Like bees swarming around a hive, hundreds of spacecrafts—freighters, haulers, space liners, mining vessels, you name it—were steadily ascending and descending the planet below. Navigation was handled via AI’s, communicating with other AI’s. The Hound, in a holding pattern of first-come, first-served cue, was eventually cleared. Gallic was given specific heading instructions—a designated lane to follow to the planet’s surface below.
* * *
Along the seedy outskirts of Rawlins City, proper, vested establishments—such as spacecraft repair and body shops, nudie-dance halls, tattoo parlors, and the like—could be found, as well as Polly Gant’s Imperial Bail Bonds & Repos. Gallic, who’d done some work for Polly five or six times in the past, had sworn to himself each time that it would be the last. It wasn’t that Gant was obtusely dishonest. He simply had a tendency to withhold pertinent information. Yet, here Gallic was again. Taking in the congested city below, he let out a tired breath and shook his head.
At a thousand feet above the surface, he assumed manual control of the Hound and looked for a suitable place to land. Imperial Bail Bonds & Repos was a sprawling, fifteen-mile-square compound; although some was allocated to office space, the majority of acreage was dedicated to numerous landing slots for various repo-spacecraft. Finding an adequate-sized open patch of concrete for landing, Gallic maneuvered the ship’s substantial bulk, engaging the landing thrusters.
* * *
Gallic descended down the gangway at a half-run, since he was running behind schedule. He needed to get over to the office and find Polly. Then get paid and get the kid’s 5T hover carted off the Hound. He was already having second thoughts about taking the repo job. Nothing was more important than meeting Tori; being there on time. She easily could blow him off if he was late—work the case without him.
“You motherfucker!”
Gallic turned around, seeing two men hurrying in his direction.
“I’ve been waiting twenty minutes for that landing spot!”
Gallic didn’t slow as the two men approached him on his right side. Both, also repo guys, were Native Americans, wearing dark ponytails and leather vests. Gallic knew them both. The elder one had a pockmarked face—like he’d suffered a bad bout of smallpox as a child. The other man, shorter and younger, had a narrow, chiseled-like face, with two beady, close-set, eyes. Gallic remembered the pockmarked guy’s name—Sargento. Not sure, though, if that was his first or last name since he only went by Sargento. He couldn’t recall the other man’s name.
But Sargento was a bad egg. Had tried several times to get his arbiter’s license to become a Frontier Marshal, but he had a police record. The Hound’s AI had proven to be a good resource—providing all kinds of information, even when the file was supposedly closed. In Sargento’s case, it was mostly minor infractions—misdemeanors. Known to have a bad temper—one he’d supposedly taken out on his common-law wife when back on Earth. In New Mexico, Gallic remembered the case. Her last hospital visit was just that . . . her last anything. He’d broken her jaw—and her neck. Sargento claimed it was a fluke accident—a nasty fall down an embankment. But her autopsy report showed multiple past injuries, most never properly treated. An ulna, broken in two places; a messed-up metacarpus that made using that hand virtually impossible; and a mouth filled with either missing or broken teeth. At twenty-four, she looked like she’d gone through a war. Needless to say, Gallic had nothing but negative feelings toward the guy. It’d be best for all concerned if he and his little friend keep their distance.
They caught up to Gallic twenty paces from the front entrance of the one-story, glorified mobile-home-type, office structure.
“Hey, asshole!”
Gallic glanced in their direction but didn’t slow. “I’m in a hurry, boys.”
“We’re all in a hurry. You took our spot. Been circling around like a fucking vulture . . . then you swoop in and grab it. Had to land clear on the other side of the lot.”
Gallic stopped and faced them. “Yeah, well, as you can see . . . I’m already here. What do you want me to do about it now? Call your mommy for you?”
“For a starter, you can move that big rust bucket of yours and we’ll swap places. We’ve got five repo crafts to bring out, and we’re not about to hover them here from way out there.”
