Galaxy Man

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  Gallic continued to stare at the distant horizon then glanced around at the terrain closer in. Someone was out there—someone was watching him. He had a sixth sense about such things—the hairs on the back of his neck now standing up. Yeah, I know you’re out there, asshole.

  Gallic shaved in the shower as his thoughts raced over recent developments: the latest crime scene, what he had learned from Professor Harkins, and the bizarre ranting by Lane. He’d need to percolate about everything the entire day. That’s how clues often came to him—letting his subconscious go to work while his conscious self kept occupied with other things.

  “Mr. Gallic . . . sorry to disturb.”

  “What is it, AI?” he asked, turning the water faucet even hotter, letting the steam envelop him.

  “Two incoming high-priority CoreNet messages for you. Superintendent Bernard Danbury would like an update today, and Ms. Allison Tillman would like to speak with you. She sounded . . . somewhat irritated.”

  Gallic’s thoughts turned to the Hayai case. He still needed to find that damn spacecraft. With things now revving up on the hammer-and-nails murders, it was becoming more and more difficult to give that case the attention it deserved. But as a new idea took hold, he turned off the water. Opening the shower door, he reached for a towel then wrapped it around him. “Get Phil on the line for me, AI . . . audio only.” Several moments later, he heard Phil’s voice.

  “What’s happening?” Phil asked.

  “Where you at?”

  “What are you . . . my mother? I’m here on Gorman . . . following up on the crime of the century. Got a report that a prominent rancher’s three head of cattle were killed.”

  “Yeah? So, what was that all about?” Gallic asked.

  “They’re dead, all right. But there doesn’t seem to be anything all too nefarious about it. The Longhorns looks to be done-in due to the exhaust stream from a low-flying craft; one with a powerful propulsion system. Now barbequed beef.”

  “Listen . . . I may have a proposal for you, if you’re ready for a little extra work. The money’s good.”

  “I’ve already tried the whole marriage thing, but thanks for asking,” Phil said.

  “Funny. Can you meet me . . . say for breakfast?”

  “Give me an hour . . . my stomach should be settled by then,” Phil said.

  * * *

  Having landed the Hound in an open nearby field, Gallic made his way behind a cluster of timber-sided structures, then down through an alleyway onto the rural sleepy street. Not his first time here, two years prior he was surprised to learn there was an actual town around called Heritage Plains. To Gallic it always seemed more like an Old West movie set, or a theme park attraction, than a real township civic center. Approximately a quarter-mile long, three blocks total—both sides of Maple Street—the master-planned, small municipality was roughly based on the famous western town Tombstone, Arizona, back on Earth. Word had it the authentic, rustic-looking construction project cost its investors a cool two billion dollars, even some thirty years back. A town meant to provide local wealthy ranchers, and their families, a safe place to come together, while maintaining the look and feel of historical days now long past. It worked, for the most part, Gallic figured. Over the last thirty years the town had been around, it had indeed seasoned, becoming ever more the venue it was intended to play. What the town planners hadn’t counted on was how closely this Old West facsimile had become authentic in other ways, too. Like the type of man naturally drawn to such a place. Sure, there was a movie house, and a general store, and a stock and feed emporium, and even a beauty parlor, but several establishments—such as the Black Triangle Guns and Ammo and Clark’s Saloon—as soon as the evening dusk settled in, the rowdy and mischievous ruffians awakened. Both Phil and Gallic had been called in, needing to attend to those who’d come out on the wrong side of an argument—specifically, the wrong side of a Smith and Wesson, or a Colt sidearm pistol, or a refurbished Remington shotgun.

  Daisy’s was a greasy-spoon restaurant, halfway up the street, owned and operated by a fellow named Doug Flatbush. A man of considerable heft and a foul temper. He lived by the motto posted on a sign at the front entrance: We reserve the right not to serve anyone we deem to be an asshole.

  A small bell tinkled as Gallic entered the surprisingly busy eatery. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. As usual, the two windows facing the street were shuttered closed. Why? Gallic had no idea. He heard patrons, talking in low murmurs, and the sound of metal cutlery scraping against ceramic flatware. Pans clanged onto stovetops, and Doug’s voice yelling at the help in the back kitchen.

