Red Star Sheriff

by Timothy Purvis

  Sam ‘hmm’d’ and lifted his left arm to stare at it for several long moments. Clenching it, he marveled at how it responded to the merest thought.

  “I think it goes beyond frustration, Nielson. Even back in the war, this damn planet proved too obstinate. Back when we were just soldiers in Grant’s Union, I told Lee the place was a waste of effort. It would be better to just leave these ingrates to their own devices. Let them fail. Starve to death on the worthless ball of dirt. But, no, he insists possessing it is of paramount importance. Yet, all I’ve accomplished here is another ulcer and losing my arm to Wilson’s hellspawn. Nothing is working. It’s looking more like we’re just going to have to bomb these idiots into submission.”

  Nielson was quiet for a moment then shook his head. “The feasibility of a prolonged campaign is precisely why we were sent here. If they’re not occupied tearing at each other’s throats, then our headway into the Martian systems is a fool’s errand. The supply lines simply won’t hold up between here and Earth. The Chuhukons have already demonstrated their ability to cut off those lines before. If we don’t succeed here, any future engagement will be untenable.”

  “Yeah, I know. They’re a real thorn in the ass.” Sam waved his left arm at a few groups of vessels in orbit. “That defense fleet would be on an invasion force in a matter of minutes. It would take a surprise attack of all of our fleets to try and take them out. And we would need to accomplish that within the first hour. After that, the whole fucking planet would be rallied up like a kicked-up hive of hornets. But those scouts of theirs would see our vessels coming an AU away. All of that effort, Nielson, all of that for this little rock with limited resources at best. I don’t understand why Lee wants it so badly.”

  “Why, a staging base against the outer colonies, of course. We already have the Pheyton Range, though I don’t think the Chuhukons are aware of that. And with Mars firmly replaced into Union control, that gives us the whole inner system of Sol.”

  “And alerts the outer colonies to what we’re up to. They’ll double down their defensible networks and build up their armadas. Without that journal…” Sam growled and looked back to space.

  Nielson quirked a brow. “Maybe we don’t need it. The Pylons Project has proven reliable. We made the journey from Earth to Martian orbit in three weeks. If they could be enhanced further, perhaps a long-term strategy could be implemented.”

  Sam crossed his arms. “Three weeks is a real boon to our technological superiority. However, it’s also a serious drain on our energy reserves. Our batteries were nearly dead upon arrival and it’s taken months to get them back to full charge. True, they utilize dark matter conversion. However, it still requires the Invicta to power. Getting to the outer colonies using them is unrealistic at this point in time. We’d be dead in the water halfway to Jupiter. Left to only basic thrusters. No, sir. Not a viable option.” Sam walked back to the table, grabbed his shirt from a rack beside it, and tossed it on. “Pelican might have been an obnoxious little shit, but he was smart. The fact that he figured out how to manipulate gravity into a form of propulsion shows his genius. To think, we’ve been using gravitational plating for centuries, and nobody figured out how to use it as an engine. Nobody understood how the damned plates managed to generate gravity. With that we could retake the colonies.”

  Sam left his shirt unbuttoned and braced his hands on his hips as he continued. “It would have been in our hands already if not for your obsession with gawddamn outlaws. They make for a good piss in the pot, but lousy negotiators.”

  “I admit trusting the meeting with Professor Wilson to Kern Michaels was erroneous.” Nielson lifted a hand. “I felt that a local would be more comforting. I was unaware he’d been hired by our indigenous insertion techs to carry out the Wastelands disruption plan. However, if we now focus our efforts on retrieving Mr. Weiss and the journal, I have no doubt he can decipher the plans in that book and give us the knowledge we need to convert our engines. If the Pylons Projects is a no go, as you suggest, then we must abandon the disruption plan and focus entirely on this endeavor. Until President Lee posits another option, that is.”

  Sam stared at him for a long moment, lips moving in such a way that he was considering one of two fates for Nielson. Instead of speaking at once, he went back to buttoning his shirt. Then replied.

  “Fine. It may prove beneficial to reacquire Weiss after all. But you’re the one fetching his ass. Set up a conference call with the president so that I can explain to him our continuing incompetence and the hopeful means by which we’re fixing this fuckup. Then, get your ass to Mars’ surface. Find that Lynch bitch. I imagine she can still prove useful in tracking down Weiss and Wilson.”

