Galaxy Man

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

“Call it what you want. I’m risking my life here . . . going way beyond. You’ll get your Hayai back. If you want your stolen midget destroyer back, and what’s left of your technoids, you’ll need to triple the commission.”

  “Triple! From one million to three million dollars?”

  “Either that, or I’ll set this ghost ship adrift into deep space. We already know her transponder was taken offline . . . you’ll never find her.”

  “That’s blackmail.”

  “I don’t see it that way. Remember, your cyborg killers have come for me twice now. Someone truly doesn’t want me to uncover the location of the Hayai. Really must have some kind of high-tech onboard that ship.”

  “Yes . . . and I will pay your price, if you actually come through . . . and get me the Hayai back.”

  “I’ll go a step farther. I’ll tell you who took the Hayai, as well as all the other shit stolen from Tillman Enterprises.”

  “Fine . . . I’m here waiting. See you soon.” Allison disappeared from his wrist.

  Chapter 40

  Open Space — Onboard the Hound.

  It took another four and one-quarter hours to reach Spector and descend to the top of the Tillman building. This time, the landing lot was nearly empty, although Sargento’s spacecraft was there. Gallic had to smile, seeing the craft parked in the same location as before. The Native American’s ship appeared worked over—dents and scrapes gone. The entire vessel, now freshly painted, gleamed.

  Gallic landed the Hound a good distance away then took the rooftop elevator down one level to the penthouse. Exiting into the museum’s small foyer, he found Sargento and Allison Tillman standing together talking. He was reminded this would be the first time he’d actually meet her in person. Taller than expected, he was used to seeing her twelve inches high upon his wrist.

  Turning to face Gallic as he approached, Sargento gestured hello with an indifferent nod. Allison looked well put together. She’d changed into a royal blue, form-fitting, business suit and done something different with her hair. Gallic wasn’t entirely sure just what, but it looked good. She held out a hand, and Gallic shook it.

  “So, you have both of us here just as you stipulated. Are you going to make good on your promise . . . tell us where my ship is?”

  “In good time. First, we need to change the contract again.”

  “You just changed it! And I agreed to your terms. What else do you want, Mr. Gallic?”

  Gallic shifted his gaze over to Sargento. “If it weren’t for Sargento here, I’d be dead. You should compensate him for his involvement.”

  Allison looked exasperated—raising her perfectly plucked brows in I can’t believe this expression. Unfazed, Sargento maintained the same stony expression.

  “You’ll have to pay him out of your cut,” she said back defiantly.

  “No . . . you’ll pay him $500,000. Either that, or I walk out of here. I have far more important things to do right now than haggle with you.”

  “Fine! Agreed! So, where’s my damn ship?”

  Gallic, gazing past Allison into the spaceship museum beyond them, smiled. “Ah . . . there he is.”

  Both Allison and Sargento followed Gallic’s stare. She then questioned, “Stannis? You met him the last time you were here.”

  The stubby man, with slicked-back wheat-colored hair, hurriedly walked away. Now nearly out of sight around the curvature of the building, Gallic cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “Mister Stannis Kay, your presence is requested here!”

  He heard the museum curator mutter something that was unintelligible at that distance. Allison was clearly becoming irritated. The flamboyant Australian turned back and arrived several moments later, wearing a yellow bow tie speckled with large black polka dots.

  “Mr. Gallic . . . how good it is to see you again. And you too, Mr. Sargento.”

  “I like your tie,” Gallic said.

  “Gallic!” Allison barked.

  “Fine! Mr. Kay, would you please—”

  “You can call me Stannis, everyone does.”

  “Stannis . . . please direct us to the Emmery Lux 523.”

  The smile on Stannis’ face didn’t falter, although his eyes blinked three times in rapid succession. “There are far more interesting vessels here, sir . . . far more. For instance, the Kipling Toring Una, over there to our right. Amazing vessel . . .”

  Up until then, Gallic hadn’t been one hundred percent certain. But now he was. He needed to be here, in person, to confront the man. “Stannis, you and I both know the Una couldn’t accommodate anywhere near the breadth of the Hayai. Come on, they are almost the same size ship, are they not?” Gallic asked.

