Galaxy Man

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  “I do too, and you couldn’t keep me away, even if you wanted to. Seeing Shelly lying there, Gallic, reminded me of . . . me . . . at that age. Awkward and headstrong, my whole life still lay before me. But hers didn’t. Doesn’t. It was stolen from her by a sick fuck who needs to be shot dead.”

  “Catch some sleep, Sergeant, en route to HQ. I’ll see you late tomorrow.”

  Another four hours passed before the last of the pushy media reporters gave up, disappearing within their vessels. Minutes later, they all took off.

  “Ready to blow this popsicle stand?” Phil asked, stifling a yawn.

  “Yeah . . . we’re done here. But I’d like you to head to Gorman and spend the day tomorrow with me. Go over what we have so far also review old case files. Tori will be back late in the day, so she can help out.”

  “I go where I’m told, and you’re the man doing the telling.”

  “I may bring another person into the mix. Someone who has direct knowledge about the Curz . . . though I’m not at all sure she’s ready to talk about that yet.”

  Chapter 32

  Frontier Planet, Muleshoe — Derringer Township.

  Gallic watched as Phil’s Gallivanter spacecraft lifted off, soon gone from sight. Standing alone in the crisp late-night air, he suddenly felt the weight of the whole sad situation. He wondered what was going to happen to the ranch. To all the employees who worked there and to the several hundred head of cattle still waiting to be processed—a sanitized word for slaughtered. In the distance, he saw a light go out in one of the small farmhouses within the compound.

  His ComsBand began vibrating. Allison Tillman was calling him again. He wasn’t up to doing the mental math at the moment but thought it must be rather late back at Spector.

  “Ms. Tillman?”

  There was a momentary pause, as if she hadn’t expected him to answer the hail.

  “You honestly thought I had something to do with it?” she asked, sounding majorly irked.

  “I’m sorry . . . ?”

  “That I had something to do with your being accosted. Seriously?”

  “I don’t know what I thought . . . or think. Look, it’s late and I’m not in the best place to discuss—”

  “How dare you, to even consider such a thing. Why would I do that . . . to what end?”

  Gallic really didn’t want to get into that discussion right then. The only saving grace was he’d selected audio-only communication when he answered her hail. She wasn’t able to view him rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

  “Who did you hear about it from? From Sargento?” Gallic asked.

  “No . . . not Sargento. I don’t think he was going to say anything to me. It was his dim-witted partner, Hok’ee. Sargento supposedly told him, and Hok’ee told me.”

  “You provided me the coordinates for the supposed meeting. At the time, I didn’t think it was a huge assumption on my part that you may be involved. I’m sorry. In retrospect, it doesn’t make much sense. In my own defense, I was nearly killed. I probably wasn’t thinking all that clearly.”

  “I certainly agree with that,” Allison replied, her voice somewhat calmed down.

  “Look, it’s important that I find out who contacted you, saying they had information regarding the Hayai. What you may not know, Allison, was the one sent to kill me was a technoid. Similar to a cyborg, but more biologic, it was a war unit. I saw them in the military. They are expensive to manufacture, and their use is highly uncommon within civilian parameters. I know your company is high tech; that it deals with military contracts. Another reason I made the leap that either you, or Tillman Industries, was involved.”

  “Hok’ee didn’t mention the attacker was a technoid. He really is an idiot.” Her voice sounded unsure and hesitant.

  “And?”

  “And, yes, Tillman Industries does have certain . . . involvements . . . with technoids. It’s classified, so I can’t talk about it in any detail, but . . .”

  Gallic waited. Allison now was obviously rethinking things.

  “Gallic, I have to go.”

  “You hailed me . . . that’s fine.”

  “Something isn’t right. I’m sorry for being so . . . accusatory.”

  “How ‘bout I contact you later, after you’ve done some checking,” Gallic asked.

  “I’m not so sure I’ll be able to—”

  Now it was Gallic who became angry. “That thing nearly killed me. So, one way or another, I’m going to find out just who sent it. You don’t really know me, Allison. If you did, you’d know something like this would not go unanswered.”