  “I don’t see how. We’ve already employed her services once, and she was, shall we say, a disappointment.”

  “She found them once. Knew right where to look. It was her connection to the Lester’s that caused us all this pain. She can do it again. This time, give her a real reason to see it through. Her own ass, and her crew apparently, wasn’t cutting it.”

  “And, since we only need Mr. Weiss and the journal, what do you want done with the young Ms. Wilson?”

  Sam raised a brow and finished buttoning his shirt. “Do you really need me to tell you how to do your job?”

  “No, sir.”

  Sam turned and left the room saying nothing more and offering no further glance at Nielson.

  CHAPTER NINE: MILLIN ABOUT

  DREVAN DISMOUNTED AND tied his horse up in front of the plantation. The horse lapped water out of a nearby trough as Drevan walked up a set of six steps towards the front door. He was in no real hurry and stopped on the porch to look back at Asta and the boys heading towards the stables. He leaned against a pillar and saw one of the crew, Hairn, racing up towards him.

  “Ah’ll run him back, sir.”

  Drevan grunted and gave a nod as he pulled out his tobacco pouch and started rolling a thick smoke. He’d been trying to quit for a few months now, but since taking the latest job the urge had just been too strong. He lit up and inhaled deeply, the smoke filling his lungs and making him feel just a tad bit lightheaded. A calm came over him and a smile almost creased his inscrutable countenance.

  Asta started across the yard wearing the same scowl that had graced her own face since discovering Mirra’s daughter was mixed up in the whole affair. She was even angrier now, and he couldn’t blame her. Anger clouded his eyes as well.

  Berricks murdering Mills was still a raw emotion for him and the crew. Then losing Mason during Aidele’s row of carnage. It sat heavy on them all. Living in the Wastelands was a rough life. And they all understood they’d most likely die with their boots on. But to be put six feet under as some raving general’s hostage? That was just plain unacceptable.

  Of course, there was also the debacle with Garret Lester.

  There was no reason for the old man to have been killed. And the waste of life spoiled Drevan’s mood further. The only thing he could say that was a positive in the events was that the old Chuhukon hadn’t screamed once. At least, not that he’d heard. And his hearing was pretty damn good.

  Brave old soul. Brave in life. Brave in death. He exhaled a long line of smoke thinking back to the one time he’d actually met the man some years before.

  THEY HAD BEEN on the way back towards the plantation after Mirra took them on a trip to some labs at the head of the Crags. Her reasonings for dragging them out there (and leaving their horses behind to take a train) had always been sketchy to Drevan at best. Asta couldn’t have cared less, of course. She’d follow Mirra to the ends of the universe itself. In this case, it’d just been the ends of the Wastelands.

  Apparently, this professor she knew had information pertinent to a hunt they were on. Professor Wilson. The same man whose journal they were currently tasked with retrieving. And he’d went out of his way to throw them off the outlaw’s trail. Suggesting all sorts of alternative theories about how the man they were after was the w
rong criminal. Of course, Asta just thought he was befuddling Mirra who was readily agreeing to his concerns. But Drevan’s suspicions had been raised. Though he kept them to himself even on the trudge to Garret’s ranch. He trusted Mirra well enough and if she didn’t want to be part of this particular hunt, he’d pull her aside privately and suggest she subtly take a pass.

  He never got that chance. Asta stuck to her side like glue. Until they’d arrived at the Lester ranch. Drevan went about poking around hoping Mirra would manage to ditch Asta for a brief moment, and she would. But not until an enlightening conversation with Garret himself.

  There was an old war relic hanging on the wall in the den. A Special D Harrington revolver. One of the rarest pieces ever forged. Drevan was a bit of a collector himself and was in awe that it was there. He’d known Garret had served, but not that he was a war hero. Unless he won it in a game of chance or put down the sob who owned it.

  “You cunning ole cuss,” he muttered reaching up to rub his hand across the pistol grip. “Ta think ya were one o’those brave few ta git one o’these…”

  “Like old guns, do you?” a chuckle from behind.