  Stannis feigned confusion. Turning his attention to Allison, he said, “Ms. Tillman . . . I’m not sure what this is all about. Is there a problem with my performance . . . ?”

  Allison didn’t answer, continuing to stare at the nearby Kipling Toring Una spacecraft.

  Gallic snapped his fingers twice. “The Emmery Lux 523, Stannis. Let’s all take a walk, okay?” Walking away, Stannis soon caught up to him. “What is this all about, Mr. Gallic?”

  “Drop the dumb act, Stannis. I know you took the Hayai . . . or should I say hid the Hayai, at least until you can unload her during your next traveling museum exhibit. I read in your brochure there’s one coming up next month, on the planet Lumite. Nearly one-third of the Tillman museum ship exhibits will be sent out on loan . . . no?”

  “Yes . . . but . . . well, that doesn’t mean . . .” Gallic simply stared at the now-stuttering curator.

  “When I heard you were also in charge of the building’s security, it wasn’t much of a stretch to place you at the top of my suspect list.”

  Allison, following close behind, said, “Stannis has been with the company for years. He’s always been loyal, very well compensated . . . and . . . well, just I don’t see him masterminding something like this.”

  “And you’d be incorrect in that assumption,” Gallic said. “Stannis is far more devious than you thought. Devious and ingenious.” They’d walked about a quarter of the way around the exhibit when Gallic slowed and approached the next spacecraft. Finished in a bright emerald green, she was one of only two vessels that extended all the way up to the penthouse ceiling. Gallic noticed the big ship last time he was here, since she was the only hauler-type vessel there. Owning a hauler himself, albeit one five times the size of this one, he was most curious—what made her worthy of being a museum exhibit? Gazing up at the odd-looking vessel, he gestured, “Did you know the Emmery Lux 523 has a unique, clamshell-type hold configuration?” He then demonstrated with a big biting motion with his hands how the large hold opened and closed.

  Allison took a step forward and studied the vessel—the bulbous aft section and four rotatable thruster modules. She asked Gallic, “My ship is inside there?”

  “Let’s take a look and see,” he replied.

  Glaring intently at Stannis, she ordered, “Open the hold, Stannis. This is your opportunity to prove him wrong. I’m hoping he is; I truly am.”

  Gallic tried to read Stannis’ face. He was seventy percent positive the Hayai was actually within the ship’s rear hold area, after hours and hours of reviewing security video files. Watching the comings and goings of literally hundreds of spacecrafts on the roof of the Tillman building, and reviewing close to one hundred employee interviews. The fact that this particular vessel was capable of housing within her a large ship, one with the Hayai’s dimensions, seemed like a pretty good assumption. That and Stannis had been given full-control over which Tillman Industries vessels were brought to the exhibit. He even had executive-level access to the latest top-secret military assets—such as a newly developed midget destroyer and three technoids that were still going through their rigorous testing process. Stannis Kay’s comings and goings within the Tillman engineering and design facility, within another sprawling industrial complex ten miles away, was practically an everyday occurrence.

 
“I’d be more than happy to open the hold, but—”

  “Just open it, Stannis,” now Sargento chimed in.

  Stannis gave Allison a forced smile and waddled over to a short metal ladder. Climbing up six or seven rungs, he stepped out onto a horizontal platform. Then unlatching a metal enclosure, he let the heavy door swing wide on its hinges. After tapping several times on a display screen, he stood back and glanced down at the others. “This is a royal waste of time.”

  His words were drowned out by the whirling of motors; the opening-up of the unique Emmery Lux 523 hold clamshell.

  Allison walked toward the aft section of the ship, unable to see what was inside the hold. The top clamshell section, now up at the ceiling, was beginning to push against ceiling tiles, while the vessel’s bottom portion was lowering down to the floor slowly but steadily.

  Gallic and Sargento exchanged a brief glance. Sargento said, “You’re not one hundred percent sure she’s inside.”

