Galaxy Man

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  “Fine. But what are you going to do?”

  “You’ll see.” Gallic turned and hurried off. By the time he reached the center of the enormous garage he was huffing and coughing again. Why didn’t I think of this before? He looked for a way up onto the city block-sized herd transport vehicle that occupied most of the space within the structure. He ran along its outer circumference until he found steps leading up to an access platform and climbed the steps three at a time. Reaching the top, Gallic scoped-out the flat-topped, flying saucer-shaped pen, and its surrounding five-foot-high metal railings. Its surface was covered with dirt. The smell of manure and urine was nearly overwhelming. And right in the middle sat an elevated, operator’s booth-like cabin. He ran toward it.

  The distance to it was great enough for doubts to start infiltrating his thoughts. What if it’s locked? I’ll break down the fucking door. What if it needs a key to start up? I’ll hotwire the thing . . . hell, I repo vehicles for a living. What if Phil has already killed them . . . or is killing them right now? Shut up, man . . . just shut up!

  Gallic reaching the booth found no locked door. There was no door to even lock. He jumped up onto the threadbare seat cushion and took in the various controls and levers before him. The instruments seemed far more complicated than he figured a piece of ranch equipment should be. Then again, this huge thing actually flew. Flew but also needed to be perfectly stable in flight, so a herd of heifers wouldn’t go flying off over the sides. He glanced at his empty wrist, wishing he had his ComsBand—access to the AI. Think, damn it, think!

  Gallic noticed a series of seven oversized and grubby-looking push buttons along the bottom of the dashboard. Still too dim to clearly make out the words, it looked like the first button read Prime. That made sense. He bet this herd carrier had one of those powerful, anti-matter, forced thermogenesis drives—a real beast of a propulsion system that needed to be primed before starting. He figured the buttons were probably placed in sequence, in the order they needed to be pushed in first. He pushed the Prime-labeled button and instantly heard a loud sucking sound. Waiting until the sound dissipated, he then pressed the next button in the series and heard a spinning-up of the turbo-energizers. Like the ignition starter on an old-fashioned Earth automobile, he waited for the drive to come alive. “Come on baby . . . start!” and it did. The huge carrier began to rumble and vibrate yet was surprisingly noiseless considering its size and raw horsepower. Probably was another requirement when transporting timid herds of cattle. So far so good, he thought, glancing up and out through the dirty windshield. Suddenly, the drive began to falter and shudder. He pressed the next push button, and the vibration level eased off.

  Standing up, Gallic leaned out the booth. It took him a second to remember where he’d left Lane. “Lane! Start banging on the walls!” he yelled. A moment later, he heard some loud metallic clattering erupting off to his left. Good girl!

  Gallic, seated again, took the two longest levers into his hands, which had spring-loaded, manipulator-grip controls. For this next stage, he was fairly confident he knew what to do, though he’d only done it once years ago when he was in the Royal Marines. The battle conditions back then were dire. He had to take over the controls from a wounded pilot in the hover tank they were traveling in. One of those big dual cannon rigs, the controls weren’t so different from the levers he was operating now.

  Gallic goosed the right lever controls and heard the drive rumble higher. Perfect! The controls couldn’t be any more basic. Not too different from the first airplanes back on Earth in the early twentieth century. Using the lever on his left, he would be able to control the vessel’s yaw, pitch, and roll effects. The right lever controlled the vertical up-and-down thrust variables, as well as throttled forward and backward. A piece of cake!

  The clanging stopped, and he heard Lane’s voice, “He’s coming! Gallic . . . he’s coming!”

  Gallic yelled back, “Get over here . . . hurry!” He had no idea what damage this machine would do to the garage but leaving Lane behind was far too dangerous to risk.

  It took a full minute before Lane climbed up the far-side steps. He saw her look around before spotting him within the booth. She briefly smiled then sprinted across the pen. Visible now in the dim light, he could see her better. Dressed still in skimpy panties and a tank top, her long bare legs strode across the open space.

