Red Star Sheriff

by Timothy Purvis

  Sam Berricks was a ruthless, unpredictable man. And Garret had hoped to never so much as hear his name spoken again. But the traitor was back. Back to bring ruin to his family. It was because of Berricks that Cooper was dead and consequently that Aidele had a fresh thirst for blood. If he and his soldiers had caught Aidele with Durante, it would have been deadly. For two weeks he’d been praying to the Spirits she’d come back through that door shrugging in her way and saying that she’d just been out doing some hunting. But she had yet to do so.

  He’d been searching the areas and towns around the ranch since that second day of her being missing. Had discovered the fading tracks of some sort of struggle on the fourth day. He wasn’t a tracker but could see that the tracks headed towards the Spine. Had Berricks waylaid her there? Forced her to flee into the mountains? He knew that she was familiar with that range. She explored a lot of the tip of the Spine since she had gotten lost that one time as a child. He smiled at the thought of how angry Mirra had been. He reminded her after Aidele was safe and in bed that she herself had a history as a child of getting lost in the Sutures. She wasn’t amused by his recollections.

  His smile faded. Berricks, you son-of-a-bitch, if you hurt her, I’ll kill you myself. Finish you like we tried to that last time.

  Berricks was the reason he didn’t do any more searching past a week. If that man came to the ranch and Aidele had come home, he wanted to be here to ensure her safety. Besides, he couldn’t just wander around aimlessly. The Wastelands were a massive place. It would be impossible to find someone without the necessary hunting skills. Or pure luck. And with Sam Berricks on the loose, it was better to just stay in one place.

  Garret had been in his early thirties when he’d first encountered the future general. It was just after the war had broken out and the Confederation was drafting solders to drive the Union presence back. Garret had joined without hesitation. The Union’s heavy-handed laws stifled many people’s freedoms. Granted, it wasn’t as bad then as its current incarnation. Still, its presence in everybody’s everyday lives had grown unbearable. Especially to the Chuhukon populace; Natives who’d struggled for inclusion into government affairs for decades. Sure, a few had gotten elected Domain Representative or Regional Senator, but for the most part, Chuhukons represented a failed experiment in colonization by most. People who were not able to manage their own affairs and lived in squalor. Or so said the derisive scuttlebutt.

  Garret himself had been born in the Wastelands, back when the domain had been called the ‘Atlantus Clutch’ by the Union. Its current status as the Wastelands was one negative result of the war for independence. And, at the time, was populated mostly by the Chuhukons. It was the Chuhukons who ended up starting the war after Union troops wiped out a Chuhukon village. After forging alliances with several other domains, a new Confederation was established. And Garret wanted a voice in the affairs.

  Sam Berricks was of the opposite opinion. He always thought the Chuhukons were lazy lay-a-bouts that couldn’t hold a job to save their lives. He viewed them as untrustworthy alcoholics. Garret could only imagine his great displeasure when the Chuhukon Confederation drafted him into their cause using an obscure Union rule that said the colonials could draft those living in their territories into martial services in case of invasion. And since the allied Confederate Domains were declaring independence, the Union couldn’t stop them from employing the tactic.

  When Garret first met Berricks in the Hinon Wolverines Brigade, the 433rd, Berricks had seemed the eager recruit. From what Garret understood, the man had been a Union soldier stationed at the southern Deltas boundary in the Atlantus Clutch. There his unit had been tasked with maintaining law and order with the local populace. But Garret should have known something was off with the man with that first cold smile and stiff handshake.

  “PFC Samuel Berricks, reporting for duty.” Sam had been clean shaven then, sporting a crew cut of brown hair. A real outstanding soldier with a whole host of accolades under his belt. Mostly for his work maintaining ‘peaceful’ relations with the natives. Of course, Garret knew none of his history at the time as he shook his hand.

  “Specialist Garret Lester. Pleased to meet you. Sergeant Renhalk is in a conference at the moment, but will be back to welcome you to the troop soon.”

  “I look forward to meeting him,” his gruff voice responded.