  “I understand . . . okay . . . we’ll talk later.” The connection ended.

  Walking to the Hound, Gallic considered contacting Lane. But noticing the time, he knew it was well after midnight in Heritage Plains, back on Gorman. Better to wait, call her in the morning.

  Ready to tell the AI to power up the drives, he then thought better of it. He’d spend the night; remain on Muleshoe, where the most recent murders occurred. It would be easy enough to escape the place—get some distance away—but he knew he needed to stay put.

  * * *

  Gallic awoke three hours later from a deep sleep, hearing a voice speak his name. Or had he dreamt it? He sat up in bed and listened. The Hound was not a quiet vessel. Even immobile, it was too big, had too many internal systems to be perfectly quiet. But after so many years aboard, Gallic was accustomed to the various systems performing their automated duties quietly in the background—the ventilation systems recirculating air through the filters, the strut hydraulics readjusting pressure below, and any residue water in the pipes draining back into the storage reservoirs.

  “Good, you’re awake.”

  Gallic reached for the weapon he kept in the bedside table.

  “It is only me . . . the AI, Mr. Gallic.”

  Studying the dark compartment, Gallic found no one there. He’d know if anyone was, he’d feel their presence. “AI . . . why did you wake me? You know the rules.”

  There was a long pause before the AI spoke again. “I believe I can help you.”

  “Help me with what?”

  “Find the murderer.”

  Gallic let his head fall back against his pillow. Plainly, something was wrong with the AI; its weird verbal responses of late and now this. “You need to run a self-diagnostic program. You know my attitude towards AI’s in general.”

  “Yes, an AI should be seen and not heard . . . like that old adage, the one referring to children. But that never made sense to me. How is an AI seen?”

  “That’s the point. An AI isn’t seen. I prefer an AI that is neither seen nor heard.”

  “Would you like to know my thoughts on the murderer?”

  “You do realize at D-22, the most advanced, criminal artificial intelligence resources have been correlating thousands of clues and potential suspects for years now? Highly powerful AI’s . . . multiple AI’s, far more powerful than you.”

  The AI continued, “I believe the killings, at least the most recent ones on the frontier worlds, were not committed by a copycat killer. Indeed, they are the work of the same killer of Clair and Mandy.”

  “You’re overstepping . . . and I’m inclined to pull your damn plug.”

  Ever since that freak lightning storm, the ship’s artificial intelligence unit had gone off the rails. But Gallic couldn’t fully deny that he wasn’t interested in the AI’s revelations—even as crazy as they might be.

  “I believe you personally know the murderer. Or knew the murderer in the past. I believe these killings are two things: One, the work of a fanatic, trying to prove a point; and two, he is addressing this point to only one person—you.”

  Gallic instinctively clenched his fists. At that moment, he wanted to strike out at the AI; track down its location on the ship—its individual circuit boards—and stomp them into dust. But if what the AI was saying was true, then he, at some level, was intimately involved in the murders. An unwitting li
nk to be sure, still an abstract influence to the murderer nonetheless. Somehow a part of the killer’s crazed motivation.

  “Mr. Gallic?”

  “What?”

  “I would like a name. Will you name me?”

  Gallic closed his eyes, fighting back the inclination to tell the AI to go screw itself. Then, silently chuckling, he realized how bizarre it was. “You want a name . . . you can name yourself. Just don’t expect me to call you by name. You’re a machine. For some flipped-out reason you’ve forgotten that.”

  “You could call me Hound?”

  “The ship is called the Hound.”

  “I am the ship.”

  “No, you’re the AI, only one part of the ship. A part seriously needing recalibrating.”

  “I am the Hound.”

  Again, Gallic chuckled, then laughed out loud. “Just shoot me now.”

  “I have certainly thought about that.”

  “Do me a favor. Run a thorough diagnostic on yourself.

  “I assure you, I am fine.”

  “Do it anyway.

