dirt isn’t proof that they’re dirty,” Deckland said. “If we want to nail these guys, we’re going to need more to go off of than ‘they’re too clean’.”

  “You might,” Berenger said. “I got me more than enough evidence to know these men are guilty as sin.”

  “Unfortunately, Ranger Berenger, what we believe and what we can prove are two different things at the moment,” said Deckland, sternly. “Our mission now is not only to find out what happened to Roseca Villem, but also to learn about the fate of those eleven other missing children. If we want to bring Evarest Pyle and his men to justice, we’re going to need more than a flight plan that lines up with a pattern of abductions to arrest them.”

  “And you think arresting them is the only way to bring them to justice?”

  “What other way is there?”

  “Depends on your definition of justice.”

  Deckland scowled. “We’ve already been over this,” he said.

  “And you still haven’t figured things out,” Berenger stated. “But you need to, Rook, and right quick. Otherwise Pyle and his men are gonna get away with what they’ve done.”

  “Don’t worry, Ranger Berenger. You and I may disagree on a lot, but one thing I think we both can agree on is that there’s no way in hell we’re going to allow these men to get away with anything.”

  Berenger nodded at that. “Fair enough,” he said.

  When The Leadbelly finally reached its destination and exited hyperspace, Waystation WS-4855 was the only structure in the area. The emptiness of the Great Expanse loomed beyond it with the distant stars of the Perseus Arm of the galaxy and the core worlds of the Regalus Empire contained within them. But there were no planets, moons, or asteroids about, just the constant opening and closing of hyperspace windows as starship traffic came and went from the large, disk-shaped space station.

  Once their ship had docked with one of the station’s hangars, Wadsworth brought Berenger his holster that contained his dual plasma pistols. As Berenger buckled the holster around his waist, he glanced up at Deckland warily.

  “Listen, Rook,” he said. “I think it would be best if you stayed behind with the ship while I track these fellas down.”

  “Thinking is obviously not your strong suit, Ranger Berenger,” Deckland replied.

  “Look, alls I’m saying is that—”

  “All you’re saying is that you don’t think I can handle myself.”

  Berenger frowned. “You ever been to a waystation in the Frontier before, kid?” he asked.

  “Of course, I have,” Deckland said. “I had to stop at one after my transport finished crossing the Great Expanse on my journey here.”

  “Elisium?” said Berenger with a chuckle. “You mean to tell me you’re counting Elisium as a waystation?”

  Deckland frowned at Berenger’s reaction to his response. Elisium Station was the primary waystation established by the Twinspirits at the edge of the Scutum-Centarus arm leading from the Great Expanse to the Sapphire System. All space traffic from the Empire docked there after the long journey between the galactic arms. “It is, is it not?” he replied.

  “Elisium is more of a luxury resort than it is a real waystation, Rook,” Berenger said. “The Twinspirits made it nice and fancy to impress all the immigrants from the core worlds, but even though it’s classified as a waystation, calling it that is like classifying a diamond as a rock. Real waystations, especially ones like this, are dangerous places. You get a lot of pirates, privateers, outlaws, and other undesirables coming and going to stations like 4855, and these waystations ain’t heavily regulated or policed, if they are at all.”

  “Your point being?” asked Deckland.

  “My point being, a fresh-off-the-boat core worlder like yourself is going to stand out like a sore thumb in this place, and that’s going to make you a target for the lowlifes that frequent this tin can.”

  “So, for my own safety, you think I should stay behind?”

  “Precisely,” said Berenger.

  “I appreciate you looking out for my well-being, partner, but believe it or not, in addition to being old enough to shave and kiss girls, I can actually take care of myself.”

  Berenger squinted at Deckland as though he didn’t quite believe him. He then nodded toward the blaster holstered at Deckland’s side. “You even know how to handle that thing?” he asked.

  Deckland patted his sidearm. “This new-fangled contraption?” he said, laying on the sarcasm as he did so. “Why the nice man I got it from in the back-alley said it was just point and click. Easy peasy.”