  It wasn’t exactly the start of an enduring friendship, but there’d been respect between them. So, he thought. In every engagement they were involved in, Berricks had always had his back. Had always been leading the charge. He even hung out with the men to laugh and drink. Garret had no reason to suspect him of anything more than being a good soldier.

  Until the day he came across him in the Sergeant’s office.

  “Sam?” Garret questioned entering.

  He stood there flummoxed, looking down to Berricks at the desk going through the Sergeant’s personal files. Garret had come looking for leave to go visit his ailing wife and found Berricks sitting there. He looked to Garret with narrowed eyes.

  “Thought the troop was down in the rec. What do you want?”

  Berricks spoke as if it were perfectly natural that he should be there. But Garret was immediately suspicious.

  “I was looking for the Sergeant. What are you doing in here?”

  “Research. The Sergeant is down at the pool,” Berricks said removing an encoder and making to stand.

  Garret walked further into the room and held up his hand. “Whatever that was, I’m going to have to ask you to put it on the desk and take a step back. You’re not authorized to be in here without the Sergeant being present.”

  “What are you now, an MP?” Berricks stood and glared at him. “I was given permission to check up on the personnel. Turns out there might be a spy.”

  “A spy? Who would betray our brothers?”

  “Me.” Berricks gut punched Garret, doubling him over.

  He’d tried to make a hasty exit, but Garret recovered and tackled him. They both collapsed to the ground laying hits to one another. Berricks got the upper hand by kicking the legs out from under Garret. He raced to the door of the office complex and was met by two other members of the unit. They paused, unsure of what was happening. Before they could utter a word, Berricks had pulled his gun and put both down. Garret chased after him into the hallway, however Berricks managed to slam his head into a wall. By the time he awoke in the medbay, Berricks had fled the complex. It was discovered he’d been feeding intel to the Union for months.

  Garret scowled as he watched the Marsets frolicking out in their pens. He let loose a breath trying to put Berricks out of mind. Maybe it was all nothing more than Aidele taking an unspoken vacation.

  And maybe I’m the Supreme Chancellor of Mars. He turned from the window and walked down the hall. He had to get his mind off of everything. Get to a place he could push away feelings of dread and unease. Garret opened the basement door, flicked on the lights, and walked down the stairs. At the bottom, he walked across the room, his boots clacking loudly off the concrete floor, to his work closet. The basement was spacious enough with a worktable in the very center of the room, a workbench on the wall near the stairwell, and shelving lining all the other walls with the exception of a corkboard rack in the middle of one wall holding guns, blades, and gun-belts. The ceiling was low, though, with maybe only a few inches separating his head from the crossbeams overhead.

  He opened the closet (a gun cabinet, really) and knelt down to pick up a metal container on the interior floor. He carried it over to the metal worktable and sat it down on top. Then took a seat on a stool, cleared his throat, and opened the container lid. Reaching inside, he pulled out a small music box. It was oval, colored pearl white with a scarlet rose engraved on top, its petals dusted in pinks along the tips with brighter reds towards a center that was as yellow as the sun. There was a lighting mechanism, when it worked and the box was wound, that would light the rose up from within, casting the rose
under an otherworldly glow. When he looked into it, the mesmerizing tints made it like staring into all of existence. The light would swirl a mad dance of yellows, reds, oranges, and tinges of purple.

  When it worked.

  The damn thing had stopped functioning right after his wife had died. And ever since he’d been trying to get it to light back up. To make its strange, melodic tune echo out once more. He’d never heard anything like it before or since. Whenever Nami’d held it, turned it on, and smiled at him, the song coming out of it was like it was her own soul serenading him.

  Even if it wasn’t functioning anymore, he still found a simple peace in working on it. Gently opening the lid, Garret removed a small cup that held knick knacks and jewelry. It sat atop the gears within. He sat the cup aside and took in a deep breath, then let it out, pushing all thoughts of what was happening with Aidele away. All of that was out of his hands now and all he could do was wait.

  Garret pulled a small toolkit out of the container the box was resting within. He opened the toolkit and saw dozens of tiny screwdrivers, clips, tweezers, prods, and scrapers. Pulling one flathead out, he went to work poking at the gears. Everything looked like it should work, but in all the years he’d been tinkering with it, the box never showed any signs of coming back to life.