“I’ll be done in here in a few minutes. You can take my spot then,” Gallic said, moving up the ramp toward the office doors.
“No man . . . you’re going to move it right now! I’m the last person you want to make an enemy of.”
Gallic shrugged then turned away. “Uh huh . . . I’m shaking in my boots,” he retorted back, as he pulled open both swinging glass doors, leaving them behind on the sidewalk. Entering the office, he glanced left and right, seeing the familiar stifling—claustrophobic—space, where stacks of papers and vid-sheets were strewn everywhere. Gallic’s head nearly touched the low-hanging, yellowed ceiling. The place was as bad as he remembered.
A woman, seated at a nearby desk, looked up as he stepped forward. Not there the last time he visited, she must have been pushing sixty. A lit cigarette dangled from one corner of her mouth, bobbing up and down, when she asked, “You Gallic?”
He nodded.
“You’re late.”
“Not by much. Where’s Polly?”
She gestured toward a closed door. “He’s on a vid-call. Shouldn’t be long.”
“Can’t you handle the business?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, dear. Polly wants to talk to you.”
The swinging-glass doors opened behind him and the two Native American repo guys entered. Glaring at Gallic, the cramped office space put them less than a foot apart. Gallic stared back at them with a blank expression.
The inside office door opened and Polly Gant emerged, wearing a bright-red Hawaiian shirt that was decorated with a repeating pattern of palm trees and coconuts. He brightened when he saw Gallic. His baldhead glistened under the overhead lights—like he’d just polished it—as he waddled over with an outstretched hand. “There he is . . . Galaxy man! Good to see you . . . though you’re a bit late.”
Gallic wasn’t sure when the nickname first took hold, probably a couple of years back. He briefly wondered if Polly had coined it first and if it spread out from there. People could call him whatever they liked, just as long as he got paid and things stayed on the up and up. Gallic said, “The 5T’s in the Hound. Pay my commission, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Polly ran a hand over his shiny dome. “Come into my office . . . I have a job for you.”
“I’m in a hurry, Polly. Need to get right back to the territories.”
“Oh, come on. Five minutes won’t kill you big guy.” He didn’t wait for an answer, hurrying back into his office as Gallic followed him. Quickly seated, Polly’s head was barely visible above his cluttered desk, with mountains of file folders and stacks of vid-sheets. He entered something on his terminal.
“I’ve pinged your account. Gave you a small bonus, too. Hold on.” Bringing a radio close to his mouth, he said, “Bart . . . that Hausenbach L35T is here. She’s in the hold of the old Hewley-Jawbone carrier.” Polly looked up at Gallic: “Is it open?”
Gallic nodded. “Yeah . . . it’s open. And you’ll get the 5T over to the dealer for me?”
“Of course.” Polly tossed the radio onto the desk, then looked up at Gallic. “Sit . . . you’re going to like what I have for you.”
Gallic checked the time on his ComsBand. Even if he left now he’d still be an hour late getting back to the territories. Taking a seat in the only other available chair, he said, “Five minutes. No more. What’s up . . . another repo?”
“Yeah, well . . . kind of. But on a totally different scale.” Polly rifled through several file folders on his desk until he found what he was looking for, then pulled out a vid-sheet. Gallic saw movement—probably an active video—on the flimsy, paper-like sheet. “Here we go: Her name is Tillman, Allison Tillman . .
. a business owner in the manufacturing territories. She reported it missing from her storage facility a couple of days ago.”
Gallic raised his brow, questioningly. “What’s she lost?”
“Stolen, not lost. This is grand theft, but on a whole new scale. Some sort of high-tech marvel: a technological prototype of some sort. Something called a Hayai spacecraft, worth a hundred . . . a thousand times what that 5T you just brought in goes for.”
Gallic stared. “Glad somebody’s got discretionary funds these days . . .”
“You have no idea. Anyway, the owner wants you. Says she wants the Galaxy Man.”
