The technoid before him slowly rose up—doing so without the use of arms. Higher and higher the being rose. Gallic, at six-feet-five, was tall. Taller than just about anyone he came into contact with. But this thing was easily a good ten inches taller than him. A technoid giant.
Water ran down the technoid’s slippery skin in winding rivulets as Gallic assessed the rest of it. If the technoid’s designers were looking for an anatomically correct male replica, they’d left out several important components—like a dick and balls. It struck Gallic that what he was looking at was a fully-grown GI Joe doll.
“My name is John Gallic. I have a meeting inside. Any chance we can get out of the weather, big guy?” Gallic asked.
The artificial man actually smiled. Not the kind of smile that was warm or friendly, or even sardonic, but a smile that said volumes, nevertheless. A smile that said: I’m going to kill you. And I’ll do so without working up so much as a sweat. “I am Stallworth. You will not survive this encounter.”
Chapter 27
Planet Spector — Sunland Technical Industries.
Stallworth rushed at him with its arms raised—fist clenched—like a lineman coming off the line at the snap of the football. Only this lineman was closer to five hundred pounds versus two or three hundred. Gallic ready for the advance dove to his left. From his own experience, while training with technoids in the service, albeit far smaller ones, getting hit by one of the things was like getting run over by a fast oncoming automobile, or a hovercraft.
“What’s this about . . . why the hell are you attacking me?” Gallic asked, quickly rising to his feet. He reached inside his coat for his Emanuel Dual 5—.45 handgun. Shit! He inwardly chastised himself for not slipping the lethal weapon into its hidden inside coat holster like he’d normally did prior to leaving the Hound then prepared for the next expected rush.
The technoid, calling itself Stallworth, came for him low and fast, catching Gallic just above the knees. Driven backward, and losing his balance, Gallic fell beneath his attacker. Instinctively, he raised his arms to protect his face then felt a flurry of hard punches—like two pile drivers—thundering down on his head and shoulders. It was going to be a short and merciless killing if he didn’t get some distance away from the technoid. Rolling to the left, he was stopped by the giant’s left leg. Like a pillar of stone, it didn’t budge. As more fist punches rained down, Gallic rolled hard, this time to his right. The technoid’s other foot—jarred out of place on the slippery rock surface—offered Gallic a chance to escape the rampage. While the attacker’s arms spun windmill-like, Gallic continued to roll away, then jumped up and onto his feet. He looked around for something, anything, to use as a weapon. Nothing. But staying on the defense, he knew, was a sure-fire way to find himself dead. So, this time Gallic rushed forward and, using the technoid’s earlier maneuver, hit it low in the legs—smack in the knees. He heard a snapping sound as one of its knees hyperextended outward, now facing in the reverse direction.
Gallic wasn’t entirely sure what level of sensitivity, if any, a technoid’s pain receptors were configured to. But seeing the now-extended inverse angle of its leg—well, that had to hurt like a son of a bitch. But then came that smile again. Using both hands, the artificial man took ahold of its upper and lower leg and ratcheted it back into place. Its knee crackled and snapped as bone, muscles, and tendons suddenly were conscripted back into their original configuration. Gallic didn’t hesitate. Attacking with a stepping sidekick, he targeted the same knee. But Stallworth was ready for Gallic and caught the incoming boot. Gallic felt his body flip up, then flip backward—ass-over-tea kettle. No sooner had he hit the ground when the pummeling began in earnest, but this time he didn’t have time to protect his face. A torrential blow hit him hard on the jaw, another smacked his left cheekbone, and a third struck him above his right eye. No sooner had the blows stopped when he felt the grip of steely fingers encircle his throat. Gallic rose; pulled high enough off the ground to stare into Stallworth’s unsympathetic gaze.
“And now you will die, John Gallic.”
As the technoid’s grip tightened, Gallic tried uselessly to pry its fingers open, feeling his airway completely closing off. He thought about his ComsBand but too late—no time left. He flailed his legs in desperation—knowing unconsciousness and death were moments away.