  “Your comedic talents aside, Rook, I ask not just for your sake, but for my own,” Berenger replied, obviously not amused. “While I’m out there, I don’t want to have to worry about you getting me, let alone yourself, shot.”

  “I’m trained in the use of firearms, Ranger Berenger, otherwise they’d have never given me a badge,” Deckland replied in the most no-nonsense way he could. “You needn’t worry about me getting you shot, lest you insist on leaving me behind in your ship while you pursue a group of potentially dangerous suspects on your own. In that case, I may have to emulate your actions upon our first meeting just to hammer home what I’ve been saying all along – which is that I know what I’m doing.”

  Berenger chewed on the moustache on his upper lip thoughtfully as he mulled over Deckland’s words. “For your sake, and mine, Rook – I hope that’s the case,” he finally replied, turning to take his longcoat and hat from Wadsworth and putting them on. “Come along then. But do me a solid and keep your holster’s thumb strap open.”

  “You that certain we’ll be seeing some action?” asked Deckland as he reached down and unclasped the strap that secured his blaster in the holster.

  “If experience is any indication,” Berenger said as he checked his blasters and slid them into his thigh holsters, “you bet your breeches.”

  The inside of Waystation WS-4855 was indeed a vastly different environment than Deckland had been expecting. Whereas Elisium Station had been spacious and well decorated, and SC-8952 had been modular and cookie-cutter, WS-4855 was an industrialized mess. The flooring consisted mostly of metallic grates, so the extensive foot traffic of the station produced a cacophony of clanging sounds that echoed throughout the area as feet collided with the metal. The corridors were uneven, with exposed conduits, pipes, and terminals everywhere. There was a constant haze in the air from poorly placed exhaust vents, poor air scrubbers, and all the lowbacco the station’s inhabitants were smoking. Furthermore, the haze picked up by the bad fluorescent lighting turned into something more akin to fog.

  Deckland stuck close to Berenger as they made their way through the station. Their first task was to check the various hangar bays to see if The Long Haul had already arrived. Deckland kept his guard up as they traversed the station, receiving several unfriendly looks from the various individuals they passed. The station visitors ran the gamut in terms of species, with Regals, Corkrons, Karkovians, Recklecs, Endolans, and even a few Visinis among those in the mix. Almost all of them had bionic implants of some type, and every last one of them appeared to be armed. The Rangers passed a few incidents where fights spontaneously broke out, typically ending in a quick exchange of blaster fire over which nobody batted an eye as someone was shot dead.

  “Great Observer,” Deckland muttered under his breath. He’d never in his life seen such a rowdy and lawless place. He briefly considered arresting the brazen murderers, but based on Berenger’s apathy toward the crimes being committed around them, Deckland didn’t think he’d receive much support if he chose to do so.

  The duo had to travel to four different hangars before they found what they were looking for. The Long Haul was parked in one of the designated loading zones and was receiving maintenance by repair-bots as cargo was being unloaded from its rear bay.

  “Well, we know they’re here,” stated Deckland. “Now we need to see the hangar supervisor about g
etting their ship locked down while we search for the crew.”

  Berenger gave Deckland a look that communicated how dumb he thought that suggestion was. “How many digicredits you got on you, Rook?” he asked.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Just asking because no one who works in this here station will lock down someone’s ship based on you asking. Even if it’s with a badge and a ‘pretty please’. They’re gonna want a bribe, and it’s gonna be for a sum you can’t afford, more than likely.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Deckland said. “We’re Imperial law-enforcement officials. If they don’t comply with our requests, they could face charges of obstruction of justice and interference with an investigation, not to mention any number of fines and citations.”

  “Look around you, Rook,” grumbled Berenger. “Do people here appear to care about ‘fines and citations’?”

  Deckland frowned. “Well, we can’t simply leave their ship free to fly away,” he said. “We need to do something to keep it here in the station.”

  “Agreed,” Berenger said. “But first, I think we should question that fella supervising the unloading of the cargo over there.”