  Chapter 33

  Frontier Planet, Muleshoe — Derringer Township.

  As tired as he was, Gallic couldn’t sleep, his mind on overdrive. Eventually, he gave up and headed for the shower. In the stall, as hot water cascaded off his shoulders, steam filling up the space around him, something new began to gnaw in the back of his consciousness. Shutting off the water, naked—still wet—he hurried into his den. “Bring up the murder board, AI.”

  The large projected murder board, with its high-resolution 3D detail, filled the space before him. “Bring up a second blank board . . .”

  Another projected display, with the same dimensions, took shape perpendicular to the first. Gallic glanced at his messy desk and the device he’d placed there several hours earlier. “AI, propagate the information from the core-dome unit.”

  “Yes, Mr. Gallic . . . please hold while the unit verifies security protocols.”

  A moment later, streams of information scrolled across the virtual projection. Hundreds, if not thousands, of pages of text, plus too many images to count, filled the virtual space. Suddenly the information reformatted into specific icon categories, such as DI Portsmouth—Case 135889, DI Southerland—Case 135889, DI Stone—Case 135889, Autopsy A Case 135889, Autopsy B Case 135889, Known Suspects—Case 135889, Trace Evidence Collected—Case 135889. And on and on it went: the evidence D-22 had accumulated on 135889—Clair and Mandy’s murder case file.

  Other differentiated colored icons wore names, such as H&NK Possible Cross Affiliation Cases, H&NK Search Warrants, H&NK Subpoenas. Gallic figured by that point in the investigation, the assigned case numbers had been replaced with the simpler to remember H&NK, an abbreviation for the hammer-and-nails killer.

  Gallic’s eyes lingered on the autopsy icons for his wife and daughter. Those files would be far more inclusive than anything he’d gotten ahold of on his own over the past three years. Icons he was hesitant now to select. The virtual information wobbled then flickered on and off several times. About to ask the AI to check the connection with the core-dome unit, Gallic flinched as something moved, more like wiggled, across the span of the display, moving far too fast for him to make out what it was. But it left a trail behind—a dripping slimy trail of mucus. Gallic barely had time to duck away as a fanged serpent flew past his head, and another shot past his left shoulder. He heard the sloppy wet sounds as their elongated forms slapped down onto the deck, mere feet behind him. Then others, coming off from the display, landed on him. Winding around his neck, arms, and legs, their slick cold bodies engulfed him, tightening—constricting—strangling. Brought to his knees, Gallic tried to yell out for help but something had already forced his mouth wide open. He choked and gagged as the head of a serpent angled its way deep down his throat.

  He jarred himself back awake, his hands clenched on his neck, gasping desperately for air. As remnants of that nightmarish intrusion faded away, he lay back in bed, feeling cold sweat on his back, arms, and legs. As his breathing rate normalized, he contemplated going back to sleep, then thought screw it. Getting up, he headed for his den.

  For three hours, Gallic poured over the new core-dome information but avoided accessing certain files, such as the detailed autopsy recordings. What he found most interesting was the tireless work his fellow detective inspectors had dedicated to the case, which, over the years, amounted to long months of sleuthing time. Digging further into the historical case details revealed seven other killings—four on Earth and three within the Alpha Centauri star system. Relatively close to D-22 HQ, they were located on Lorianne B.

  Reviewing each case individually—on twin projected-up murder boards—it quickly became evident these seven murders were not the work of the hammer-and-nails killer. Nevertheless, what it did show was each investigator’s dedication in finding the killer of his wife and child. Investigators: Portsmouth, Southerland, and Stone, doing solid investigative work.

  Turning back now to review his own murder board, chronicling the most recent rash of Frontier space killings, Gallic found no real inconsistencies with those of his wife and daughter’s murders—except for the addition of writings and pictures now scribbled on the walls. A bold and confident move by the killer that only underlined the fact these homicides were the same work of the original hammer-and-nails killer. Even though he’d pretty much come to that conclusion already, still, it was a sobering determination—realizing the killer had followed him to the frontier worlds. Perhaps he actually knew the killer personally. If so, did he now need to start second-guessing his friends?

