The Sheriff of Yrnameer

by Michael Rubens

  “Listen: I stole Teg’s ship. I’m a ship thief. You should send a very well-armed detachment to arrest me.”

  “No one could ever steal Teg’s ship—he’s too handsome.”

  “He’s not that handsss—listen. Please. Just connect me to your supervisor.”

  “I think I’ve wasted enough time with you. I’m putting a three-month block on your voice signature and com tag. You’ll no longer be able to engage in interplanetary communications.”

  The line went dead.

  “Pair of queens,” said Cole.

  “Three nines,” said Bacchi.

  “Crap.”

  They’d been there all morning, sitting on the front porch that extended along the length of the jailhouse, lazily playing cards. Passersby would call out the inevitable friendly greeting, usually including a question about how the planning was going.

  “Going great,” Cole replied each time with a big grin.

  It was not going great. It was not going. Cole felt overcome by a feeling of mental lethargy, unable to find a solution to what was, after all, an insoluble problem. He was hoping inspiration would arrive soon.

  He wondered how MaryAnn was doing, and when she’d be back. He had dreamed about her again last night, an innocent dream, full of wonder, and had woken up feeling hopeful. Then he remembered the situation.

  He lost another hand. Over the past few hours Bacchi had managed to reduce his outstanding debt to Cole by about half.

  “You’re going to have to start ch-cheating soon,” said Bacchi.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Bacchi shuffled the cards again. “So, you think there’s some way to—kuhkuhkuh—defend this place?”

  Bacchi had developed an odd stutter and a small collection of facial tics over the past few days, the side effect of his heavy caffeine intake. He’d become attracted to the owner and barista at Café Storj, and apparently the attraction was mutual, because she kept him supplied with free lattes.

  Cole, curious, had stopped by to behold the poor misguided creature. He found a petite Storjan, not unappealing if one’s tastes ran toward the reptilian end of the spectrum. When he arrived she was in the midst of a belching competition with some of the clientele, and everything became clear.

  “I’ll figure something out,” said Cole.

  “You mean, you’ll figure some way out,” said Bacchi, “for yourself.”

  “I’m not running, Bacchi.”

  “Of course you’re not. You’ll take me with you, won’t you?”

  Cole put his feet up on the rail and leaned back in his chair. “You know what you need, Bacchi? A positive mind-set. It’s all going to work out.”

  A shadow darkened the small card table. They looked up to find the spindly, black-clothed townsperson observing them silently, his bony face somber. Graef, Cole had learned his name was. He was tall enough that his bald head was still slightly higher than theirs.

  Without a word Graef produced a leather-covered rectangular case that looked like it might accommodate a flute. Instead, as they discovered when he opened it and presented its interior to them, it contained a series of small vials, tastefully displayed against a red velvet lining. There were crystal versions in different colors, sleek metallic models, some shiny, some brushed, a few wood models with miniscule but elaborate carvings, and what looked to be a plain pine variant, no longer or thicker than the latter half of Cole’s pinky.

  “Aha,” said Cole. “I’m not sure I’m in the market just yet.”

  The undertaker flicked his gaze up to meet Cole’s for the briefest of moments, managing in that instant to convey a world-weary professional’s profound sadness at the folly of the self-deceiving customer. Then he performed his almost imperceptible bow and closed the case with a muffled click. Before he departed he extended his hand toward Bacchi, who automatically responded to the gesture before Cole could warn him off.

  “Sixty-three point two-nine percent,” intoned the little device in the undertaker’s hand. Graef nodded gloomily and jotted in his notebook, pausing again as he walked away to half turn to them and make his respectful bow.

  Cole and Bacchi sat in silence for a few moments. Bacchi’s left eye twitched. “I wonder how much the shiny silver one is?” he said.

  Cole grunted.

  “I heard this one story about this guy who double-crossed Runk on this job,” said Bacchi. “He crosses Runk, Runk finds him, and has him made—”

  “Has him made into a side table. Yes, I heard it,” said Cole.

  “The guy was still alive, Cole!”

  “I heard it.”