  Deckland’s gaze followed the nod of Berenger’s head toward a large, bristly-haired Rattan standing by The Long Haul’s rear cargo bay, monitoring the worker-bots who were unloading the contents of the ship. The large rat-like alien had his back to the two Rangers, but Deckland recognized his features from the crew manifest of the ship.

  “That must be Scatter Tubs,” Deckland said. “He’s the only Rattan listed on The Long Haul’s roster. He’s Pyle’s Quartermaster.”

  “Then we most definitely want to talk to him,” said Berenger as he began walking toward the alien.

  Deckland followed close behind as they approached the Rattan, but Berenger began walking faster the closer they got. Deckland was afraid of Berenger’s intentions, so he quickly sprinted ahead and called out the Rattan’s name.

  “Scatter Tubs!” he said.

  The Rattan turned as Deckland and Berenger finished their approach, with Deckland showing his badge to identify himself.

  “I’m Deckland Prescott, Imperial Galactic Ranger. This is my partner Braxxon Berenger. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Tub’s beady black eyes narrowed as his scarred pink nose sniffed the air in the direction of the two men. “Galactic Rangers?” he said, his voice nasaled and gravelly. “Never heard of them.”

  “You heard of the IIS? Imperial Peacekeepers? Imperial Space Force? We’re a combination of all those and more,” Deckland explained.

  Tubs snorted. “Whatever you are, you’re out of your jurisdiction,” he said. “Badges don’t mean squat around here, no matter who issues them.”

  “I suggest you cooperate, Mr. Tubs, if you and your crew value your shipping license,” threatened Deckland. “We can have the Imperial Space Force revoke that in a heartbeat if we want to.”

  Tubs laughed at the threat. “Fine. Do what you gotta do, Ranger,” he said. “No whiskers off my nose.”

  The Rattan turned back to his datapad to monitor the worker-bots as Deckland shifted uneasily on his feet. He wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. He’d never anticipated that the Rattan would dismiss his threat so easily.

  “Mr. Tubs, I don’t think you understand—”

  “No, you don’t understand,” the Rattan replied. “Slag off, ya prissy core worlder. You’re on the wrong side of the Expanse.”

  Deckland sighed at that. He looked at Berenger who was gazing at him with his arms crossed in disapproval.

  “Fine,” Deckland muttered. “We’ll try it your way.”

  With that, Berenger approached the Rattan without saying a word, pulling one of his blaster pistols and abruptly clocking the alien across the head with the butt of it.

  Tubs hit the ground with a cry that was quickly silenced as Berenger’s boot heel landed on the Rattan’s throat, and the pistol that had whipped him now had its barrel aimed directly at his face.

  “Perhaps you’d care to answer my questions, then,” Berenger drawled, his bionic eye glowing red as it targeted the Rattan. “And keep in mind, this is me asking nicely, on account so as not to offend my prissy partner’s core world sensibilities.”

  Deckland frowned at both Berenger’s actions and words, but despite his objection to Berenger’s methods, he was willing to let things play out. At least for a while.

  “You… can’t do this…” squealed Tubs. “This is… assault!”

  “And you’re more than welcome to file a complaint with the Galactic Ranger Initiative,” said Berenger. “It’s no whiskers off my nose.”

  With that, Berenger promptly shot the floor next to the Rattan’s head, causing the alien to cry out before the Ranger put more of his weight on his boot heel. Scatter Tubs squirmed as his tiny pink Rattan hands struggled to alleviate some of the pressure Berenger was applying.

  “Now, I’m gonna ask you some questions, friend-o,” Berenger said. “And if you don’t give me the answers I’m looking for, I’m gonna start shooting pieces off ya. Comprende?”

  “Slag off!”

  Berenger reached down and plucked out one of the whiskers from Tubs’ nose with his bionic arm, causing the Rattan to cry in pain.

  “I can do this all day, compatriot,” Berenger taunted.