  Drevan turned to see Garret entering the room. The old man set a stack of papers down on his desk.

  “An admirer of history ya could say. Mirra mentioned ya were in the war. Long conversation. Good one too. Din’t mention they gave ya a Harrington, Mr. Lester.”

  Garret laughed as he put a few papers in a drawer and then waved his hand through the air. “Just call me Garret. Yeah, Mirra never was one for guns. Funny, considering she runs with you all now. For good reason, though. That gun was given to me by a General Howser.” Garret walked over to him pointing at the weapon. “Only two hundred were ever made, as I’m sure you know given how teary-eyed you’re getting over it.”

  Drevan laughed. “That revolver tells me ya gots quite the number o’war stories ta tell.”

  “I might at that. I don’t look back at those years fondly. When I joined up, I was young and idealistic. Thinking myself clever and wise. Really just setting myself up for failure. In too many ways. I was trying to protect my family. But while I was off being a ‘War Hero’, my wife lay dying in a hospital. Poor Mirra was only eight. Nami didn’t live to see the end of the war.”

  Drevan frowned, hooking his thumbs into his belt. “Mirra tol’ me ‘bout her mum. Right sorry ‘bout that, Garret. Wasn’t tryin’ ta stir up bad memories.”

  Garret shook his head and braced his fists on his hips. “Not bad memories. Just regrets. One’s that make you certain that no decision made is ever the right one. They only offer the hope that we’ll be smarter for it. That gun I got for my cleverness.

  “It was the beginning stages of the war, when we got word that an infiltration team was making for Aquila Mons. I don’t know where the brass got this word, but, in hindsight, it was a set up. For us. Ours was a specialist operation. Always sent in to root out those rats trying to turn the tides in their favor. The rats in question here, though, were allegedly nested in at Dugger’s Rest out on Rheimer’s Plateau.

  “It’d been quiet enough when we arrived. Very few citizens out in the streets. We still had our attys on—”

  “Attys?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, the ‘PAIS’.” Seeing the confusion in Drevan’s eyes at the pronunciation of ‘pies’,” he smiled. “We called ‘em ‘attys’ because ‘Pressurized Atmospheric Infiltration Suits’ is too hard to use in general conversation. It’s just quicker to use.”

  “Ah.”

  “Regardless, we approached the center of town. And it was quiet. Too quiet. Our sergeant thought so too and had us take cover. There was no sign of our adversary. Not one Union soldier in sight. And the few colonials we saw, quickly sought shelter. Our sergeant was in the middle of instructing our scout to move ahead when we came under attack. We lost half of our platoon within those first ten minutes.”

  “Fuck. That must’ve been hell.”

  Garret nodded. “And then some. I retreated into an alley looking for any shot at our enemy. For too long, I bumbled about hearing their ranks, yet finding no clear avenue of attack. And then I found their nested position. Crawling under a stilted deck that led under a raised housing complex, I came to a place where I could clearly see the bulk of their troop. They were hunkered down on top of an oxygen reserve. Smile and determination on my face, I pulled a grenade launcher and targeted the base of the reserve with a torch explosive. My thought, it would ignite the oxygen and destroy their cover, perhaps killing them, but giving my unit the opportunity to engage this insurgency directly.

  “What hadn’t come to mind was that this wasn’t the Wastelands. It was a small mining village outside of Aquila Mons. The environment rich with oxygen within its limited enclosure. My enemy was destroyed all right. But so was the village. The building collapsed all around me preserving me from the worst of it. When I awoke, I discovered an annihilated village. My unit along with it. The plasma network was still functioning, fortunately for me, as I crawled out from beneath the wreckage. Slow going. I was injured. A few scrapes and broken bones. A couple of ribs as well. But my suit was in one piece. And as I looked around, I saw what my cleverness cost.

  “A week later, I was honored for my ‘heroic’ and ‘creative’ sacrifice. My report told of my foolishness. What mattered to the brass, though, was not the tremendous loss of life, my friends, those innocent miners. It was that the invasion had been halted. And my actions had made that possible, for the mines were the quickest way into Aquila Mons itself. And maybe they were right. Our forces weren’t stationed to defend those entry points. But at what cost, I wondered? I still served. It was my duty. The hard lessons of that day, however, colored what it required to fight for your nation. Your home.