  Gallic shrugged, then caught a sliver of color other than emerald green. He’d forgotten the Hayai was coated in a ridiculous pumpkin-orange shade, yet the vessel was truly gorgeous. Sleek and glossy, there was something dangerous, almost ominous, about the craft. All sharp angles, two dramatically swept-back wings began at the bow then extended back well beyond the rear, flared, phantom power-drive thruster.

  So caught up in the visual splendor of the ship, Gallic didn’t hear Allison walk back in his direction. She said, “Everything you’ve ever read about her. All those impressive specs.”

  “Uh huh?”

  “Double . . . even triple . . . most of them. This ship can make it to the Frontier worlds in two hours without breaking a sweat. Once there, she can defeat a whole fleet of warships on her own.”

  “I can see why you wanted her back,” he said.

  “I should never have put her on display, it was either ego or pride. I’m just so glad to have the Hayai back!”

  “Your midget destroyer is locked up in high-orbit; your technoids stacked in the ship’s medical morgue. I figured you’d want them kept on ice,” Gallic said.

  Allison looked up at him. “You kept your end of the bargain. Technically, the Hayai was never stolen. I never lost possession of her . . . not really.”

  Gallic, watchful, didn’t say anything.

  “But I’m happy to pay my debt.” Glancing at Sargento, she then added, “to both of you.”

  Sargento said, “Thank you.”

  Gallic said, “Thanks!”

  Her expression suddenly changed. Quickly looking left and right, she asked, “Where the hell is Stannis?”

  Chapter 41

  Open Space — Onboard the Hound.

  Along his return route back to Gorman, Gallic had already decided to blow off having any maintenance repair work made on the Hound, not with so many other pressing issues to contend with. Sitting at the control center, he felt the gravitorque drives begin to wind down. The blur of starlight through the forward window began to take on a clearer focus. A repeating warning message began flashing on and off on multiple displays:

  Gravitorque Drives 1 and 2 Offline

  Fists clenched, Gallic wanted to punch something. Instead, he cursed everything and everyone he could think of. It took hours for the space-tow vessel to finally arrive and several more hours to get the Hound towed to Brenwork’s Maintenance Depot—one of the few space platform facilities with the capacity to work on a vessel as large as the Hound. Maintenance procedures, plus a slew of unexpected repair work, took another agonizingly slow eight hours to complete. Gallic unsuccessfully tried to relax. He needed to get back to Gorman.

  Finally back in deep space and headed for the Frontier worlds, both exhaustion and concern for Lane were taking their toll. His attempt to grab a few hours of sleep en route had been fruitless. Thinking of Lane again, he had to rein his imagination in. She’d now been with her abductor for about twenty-four hours.

  He noticed he’d gotten several low-priority messages over the last few hours and peering down at his vibrating wrist, he saw Tori was hailing him again.

  “What have you got for me, Tori?”

  “I’m back at home base . . . Lane’s place. Still nothing new on her whereabouts. No demands from her abductor. No one seems to know anything. Needless to say, no one has seen Teddy Walters, AKA Zip Furlong.”

  Gallic expected that, still the news stung just the same.

  “Crackell and Lock arrived here on schedule,” Tori continued. “They bicker like an old married couple. After ten minutes, I was ready to clock them both.”

  “Yeah . . . I remember that about them. Don’t let their old geezer shtick fool you, though, because they’re solid investigators, just need direction. They’ll do what’s asked but don’t expect them to be big innovators, come up with fresh ideas.”

  “Copy that,” she said. “Phil just arrived . . . his ship’s landing off in the field. Be interested in hearing what he’s come up with after his latest round of interviews with the Cugans.”

  “Look, it may be a wild goose chase, but I want Crackell and Lock following up on the Curz aspect with the locals. Have them investigate who else on Gorman, or any of the other Frontier worlds, has a direct affiliation with the cult. And have them find out if there’s some special way they communicate with one another. They may need to play one neighbor against another, but they’ll know what to do.”

  “I’ll get them working on it. Did you get everything resolved with your missing Hayai case?” Tori asked.

  “That business has been put to bed.”

  “Then you’re flush again? Hound’s been repaired?”

  “Yes, and yes,” Gallic replied.

  “Good. When will you be back here,” she asked.

