Ismet considered stuffing every convict on the work detail into the veridicator and asking what they knew. Unfortunately, it was impossible to compel them to speak. The con would just sit there and accept whatever punishment came his way for not cooperating.
The only other possibility was that the collar malfunctioned, somehow, and Small Eyes either found out, or just didn’t care and got lucky. That meant a ground search outside of the perimeter. That shouldn’t be too hard, thought Ismet. Every prisoner had a tracking device implanted in his brain when he was processed into the prison system. Finding Small Eyes should be easy enough. However, the simple fact that he got out in the first place would result in a reprimand and even docked pay.
Ismet muttered to himself as he pulled the tracking device from equipment storage. “If only these things worked within the perimeter,” he groused. “Come on, Niyol. Let’s go bag us an escaped convict.”
Niyol selected a sono-stunner for the escapee and a Thorco .375 H&H rifle in case they came across a damnthing. The three-hundred grain round would put a Terran rhinoceros down, so it should be good against the deadly damnthing. Niyol tossed another .375 to Ismet. Ismet used his radio to explain the situation to the guard captain before starting out.
The two prison guards walked through the perimeter without harm. Also, without getting a signal from the tracking device.
“You think the chip in his head malfunctioned, too?”
Ismet considered the possibility and dismissed it. “Two malfunctions on the same con? Let alone the only con to walk out of here since we set up? No; either he had help, which I very much doubt, or he found a way to disable both the collar and chip. I can’t imagine how, though.”
“Or, he never left the perimeter.”
“We went over the entire area with a fine-toothed comb. No Manson. He got out, somehow.”
“I guess we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.” Niyol chambered a round and flipped off the safety on the rifle. He wanted to make sure he was ready if something big and dangerous showed up. There was also the possibility of bagging a zarabuck for dinner. It would be a nice break from the processed food they had been living on.
Ismet and Niyol watched the ground for signs that Small Eyes had come through. It took the better part of an hour to find the escapee’s trail as neither man was an experienced tracker. They followed the trail up to the ridge and briefly lost it. Ismet doubted that Small Eyes could have climbed the steep rock wall and searched for another way up. This time it only took a minute to find the path previously used by the escapee. After a short jog up the slope and they were at the top where they found the escapee’s tracks again. From there, they walked for about ten minutes until they spotted a zarawulf tearing at a mass of vegetation.
The common zarawulf was Zarathustra’s answer to the extinct Tasmanian tiger. Almost two hundred pounds, a meter high at the shoulder and shaped like a pit bull, but with a muzzle closer to a thylacine with brown and black striping similar to a Bengal tiger and five-inch fangs, it was regarded as the third most dangerous animal on Beta Continent, after the damnthing and harpy. Their only saving grace being that zarawulves were rare and avoided human settlements as a result of being hunted by humans, almost to extinction, when the planet was first settled. A few lived in captivity at the Mallorysport Zoo, and one brave individual of questionable intelligence was attempting to domesticate a few down in Southern Beta.
“Rifle or stunner,” whispered Niyol as he leveled his .375 at the predator.
“Stunner. The damned things are on the protected species list, now.” Ismet, who had failed to arm himself with a sono-stunner, took his rifle and held it at the ready in case Niyol’s stunner failed to work effectively.
Niyol cautiously lowered his rifle, drew the sono-stunner, took aim and fired. It took a steady thirty second blast before the zarawulf dropped and lay still. Ismet kept his rifle at the ready in case the beast recovered too quickly while Niyol inspected the green mass. Carefully, as Zarathustra had proven to have unpleasant surprises in the past, the guard inspected the green bundle.
It was a naked and headless body. Discounting for the missing head, the two men agreed it was the right height and build for the missing Jeffery Manson.
Ismet pointed at the body where the head should have been. “Did Cujo here eat the head?”
“I don’t think so.” Niyol examined the body more closely. “I can smell cordite, or rather cataclysmite, and there are burns all around the neck and shoulders. The collar went off, I would say.”
Ismet thought for a second, then asked, “Why didn’t we hear the explosion? That would have been at least as loud as a gunshot from the .375.”
“The rocket being loaded onto the barge would have drowned that out pretty easily, I think,” Niyol said after a moment’s thought.