His brain, now completely starved for oxygen, was exhibiting the usual neurological response—a constricting tunnel effect. Gallic was barely aware of some movement—more like the passing of a shadow—behind the technoid. Then something hard to comprehend occurred when a man jumped onto Stallworth’s back. Holding his left arm around the technoid’s neck, the attacker brandished a large knife in the other. The grip on Gallic’s throat loosened—to the point he was able to gasp and take in a short breath. The man was on Stallworth’s back, in the process of dragging his knife across the technoid’s hairline, when Gallic dropped to the ground, painfully gasping for air. The technoid swung its torso from side to side—trying to jerk, buck, the man off him. Only then did Gallic realize the ponytailed man was Sargento. A large section of sliced-open bloody Technoid scalp flapped this way and that as Sargento held on for dear life.
Staggering to his feet, Gallic watched Stallworth grab ahold of Sargento—reaching back, he plucked Sargento from his shoulders and threw him violently to the ground. The technoid then stomped down on the Native American’s chest—a blow possibly ending his life.
Gallic tapped at his ComsBand with a well-rehearsed combination of quick taps.
“Yes, Mr. Gallic. Would you like some assistance?” the familiar AI voice asked.
Stallworth, raised its leg for another killing blow—its foot positioned directly over Sargento’s head.
“Hurry! Take out the technoid attacker,” Gallic yelled.
To the unsuspecting eye, the rusted and scorched metal protrusion atop the Hound’s upper hull looked the same as numerous other angular protrusions atop the ship. But the now-spinning, clockwise protrusion was, in fact, a rail-gun turret. One of the modifications Gallic made to the Hound shortly after he’d purchased her.
The loud three, or four, second-burst consisted of no less than several hundred projectile rounds. Fired into the center-mass of the technoid’s chest, Stallworth stayed upright for several beats—long enough for him to look down and see the ragged six-inch hole in its chest. Surprisingly, it was Sargento who lashed out next with his boot, toppling over the non-human giant.
* * *
Gallic handed a mug of hot coffee to Sargento, now sprawled out on the couch. His shirt was off, revealing white bandages wrapped around his ribcage.
Gallic moving across from him, sat down in a high-backed armchair. Holding an icepack to own jaw, he said, “Okay . . . my first question is . . . why use the . . . what was that, some kind of scalping thing? Why not cut its damn throat instead?”
“If you’re going to make some kind of disrespectful crack about my heritage—”
“No insult intended,” Gallic said.
Sargento said, “I wouldn’t know how to scalp someone. You think us savages take some course in how to do that kind of shit? No! If you recall, my arm was hanging on for dear life around that thing’s throat. I guess, I could have stabbed it. Maybe in its eye, or something like that . . .”
“That could have worked too,” Gallic said, nodding appreciatively. “In any event, you coming along when you did probably saved my life.”
“Probably? You were toast!”
“Yeah . . . I was toast. Well, thanks anyway. I owe you one.”
“That was a nice little trick you pulled . . . the rail gun thing,” Sargento said.
Gallic shrugged, “Space is a dangerous place.” Glancing out the window, he saw Sargento’s ship in the distance. “Where’s your partner . . . where’s Hok’ee?”
“He has foot . . . a toe thing . . . surgery.”
“Like corns?” Gallic asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t a
sk, and he didn’t go into it.”
“So, you got the same invite from Allison Tillman?”
Sargento took a sip of coffee before answering. “She said it came from a third-party enterprise, Sunland Technical Industries.”
“So, the real question is: Why would they set us up to be killed?”
“Yeah and was Tillman also involved?”
Chapter 28
Frontier Planet, Muleshoe — Derringer Township.
The killer had debated earlier whether he should go forward with the present course of action. Both mother, Corianne Millhouse, and daughter, Shelly, were good subjects. Appropriate ones. It was the environment that concerned him. He suspected their old Derringer property was infused with a higher-level of technology than most. He didn’t get the opportunity to case the residence prior to today, not with it being a watchful smart-home, and all.
He rechecked the contents on his tool belt while pondering his options. If he couldn’t bypass the security of an old farmhouse like this one, he seriously needed to find another line of work. Is this my line of work? Yes . . . I suppose it is.