  “Over here.”

  Gallic spotted Phil, sitting at a corner table all by himself, with a newspaper spread out. He gestured to Gallic, a cup of coffee in his hand.

  As Gallic approached, Phil beneath the table kicked his boot out, sliding a chair forward for his friend. “Sit . . . take a load off.”

  About to do just that, Gallic was surprised at hearing the front entrance bell tinkle four times in quick succession. Daisy’s certainly popular today, he thought, pulling the chair clear of the table ready to sit. Behind him he heard a deep voice, one seasoned by years of overly drinking and tobacco usage.

  “Stay on your feet . . . you won’t be staying.”

  Four men approached. All were big, and looked like ranchers. Not young, like Cugan’s ranch hands, each wore the same chafed expression.

  Gallic sat anyway and reached for the menu he’d spotted, partially peeking out beneath Phil’s newspaper. “What’s good here, Phil?” he asked, turning over the two-sided vid-sheet menu from luncheon offerings to breakfast offerings.

  “Flatbush makes a mean Denver omelet,” Phil said, also ignoring the intrusion. “That’s what I’m ordering . . . soon as someone makes it over here.”

  “Hey . . . you . . . that your old heap out there?”

  Gallic glanced up at the speaker, garbed in a long olive duster. Tall, tanned, and like the other three, he wore a Stetson, set low down over his forehead, making his eyes difficult to see. Still, Gallic could see enough of his lined face, his gray hair, to place the man in his fifties, or early sixties. Gallic put the other three men near the same age. One was wearing a long navy-blue duster, another a dark-gray duster, and the third a tan duster—so new it still bore creases down the sleeves. Or maybe the guy’s wife had just ironed the thing for him.

  “He asked you a question . . . is that you’re heap out in the field?” navy-blue duster asked.

  Gallic exchanged a quick glance with Phil. Mr. Cugan, Linda Cugan’s husband, was on the list of people they wanted to talk to regarding the Johnson murders. The other three men, undoubtedly, were other nearby wealthy ranchers.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Cugan?” Gallic asked.

  That he knew his name, made the rancher hesitate. “We suspect you’re responsible for killing three of my herd.”

  Gallic shot a glance at Phil, not appreciating being set up. Raising his palms, “I didn’t know whom the damn cows belonged to. I spoke to a field hand, who found them smoldering in a pasture.”

  Giving another glance at the menu, Gallic decided he’d go with the omelet too. “I’m going to have breakfast; talk some with my friend here. If you want to wait . . . preferably not right where you’re standing, I’ll speak with you afterward.”

  Cugan expression flashed with indignation. Nodding to the others, he said, “Let’s help him outside.”

  “Before you do that, understand I am under contract with D-22. Touch me, and you’ll be assailing an appointed officer of this jurisdiction.” Gallic spoke with conviction, though it was total bullshit. He, too, was nothing more than a Frontier Marshal here, just like Phil.

  Cugan smirked. “Yeah, I know exactly who you are. My wife told me all about you. How you harassed her and my daughter.”

  “Hardly. Simply asked her a few questions. Questions she wasn’t too forthcoming providing any answers to.�
�

  “I can attest to that, Don. There was no harassment—”

  “Shut up and stay out of this, Phil,” Cugan spat.

  Gallic was unaware that Phil and Rick Cugan knew each other, yet apparently, they did. Made sense.

  “That thing you call a spacecraft fried three of my best heifers. You’ll be compensating my ranch for them,” Cugan said, leering down at Gallic.

  Cugan’s three friends moved in and surrounded Gallic, grabbing ahold of something—an arm, a fistful of coat sleeve, or the fabric at the nape of his collar. They tried in vain to lift him off the chair, but at two hundred thirty-plus pounds—pounds mostly consisting of sinewy muscle mass—it would take more than Cugan’s three stooges to heft him up.

  “You’re coming outside, where we can discuss this without making a disruption,” Cugan said from the sidelines.