“Yeah, that makes sense,” Ismet agreed. “How did he get all wrapped up like that? Was he trying to hide?”
“Nope. He was wrapped after he lost his head. See? No burns on the foliage. I’ve seen the footage of the Fuzzy funeral that was introduced at trial two years ago. This looks like a Fuzzy burial wrap.”
“Huh. Better call this in and have a unit come collect what’s left of Small Eyes, here,” Ismet said. “Hey, let’s let the word spread that he died a couple of steps outside of the perimeter. That’ll discourage any of the other cons from trying to make a break for it.” The guard turned his attention back to the zarawulf, which was still unconscious, and spotted something on the ground. “Niyol, grab that piece of metal. It might have something to do with the escape attempt.”
* * * * * * * * *
In the bushes Red Fur, Makes-Things, Climber and Runs Fast watched as the two Koo-wen did incomprehensible things around the body of the Big One who made dead. Makes-Things’ ears had started bleeding when the Big Ones made the hagg-tullu fall down and stop moving. They could see it was still alive by the faint cloud of dust kicked up in front of the muzzle. Not dead, just asleep.
Why not kill hagg-tullu? Red Fur wondered. Was noisy made-thing not for killing, or was hagg-tullu too strong to be killed? He noticed Makes-Things was injured and ordered the others to take him to the healers. As the others complied, he watched the Koo-wen take the dead one away. Two more Big Ones came in one of the melon-seed shaped made-things that flew like a bird and threw the body on board. They acted like they had no respect for the dead one.
Koo-wen like that with all of their dead, or they not like this one? Red Fur had much to think about.
The Koo-wen called Joe said that Sun Fur was killed by accident. The noisy made-thing didn’t kill the hagg-tullu, just made sleep. But wasn’t shima-kato killed by noisy made-thing, the stunner, as the Big Ones called it? When Joe Quigley’s Big Ones made big burrow, they used same weapon to kill the shima-kato. Or did it go sleep, then killed inside big flying made-thing? If stunner made-things fall asleep, why Sun Fur made dead, and Makes-Things’ ears bleed?
Red Fur thought hard and realized he would need to talk more with Joe Quigley.
VIII
Colonial Marshal Max Fane was at a loss as to what he could do. The two men who had abducted Gus Brannhard were still as tight-lipped now as they were two months ago when they were apprehended by the Charterless Zarathustra Company security team. The problem was that they were likely facing a death sentence, scratch that, they were definitely facing a death sentence, so they had nothing to gain by giving up their confederates. Only a pardon from the governor would get them off-world alive. Since Gus and Ben were good friends, there was no chance of that. Max had tried to talk the Governor into accepting a plea deal for a twenty to life sentence, but Ben wouldn’t go for that, either. He wanted to make it very clear what happens to people who interfered with government officials. Max didn’t blame the Governor for his position, although a little flexibility would have been helpful.
That the two men would likely be executed shortly after their trial didn’t bother Max Fane one little bit. G
iven the chance, he’d shoot the sons-of-Khooghras himself. The thought that their most likely accomplice, Raul Laporte, would get away scot-free did bother him. A great deal, in fact. Laporte had been a thorn in his paw since the day he made planet-fall. Moreover, Laporte was the most likely person to know where Leo Thaxter had skipped off to. Not being able to get Laporte was bad enough, but to lose Thaxter on his watch was beyond endurance.
In the reflection of the glass Max saw that Leslie Coombes and another man had come to join him. Behind the two-way mirror sat Anthony Nicholovich Anderson and Duncan Rippolone. Against procedure, the two men had been left alone in the interrogation room on the off chance they would get to talking and give something away. Instead, the two men just sat mute.
“Anything new, Marshal?”
Max shook his head. “Nothing, Mr. Coombes. These mutts are serious pros. They’ll go straight to Nifflheim without a peep. We need some kind of leverage to use against them. The problem with that is they know they’ll end up getting a bullet in the head, so there isn’t much we can threaten them with.”
“They need hope,” Coombes’ companion said. Max turned and saw that it was John Morgan, the man who shot Jack Holloway in that duel two months ago. “They need to think they have something to gain if they cooperate, and something to lose if they don’t.”