Gallic thought about that; it was a lot of money. Life-changing money. He could pay off of a good portion of the Hound from that bounty reward; quit the repo side of the business; dedicate himself full-time to only Frontier Marshaling duties. He thought about the new revelation Danbury had mentioned, that Silvia Tori was heading out to the Frontier worlds this very moment. Stay objective . . . don’t fixate . . . “What’s the bounty?”
“It’s five million dollars.”
Gallic whistled.
“You’re the perfect man for this, Gallic. Your experience alone; previously the DCI, and all . . .”
“Who else have you sent out on this? I don’t want to be tripping over ten other guys.”
“Well . . . this is big! And that’s a lot of money. As you know, police don’t venture much into these territories, but there’s a few Frontier Marshal’s, other than you, who may jump on this too. All I can promise is you’ll have a head start.”
“Fine, I’ll do it. Send me everything you have on this Tillman lady, along with the vessel’s last known whereabouts. I should be able to move on it fairly quickly.”
Polly looked excited—practically salivating. His take would probably be as much as Gallic’s. “I’ll send you everything I have on the spacecraft, as well as Tillman’s contact information. But you can’t wait on this, Gallic—you need to get on it right away. And one more thing: She wants you to nab the ones responsible; wants them brought to justice. That’s why she particularly picked you. This is more than just a repo job . . .”
“I get it. It shouldn’t be a problem,” Gallic said, with far more confidence than he actually felt.
Chapter 6
Deep Space — On board the Hound.
The return trip back to the settlements was uneventful. He’d grabbed a few hours of sleep and successfully reattempted making breakfast. A half hour before reaching Muleshoe, the case file on Allison Tillman’s theft arrived, via a CoreNet mail-beam.
Gallic had just enough time to print the vid-sheets and skim their contents. Polly had done an adequate job collecting the information, and it did seem, at least for the most part, fairly complete. He checked to see if the background info on the Hayai was there, and it was. He skimmed down to the section that talked about Allison Tillman. Younger than he expected, she had a respectable resume. Highly accomplished, for a thirty-five-year-old. Gallic viewed the replaying, five-second vid-image of the somewhat distracted-looking woman. She certainly was attractive. There was something about her expression too—the way she looked back into the camera lens—showing humor, even some annoyance at being photographed mixed with something else—vulnerability perhaps. The moving vid-image spoke volumes: She wasn’t there for herself, and she didn’t have time for such trivial activities. Gallic looked forward to reading the rest of the bio information—when he had time.
Seated within his book-shelved-lined study, situated on the opposite side of the loft from the kitchen, Gallic closed the file, placing it down on his desk. He stared up at the large projected murder board that his life had revolved around for over three years. Seven-feet-wide by five-feet-high—the 3D construct hovered unobtrusively; it had become part of the environment, like a chair or a couch. Everything that had to do with his wife and daughter’s murder case was on the board and organized into sections: Suspects, Victims, Evidence, and Leads. There was much still missing—but there was information he’d pieced together through his own unofficial, unauthorized, investigation. Not having access to the original lead investigator’s case file had put Gallic at a big disadvantage. Still, there were new developments on that front. Inspector Frederick “Freddy” MacDonald had recently retired, due to health issues, Gallic heard. Restraining order or not, Gallic soon would be paying the old D-22 investigator a visit. Faces of the remaining suspects looked back at him on the board construct—as if taunting him to get off his ass and solve the case. Solve it so he could get on with living whatever years remained of his life. But would that ever be possible?
He felt the subtle cadence of the drives increase, as the ship neared the planet Muleshoe. He stood and said, “AI . . . close down the murder board.” The projected murder scene images and various suspect faces faded from view. He crossed the open space to the ship’s command center, taking in the view out the forward window. The Hound was now entering high orbit. He checked the various console hover displays, verifying everything was as it should be. The ship was due for a serious maintenance overhaul within the next few weeks. He’d have to save a portion of his 5T commission for that expense, for it wouldn’t come cheap.
