by Steve Perry
“I believe it was a Durston Model Nine Star Cruiser,” he said.
“How droll.”
“The Stellar Rangers received a complaint from one of your neighbors, M. Tuluk.” No point in him pretending he didn’t know who the rich man was, either.
“That would be Gustav Kohl,” Tuluk said.
“I’m not at liberty to reveal such information.”
Tuluk shrugged. He had thin shoulders under the expensive clothing. “Do go on.”
“The nature of the complaint required that we investigate. I am doing so.”
“Ah, I see.” He paused for a moment. “It must be difficult, flitting from planet to planet and mucking about in the crirninal element.” Another sip from the drink.
“It has its moments.”
“I would think it a young man’s game, Not that you’re old, M. Carston, but a man of your years must think now and then of retirement.”
Cinch wanted to see how far he would go. “Now and then, yes.”
“There’s always room for a man of certain skills in my organization. I have been looking for a qualified security chief for my blueweed operation. It pays quite well, and the work is generally considered to be easy and safe.”
Cinch thought Lobang might burst a blood vessel in his forehead when Tuluk said that, the guard’s face was so red. Well. Not an outright bribe, he wasn’t that foolish. And there was nothing illegal about offering a man a job when he retired from the service, either. But it told Cinch what he wanted to know.
Tuluk continued. “Even a frontier world has much to offer a man who is well-off financially. I don’t know what a Stellar Ranger makes for field work, but I can guarantee a decent salary.”
“What is ‘decent’?”
Tuluk named a figure. It was about five times what Cinch could hope to make if he ever left the field and became a Sector Commander, close to ten times what he made now. It wasn’t decent, it was obscene. Two years of that kind of money and he’d earn more than his grandfather had in his entire life. Certainly he’d never make that much honestly.
“I’m not quite ready to retire yet, M. Tuluk. But thanks for the offer.”
“Well. Do think about it, in case you change your mind, M. Carston.”
* * *
As he drove back toward Kohl’s station in the borrowed car, Cinch did think about his conversation with Tuluk. There had been a time when he would have leapt on the rich man’s offer so hard the locals would have thought they were having an earthquake. Money as a measure of success no longer interested him, however. He’d been rich himself, once upon a time. Not for long, but for a few days after he smuggled a load of contraband liquor to a planet where drinking was illegal, Cinch could have retired and lived in luxury had he chosen to do so. But even then he realized you could only live in one house at a time, consume so much good food and fine wine, sleep with so many beautiful bedmates. He’d enjoyed the game of beating the local law much more than he had the money he’d made for it. He’d pissed it away, the wealth, and never regretted it. Life was too short to spend it chasing fame or power or money,
No, Tuluk’s offer didn’t interest him, save in what it revealed about the man. The cattle baron and blueweed rancher had something to hide and the offer only confirmed it for certain. Now things would begin to get interesting.
There was a mostly-dry riverbed ahead, a short bridge spanning it. The road went through a series of hilly S-curves just before it reached the trickle that was the Sungai River, and the path meandered into a not-very-deep valley that sloped down to the bed. There were some hardy willow and cottonwoodlike trees along the dusty banks, as well as bunches of dark shrubbery and weeds with roots deep enough to suck moisture from the earth. As the local terrain went, this was practically an oasis, a virtual jungle compared to the surrounding plains.
As Cinch rounded one of the curves, he caught a glint of light from something in one of the bigger shrubs near the bridge. Probably nothing but a piece of junk somebody had tossed from a passing vehicle, a drink can or food wrapper. Easy enough to dismiss.
Then again, old rangers got that way by not dismissing easy things that might get them dead in a hurry.
Cinch slowed the car a little. Thought about what he ought to do. If he were wrong, if nobody was there, then he might look foolish–though nobody would see it. But if that stray reflection of hard sunlight meant he had company, then maybe he ought to check it out.
When he was out of sight of the river around a curve, he pulled the GE car to a halt, grabbed his rifle, and hopped out. It was easy enough to set the autopilot to follow the road at a slow speed, and he did so. He estimated how far away the bridge was, set the dash timer to kill the engine’s power about the time the car got that far, and sent the empty vehicle on its way. Then he began to work his way down the short hillock, angling toward the cover of the trees further up the river. With any luck, he could stay low enough to remain hidden from anybody on the opposite bank.
* * *
The GE car idled to a halt and settled to the road a hundred meters short of the bridge. Cinch had already made it to the near bank of the river by then. He took a deep breath and crouched low, then scooted across the river’s bed. The tiny stream of muddy water in the center was narrow enough for him to jump without getting his boots wet. Even so, the smell of moisture in the air was apparent, and it felt almost humid here compared to the arid terrain that surrounded the river. He worked his way to the trees, then back toward the road. He wished he had his camosuit, but by using the bushes and trees he was able to keep to cover.
As he drew nearer the road, Cinch heard voices.
“So what do we do now, Pan? He just fucking stopped in the middle of the fucking road–”
“Take it easy, Diji. Just wait a second and see what he does. Maybe his car broke down.”
“I dunno, man, I don’t see him,” came a third voice. “Maybe he had a heatstroke or something and passed out.”