  Gallic didn’t hesitate. Using his right hand, he firmly grasped the man’s hand now holding onto his left arm. The hand felt meaty and soft. No less than three bones, all probably metacarpals, cracked and splintered under Gallic’s strong, substantial grip. A yelp of pain caused Daisy’s other patrons to stop what they were doing and look their way. The dark-blue duster-dressed man was red-faced. Bent over, he clutched his injured hand to his balls. Gallic next grabbed ahold of the hand squeezing his right shoulder—the rancher in the pretty tan duster. He yanked the offending hand forward, hard and fast. Cugan’s crony staggered clumsily, flopping onto Gallic’s back as if trying to climb on for a piggyback ride. By then, Gallic’s right hand was free. Had secured a tight hold on the wrist of tan duster’s forward extended arm; it was caught like a piece of flimsy wood in a steel vise. With his other hand, Gallic ratcheted the man’s hand and wrist in the direction God never intended it to go—where radius and ulna bones met the carpal bones. The sound of bones either cracking or outright fracturing were followed by new yelps of pain. Both men, shielding their wounded hands, hurried from the restaurant. Gallic heard the little bell atop the door tinkle once, then twice.

  During the ensuing commotion, Gallic’s heart rate hadn’t increased so much as a percentage point. It wasn’t lost on him how encounters, like this one, made so little impact on him physically. He’d been trained in the Royal Marines, learning to defend himself against the worst kind of adversary. He’d killed men in battle and had been left for dead himself, both in war and in the commission of his job, more than he cared to admit. He looked over to Rick Cugan. A prick, just like his son. What was it about people—men—with money? Thinking they were all powerful, when they actually were anything but.

  “As I said. If you want to wait for me outside, I’ll speak with you when I’m done in here.” Gallic then looked away. Nodding, he gave the approaching server a lopsided smile.

  Cugan and the rancher in the gray duster turned and strode away.

  “You ever hear that it’s not a good idea to shit where you eat?” Phil asked.

  Ignoring him, Gallic spoke to the young twenty-something server, whose nametag read Cassidy: “I’ll have the Denver omelet and coffee . . . black.”

  “Make that two,” Phil said.

  Cassidy wrote down their order. Giving Gallic a tight smile, she asked, “What was that all about . . . with Mr. Cugan? The owner’s not happy, seeing his customers knocked around like that.” She looked over her shoulder. “He may ask you to leave.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Phil said. “We go back a spell. Go ahead and put our order in, Cassidy.”

  Chapter 24

  Frontier Planet, Gorman — Heritage Plains Township.

  Gallic caught an angry-looking Doug Flatbush eyeing them several times from behind the kitchen counter.

  “So . . . you mentioned needing my help?” Phil queried, swallowing a mouthful of Denver omelet.

  “You’re aware of my work with Polly Gant?”

  Phil nodded.

  “He’s got me working on a grand theft case. A high-end spacecraft, called a Hayai.”

  “Oh yeah . . . Sargento and Hok’ee mentioned that gig to me. Told me about the Tillman Museum penthouse over on Spector. There’ll be a sweet payment reward . . . huh? . . . for whoever brings back that lost ship.”

  “Is there anyone you don’t know?” Gallic asked, surprised. Phil, chewing, responded back silently, giving him a combined nod and shrug.

  “Anyway, I’m a bit overloaded with everything going on right now. Thought, with your strong security background, you’d be a good fit for this. I’ll split the bounty with you. Just know there isn’t anything simple about this case. How that spacecraft was taken, right off that museum floor, well . . . so far, it has me stumped. Interested?”

  Phil chewed for a while, staring blankly at his near-empty plate.

  “What’s there to think about? It’s a shitload of money.”

  “Yeah. Sure, I’m in,” Phil said.

  “Good. But we’ll have to secure the ship before the competition does. And I have to tell you . . . Sargento is motivated to beat me on this one.”

  Phil chuckled, “Heard about the set-down space confrontation.”

  “Anyway . . . I’ve got security footage, back in the Hound, plus other things that’ll help us.”