* * *
It was midday when the Hound touched down—landing on the exact spot it took off from on the day before. Grabbing his coat and hat, he rode down the rickety, noisy, internal lift from the loft to the sub-level airlock below, just forward of the hold area. He usually took the stairs, but since he was running late getting back, he hoped to shave off a few minutes getting to Renegade’s Haven. Exiting the outside airlock hatch, he paused, waiting for the ship’s underbelly metal stairway to fully extend downward.
The wind had again kicked up, bringing along with it a dozen, distant, spinning dirt-devils. Like miniature tornadoes, they were near Gallic’s height and the color of sand.
* * *
Reaching the dilapidated bar, Gallic took in the landing lot. It was nearly empty. Close to the entrance, nestled between two, open-bed, hovercrafts, he saw the unmistakable green and black, beat-to-shit, government-issued police star-cruiser. About the same size as Larz Cugan’s Hausenbach L35T, it lacked his ship’s sporty clean lines, luxury accoutrements, and her powerful propulsion system. Entering the establishment, Gallic scanned the patrons through the hazy, smoke-filled air. He almost didn’t recognize Sergeant Tori. Sitting at the bar and facing outward—her elbows propped up behind her—she was staring back at him. She’d changed very little; still had the same plain Jane appearance. Wearing no makeup, her unkempt, mousey-brown hair was worn blunt-cut to her shoulders. Like before, she wore an ill-fitting, D-22 issued uniform that seemed somewhat oversized, giving her a unisex appearance. But something extra showed on her face—a more confident expression? Also, there was that deep-seated weariness in her eyes from witnessing, all too often, the terrible things human beings can do to one another.
Gallic reached her in four long strides.
Tori gave him a half smile. Gesturing with a waving finger, she said, “The whole macho cowboy garb suits you, Gallic. Christ . . . I’d forgotten how big you are.”
“Been waiting long?” he asked.
“Few hours,” she replied back.
He noted an empty bottle of beer on the bar and an ashtray half-filled with smashed- down cigarette butts.
“You ready to go?”
“I’ve been ready for hours,” she answered.
Gallic caught Randy’s eye behind the counter: “Put it on my tab.”
“Can’t. She’s already paid up.”
Tori, giving Randy a nod, hefted her body off the stool. Together, they headed for the door. Holding the door open for him, she said, “We’ll take my ride.”
“Where are we going?”
“Township called Heritage Plains . . . a planet called Gorman. Do you know where that is?”
Gallic said, “Gorman? Sure . . . it’s here, amongst the other agricultural planets within the settlement
s . . . two over from this one. All were given old-western-style names: Muleshoe, Rio Bravo, Rawhide, Alamosa, and Gorman.”
She hesitated at the front of the vehicle. “I want to be perfectly clear here, Gallic, right from the get-go. You’re here at the discretion of Constable Danbury. I didn’t want you in on this. Even with your investigative experience, it’s still a conflict of interest. So, you’ll be joining me as an observer only. You’ll keep your mouth shut and stay the fuck out of my way. That clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Good . . . get in.”
* * *
Tori glanced over at Gallic, who was miserable with his large body folded into the confined cockpit space. “You like it out here? Away from people?” she asked.
“There are people here.”
“You know what I mean. The remoteness of life around these parts?”
He shrugged. “It’s fine. I keep busy.”
She snickered at that.
“What?” he said.
“You know, you’ve sort of become a larger-than-life cartoon character back at Colonial Police HQ. You do know that, right? People call you Galaxy Man.”
He inwardly groaned but didn’t outwardly respond to the taunt. “Tell me about what we’re going to see.”
“On Gorman?”
Gallic nodded.
Reaching back, Tori grabbed a folder off the rear seat. Inside was a stack of vid-sheets. “I’m reluctant to even show it to you. On account of what . . . well, you know—”
Galaxy Man Page 4