  “Even after he was furniture!”

  “Heard it.”

  “He had drawers!”

  “Heard. It.”

  “Cole,” said Bacchi, “I have no plans to—kuhkuhkuh—die here. Why won’t they just face reality and give Runk the—kuhkuhkuh—food?”

  “They say it’s the principle of the thing,” said Cole.

  “Principles get p-people k-killed,” said Bacchi, tossing some more money into the pot.

  “Maybe principles are worth dying for,” said Cole in a loud, clear voice. Bacchi looked up sharply at Cole, who was casually studying his cards. Then he noticed Nora, who was standing within earshot.

  “Ah,” said Bacchi, who hadn’t seen her approaching. “For a second, I thought you really meant that.”

  “How are the plans coming?” asked Nora.

  “I’m working on them,” said Cole.

  “Uh-huh,” said Nora.

  It was the most they’d spoken in days. Her manner was distant, formal, as cold as when he’d first met her.

  “Have you seen Joshua?” she said.

  “Nope,” said Cole.

  This was untrue. Cole had, in fact, seen Joshua that very morning. He’d been patiently waiting for Cole when Cole arrived at the jail.

  “I thought you were supposed to be on the farm,” Cole said to him.

  “Would you have stayed there?” asked Joshua.

  So Cole gave him back his badge and sent him on some errands.

  “He’s not off running errands for you or anything like that,” said Nora.

  “Nope.”

  He could feel her watching him as placed his bet.

  “Cole, despite everything, I believe that there’s a good, decent person in there struggling to get out,” she said.

  Bacchi snorted. “S-sorry,” he said. “Something caught in my haglafrap.”

  Nora ignored him. “Joshua’s a child. And these people are depending on you, Cole,” she said. “Remember that.”

  Cole watched her walk off.

  “I think she digs you,” said Bacchi. “Oops, look at that. I won again.” He scraped the pot over to himself.

  Cole lay awake that night, conceiving of and discarding plans. When he fell asleep he had a nightmare involving himself, Runk, and a wood lathe. When he awoke the next morning he was no better off then when he went to bed, so he settled in again to play cards with Bacchi. He didn’t really trust him, but he was decent company.

  Mayor Kimber made his midmorning rounds, stopping in front of the jailhouse to chat with Cole. “The plans progressing?” he asked.

  “They sure are.”

  “Cogitating, eh?”

  “Precisely.”

  Bacchi emitted another snort.

  “Haglafrap,” he said.

  The mayor watched Cole deal.

  “Well, we’re all eager to hear what you come up with,” he said, then continued on his way.

  “What have you come up with?” asked Bacchi.

  “I’m cogitating.”

  “Uh-huh.” Bacchi put his cards down on the table and hunched forward, leaning in close. “I’ll tell you what I think we should do,” he said in a low voice, so that Cole had to lean forward as well. “We get the farg out of here. Go into the hills, hide, whatever, until this blows over. These people want to stand up to Runk, let them.”

  Cole was silent,
absently picking at a corner of a card with his thumbnail.

  “We stay, we die. We run, we live,” said Bacchi. “You know it, Cole.”

  “But Cole isn’t the sort of person who runs,” said a voice.

  They bolted upright guiltily to find MaryAnn standing next to the porch, looking up at them.

  “Exactly!” said Bacchi. “That’s why I was shocked that guy would suggest it!”

  “What guy?”

  “You know, the guy with the … things,” said Bacchi, gesturing vaguely to his head. “Shocking. And I was, like, I can’t believe you’re saying gip like that, and he’s, like, Don’t tell me what—”

  “You’re back,” said Cole to MaryAnn, cutting off Bacchi.

  “I’m back,” she said. “Did you miss me?”

  “Of course.”

  She beamed at him. He found his expression matched hers. She walked up the steps and sat in the chair that Cole held out for her.

  “I missed you, too,” she said.

  Bacchi muttered something.

  “How are the preparations coming?” she asked.

  “Making real progress,” said Cole.

  Her eyes fell on the cards and the money on the table.

