Justice in an Age of Metal and Men

by Justice in an Age of Metal

  “Well, son,” said Bea Meriwether, an elderly woman in a blue flowered dress. She was a thin-lipped woman who appeared to be made entirely of sharp edges and loose flesh. “You’d best think of something you can do. That man won’t leave us alone at the center.”

  “Have you talked to the owner?”

  “Ain’t gonna do you no good, Bea,” said Old Jack.

  “Yes, I have,” Miss Meriwether said. “Don’t you think I wouldn’t go there first?” She stepped up and leaned on the counter. “He won’t do a thing either. You folks’re all a bunch of impotent bastards, you know that?” Her pitch was getting dangerously high.

  The stranger pulled out a long pipe and began tapping it to release the remains of its contents. The man was wrinkled and his hair was white, but his eyes sparkled with an amusement I normally associated with youth.

  I stepped forward to rescue Johnson. My head was clearer now. The nannies had almost erased the effects of my binge.

  “Ma’am—”

  “Don’t you ma’am me, sonny! I want that Baptist locked up!”

  “Um,” I said. “We might not have a legal action against him, but I will go talk to the man—see if maybe we can work something out.” It was a waste of time, but sometimes a sheriff could step in and mitigate situations like this.

  “Talk to him? You going to just talk to him then it’s better? I hope that talk comes with some hot lead and some knuckles.”

  “Well, there’s no need—”

  “Or maybe just baptize the son of a bitch. Clean away some of that sin of his.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “Don’t you ma’am me! You even listenin’? Now, you get out there and take care a this problem or I’m coming right back here tomorrow.” With that, she huffed out the door, leaving Johnson and I staring.

  Old Jack spun a second coin and Young Jack, who couldn’t have been more than three years old, clapped and giggled. The stranger lit his pipe and the room filled with a deep, musky smoke.

  “Thanks, boss,” said Johnson.

  “My pleasure.” I tipped my hat at Johnson, not envying him his position at the front desk. Ned Johnson was a deputy I could respect. He was clean-cut and old enough to remember a day when Texas Rangers were mostly human. This was the sort of square-jawed, chiseled guy most women and some of us men hoped to someday end up with. He did his job well, and he had respect for the people he’d sworn to protect. That might have been why they always walked all over him.

  With a nod to Old Jack and a polite smile at the stranger, I made my leave of the station. Sunlight drove its way into my skull as I stepped through the entrance to the underground station. I slipped on my sunglasses and tipped my head down. The taste of the red dust came back almost immediately, making me think again of how thirsty I was. I always found it strange how all of that drinking didn’t help my thirst one bit.

  The streets were busier than normal. People were trying to get their business finished before the day got really hot. There was a storm coming too. The air had a sort of heaviness that only preceded big thunderstorms. I idly wondered when it was expected to hit. Cars of all shapes and sizes were cruising down the main road through town, some hovering a half meter above the ground and others taking a higher altitude. In the skies, autopilot sorted things out, but down here in the town people used good old-fashioned right-of-way rules. There were no vehicles touching the packed dirt road. Cheap antigrav all but ended that practice long before I was ever born.

  Two boys from across town were huddled in the entrance to a general store across from the station. I recognized them but didn’t remember their names, so I settled for tipping my hat in their direction. One of them nodded solemnly back, but the other turned and pretended not to see me. When I ran into their mother a few blocks later, I tipped her off to their location. Boys need their freedom, but a mother needs to know where her kids are when a storm’s coming.

  Most buildings in town were fashioned after the Navajo hogan, a domelike building that was used for generations before European architecture took over. As the Chihuahuan Desert spread north and east, desert dwellers from what was once Arizona and New Mexico moved south to occupy it. As the megastorms of the new climate swept away inferior European buildings, the old, more practical styles moved back in. The modern hogan was the perfect desert residence. They were built from solid stone, and they ranged in size from the traditional two-meters tall to greater than twenty. Usually the modern version also included an underground component, which satisfied the need for a cool, dry place to hang your hat and take off your boots.