  She came around the corner of the booth panting and stared at Gallic and the controls in his hands.

  “Want to go for a ride?” he asked, giving her a crooked smile.

  “Yeah . . . let’s blow this place.” She barely grabbed hold of the frame of the booth before Gallic pulled back on the vertical thrust controls. The noise level increased by a factor of ten as the immense vehicle rose into the air. Glancing over at Lane, Gallic found her laughing. She pointed to her right. “He’s coming from that direction.”

  Gallic adjusted the controls and the massive platform—holding thousands of tons of soil and material—rotated on its axis. Making eye contact again, Lane nodded, ready for whatever Gallic had in mind. Since he had no idea what was needed to break free of the building’s walled restraints, he punched the controls in all the way. The drive thundered beneath them, and the herd transport quickly rocketed forward toward the distant wall. As the wall loomed closer, he angled the front of the transport upward seven degrees. With luck, that would be enough to save the booth they were in from shirring off. They blew through the walled side of the garage without the slightest change in speed—like a hot knife cutting through butter.

  Gallic immediately brought the herd carrier higher into the air and realized there was a problem. The herd transport was so expansive in girth he couldn’t see what lay below them.

  “What’s wrong?” Lane asked.

  He gestured to the dashboard. “We need to figure out how to turn on the perimeter visuals. So, we can see what’s beneath us and around us.”

  Gallic piloted the transport higher to three hundred feet above the ground, then into a slow circling pattern over the ranch below. They both studied the dashboard.

  “I think this one is it,” she said, reaching for the first grimy push button at the bottom of the dash. He grabbed her wrist just before her finger could make contact with the Prime button.

  “That’s not it. I think it’s this set of switches over here.” Gallic then began activating a series of switches along the far-right side of the dash. One-by-one, video feeds began popping up onto the lower portion of the windshield. What made the visuals even more useful was that the feeds were labeled: Forward, Behind, Left, Right, and Below.

  “There’s Phil!” Lane yelled excitedly. “He’s standing right there, looking up at us!”

  Gallic leaned forward, peering at the less-than-perfect video image of his former friend. Wearing latex gloves, Phil was wearing scrubs-type overalls. Were they too late?

  Gallic brought the herd transport to a slow halt, directly above Phil. Only then did Phil come to realize the perilous position he was in. He took off in a fast sprint.

  “Where does he think he’s going?” Lane queried. “It’s not like he’ll be able to outrun this thing.”

  Gallic watched him with interest, seeing him head for his ship, the Gallivanter.

  “You’re letting him get away, Gallic!”

  Gallic had no intention of letting him get away, he was only considering his options. “You need to hold on . . . I mean really hold on tight,” he said.

  Lane stared at him—her eyes questioning. “Okay.”

  Again, Gallic moved the big craft forward. Phil, reaching his ship, was frantically waiting for the rear gangway to extend out then down. Gallic halted their forward progression and instead positioned the transport directly over the Gallivanter. Tweaking the pitch controls, the flying saucer-shaped platform began to tilt backward. Lane, wide-eyed, took an even tighter hold on the frame of the booth. As a loud alarm began to wail, a bright-red warning message began to strobe on and off acros
s the windshield:

  PITCH ANGLE EXCEEDS SAFETY PROTOCOLS!

  ADJUST PITCH CONTROLS APPROPRIATELY!

  Gallic continued applying a slow increase in angle. The drive began vibrating violently—indicating too great an added strain. As the herd transport continued to tilt backward, Lane lost her footing on the booth’s deck and squatted down. At forty-five degrees, Gallic wondered how much more the craft could handle. Would the drive suddenly give up the ghost, causing the immense vessel, with him and Lane aboard, to crash to their deaths below?

  “Gallic . . . I’m scared!”

  “Just hold on a little longer,” he yelled back, trying to maintain a look of confidence.