“Seems awful fucking coincidental he would stop right there,” Diji said. “I don’t like it. I say we scamper.”
“Look, we didn’t come to shoot the guy,” Pan said. “We just want to talk to him.”
“That’s good to hear,” Cinch said. He moved out to cover the three young men with his rifle. “No quick moves, okay?”
“Fuck!” Diji said.
The trio turned to face Cinch. They wore handguns and one of them had a hunting rifle on a sling over one shoulder.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Pan said. “Snuck right up on us. So much for the dreaded raj who move like smoke.”
Cinch grinned and raised the rifle so it pointed at the sky, “You’d be Pandjang Meritja.” It was not a question.
The boy–he was maybe twenty, twenty-two standards–nodded. He was dark like his sister, but even with slightly coarser features the family resemblance was obvious. Pan was a little taller than Cinch, a bit heavier, well muscled. He wore desert camo, a wide-brimmed hat the color of sand, and hiking boots. Pan was the oldest of the three, as far as Cinch could tell. They appeared to have arrived here on foot. If they were afraid of him, it didn’t show.
“That’s me. Wanita says you wanted to talk to me?”
“Word gets around fast. You walk here?”
“We have horses tied a klick upriver.”
“Why don’t I move my car off the road and let’s find a shady spot.”
* * *
The one named Diji was too fair to be out in this kind of sun and Cinch smelled the aroma of sunblock on him. The other one, named Pohon, was something other than basic stock human, Cinch guessed. Pohon was short, squat, and had a slightly odd cast to his body and facial features. The oddness of his frame appeared to be from a slightly different joint and ligament structure. If that were the case, the genetic re-placement of his tendons gave him a somewhat better mechanical l
everage than normal men. If Cinch’s guess was correct, Pohon was a heavyworlder, able to survive in a couple of g’s without major discomfort. He wasn’t all that big, but he would be strong enough so he could probably upend a bus if he got excited.
After they hid Cinch’s car in the trees, the four of them walked to where the three had tethered their horses. There was a wide spot where the stream filled a hollow, and the animals stood in or next to the water under the shade of a broad-leafed tree thirty meters tall.
“So, what do you want?”
“I understand you have had some trouble with M. Tuluk.”
Pan laughed. “That’s an understatement. How about, I hate his guts.”
“You think he’s a crook?”
“They’ll have to screw him into his coffin when he dies. Soon, I hope. Me and the boys, we swipe stuff, mostly from Tuluk. Like mosquitoes buzzing a bull for all the harm we’re doing. But Tuluk is big time. You know what they say. ‘Steal a little, they’ll put you in jail. Steal a lot, they’ll give you the jail.’ “
Cinch grinned. Pretty sharp kid. What he said was, unfortunately, true enough on a lot of worlds. Money talks, and big money talks the loudest.
“So, are you going give us trouble?” Pan asked.
“Not me. You’re not breaking any galactic regs I know of, no civil rights violations. As long as you keep it local, it’s between you and the constable.”
All three of the young men laughed at that. Apparently they didn’t have a very high opinion of Constable Maling.
They talked for another few minutes, asking and answering questions. They knew he’d come to answer Gus Kohl’s complaints, they were sure Tuluk was the cause, and they’d help him if they could.
Cinch had found out what he wanted to know from these low-rate bandits. One more small piece in the puzzle. So far, it was shaping up to be fairly simple. He had the major players laid out, some idea of what was going on and why, and it was just a matter of time until he managed to fit the parts together properly to finish it. No sweat.
“Okay,” the ranger said. “I just wanted to make contact and see where we stood. You stay out of my way, I won’t bother you.”
He turned to leave.
“Uh, Ranger?”
“Yeah?”
“Say hello to Baji for me?”
Cinch fought the urge to smile paternally at the young man. The tone of Pan’s voice gave away a lot. Sounded as if Gus Kohl was right about what the bandit felt for Baji.
Cinch nodded, once. “I’ll do that.”
As he walked back toward his car, Cinch thought about his upcoming vacation. He was due time off in a month or so. He should have this all wrapped up well before then. He was looking forward to kicking back and doing nothing for a few weeks.
“SO, how was your visit to town,” Baji asked.
Cinch finished chewing on the bite of steak and swallowed it. It was a prime cut, cooked to medium-rare perfection. A meal like this would cost him a day’s pay on any of the civilized worlds where meat was allowed, more where it had to be bought sub rosa.
“Interesting,” he said. “I met a man named ‘Mutt,’ spoke to M. Tuluk, Wanita, and had a nice chat with her brother. He says to say ‘hello,’ by the way.”
They were in the smaller of two dining rooms off the kitchen. A larger room for more formal dining affairs adjoined the smaller room.
Baji blinked and looked startled. “You saw Pan?” Something flitted across her face, some hidden emotion Cinch couldn’t read.
Cinch nodded, busy chewing on another bite of the delicious beef. Sirloin? Or filet? One good thing about frontier worlds, they knew how to eat well.
“Well,” she said. “He’s nobody, just a boy who is going to come to a bad end, if you believe my great-grandfather. “
“Do you believe him?”