The night was damp and cool as the killer walked the perimeter of the modest home. There were lights on in the distance—other dwellings on the same ranch parcel. Surely too distant away to hear loud noises emitted from within—such as a scream. The killer slowed and assessed the partially open window. No lights were on in the room. Coming closer, he noticed the window opening was partially obscured by a screen. Beyond it, he knew the room would be empty. Knew exactly where Corianne and Shelly now were—plopped down in front of the entertainment station in the family room. Pushing the window all the way up with his left hand, he quickly sliced a large X into the screen mesh with his right. Once he’d replaced the knife into its little pocket on his belt, he maneuvered his legs over the window ledge and crawled inside. He steadied himself and listened. As his eyes adjusted to the room’s near-total darkness, he mentally reaffirmed that this room was indeed Shelly’s. There were stuffed animals propped up on her pillow atop the quilted bedspread. Some kind of craft endeavor was in the works on her small desk. Perhaps something for school—like a science project—one that would never reach completion.
He moved to the door and listened again. The entertainment system was blaring in the near distance. He opened the door several inches and peered out. Seeing nothing, he eased himself through the doorway. Mindful not to make a sound, he approached the end of the hallway. He reached for his blade—momentarily glancing down just as Shelly rounded the corner. Startled beyond all comprehension, her scream was so ear-shatteringly loud he fumbled, dropping his knife. Caught even further off-guard, she neither cowered nor ran away. Still bent over retrieving his weapon, the little four-foot-Tasmanian devil attacked. Her balled fists hammered down on the back of his head and shoulders. The impact from the blows was slight enough but still disconcerting. What a little powder keg she was—fearless! A force to reckon with for sure once she was grown—another reason for him to be there now. Her mother, obviously hysterical, arrived just in time to see the knife slicing her daughter’s throat.
Chapter 29
Planet Spector — Sunland Technical Industries.
Gallic and Sargento—both moving slow after their ordeal with Stallworth—investigated the nearby cliff-side structure. Now armed, Gallic used the Emanuel Dual 5—.45 handgun to blow a sizable hole into the locking mechanism on the front entrance. Once inside, it quickly became evident that the sprawling industrial complex had long since been abandoned. He shot a quick glance over at Sargento, still not liking the guy much. Didn’t like what he’d learned of his past. Maybe one day he’d ask him about it. Perhaps there was another side on how his wife died, but now wasn’t the time to get into it.
Together, they planned just how and when they would confront Tillman. For now, though, they would do nothing. If she was involved then let her think she’d been successful in her endeavor to have them both killed.
“Guess no commission is worth losing our lives over,” Sargento said.
“Agreed. We first need to get some clarity on who did this. Who’d want us to stop searching for the Hayai. My gut tells me it’s not Allison Tillman . . . she could have far more easily fired us. No, there’s a lot more going on here.”
They agreed to keep in communication; work together, to some degree, to determine who this new adversary is . . . whoever that might be.
Sargento headed back to his own vessel, while Gallic headed toward the Hound. No matter what he told Sargento, his next stop would be the Tillman building, sited on the other side of the planet. If then he determined she had indeed been contracted to have him killed, he would arrest her—take her to D-22.
* * *
Stepping from the lift, Gallic heard the distinctive, repeating, tone of an incoming hail.
“Superintendent Bernard Danbury is calling in. Shall I answer the hail?” the AI asked.
“Yeah . . . put it up on the command center display.”
Gallic approaching noted the old superintendent’s solemn expression. “Look, if you’re going to scold me about my lack of D-22 communications—”
Danbury cut him off, “There’s been another.”
The news caught Gallic completely off-guard. Not even one week had passed since the Johnson murders. His old boss looked stressed—even distraught.
“I could use your help, Gallic.”
“I’m already working the case . . . with Tori. What else do you want? You know how important this is to me . . .”
“Uh huh. Where are you now?”
Gallic, hesitant to answer, replied, “Currently . . . I’m on Spector.”