  Garret’s pulse lowered to a gentle throb and he remained there for how long he couldn’t say. And he swore he could actually hear the song playing, a phantom memory given life. It made him smile.

  Thrumming pulses of horses’ hooves racing made that smile vanish. His gaze fell on a shadowy corner as he allowed his focus to sharpen. A nagging fear tugged at him. A feeling of dread he hadn’t felt since his time in the 433rd. A frown drew his lips down.

  Why would the 433rd cross my mind now? Sure, I was thinking about…

  …Berricks…

  The earth trembled as if under the thunderous pounding of ancient machinery.

  Riders on horseback. At least… twenty. No more than thirty. There was a certain sound, a weight, that a herd of horses with riders made. It wasn’t natural. Not like wild horses seeking their next feeding range or watering hole. It was a sound of purpose. Intent. Soldiers.

  Garret left the rose box where it sat and hurried over to his gun cabinet. The sound grew louder and then divided around his ranch. He reached into the cabinet, pulled out a shotgun, loaded it.

  Taking up flanking positions, covering avenues of escape. Aggressive. Fast. He pulled out a revolver and loaded it, grabbed a gun-belt. He heard part of the thunderous group split off toward the southwest valley. I know this pattern…

  He stopped. Saw his tomahawk on the corkboard rack. Then shut the cabinet doors and reached up to grab the bladed instrument to hook on his gun-belt. The cacophony of the riders ceased as he looked over to the metal worktable with the music box still open on top. Mounted riders were dismounting he was sure and he rushed over to the table and pushed it to one side a few feet. He knelt down and opened up a trapdoor the table had been covering. After a brief moment, Garret tapped in a code into an electric number pad and a panel slid open near him. Inside was a small metal door that was bulletproof and explosive resistant. There was a lever built into it and an old-style combination lock below it. He twirled in a combination until he heard a click, then twisted the lever and looked up to the ceiling.

  Voices echoed out. They were searching the house. He looked in the direction of the living room. Heard the methodic clomp of boots on the wooden floor. Whereas the others inside seemed frantic, urgent in their quest, this pair of boots had… Intent.

  Someone stopped at the basement door prompting Garret to grip his shotgun tighter.

  “Nope,” A voice said and the hand on the knob withdrew. “Go wait by the back door. Cover the exits. Send Colton to do a site review.”

  “Sir!”

  Garret scowled. The voice was gravelly. That voice said nothing more and, after a moment, clomped to the den across the hall.

  “You should have had the good decency to die when we killed you…” Garret muttered thinking back to how he and a few of the 433rd tracked the man down before he could get back to the Union. He reached down to the floor to turn the lever all the way and froze. A thought occurred to him and he was troubled. “Aidele…”

  Garret stood up, steeled his resolve, readjusted his grip on his shotgun so that now he was holding it by the center of the barrel. He wasn’t going to give that man any sense of satisfaction. He walked to the stairs and paced himself as he stepped up towards the hallway beyond. Stair by stair. At the top, he stopped, reached for the doorknob, turned it, and exited the basement.

  SAM BERRICKS STARED at a family portrait hanging over the fireplace in the den. It showed a younger Garret with his wife, their daughter Mirra, Pelican (aka the late, great Cooper Wilson), and a young girl who looked about eight at the time the photo was taken. Sam presumed that had to be Aidele.

  Sentimental old coot. Such a waste, Garret. You could’ve had more. Instead, you settled for some generic house, crops, horse breeding, and the hassles of domestic life. Pity.

  “Here he is!” a voice shouted as a door opened up in the hallway. “Put your hands up! Now!”

  Sam shook his head and growled. “Shut the fuck up, moron. Let him through. He is our host, after all. Show some respect.”

  He didn’t bother looking as he heard the soldier in the hall stand aside. Berricks knew Garret had to have been in the basement. And if he hadn’t been, well, there was always just burning the place to the ground to achieve the same result. The journal would be in his possession soon enough.

