John Gallic appreciated the sight—even the smells. Sights and smells that were, some twenty years ago, removed from Earth’s environ. Cattle, it seemed, were just another contributor to Earth’s ongoing global warming—a result of anthropogenic, man-induced, greenhouse gasses. Like carbon dioxide, methane, nitrous, and a number of various fluorinated gases, such as sulfur hydrofluorocarbons, perfluorocarbons, to name a few. Earth was now a closed system. A carefully controlled biosphere—no agriculture to speak of; no manufacturing to speak of; no anything that could cause any instability within Earth’s now newly sanitized, relatively speaking, environment.
Gallic hadn’t been back for years; had little desire to return, either. His life was here—within the many burgeoning territories a number of light-years away.
He brought his attention back to the here and now, to the job at hand. Running somewhat behind schedule. He liked being on time, keeping his commitments. Life was much less complicated that way.
Up ahead, partially obscured within the churning sand cloud, he saw neon-colored lights: muted reds, blues, and greens, plus variations of the same colors. The wind had picked up noticeably since he’d left his ship, but, ignoring the chill, he fixed his attention on the suspended sign—twenty feet above the bar. The name on the sign, Renegade’s Haven, blinked on and off; a staccato rhythm meant to attract visitors from miles away. For Gallic, it induced no reaction at all.
He approached the front of the establishment, where loud music could be heard, escaping through the antiquated shack’s countless open gaps—between old and bowed timber planks—and from the three small, ill-fitting, grease-smeared windows. The front door, faded red with time and a sturdy, stout affair, was wedged partially open by what looked like an old cast-iron anvil.
The parking lot was completely full. Some of the vehicles were open-bed hovercrafts—probably owned by local field hands, who worked hard doing whatever needed doing. Perhaps moving herds from one location to another, or delivering bales of hay, or escorting cattle to a sectioned-off area where they’d be put down, and readied for processing. Although Gallic didn’t know much about either cattle or ranching, he knew a lot about many other things—things he was adept at.
Gallic walked between various-sized crafts, parked farther out in the lot. Some smaller, some larger, there were certain similarities between them, even though some were older, looking ready to be replaced. Others looked brand new and expensive—right off the dealer’s lot—and were the personal spacecraft of wealthy businessmen, wealthy ranch owners, and the sons or daughters of ranch owners. Most of the vessels had approximately 800 to 1,200 cubic feet of inside volume capacity—about the size of an old school bus at the turn of the 21st century on Earth. But the similarity stopped there. These were sleek—precision-made—spacecraft. Most had exotic matter drives capable of FTL, as well as integrated with the latest AI brains. Undoubtedly, these designer ships were far too smart for their own good and definitely too smart for their owners. The year was 2117. At present day costs, each individual ship could be worth a billion dollars or more. Gazing across the nearly full landing lot, Gallic guesstimated that there, in front of Renegade’s Haven, he was looking at a cool fifty billion dollars’ worth of fancy, high-priced, space transportation.
It took Gallic another five minutes to pinpoint the specific craft he was looking for. One of the newer ones, a Hausenbach L35T, it was built within German manufacturing territories—close to a light-year’s distance away across open space. A fine machine. Very expensive. And the owner was three months’ delinquent making payments. Gallic was there to repo the vehicle. A fine ship like this would fetch a nice percentage. Maybe enough to pay off the Hound.
He moved around the taxium-glass and polished-chrome craft—sliding his palm across the slick surface—as he continued to examine her from bow to stern. Ingress and egress for a new L35T was completely AI-controlled. No seams—no hairline gaps—which would allow Gallic to use the tools of his trade to penetrate a hatchway. Of German design origin, the AI was probably one of those Spincher & Cowl’s—a real smart artificial intelligence unit. And it, undoubtedly, was watching Gallic at that very moment; had already tapped into the CoreNet and knew who he was and what he did for a living. Also, what he did another lifetime ago. Because this breed of AI was so thorough, so tenacious, it would have delved far deeper into his past—into every aspect of his life. But Gallic didn’t really care what it uncovered. It didn’t change the fact that this same vehicle needed to be loaded onto the Hound and returned to the selling dealership, either tonight, or tomorrow morning at the latest.