  The town of Dead Oak was a cluster of a few hundred of these hogans gathered around an enormous oak. As the name implies, the oak had been dead for generations, preserved by a sentimental townspeople and the calcification of a dangerously harsh environment. It wasn’t hard to understand why people loved that tree. It stood strong against the brutal storms and desiccating winds, growing stronger for all the hard times nature and man sent at it. People saw it as a metaphor for their own lives. It seemed fitting, then, that the tree had been dead for years.

  The Dry Goat was one of the few remaining structures in town that was fully above ground. The Goat was a one-story flat-topped rectangle. It was gray concrete block and a polished granite facade facing what passed for a street. The entrance was a genuine honest-to-goodness double swinging door, like you’d expect from some ancient American Western movie. Inside was something else.

  The main room was lit by a strangely pulsing tube of glowing light that wove its way around the ceiling, down pillars, and along the walls. Its hypnotic movement was dizzying and more than a little distracting, especially given the fact that every surface of the place seemed to be some sort of polished or mirrored steel. Smoke hung heavy and stale in the morning glow of the place. The thrum of the latest music craze filled the air. It was the sort of music a person felt rather than heard, and it did not improve my headache.

  I paused for a moment at the door. Those watching might have been convinced that this was a dramatic choice designed to give the criminal element a chance to shake in its collective boots. It wasn’t. I needed a moment to let my eyes adjust. Nobody there would even remember what that was like. Their eyes all sparkled with the telltale flash of heavy augmentation.

  Once I was reasonably sure I wouldn’t run into anything on the way, I made my way up to the bar. Like everything else here, it was steel and plastic, with stools to match. I bellied up and took a look at the rows of identical unlabeled bottles. I never knew what was in them, but the bartender seemed to know his business. I motioned with a finger to get his attention.

  “‘Sup, sheriff?” He was a short fellow who wore a metal-rimmed monocle that I suspected helped him identify bottles. He was heavily modified, with black—really black—skin and an intricate circuit-board pattern tattooed in glowing blue. His fingernails were shining steel, as were his teeth. Two mirrored steel horns protruded from his hairless head.

  “‘Morning, Mr. Lucifer.” I had a polite relationship with the man, though I trusted him about as much as I believed his real name was Lucifer. “Hoping you could help me out.”

  “You needing a drink on this fine morning?”

  “Nope.” Not anymore. “Just looking for info on a man who frequents your fine establishment.” With my eyes fully adjusted, I scanned the main room to see who else was around. There were a couple of clean-cut men wearing gray suits and sunglasses right in the middle of the room. Out of place, but I pegged them as out-of-towners.

  Behind them I saw a trio of modders. They were nothing but kids, really; the oldest was probably twenty. I had seen these guys around, even busted them a few times for minor trouble. They were all spikes and steel, but most of it was for show.

  Three stools down from me was a woman in a blue dress. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a trio of braids. At her feet was a duffel bag and a walking stick with some feathers attached to the top. She was drinking something clear on i
ce. When I saw her I politely smiled and removed my hat. Sometimes it pays to be polite in the company of women. This woman just frowned and turned away. I decided that she was about the last person I wanted to question in this establishment.

  Lucifer leaned in close. “You talking about Clayton Dewitt? Because, my friend, as much as I respect you I am not going to tell you what that fine gentleman is dealing to my esteemed patrons.” His wide grin showed me a dozen shining teeth.

  “No.” I leaned in close. “I’m talking about Daniel Brown. Comes in here sometimes.”

  His grin widened.

  My jaw tightened and a scowl crossed my face. “Spit it out.”

  “Well.” The bartender glanced at the three modders in the corner. “The man was not without his enemies.”

  Lucifer gave me a devilish grin and pulled a bottle off of the shelf. With a flourish, he poured me a drink in a tiny shot glass. He’d told me enough and I could tell when the man wasn’t going to let anything else slip. The sharp scent of bourbon reached my nose and I felt a touch of the nausea.