  Footsteps stopped just within the doorway. Sam almost smiled. If anyone was silent as a mouse, it was Garret Lester. For him to be clomping like that was out of pure spite. It’s what had made him so effective as a scout back in the day.

  “Hello, Garret,” Sam said turning around. Garret stood there, shotgun in hand, scowl on his face displaying the menace he had for him. The man’s face was wrinkled. Old. Hair silver grey, and done up in those braids Sam had always hated. “Jesus. You’ve gotten old.”

  Garret scoffed, walked over to the liquor cabinet, placed his gun on top, and reached down to fill two glasses with whisky. “You should talk. Look in a mirror lately?”

  “Didn’t say I was any prettier.” Sam chuckled. Garret walked over to him to offer a small glass. Sam took it and sipped, a smile broadening his lips. “Damn. I forgot you people knew how to ferment a perfect whiskey. You wouldn’t believe the swill I’ve been downing as of recent.”

  Garret glared at him. “You have a lot of nerve coming here. Weiss should have already been to see you. Why do you sully my home with your stench?”

  Sam laughed and finished the whiskey. He set the glass down on the fireplace mantel, eyes never leaving the old man. “Good. We can get all that small talk out of the way. You know why I’m here. Pelican’s book. Weiss and your granddaughter obviously ain’t here. But soon will be. And as far as nerve goes, I saw which way the wind was blowing. At least I had nerve enough to do something about it. Unlike you. Every opportunity in the book and you give it up for… what? A getaway in the Wastelands?”

  “You betrayed your brothers!”

  “Brothers? Those weren’t my brothers. They were my keepers. I never signed up for that damned war. But I wasn’t given a choice. No opt out on the ‘application’ saying, ‘I’m a conscientious objector and ain’t fighting for you.’” Berricks placed his hands on his hips. “You have no idea what I sacrificed to make the tough decisions that none of you fucking huuks were willing to accept. And it’s a damn shame too. You’re just too blind, too idealistic for your own good. And now you have an opportunity to set it back to rights. Pelican is the fulcrum in a battle for our manifest destiny. The Union flag waving far and wide. No more poverty. No more suffering. No more of those outlaws running amok because order has finally been restored. The Council is a joke and you know it. Hinon is collapsing in on itself due to its own incompetence
and its own sanctimonious attitude. You said Weiss was given the journal? By you? Then you understand already. When they return, convince your granddaughter to hand over the book. Stop the bleeding. And then… I’ll take my stench elsewhere.”

  Garret waved his hand. “You onyare are all alike. Pretend you offer the branch of peace, and then bite the hand that reaches for it. It is why we fought the Union then. Drove them back to that cesspool they call a nation. If there is anything to be shameful for here, it is your not recognizing that fact when we fought at each other’s side. You could have made the decision to leave. Could have abandoned your post. Ran off to this Union you love so much. Instead, you chose to remain and work against us from within.”

  Sam smiled. “I chose to stick it to a government that thought it wise to draft everybody for their little insurrection. Even if that person wasn’t from their nation to begin with. Grant deserved being overthrown for allowing that to be a law. Deserved his death for being so weak.”

  Garret gritted his teeth and sat his glass down. “Leave my home. Go back to the Union and tell them to leave us be. If only Tymoc had been a better shot, you would not be haunting us now!”

  Sam laughed. And then laughed again. His chuckle a rasping sound echoing throughout the room. “Jesus Christ! You people are so idealistic. Tymoc was a better shot than you thought. Shoulder was never the same after that bullet ripped through it, though. Course, had it been me, I would’ve taken the head. That was my job after all.” Sam rubbed his left shoulder and grinned. “It’s amazing how none of you saw any of this coming. I mean, look around you, Garret. See the domains for what they are. Failed colonies struggling to breath. The Chuhukon Council won’t even act unless the domains vote to act. Even under a deluge of chaos, strife, criminal cartels biting at the fabric of their precious independence, they won’t lift a gawddamned finger to help. Won’t call a state of emergency. Won’t enforce martial law. But I guess we all have our ideals. I was a fool to think they’d operate any different. Give them too much of a chance when the direct approach is always so much more efficient.”