He gave the craft an affectionate pat then headed in the direction of the blinking sign of blue, red, and green neon lights. Time to do things the old fashioned way, he mused.
* * *
John Gallic entered the seedy watering hole through the faded red door, knowing exactly what to expect inside. He’d been there before, had conducted business there. Had been there to drink—or not drink. The proprietor knew enough about him to know when disturbing him would be a bad idea. Patrons came and went from Renegade’s Haven all the time; for the most part, they went unnoticed. But that was not the case with John Gallic. At six-foot-six, and close to two hundred and sixty pounds, he was a large, imposing figure. Dressed in dark brown leather trousers, heavy black boots, and a well-worn leather trench coat—supported by shoulders that almost spanned the now open threshold—eyes turned in sockets to see who, or what, had so obtrusively entered the bar.
The music was loud and the smoky haze from cigarettes, cigars, and pipes gave the place a far more mysterious ambiance than it deserved. The combined hum of chattering voices decreased several decibels when more heads turned to face him. Gallic surveyed the room—taking in as much detail as he could without being overly obvious. Good with details, he was trained to notice things the average person might disregard. His training took place in another lifetime—when he was a different person. When he was Chief Inspector for the Colonial Police—Space District 22.
But that life was now in the past. For the past three years, Gallic had been a Territory Abettor, commonly referred to as a Local Joe. Local Joes were independent contractors, providing a handful of, not always the most respected, services. Earth’s distant vast territories lacked much in the way of institutional policing. Here really was the wild, wild, west. At one end of the spectrum, a Local Joe would do space vehicle repossessions for several of the larger dealerships; they also provided various forms of security, on a per-case basis, and/or bounty hunting. Some of the more qualified, properly licensed Local Joes did investigative work. Gallic had done it all. Presently for him, repo work paid the best. It also kept him busy—too busy to think—too busy to remember.
He made his way over to the bar and squeezed between two conversing elderly men. Forced to stand up, they scooted their stools away from Gallic’s imposing bulk, then sat back down. Leaning forward, the men peered around him; then, resuming their conversation, they drank their whiskeys.
Gallic caught the proprietor’s eye. At that moment, he looked just like the other three busy bartenders. Wearing a stained white apron, the medium-sized man, possessing a severely receding hairline, wiped his hands on a dishtowel and made his way down the bar to where Gallic stood waiting. He asked, “Whisky?”
“Not tonight, Randy.” Leaning forward, Gallic spoke just loud enough for him to hear. “I’m looking for a guy … name’s Larz Cugan.”
The barkeep looked hesitant. “Don’t bust up the place, Gallic. No trouble here tonight … okay?”
“Uh huh. Just point him out to me.”
The proprietor gestured with his chin, toward a large group which had pulled three tables together. An eruption of laughter, followed by arms raised high, and the clinking of shot glasses—a rowdy happy group.
“He’s the one at the far head of the table. With that … thing … around his neck. Not sure what those things are called,” Randy said.
“It’s
called an ascot.”
“Looks pretty silly to me,” Randy added.
Gallic said, “Anyway … thanks. Go ahead and ping my account for a double whiskey; drink it yourself or give it away.” He turned and made his way through the packed sea of patrons, shuffling between chairs and tables. Several times he had to turn sideways in order to maneuver his way over to the boisterous partygoers.
No less than twelve, they mostly were in their twenties, Gallic surmised. All were dressed to the nines—designer clothes meant to impress each other or anyone else. The women were bare-shouldered, tanned, and wore an abundance of fragrant perfume. The men, equal in number, wore suits with bolo ties and leather cowboy boots detailed with elaborate designs.