  Gallic listed some of the security measures the museum employed—the latest tech stuff, some even newer than when Phil was in the business. “Any names come to mind? Outfits with the capacity to pull off a high-end job like this?”

  “I can think of a few. A Taiwanese bunch, from the high-tech sector, called the Wom’s. They’ve been active lately. But they usually don’t deal with spacecraft. Also, there’s the Ghost Walkers. I know, it’s a stupid name, but they’d be up for it—something that high caliber. Wasn’t aware they worked anywhere but on Earth, but I’ll do some digging around.”

  “At least you have a few—”

  Phil suddenly perked up and cut him off. “There’s another guy . . . a big deal in the electronics and security world. Someone who not only brainstorms new tech then sells to the highest bidder but has been known to get high bids through reverse engineering a company’s existing code and technology. Using that information, he pretty much forces the same companies to make him an offer. If this Hayai is as high-tech as you’re claiming, he may be involved.”

  “Let me know what you find out. I’ll avoid speaking to Allison Tillman ‘till you get back to me with something.”

  Phil appraised Gallic for a moment. “So how you doing with the hammer-and-nails murders?”

  “I’m not sure.” Gallic then relayed the latest murder scene details, including the new addition of wall glyphs and writings. “Something much bigger is going on here, Phil. Something that has to do with the Curz civilization. You know, from where that alien ship on Mars first originated. That, along with a secret society, dedicated to keeping women . . . all females . . . from positions of power. They deemed themselves The Curz Watchers. Their charter is to secretly exist pretty much everywhere . . . become a part of everything, from government positions to corporate executives; that sort of thing. Now, these Curz Watchers are everywhere, and it’s impossible to track them down. We’re talking about some of the wealthiest individuals in the known galaxy.”

  Phil looked reflective for a moment. “My dad used to talk about a group of men, who founded a club of sorts . . . formed, I think, when discovery of that spacecraft on Mars was first revealed. Guess it was close to a hundred years ago. He knew some of them; even did business with a few, I guess. He was terrified of those men, said they were total fanatics. I think my father’s paranoia over this group is what killed him . . . I honestly do. In Dad’s suicide note he wrote: ‘Keep your mother and sisters safe, and don’t let them get too far ahead.’” Phil looked at Gallic then said, “So yeah, I know about that group, this TCW, but it’s been years since I’ve heard anything more about them. Never heard anything about their cause migrating into something like murder . . . not in modern times at least.”

  “I’m sorry, Phil. About your fat
her.”

  * * *

  Another twenty minutes passed before Gallic and Phil exited through Daisy’s front door. Rick Cugan and his friend were outside waiting, leaning against a faux hitching rail. Both men shot Gallic a hostile glare on seeing him approach.

  “Took you long enough,” the man in the gray duster said.

  “I didn’t catch your name. Mister . . . ?” Gallic asked.

  Suddenly less willing to talk, he finally came out with, “Thompson. Roy Thompson.”

  “You get your friends taken care of?” Phil asked.

  “There’s a walk-in med station down the street,” Thomson volunteered—he looked at Gallic with contempt in his eyes.

  Gallic turned his attention to Rick Cugan. “Look . . . I had nothing to do with your cows getting fried. Turn around and take a good gander at my ship.” Gallic gestured toward the open field, and the ginormous, somewhat worn and rusted, vessel, sitting on a patch of muddy ground. “Take a look aft.”

  Reluctantly, Cugan and Thompson turned and studied the Hound.

  “See the big Laciter rings on those two drives back there? Those are Graviton drives, immensely powerful. The propulsion system on a Hewley-Jawbone carrier blows the doors off all large-scale transport ships in its category. But there’s something unique about Graviton drives . . . they don’t generate much heat. They utilize an anti-grav disruption principle to move that big-ass vessel from point A to point B. So . . . if you’re looking to pin the demise of your cows on someone, best you look closer to home, perhaps at your own son. I’ve seen him zooming around at illegal high speeds, flying ridiculously close to the ground. That little L35T of his generates a substantial exhaust wake, somewhere in the neighborhood of twelve hundred degrees. That’ll sear the hide off three meandering cows quicker than you can say medium rare, please.”