  My feet hit the floor and I pulled myself away from the drink. That damn devil would have loved to hold this weakness over me, but I wouldn’t give him the chance.

  I gave the modders a good look as I placed my hat back on my head. They were looking back at me now, watching me a little too closely. Their expressions were tense. I had a split second to make a decision and I decided to take the soft approach. I softened my jaw and slipped out the old pleasant smile. There was nothing threatening about me. I took a step forward.

  They ran.

  They split up. Two went for the back and one for the front.

  I went after the guy who was headed for the front. He was closer and I nearly caught him as he shouldered the door open.

  Intense sunlight blinded me as I followed him outside. I heard the kid’s footsteps to the left, so I bolted in that direction.

  My vision adjusted and I saw him only a few meters ahead of me.

  He was fast. His legs were heavily modded, possibly full replacements. At the corner, he leapt into the air, avoiding the traffic by jumping over the main line of low flying vehicles.

  I leaned into it. My lungs were working hard now. My legs were burning. My duster was flapping behind me. I sped up, hoping to stay close enough to at least figure out where the kid was heading.

  I ducked under a car and stumbled forward, blasted by its blowback. I kept to my feet, but the traffic had slowed me down. I was pumping hard now, sprinting with everything I had and almost keeping up to the freakish kid. He was ten meters ahead, but I felt like I was gaining.

  A screeching noise echoed through the town from somewhere behind me. It was metal on metal. The kid turned back to look, and I made up half the distance between us.

  My heart pounded in my chest, threatening to burst. My lungs tore at the heavy air.

  The kid looked at the sky behind me, then his focus fell to me again.

  The bastard wasn’t even breathing hard.

  He smiled. His chromed teeth shone in the morning sun.

  He stopped.

  I lunged forward, sure that he couldn’t get away now.

  He jumped straight up. My fingers closed on air.

  I skidded onto the ground. Above, one of the other modders hovered on a jet bike. The bike was a tiny one-man skidder. It wavered and loped around a little. It was not designed for that much weight. They were only about four meters up.

  “I…” I gasped for air. “I’m not trying to arrest you!”

  The kids laughed. The kid steering the bike shouted down, “And we’re not trying to get arrested!”

  My breath was returning, but I stayed down on the ground. “It’s about Daniel Brown. The rancher.”

  “Seems if it was important you’d have run faster,” smiled the kid who had easily outrun me.

  All pretense of the friendly sheriff dropped from my face. “Say that again, kid.”

  “I said.” The kid laughed. “If you want an answer, maybe you should run a little faster.”

  I clenched my fist and ground my teeth. I didn’t much like kids who thought their tech made them better than regular people. I didn’t like kids who disrespected authority. I really didn’t like kids who disrespected me. “I didn’t hear you,” I said through my teeth.

  They laughed but there was something they didn’t know.

  “I said,” the kid started, enunciating each word with a flourish.

  I slid my boot underneath myself and jumped as hard as I could. They’d drifted down far enough that I was just able to reach the pegs with my right hand.

  As soon as I gripped the foot peg, I realized my mistake. I couldn’t get my e-cuffs out very well with my metal arm, and I couldn’t hold on as well with my human one.

  Also, my human fingers were a bit more vulnerable to getting stepped on.

  The bike, which had been loping, now started to downright fail. Its engine strained against the extra weight and it started to drop.

  The runner squirmed and stomped at my fingers. It was all I could do to keep from getting them crushed.

  The other kid cranked on the bars and leaned hard. The bike drifted sideways, scraping me against the slanted side of the nearest dome. A blast of smoke and fire burst from an auxiliary thruster and the bike pulsed upward. The heat scorched the sleeve of my duster, but it didn’t penetrate to the skin.

  I scraped desperately at the wall, trying to get some purchase, but the wall was smooth stone all the way up. The kid with the modded legs stopped stomping at me and focused on holding onto his friend. Somehow the tiny bike still had enough lift to keep rising with all three of us.