“Sometimes, But enough about bandits. Tell me about yourself, Cinch. Are you contracted?”
Cinch took another bite of steak. Nothing subtle about that change of subject. Baji had also changed her clothes since he’d seen her earlier. She now wore a sleeveless tunic and shorts, both in a pale orange silk. She had showered, washed her hair and fluffed it, and put on a new perfume. This one was less musky than the first one he’d noticed, more a flowery, peppery scent. The silk was thin enough so he could see she wore nothing under it. Her nipples were visible and her pubic hair apparent.
Hell, the voice he sometimes thought of as belonging to his baser self said, why don’t you just fuck her? She wants it, you want it. Who would it hurt? She’s practically climbing on you. Go, boy!
Cinch smiled at himself.
“Something funny?”
“No, I was just remembering something. Wouldn’t make any sense to you. To answer your question, No, I’m not contracted.”
She flashed her smile. “So, what did you find out? Is Gramp right? Is Manis–M. Tuluk–the one causing the problems?”
Cinch shrugged. “Too early to tell for sure. I would say probably, given his responses.”
She toyed with the glass of wine in front of her. “What are you going to do ?”
“Keep looking.”
“What if you don’t find anything?”
“I’ll find something. I always find something. That’s what they pay me for.”
She shifted her position a bit, allowed her knees to spread a little, took a deeper breath and arched her back a hair.
Good Lord.
“Anything else I can get for you?” she said. “More steak or wine?” Perhaps a little fellatio?
“No, I’m fine,” he said. But maybe not. Maybe this was going to be more of a problem than he thought.
“Did I mention that I have a little sister?” he said.
* * *
The air was oppressively hot, even with the sprinklers and buried root water lines going. Rainbows flared and faded among the fine mists from the sprinklers. Blueweed used a lot of water. Tuluk’s private line ran all the way from Lake Hidjah in the foothills to the northeast, some hundred and fifteen kilometers away. Laying that pipe, a thick plastic tube big enough so a tan man could barely encircle it with his arms, had not been cheap, nor had it been fast or easy. It had cost two years, a million C’s, four men dead in accidents, and dozens still drawing disability. Still, it had been worth it. The much-expanded blueweed crop had been thick and lush since. The entire cost of the water line would be amortized in another five years even if that was all he grew.
“Window up,” Tukul said.
The limo’s back window slid into place obediently, the polarized plastic going dark as the bright light splashed its way through the mists shrouding the tops of the crop. Even with the car’s coolers going full blast, the heat had pounded its way through the open window. The compartment began to cool again, the damp-mowed-lawn smell of the blueweed faded a little.
“Take us to the Twist patch,” Tukul said.
The limo’s only other occupant was the driver. Lobang nodded. “Right.” The limo lifted and began to move down the wide, plant-bounded lane.
Blueweed looked much like a corn plant, save there was no fruit and the broad, hand-shaped leaves and thick, pithy stalks were a uniform dusty blue-green. The plants achieved a height of five meters at maturity. They needed bright and hot sun through a long growing season, but also great amounts of water, two things that did not happen together very often on this planet. Where blue weed grew wild, it lived on the edges of lakes or rivers and only sparsely there.
Blueweed was the source of the most potent antibiotic in the known galaxy. In the proper dosages and mixed with appropriate secondary medicines, there were few bacteria, germs, or viruses that blueweed would not wipe out in vivo. More, the drug could be tailored to leave normal flora and fauna alone, thereby avoiding many of the side effects of most antibiological chems–such as fungal over
-growths and the diarrhea secondary to the death of enteric bacteria. Almost nobody was allergic to pure blueweed; with a little rejiggering of the basic formula, pathogenic bacteria or viruses normally resistant to attack rolled over and died nearly every time. It was truly a miracle drug. It took ten liters of raw blueweed extract to produce four cc’s of the finished basic product, and one mature blueweed plant made about a half-liter of extract. It required twenty plants for a vial of the miracle liquid, quite a lot.
Tuluk had twenty-five square kilometers of blueweed under cultivation, more than sixty-five hundred hectares. So he had quite a lot of the plants. A certain amount of the crop was lost each season–ruined by spray-resistant insects, consumed by small animals, damaged by poor harvesting techniques and, of course, the necessary seed crop that had to be left standing–but an average yield would be worth almost two millions C’s, before taxes and expenses. If all of his cattle vanished into thin air and his other legitimate business interests fell flat, he would still be able to consider himself a wealthy man. But not the wealthiest man in the local system, or even on Roget. For someone who wanted to be the wealthiest man in the galaxy, the cattle and blueweed and other odds and ends were not enough. He needed something else.
Therefore the special crop. The Twist.
Tuluk smiled. The Twist would Blake him rich enough to buy and sell planets, if he didn’t do something foolish.
The rows of blueweed flashed past the semidarkened window as Tukul leaned back against the biogel seat, custom orthomolded for his body. With this much at stake, he indeed had to take great care ...
* * *
“–takes a lot of care,” Gus said. He waved one hand at the rows of blue-green plants.