Larz Cugan’s eyes met Gallic’s as he approached. Even sitting, he looked about six feet tall, had designer stubble, and wore his highlighted streaked hair parted on the side. His angled bangs were strategically combed across one eye. His suit was white as snow and looked expensive. Gallic didn’t know much about fancy clothes, but he imagined the jacket’s lining had a famous designer’s logo stitched there. Invisible to the naked eye, but the designer was recognizable, just the same, by those who cared about such things.
A blonde woman’s thin tanned arm was casually draped over Larz’s left shoulder. Sitting close behind him, and to the side, as if she’d joined the party late and had to pull a chair from an adjoining table. Dangling, sparkly earrings caught the light as her head turned this way and that. She wore faded snug jeans and some kind of halter top that emphasized her breasts and her bare flat tummy. All in all, she was dressed more casually than the other women, but it worked—she was stunning. She had a confident air about her that Gallic found both irritating, yet somewhat compelling at the same time. Probably smart—beautiful—and undoubtedly wealthy. A dangerous combination. As Gallic closed in on the end of their table, a subtle, bemused smile crossed her pretty lips.
Seated directly on both Larz’s left and right side were two big, barrel-chested guys. Like two matching bookends, they wore similar gray suits and an abundance of a wet-looking product in their slicked-back hair. Tweedledee and Tweedledum, they looked more like a rich boy’s protection than actual friends. As Gallic leaned down to say something to Larz, they tensed, straightening in their chairs.
Larz Cugan quickly jerked his head to one side, which Gallic thought looked more like a nervous tick. Probably something he did often but wasn’t aware of. In any event, it was enough to momentarily pendulum his hair away from his eyes. Hesitantly, Larz leaned forward to hear what the tall stranger had to say. The girl with the sparkly earrings also leaned closer.
Gallic said, “Hey, man … you Larz?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Well, if you are, I thought I should tell you that someone just backed into your ride. If you hurry, you can still catch the son of a bitch out in the lot.”
CHAPTER 2
Gallic stood aside as Larz jumped out of his chair, charged past him, and headed for the exit. Looking startled, both Tweedledee and Tweedledumb clumsily extricated their legs from beneath the table and hurried after him. They move pretty fast for two porky guys, Gallic thought. The girl with the earrings rose to her feet, appraising Gallic for several beats, with the same bemused expression. She held out her hands, palms up, in a gesture that implied, You first …
* * *
Outside, the wind had died away and the sand cloud dissipated. By the time Gallic arrived at the Hausenbach L35T, Larz had apparently completed circling the hull, looking her over. Making sure there were no new dents or scratches on the vehicle’s pristine finish.
Larz looked Gallic over—from head to toe—an expression of distaste crossing his face. Like he was looking at a bug, or maybe a wayward turd lying on the ground. “What the fuck’s your problem, dude? There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my 5T.” He shoved his body smack into Gallic’s personal space—with hands on hips, his angry face glared up at him. And then, there they were too, his big bookends, hovering a step behind him on either side.
Gallic hadn’t known the proper abbreviated vernacular for his ship was simply 5T. It had a nice ring to it. 5T. “Hey, it’s your ride, man,” he said. “It’s no skin off my nose if you think she’s fine.”
“So why don’t you tell us what you think you saw?”
Gallic shrugged. “Looked like an Old Buick Starflight. Green … I think. It bumped your 5T down low there at the front, jostling her pretty good. But hey … it’s probably fine.” Gallic turned, as if he were going to leave, then spun back around. “You did fire her up, didn’t you? See that she’s still operational after being slammed into like that?”
Larz seemed to contemplate on that for a moment. Then turning his attention to the girl who had just arrived, now standing closer to Gallic than himself, he raised his brows, questioningly. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should at least check her out to be on the safe side.”
Larz, patting his suit jacket pocket, brought out a Start-Cube then walked around the 5T to where Gallic surmised the vessel’s hidden access hatch was located. Holding the cube in front of him on his upturned palm, it jumped right from his hand and disappeared, at waist-level, into the pristine fuselage. More Zinton technology. Gallic had heard about this latest use of the alien science and wondered how much extra Larz had to pay for such an option. A million? Two million?
Then, almost magically, the 5T’s hatch began to lift up and outward—like a graceful gull wing.