  Giving up on holding us all down, I swung my left arm up, hoping to find another handhold.

  I did. My hand clamped hard onto a pipe jutting from the side of the bike. We had reached the top of the dome, and the bike seemed to still be rising. The tips of my boots were all that touched the stone structure, and we were still sliding sideways.

  “One last chance, boys!” I yelled.

  The kid on the back started stomping at me again, like he had forgotten I was there.

  It was too late. I’d already let go with my right hand.

  I thrust my hand in my pocket and grabbed half a dozen e-cuffs.

  The bike swung up over the busy street.

  The e-cuffs hummed in my clenched fist. I pulled them back for a throw.

  The runner’s eyes got wide. “Hijo de puta,” he swore.

  Just then, my handhold broke.

  The solid steel of passing traffic cushioned my fall. I bounced off of one car, then rolled and landed face down on the dirt road. The e-cuffs rolled uselessly from my hand as I gasped desperately.

  Dazed, I forced myself up on my hands and knees. My head swum and everything seemed a little fuzzy. A vague awareness of traffic zooming past muddled into my consciousness.

  I looked up just in time to raise my arm to defect a sedan that was coming in far too low.

  The last things I remembered before I blacked out were intense pain and the crippling humiliation of defeat. I’d like to say that the pain was the worse of the two, but I wouldn’t want to lie.

  Chapter 4

  There are jackals everywhere. They snarl and stink of piss and rot. The things circle me. They eye me, probably trying to decide if I’ll fight or if I’m just another snack.

  With great effort, I force myself to my feet—unsteady at first, crouched low so I can stay upright.

  My arm is missing—the metal one. It’s gone completely and in its place the sleeve is folded and pinned neatly. I’m in the desert.

  The jackals inch closer.

  I yell to frighten them, but they act as if I don’t exist. Their eyes are locked on something else—something behind me.

  They’re looking at Francis.

  The boy from the farm sits perfectly still at my feet. He stares into the distance, eyes flashing in the hot afternoon sun.

  I
throw a rock at the bravest jackal, but others circle. I spin to meet them, but I can’t frighten them all. One nips at Francis, tearing his shirt and leaving a scratch on his arm.

  But it’s not Francis anymore. It’s Conrad. My brother looks up at me with tears in his eyes.

  I stare, stunned.

  The jackals pour in from all sides. One tears into Conrad’s leg. Another rips at his neck. Conrad stares forward, reacting to nothing.

  I grab at them with my good hand. I pull one mangy creature after another, but I lack the strength to kill them. Those that I toss aside just come forward again. The space they leave is instantly filled.

  Then there’s nothing but bones. Strips of flesh still trail from them as the jackals rip them free and run back into the desert.

  I see my father, then. He looks at me with sad eyes and shakes his grizzled head. He turns his back on me and leaves. I don’t bother to plead with him to come back.

  Cruel consciousness hit me harder than some fiber-fabricated sedan ever could. A piercing ache arced through the back of my skull and pulsed through the length of my spine.

  Worse, though, was a new feeling right in the center of my chest. It was a tightness that I couldn’t recall ever having felt before. It made it hard to breath, so I gasped hot gulps of heavy air. It didn’t help. There was something else too. Big drops of water ran from my eyes, blinding me. Blinking back the tears seemed to just encourage more. I felt weak.

  Fumbling a little, I managed to put on my sunglasses.

  Someone had dragged me out of the street and leaned me up against a hogan that sported a wooden sign with the words “Cornsley Dentistry” displayed in fabulously flourished letters. Half a dozen meters from where I ached, the sedan was parked at an odd angle. Its front sported an impressively caved-in fender and hood. This was to be expected when fabbed fiber went up against black metal. I’d have felt bad for it if the black metal in this scenario hadn’t been attached to me. Above, the street traffic continued as normal, whizzing by as if nothing had happened.