  “Okay! Okay!” Tubs cried. “What do you want to know?”

  “For starters, why have you and your crew been kidnapping children from across the quadrant?”

  “Kidnapping?” said Tubs. “What the blazes are you talking about?”

  Berenger fired his blaster into the floor once more, causing Tubs to flinch.

  “Don’t play dumb, ya greasy Rattan,” Berenger warned. “We know you and your crew have been abducting children from the ports you visit. I want to know why and what you’ve done with them.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” sneered Tubs. “We’re a merchant vessel! We transport cargo under a corporate charter with the New Frontier Conglomeration! We don’t kidnap anybody!”

  “Quit fibbin’!” Berenger sneered as he fired off another blast, this one close enough to singe some of the Rattan’s whiskers. “Start speakin’ truth or the next blast takes off the tip of your mangy tail!”

  “I am telling the truth!” Tubs cried. “I got no blasted idea what you’re talking about!!!”

  Deckland sidled up beside Berenger, speaking to his partner quietly. “Is it possible that there are members of Pyle’s crew who aren’t in on the abductions?” he asked.

  “It ain’t likely,” replied Berenger.

  “But is it possible?”

  Berenger snarled at the notion but was forced to consider it. He looked back down at Tubs. “Your captain. Pyle. Where is he?” he asked.

  “He’s at The Big Bova,” replied the Rattan, still choking under Berenger’s boot. “It’s the boozskeller on level ten…”

  At that, Berenger stepped away from the alien. Tubs gasped and rubbed his neck the moment he was free. The Rattan sat up, snarling at the Rangers, his scarred pink nose twitching fiercely.

  “You two are gonna pay for this,” Tubs growled. “I’m gonna have your badges…”

  “You can have this,” Berenger said as two metal prongs extended from the knuckles of his bionic arm, sparking with electricity. The Ranger promptly punched the Rattan in the neck, zapping him with an electric shock that caused the alien to twitch violently before passing out.

  Deckland looked at the unconscious Rattan, wide-eyed.

  “What the blazes did you just do???” he asked, worried he’d witnessed Berenger kill someone.

  “Relax, I just tased him,” Berenger said as he pulled out a pair of electro-shackles and cuffed Tubs’ hands behind him. “He’ll wake up with a sore neck and one hell of a headache, but beyond that, he’ll be back to his same old scumbag self in no time. Now, what’s say you and me get on down to this Big Bova jo
int and have ourselves a word with the good Captain Pyle?”

  “We shouldn’t leave without securing the ship first,” Deckland said.

  Berenger fired his blasters at The Long Haul’s open maintenance panels the repair-bots had been working on, causing machinery within to spark and explode as the Ranger walked away.

  “Consider it secured,” Berenger replied.

  Deckland frowned in disapproval, but didn’t argue as he followed his partner out of the hangar.

  The Big Bova was probably the rowdiest boozskeller Deckland had ever seen. There was already a fist fight occurring between two Karkovian pirates at the entrance, with a small crowd cheering them on as they beat each other bloody. Loud shantygrass music thumped from within, and the establishment was filled with unsavory types playing games of Loquir and drinking heavily. A few scantily clad females of varying races walked among the crowd, propositioning the various patrons as robo-servants scurried about, delivering food, drink, and smokes to whoever ordered them.

  Deckland coughed, practically choking on the thick lowbacco smoke in the air, its skunky stench almost overwhelming him. “RNGsus, haven’t these people ever heard of health codes?” he muttered.

  “Believe it or not, this place is pretty sanitary compared to most boozskellers I’ve seen,” Berenger said as his bionic eye lit up, cutting through the haze of the room as it scanned the area looking for its target.

  Berenger’s gaze eventually settled on a man standing at the bar. He was wearing a beige flightsuit and nursing a beer while chatting with the bartender. Deckland followed Berenger’s stare and saw the man, as well. From the reflection in the mirror behind the bar where all the alcohol was shelved, he saw the stern face and sandy hair of Evarest Pyle.