“Chasing down some billion-dollar spacecraft doesn’t add up for someone committed to finding a murderer. Potentially, someone who murdered—”
“Don’t you fucking go there, Danbury,” Gallic shouted, his steely gaze could freeze a volcanic planet. “I learned a long time ago that this job . . . my search for the killer of Clair and Mandy . . . could easily drive me insane. And it almost did, remember? There was only one way to cope with the trauma . . . that was to compartmentalize. To treat the murders, even of my own family, separately. I work on other cases . . . I try to have a life. I do everything I can just to wake up each morning and face a new day. Face alternate case possibilities, rather than go stark-raving mad attempting to find the one man who stole my life from me. So yeah, I take on other cases. I have some semblance of a life. That doesn’t mean I’m any less dedicated to finding the murderer.”
Danbury stared back at him, looking somewhat more resigned.
“Don’t forget, D-22, you have two people on this case,” Gallic said.
“There’s hundreds of murders within my district each year. You know better than most just how limited my resources are stretched. It’s a miracle I’ve been able to keep Sergeant Tori on this case for as long as I have. But I need this case closed.”
“And you don’t think I want it closed! I’ve thought about little else in the last three- and-a-half years. Screw you, Danbury.”
Danbury seemed to regret his words. “I’m sorry. You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. And I’m also aware I was the one who told you to back off, let Tori do her job.”
“Yes, you did.” At that moment Danbury looked far older than his years. His salt- and-pepper streaked hair seemed to have turned far more salt in only the last few days.
“I’ve read both reports . . . yours and Tori’s—from the Johnson murders. The implications are . . . well, highly disturbing, to say the least. The wall glyphs . . . the writings; the whole bazar Curz Watchers aspect.”
“So, you know about them? The cult?”
Danbury didn’t answer him right away. “Let’s get back to the latest murder. What I’m asking is for you to throw yourself into this investigation. It’s not out of the question for you to come back, Gallic. Regain your position here—”
“First of all, you don’t need to bribe
me to do my damn job. Second, I’m not coming back to D-22. Not now, not ever, so get that out of your head. I’m fine with what I do . . . more than fine. Talk to me about the latest murders. It sounds like he’s getting greedy . . . over-zealous. Maybe we can work that detail to our advantage. Where did it take place?”
“Derringer . . . on Muleshoe,” Danbury said. “Tori’s headed there now. Look . . . I’ve instructed her to wait for you. I’ve also instructed her to take second seat from here on in. I’ve raised your outside contractor creds to the highest level allowed. I also anticipated your response to coming back here. You may not be D-22, Gallic, but you have some real authority behind you now; more than any other Frontier Marshal I’m aware of.”
Gallic didn’t care about authority. All Danbury had accomplished was to potentially drive a wedge further between him and Sergeant Tori. But he also understood why he did it. Understood that Danbury—and D-22 as a whole—was dealing with something evil, which could affect not only frontier territories but all inhabited regions of space as well.
Gallic’s confrontation with Tillman would have to wait. “I’m headed back. Tell Tori I’ll meet her at Renegade’s Haven.”
* * *
Gallic entered the rundown local watering hole and made his way over to Randy, standing behind the bar. “I’m looking for Sergeant Tori. She make it in here yet?”
Randy handed him a slip of paper. “She got here a couple of hours ago. Guess she got tired of waiting. Split a half hour ago. Left you that message.”
Gallic opened it then read what it said.
I’m heading off to the scene at Derringer. Meet you there. The specific coordinates on Muleshoe are: 233.33.123228.
* * *
Of all the Frontier Worlds, Muleshoe was the most remote, the least inhabited. More extreme weather here, it was a green world of rolling hills and numerous lakes and rivers; there wasn’t much in the way of oceans as there were back on Earth. And unlike Gorman, where only a fair amount of ranching went on—an enclave for the wealthy, with their sprawling McMansions and acres of perfect emerald-green, fenced-in lawns—there was nothing pretentious about Muleshoe, and Derringer, in particular. Most frontier beef was exported from Muleshoe, where the real business of cattle ranching took place. Hence, it was no big surprise to Gallic to find that the coordinates provided by Tori led him to a highly industrial-looking beef processing center, located in the middle of nowhere.
Galaxy Man Page 16