Gallic let out a breath. So, so easy! Having the Start-Cube in place was exactly what he needed. The vehicle, accessible now, was also drivable … by him, or anyone else. He said, “Hey, hold up there a moment.”
Frowning, Larz halted, one leg poised on the first step, which led into the ship. Gallic reached him in three strides, first unfolding, then handing him an electronic vid-sheet. “This authorizes me to take possession of this vehicle. I’m repossessing it. Step away from the craft. Do so now!”
“Like hell you will!” Larz shouted, grabbing on to both sides of the hatchway. “No one’s taking my 5T … there must be a mistake. I pay my fucking bills.”
“Either that, or your daddy does,” Gallic said. “Unfortunately, one of you has missed a few payments: Three, to be exact. You can take care of the default either at your bank or at the dealership. She’ll be there waiting for you in the morning. Now move aside.”
Larz, hunkering down, was not going to make this easy. “Johnnie … Donnie, take care of this!”
Gallic felt a heavy palm on his right shoulder. A surprisingly high voice said, “You’re going to give Mr. Cugan a bit more time to take care of business.”
Gallic, not turning around, glanced at the beefy hand resting on his shoulder. “Which one are you, Johnnie or Donnie?”
“I’m Donnie.”
Gallic said, “Johnnie, best you head back into the bar. Ask for Randy.”
“Yeah? What for?”
“Ask to borrow a bucket.”
“What do I need a bucket for?”
Gallic sensed they were exchanging perplexed looks.
“Because, if your friend here doesn’t take his hand off my shoulder, you’ll be taking what’s left of him home in it.”
Gallic, while watching Donnie’s hand come away, sensed the stocky man was turning his upper torso—winding up to deliver a fast punch. Gallic didn’t need to watch him to know exactly what he was doing. So instead of leaning forward, or trying to duck away, Gallic did the opposite of what Donnie expected. He stepped back and into him, hard and fast. Donnie’s punch came, but it was more like a love tap to Gallic’s kidneys. All his momentum—all the built-up energy—gone, like air farting out from an old whoopee cushion. Then, just as suddenly, Gallic—faking a half step forward—rocked back on his heels, jamming his right elbow back hard. The height differential between Gallic and Donnie couldn’t have worked out better. The familiar knob protrusion, located at the end of every elbow, is actually part of the hume
rus bone. But Gallic’s arms were not typical; they were large and muscular. The round knob on his humerus bone was more like the business end of a sledgehammer. When it made contact with Donnie’s nose, it totally annihilated it. In a fraction of a second, Donnie’s nasal bone—the supporting septal cartilage, as well as both sides of the maxillary bones—either splintered outright, or was instantly turned into something akin to toothpaste.
When Donnie dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, Gallic turned his attention to Johnnie, who was holding a semi-automatic handgun in his left hand. But all his attention was focused on the bloodied heap lying before him on the ground. Gallic stepped forward and slapped the gun from his hand, preparing to do the same to him as he did to Donnie.
The girl spoke. “Stop! Leave him alone.” She looked over to Larz, and said, “You’ll get it back tomorrow. Let the creep have it, Larz … it’s not worth it.”
Larz glared at Gallic, whose expression remained impassive. Almost as if the situation was an everyday occurrence, which it often was.
Eventually, Larz stepped down from the open hatchway. “Do you know who I am? Who my family is?”
“Nope. Can’t say that I do,” Gallic replied.
“You’re done! I hope you’ve enjoyed this lowlife job of yours, because you’re finished. You’ll be fired by morning.”
Gallic, stepping to the open hatchway, turned around to face the seething Larz Cugan. “Good luck with that. I work for myself. Best take care of your friend there …
he’s going to need some TLC for about three weeks. And I’d turn him over on his stomach, if I were you.”
Stepping into the craft, he caught the girl’s eye as the gull wing hatch began to close. He couldn’t quite read her questioning expression when she said, “You’re a piece of work … you know that?”
Space Chase (Star Watch Book 5) Page 24