  The first indication his plan was working was when the pen’s back railing gave way. He watched on the “Below” video feed as its metal bars slammed down onto the top of the Gallivanter. Now at a fifty-degree angle, the transport was shaking so violently Gallic’s teeth were chattering, and he was finding it hard to maintain his seat.

  And then it happened. Thousands of tons of soil began to slide backward off the back rim. It was a landslide of epic proportions. Both Gallic and Lane, their eyes on the video feed, watched as the Gallivanter was soon crushed beneath a mountain of dirt. Only when the herd transport’s platform was completely cleared did Gallic slowly level off the craft’s steep angle.

  Chapter 47

  Frontier Planet, Muleshoe — Derringer Township.

  Gallic set the herd transport craft down hard, akin to a controlled crash landing, onto a nearby pasture. But as they say, any landing you can walk away from . . .

  He and Lane ran from the booth onto the now bare, soil-free open platform, heading for the same stairway they’d ascended not more than ten minutes before. From this perspective, he could see the goliath mountain of dirt piled high in front of the small green house. Earlier, watching the video feed, he’d witnessed the Gallivanter being crushed under that massive accumulated weight. Whatever remained under that heap would be little more than a pancake now. Phil’s remains would have to be collected using an industrial wet-vac. Good riddance, asshole. Then he spotted the Hound, further off in the distance.

  Lane, first to reach the stairs, was also the first to head off toward the distant ranch-style house. Gallic thought about telling her to stop; be cognizant that it could be a crime scene. But hell, there was no way to stop her even if he wanted to. What concerned him most was what she might see; and how it would affect her—not only today, but days, weeks, even months from now. He certainly knew what that kind of horror was like. As he sprinted to catch up with her, he thought about his own demons—the slippery vermin that invaded his mind, seemingly at will, ever since he’d walked the crime scene of Clair and Mandy Gallic. Were his demons gone forever? He doubted it. But they were gone now, and he’d have to be good with that.

  Lane was just opening the front door when Gallic reached the small concrete porch. Giving him a wary look over her shoulder, she then proceeded inside.

  “Linda? Juaquin?” she yelled into the home’s dark interior. There was no reply.

  Gallic, placing a firm hand on her shoulder, urged, “Hey . . . why don’t you let me go in first.”

  “No . . . they’re like family to me. Closer than family.” She moved deeper into the hallway, peering into the few rooms dawn’s early light had yet to illuminate. She suddenly stopped. “Do you hear that?” she asked.

  “An entertainment center . . . maybe a news broadcast is on?” Gallic said to her back.

  Lane nodded and cautiously continued forward. He could make out the kitchen ahead, with the family room, most likely, lying just beyond it. Gallic was well aware that the hammer-and-nails killer, AKA Phil Hough, preferred doing his murderous business there—had more space to work with the bodies. Lane crossed over the hallway threshold and into the kitchen. The family room’s large, holographic display was indeed tuned to an all-news channel. But Linda and Juaquin Cugan weren’t watching the news. They were sitting on the couch—legs draped over each other. He saw Lane’s bare shoulders relax, heard her sigh in relief.

  Juaquin, the first to glance up and notice them, exclaimed, “Lane! Oh my god . . . what are you doing here?”

  Linda, now up on her feet, headed for Lane her arms open wide. They embraced, quietly rocking and sobbing together. Eventually, they separated, and Juaquin filled the vacated space in Lane’s arms.

  “Did you catch him . . . the murderer?” Linda asked, looking up at Gallic. “Can we go home now?”

  They didn’t know. Didn’t have a clue how close they’d come to being the next victims of the hammer-and-nails killer. Juaquin was studying Gallic. Waiting for him to answer. Gallic let out a long breath and turned to Lane. “You got this?”

  “I’ve got this. Go ahead . . . go to work.”