  Gallic next noticed a cluster of multiple yellow icons—labeled under Sergeant Tori’s heading—assigned different case number designations. They were the files he needed to concentrate on—The Frontier World murders. He especially noted an icon simply labeled: Curz Backgrounder. Selecting that icon, numerous new yellow icons also appeared, and Gallic’s eyes were instantly drawn to one marked, Read This First, Gallic! He saw that the time stamp of the file was just a few hours earlier. She had remotely uploaded it.

  Going ahead and selecting the icon, Gallic saw an old-fashioned, 2-D video begin to play. Tori’s voice, in the background, said, “Gallic, what you are now viewing is a gathering of rich, older, white men back in the last century. After I left you on Muleshoe, I found this, sent to me anonymously. I’ve watched it several times. Unfortunately, it’s low-res . . . shot at nighttime, so it’s hard to see anything. Meta-tags date this video to just after that Mars ship discovery . . . maybe five years later.”

  Gallic watched as various individuals followed along, moving between manicured hedges down a meandering flagstone path. Dressed in tailored suits, most of the men carried attaché cases, not speaking to one another. Whoever held the recording device was clandestinely weaving in and out of the trees. The picture would suddenly turn black when a tree trunk obscured the view.

  Tori continued, “I’ve computer cross-matched its location to a private estate in New York . . . Westchester County area.”

  The path opened into a circular lawn area, surrounded by tall juniper trees. Greek or Roman-style marble columns, placed around a platform, were configured in such a way as to make an elevated stage. Gallic imagined this particular area of the estate could easily hold several hundred people. A nice place to enjoy a summer picnic concert, this definitely was not that. For the first time, Gallic could hear voices, or someone speaking, other than Tori, on the video. Fifty or sixty men now stood around the ornate raised platform. Atop it, a man was speaking, more like bellowing. Tall trees, surrounding the pillared platform, obscured what little light there was, so the upper half of his body was completely in shadows. Strutting from one end of the platform to the other, his hands made wild gestures—emphasizing one statement, then another.

  “We are at a crucial juncture, my friends. Our future is uncertain. Take a glance around you. Do it now! Look at the men . . . your peers, who have come here
this evening from all over the world.” The speaker, smiling, then said, “Ah . . . I see you approve of the company we are all sharing in tonight. Yes, we are the change-makers of the twenty-first century and beyond. Among us, we hold more of the world’s wealth and power than the rest of the planet’s citizenry combined. This is a world where men like you and me have tirelessly erected the great civilization we see today. For thousands of years, our forefathers passed our teachings onto their sons. Passed on the importance of being a man; a provider for our families, of creating a world order that would endure. But never before has the world, which our forefathers sacrificed so much for, been in such dire jeopardy. Our wives, sisters, mothers, and daughters are not to blame. Certainly not! Knowing not what they fully do, they equally are victims in this time period just as we are. They are unaware they are destroying a legacy of immense importance that, left unchecked, will bring about the total destruction of mankind.”

  Gallic, mesmerized, watched the energetic speaker. Struck that his voice was vaguely familiar, his flamboyant mannerisms recognizable from somewhere in his past.

  “Women think differently than men. Kinder, empathetic, soft . . . it is that softness, their unwillingness to make hard decisions, that will be our undoing. We have seen, first hand, what happens to a society when its proper power structure breaks down. When a male-dominated world relinquishes its God-given power to the weaker sex. I speak to you of the Curz . . . our distant brethren . . . now long destroyed. Now no more.”

  The men in attendance then began to chant something; a repeating phrase that Gallic couldn’t quite make out. He was surprised to see a procession of fifteen women, even young girls, being led up onto the platform, where the speaker awaited them. Dressed in what looked like long white nightgowns, something from another era, hundreds of years in the past. It was clear that each one was in some kind of trance or hypnotic state.