  “And always it stuck with me…” He paused and stared at the gun for a long, silent moment. “That revolver speaks to me. It says, ‘Yes, I am the instrument to defend your family. But never forget, you may have to sacrifice your neighbor to do so.’”

  “Gawddamn…” was all Drevan could manage to say.

  Garret gave a sad smile. “After that, I was promoted to the 433rd. A reward for my bravery. I spent the rest of the war in that platoon. The most elite forces we had to offer. But my taste for battle was diminishing. Perhaps all warriors get to that point. Just ready to be done with it and go home. I made a friend over that time. He didn’t have a taste for the conflict either. He, however, betrayed us. And the bitterness that came with it, what war does to good men, stuck with me as well.”

  A distant look came to Garret’s eyes causing Drevan to furrow his brow. “What did he do?”

  Garret shook his head. “It’s irrelevant. It just changed my perspectives. When the war was done, I came home. There was much that I’d lost, but I wasn’t going to fail Mirra the same way I failed Nami.”

  “Makes sense. Ah was jus’a boy when the war broke out. Mah paw fought innit. Jus’ a grunt. When he came home, he wouldn’t never talk ‘bout it. Jus’ say, ‘it were some bad times, boy’ whenever ah asked ‘bout it’n left it at that. But he damn shore made certain ah was ready ta defend me’n mine as ah got older.”

  Garret nodded and smiled. “Fathers are like that. Not always sharing their emotions in words but through actions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anyway,” Garret clapped his hands, “enough of that darkness. Let us speak of brighter things. Such as my daughter’s impending marriage!”

  “Mirra’s gittin’ hitched? Ta who?” Drevan was shocked. She’d never said anything to them about it.

  “Why, Cooper Wilson, of course! She said you guys just came back from his labs.”

  “She’s marrying him!?” Drevan nearly shouted before a voice interrupted their conversation.

  “Dad…” They looked and saw Mirra crossed armed in the doorway, a pale look in her eyes. “I’d prefer to keep that private for now.”

  “You didn’t want to share the good news with your friends? Why
not? Was that not why you came here today? I figured you already told them and wanted to celebrate…” Garret furrowed his brow, smile fading.

  “It’s just that… I…”

  Drevan raised his hands as if to ward off what she was about to say. “It’s awright. Ah understand. Ya like ta keep things… close ter yer chest.”

  Garret frowned at that and Mirra took in a deep breath entering the room.

  “There’s just so much going on. And announcing it would raise… questions I’m not ready to answer…”

  “Fair enough. I will respect your wishes then,” Garret said and looked to Drevan. “Forget I said anything.”

  He smiled stiffly and left the room. Mirra walked towards Drevan looking uncomfortable. It was as if the secret she was carrying was too terrible to bear. And Drevan knew then that what she was keeping from he and Asta also involved them in some way. And while he respected her and she had his trust, that fact also infuriated him to no end. It’d never been his policy to yell at a woman. Disagree, sure. But never yell. His father always taught him it was better to speak your mind and be respectful, and defer to her judgement when you knew you weren’t going to win the argument. That very second, though, he wanted to unload his thoughts like nobody’s business.

  “I’m sorry, Drevan,” Mirra began. “Please understand that… I’d share more if I could. But I can’t. And I have to ask you to keep this from Asta as well.”

  “Funny thing is, Mirra, ah was hopin’ ya’d be able ta tear away from her fer a moment. Tell ya ta bow outta this hunt we’re on if’n it’s buggin’ ya so much. Knew you’n Wilson were tryin’ ta send us off thissun’s trail. But ah din’t know yer deception was this deep.”

  Mirra looked pained. “I’m not trying to deceive you two. I love you guys—”

  “Ah know. An’ ah know whatever it is ya think yer protectin’ us from involves us too. If’n only fer the sheer fact ya’ve been chasin’ whoever on the side while ridin’ wit’ us. Ah don’ know what or who it is’n probably don’ need ta know. However, that woman in there would ride at yer side through the gates o’hell. She knew ya were keepin’ this much from her, not trustin’ her as she trusts you, it’d break her heart.”