  “Just taking a quick break,” he explained. “All right, well,” he said, tidying up the cards and standing, “we should probably get back to it.”

  “Sheriff!”

  He turned as Joshua came clomping up the steps onto the porch. He had a large mason jar in each hand, filled with a clear liquid.

  “I got the shersha. They said be careful, it’s right powerful stuff.”

  “Oh, good—here’s your shersha, Bacchi,” said Cole.

  “And yours, Sheriff, that’s why I got two,” said Joshua. “Just like you told me. Hi, Miss MaryAnn.”

  “Hello, Joshua.”

  “Plus I got more cigars. Here.”

  “Fantastic,” said Cole, smiling between gritted teeth.

  “And a new deck of cards.”

  “Okay. Well, it’s nice of you to stop by. …”

  Joshua’s face grew serious.

  “Sheriff, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Remember the bandits?”

  “Of course I remember the bandits, Joshua. What do you think is on my mind every hour of every day?”

  Joshua’s eyes flicked to the cards. “Uh …”

  “What about the bandits, Joshua?”

  “I mean the bandits that we crushed.”

  “The ones I crushed, yes. What about them?”

  “Well, here’s the thing: they came here to deliver a message, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But now they’re all gone.”

  “That’s right,” said Cole, smiling at MaryAnn as he said it. “No more problems from those guys.”

  “No doubt,” said Joshua. “But wouldn’t Runk be expecting them to report back?”

  Cole paused, blinking. MaryAnn watched him. “I had been thinking that, yes,” he said.

  “So Runk’s waiting for them to come back and tell him how they delivered the message, and what everyone’s reaction was and everything. Except they don’t come back.”

  “No, because they’re all gone,” said Cole, smiling again at MaryAnn, but with less assurance this time.

  “So if you were Runk, wouldn’t you send someone else to find out what happened?”

  Cole’s smile faded. MaryAnn had her questioning expression on, waiting.

  “I’m not sure that … well, I suppose he might … no. No, I don’t think we have to worry about that. Not yet. It’s something I’ve been considering, and I think if they do send someone, it wouldn’t be for several days.”

  Bacchi’s head snapped up suddenly, listening.

  “What?” said MaryAnn.

  “Was that gunfire?”

  Cole thought he counted five of them in the skimmer as it screeched past on Main Street; then bullets raked the front of the jailhouse and he hit the deck. Bacchi was there already, cowering behind the overturned card table. A smoking bullet hole went clean through it and the brick wall behind them. He heard whooping and laughing.

  Cole realized that MaryAnn and Joshua were still standing, watching the skimmer as it banked and climbed sharply, nearly clipping the peaked roof of the town hall. He grabbed at them both, pulling them down.

  “You want to get shot? Get down, now!”

  The skimmer wheeled and dove, swooping low over the rooftops, the bandits keeping the engine revs high so that the ear-splitting vibrations shattered windows. They roared along Main Street again, firing randomly, townspeople scattering and diving for cover.

  “Inside! Get inside the jail!”

  Cole pushed MaryAnn and Joshua through the door and followed them, Bacchi right behind him.

  “Stay down!” said Cole. He could see that the bullet hole went through the back wall of the structure as well.

  “Is it them?” asked MaryAnn. “Are the bandits back?”

  “Well, they may be bandits, but they’re not necessarily the bandits,” said Cole. “For all we know, this could be an entirely unrelated—” He broke off as Joshua got to his feet and stepped to the desk, reaching for something.

  “Joshua, put that gun down!” said Cole.

  “But we have to stop them!”

  “You’re gonna get yourself shot! Get down, idiot!”

  He pulled at his ankle. Joshua reluctantly lowered himself to the floor. “Now give me the gun!”

  “But, Sheriff—”

  “Give me the gun! Look, I want to show you a trick”

  Joshua handed him the Firestick 25. Cole chucked it through the open door of the jail cell, then shut the door with his foot.

  “Hey!” said Joshua.

  “We’re all cowering inside the jailhouse now, as the bandits continue to fly over and through the town, firing at will,” said Mary -Ann. Cole turned to find her speaking into her tiny microphone.