  “I still have a few more hours flight time before reaching Gorman. I’ll get back in touch when I’m nearer.”

  * * *

  It was dark by the time Gallic set the Hound down between Phil’s distant Gallivanter and two star-cruisers, parked closer to the house. He noticed that Crackell and Lock’s vessel was one of the older beaters, decommissioned a decade past. A series of five official tents, with red and green D-22 logos, had been set up near the horse stalls, and consisted of a large central tent with four smaller tents around it. An amber light could be seen, emanating through the fabric of three of the tents. He checked the time, it was close to 10:00 pm. He’d turn in—there was nothing that couldn’t wait till morning.

  * * *

  “Mr. Gallic! There is an emergency situation. Mr. Gallic! There is an emergency situation . . .”

  Gallic sat up in bed. “What is it, AI? What’s the problem?” he asked, turning toward the nightstand where he’d placed his ComsBand. It was strobing a text message he couldn’t read upside-down. Shaking lingering cobwebs from his groggy mind, he asked, “What time is it?”

  “It is 0900 local time, Mr. Gallic. Sergeant Tori is below. She is banging a large rock against the starboard forward strut in an attempt to get your attention.”

  “I can’t believe I slept that long.” As his mental haze slowly lifted, Gallic’s thoughts turned to Lane. Oh God . . . have they found her? He shot out of bed, grabbing up his pants that lay in a heap on the deck.

  * * *

  The gangway was still in the process of lowering when Gallic emerged from the Hound. Strapping on his ComsBand, he found Tori and Phil standing outside. Both seemed exasperated, holding large rocks in their hands.

  “Sorry you had to resort to caveman communication methods,” Gallic said. “I was out cold. Talk to me.”

  “We have a body . . . well, a partial body,” Tori said.

  Gallic’s heart stuttered within his chest. He studied her face. It didn’t have the same look of someone delivering dire, horrific news, such as your girlfriend’s been killed. “Who . . . where . . . ?”

  Tori and Phil looked at each other. Phil said, “I guess you weren’t the only one to be a deep sleeper last night.”

  “Bes
t we show you,” Tori added.

  That stopped him in his tracks. Show me?

  “Our two geriatric detectives are already processing the scene,” Phil said, with a crooked smile. “Come on.”

  The three quietly walked toward the barn. Tori and Phil glanced at each other several times, which only irritated Gallic more. I really need a cup of coffee.

  Phil held up short at the large barn door. “You ready for this?”

  “Enough already. Open the damn door.”

  Phil, doing as told, slid the old timber door off to one side. Inside, bright strobe lights, set up on tall stands, forced Gallic to shield his eyes against the glare. Before him, the upper body halves of Don Crackell and Kent Lock were visible. Both were wearing disposable overalls, a procedure from the past that wasn’t necessary nowadays since modern equipment had the capacity to detect differentiating trace evidence. But some investigators still practiced, were committed to using, older methods and Gallic couldn’t fault them for that. He heard a horse whinny along with the heavy thumping of hoofs hitting the ground.

  “Hold him still!” Crackle demanded.

  “What do you think I’m doing here . . . scratching my balls?” Lock snapped.

  Gallic, traversing between and around a series of opened forensic equipment cases approached the closed stall. Peering through the door’s upper row of metal bars, he could now see them—Crackle, Lock, and the horse inside. Both men had aged. Similar to one another in looks, they usually could pass for brothers. Crackle’s combed-over silver hair was sparser now, revealing a pink scalp populated with countless age spots. But his inquisitive blue eyes were as intense and intelligent as ever. Lock, on the other hand, had self-dyed his thinning hair a god-awful, reddish-brown, coppery shade. A little larger than his partner, he wore a more expressive, friendlier demeanor. First now to notice Gallic, standing on the outer side of the stall door, he said, “DCI Gallic, it’s good to see you again.”

  “Good to see you, too, Kent, though I haven’t been DCI for three years. What do we have here?”

  Up to that point Gallic’s field of view had been limited by the stall door, blocking him further access. Kent Lock said, “I got ahold of the horse . . . open her up, Don.”