  * * *

  Seven hours and eight minutes later, the Millhouse cattle processing ranch had been completely transformed. Three white tents, the same ones seen earlier in front of Lane’s house, had been relocated. They were set up now some fifty yards away from the giant mountain of dirt. Tori’s and Crackle and Lock’s star-cruisers were there too. Gallic was dead tired. He’d been answering questions—going over the previous day’s events pretty much non-stop. Crackle and Lock were relentless, sticklers for every detail. The Colonial Police—District 22, was well represented. Gallic did his best to comply, providing them detailed accounting. Only when, sitting outside on an old tree stump, alone in the mid-day heat, was he able to start processing past events. Come to terms with the fact his three-plus-year search was now over. He surveyed the scene around him and smiled, noticing that a side of the ginormous garage structure was splayed open like an exploded tin can. His eyes, though, kept returning to the immense dirt pile.

  “You know, Superintendent Bernard Danbury is anxious to speak with you.”

  Gallic slowly nodded as Tori approached him. Taking a seat on another tree stump, she added, “I’m sure you’ll be thrilled to learn he’s on his way here . . . as we speak.”

  Gallic, quiet, didn’t say anything.

  “You know . . . you can be a little happy. Let yourself feel that.”

  “I don’t feel happy. Not by a long shot.”

  “Yeah, I guess I understand. But you must have felt one moment of righteous retribution seeing that scumbag run into his creepy ship. Watching it get flattened like that.”

  Gallic turned his gaze to Tori, noting something she’d said. “Say that again.”

  “What?”

  “About seeing him run into his ship.”

  “That you must have felt one moment of righteous retribution seeing that scumbag run into his ship . . .”

  He continued to stare at her.

  “You did see him run into his ship . . . didn’t you?” she asked. “After all those hours of repeated questioning, there never was any doubt. You were very clear about what you saw, Gallic.”

  He scratched his head then looked up to the sky. “You know, when you watch a movie . . . when one scene ends and another scene takes over, in a completely different place and timeframe? How we, as viewers, fill in the missing blanks?”

  “I guess. Is that what you did?”

  Gallic nodded. “I never actually witnessed him entering the ship. I saw him hop onto the gangway, but the video feed became obscured by . . . all that soil cascading down from the herd transport. That got in the way. I never actually saw him enter the ship, I just mentally assumed he made it inside. Either that, or he was crushed on his way in.”

  Tori looked away from Gallic to what he’d been describing. “Look at it. Look at all that shit. There’s no way anyone could survive under that. I don’t care if you’re inside the ship or standing twenty feet away from it! He’s deader than dead and, you need to put it to rest.”

  “Yeah . . . you’re right. It’s silly of me.”

  “Hey, why don’t you go lie down? Close your eyes for a few hours. It won’t be long before the media arrives. Everyon
e will want to see and hear from the hero who took down the hammer-and-nails killer.”

  “I don’t feel like a hero. And I am not one. The recent body count is far too high for anyone to claim otherwise.” He stood, then placing a hand on Tori’s shoulder, said, “Thanks for being here, partner, it makes all the difference.”

  “Don’t mention it. I appreciate you too. I think with your help . . . I’m becoming a fairly good detective. But don’t let that go to your head.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  He left her sitting there and decided to follow her suggestion, go and get some rest. He was also anxious to check in with the Hound’s AI. He had a few unanswered questions that needed addressing. One thing he was sure of—the AI, somehow, had disabled the Hound’s drive, which very well changed the course of events for the better.

  “Hey! You there . . . Galaxy Man! You want some company?”

  Gallic turned to see Lane—dressed in a set of disposable scrubs, of sorts—peering out from an open flap of one of the white tents.

  “Only if you don’t mind standing under a hot shower for an hour, or so. Maybe curling up afterward in my super comfortable bed.”

  Lane pursed her lips, giving him a sideways glance. “Hmm . . . gee, I’ll have to think about that . . .” Darting out from the tent, she crossed the space in seconds. Then she was nestled-in close, squeezing beneath his outstretched arm.

  “Can I add one more thing to that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Breakfast . . . I’m starving!” Lane said.

  The End

  Thank you for reading Galaxy Man.

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