  “We are not cowering, MaryAnn, we’re taking cover Joshua!”

  Joshua was crawling toward the door. Cole crawled after him and pushed him aside. Reaching the door, he opened it a crack and cautiously peered out. He could see the bandits in the skimmer doing doughnuts at the other end of Main Street, spraying dust and pebbles and exhaust blast in a circle. Then they landed and leaped out of the craft, whooping and hollering, firing their automatic weapons into the air.

  “Come on out!” shouted one of them. “Come on, cowards!”

  Cole recounted them as the dust settled—five, like he thought, a nice assortment of species whose salient features were large muscles or spiky armored parts or big, sharp teeth or a mixture of all three.

  “There’s five of them,” whispered Cole to the others. “They all have—MaryAnn, what are you doing?”

  She was on her feet, pulling at the door.

  “I have to go report on this!”

  “Report on it from in here!”

  “Come on!” roared the bandit again, a massive Yoin who sported the trifecta of threatening features. “We’ve got a message for you!”

  “We have to go out there,” said Joshua.

  “No, we don’t. If they have a message, they can shout it to us.”

  “I’m going out there, Cole. This is an important story,” said MaryAnn.

  “No one is going out there.”

  “You don’t come out, we’re just going to start shooting!” the Yoin announced, then fired off a quick burst to punctuate his threat.

  “Again, no one is—”

  Joshua pushed past Cole and MaryAnn, forcing open the door. “Hey!” he shouted.

  “Joshua!”

  “Stop that!” shouted Joshua. “Stop it now!” He marched indignantly across the porch and bounded down the stairs, heading directly toward the five aggressors.

  “Oh, farging hell,” said Cole, reluctantly getting to his feet. “As I said, no one goes out there until I do.”

  “Go get ’em,
Sheriff,” said Bacchi.

  As he descended from the porch, he heard MaryAnn behind him: “I’m now accompanying the sheriff as he goes to confront the bandits.”

  “MaryAnn, you are not accompanying—” He stopped and covered her microphone with his hand. “You are not accompanying me!”

  “Cole, I have a responsibility as a journalist.”

  “You’re not going to file the story if you’re dead. At least find some spot out of the open.”

  She nodded. “All right.”

  Cole broke into a jog to catch up to Joshua, who was walking toward Runk’s men with great determination.

  “Hey, you!” Joshua shouted. “I’m talking to you!”

  The five had noticed his presence and were turning to face him.

  “You better get out of here!” said Joshua.

  “Or what?” said the Yoin.

  “Or there’s gonna be trouble!” said Joshua.

  “Looks like there already is trouble,” said the Yoin. “And you’re in it.” He brought his gun up.

  “Wait! Wait!” screamed Cole, catching up to Joshua and grabbing him. “Don’t shoot! He has mental problems!”

  The Yoin paused.

  “I do not!”

  “He does! He’s simpleminded and wets the bed!”

  “I do not wet the bed!”

  Cole pulled Joshua close and whispered in his ear through clenched teeth. “Keep your stupid mouth shut, or you’re gonna get someone killed.”

  “I don’t wet the bed!”

  “Shut up!”

  “Where’s the mayor?” demanded the Yoin.

  “Umm … that’s a very good question. We’ll see if we can go find him for you.” Cole turned to go, dragging Joshua with him.

  “Stop!”

  Cole didn’t stop.

  “Keep going,” he whispered to Joshua. “Do not say no.”

  “No,” said Joshua.

  “You’re driving me insane,” hissed Cole.

  “I said stop!” thundered the Yoin.

  Cole did. He reluctantly turned back to face the intruders. He was aware of the silence, knowing that he was being watched by the townspeople, peering at him from dozens of hiding places.

  “Who are you?” said the Yoin.

  “He’s the sheroof!” said Joshua, as Cole elbowed him in the side.

  “I’m just, uh …,” said Cole, scavenging about for the most uninteresting, nonthreatening identity he could imagine, “a poet.”