Max refrained from pointing out that he knew that. What was this kid doing here, anyway? Wasn’t he supposed to be on Beta with Jack? “Unfortunately, they don’t either way,” he said. “They’re already as good as dead and damned well know it.”
“When is the trial?” Morgan asked.
“Next week,” Coombes said. “I held off for as long as I could hoping that the Marshal could get something useful, but I am all out of excuses, now. The defense wants to get this show on the road.”
“I hate giving apologies, Mr. Coombes, but you have mine, anyway,” Max said. “You have no idea how much I wish I could have come through for you with this one.”
“You can’t squeeze blood from a stone, Marshal. I can’t imagine who could have done better.”
“Maybe something will come to us,” Morgan added. He turned to look at the two men through the glass. They looked familiar, somehow, but he couldn’t place them.
* * * * * * * * *
Raul Laporte flipped through the stations on the viewscreen, then turned it off in disgust. Nothing but re-runs, talk about the upcoming executions for the Fuzzy Slavers and more conjecture on the so-called Fuzzy Rocket. Laporte had to admit that he was looking forward to the executions. The governor had resurrected the good old firing squad and held a lottery for civic-minded citizens to get in on the fun. The mobster had even bought some tickets for himself. He probably wouldn’t win, he knew, though it might have been nice to kill somebody legally for a change.
What he had been looking for was any indication that Tony and Ripper had ratted him out. Of course, it was unlikely that the cops would let that slip to the media if they had. Still it never hurt to check and be sure. The few cops on his payroll hadn’t been able to get at the two men and help them out of lock-up, or even arrange an accident for them. Security was tighter than an old maid’s virtue.
Still, he did learn that the trial would begin in a week. Lots of things could happen between the holding cells and the courthouse, even though they were all in the same building. It was simply a matter of arranging them. Just in case, it was time to be ready to disappear at a moment’s notice.
* * * * * * * * *
“Here you are, Mr. Mo—, um, Mr. Holloway. Your new portfolio card.”
Morgan accepted the embossed plastic with his picture, thumb print, retinal scan and DNA sample. Like all such cards, it would not be accessible to anyone but him. It would become inert if more than ten feet from the designated holder.
“You will still have to transfer your balances at the CZC finance center, sir,” added the young woman from behind the bulletproof glass. She appraised the young man through the security window.
“Thank you. That will be my next stop.” Morgan was so preoccupied thinking about the two men in custody and where he had seen them before that he didn’t even notice that the clerk was trying to flirt with him.
After six weeks of waiting, the new portfolio card with John Morgan’s new legal name was ready. On Terra it would have taken six days, but Zarathustra was still a colonial planet and operated under some limitations. Granted, the Charterless Zarathustra Company could have produced the card quickly, but the colonial government couldn’t let something as sensitive as a personal identification and portfolio card be produced by a private company. As soon as Morgan received the word that it was ready for pick-up, he raced over from Epsilon Continent to collect it.
“Well, there you go, Morgan. It is now official,” Leslie Coombes said. “I noticed that you left off ‘the Lesser’ from the name.”
“That is only important to me and other Freyans,” Morgan said. “The Federation prefers terms like junior and senior. Besides, one day I will likely become the Greater Holloway and would have to get the card remade again.”
Leslie nodded absently. “True. Say, if you are heading straight to Company House, I wouldn’t mind a ride.”
“Certainly. I can show off my new aircar.”
The two men left Police House and flew off in Morgan’s aircar. It was the CZC Zebralope 700, a sporty model that boasted its speed and comfort. It would do until his hyperspace yacht arrived with his personal air-yacht for local travel.
“I hope Marshal Fane didn’t mind my tagging along with you,” Morgan said conversationally.
Coombes waved it away. “Max is used to that sort of thing. At least you weren’t another lawyer. He hates that.”
“Those men seemed a little familiar, somehow.” Morgan adjusted his flight path to avoid another aircar. The Darius-Mallorysport spaceport briefly appeared in the windshield, then vanished as Morgan readjusted his flight path.
“From this planet?”
“I think so. I haven’t seen or met all that many people since I made planet-fall. I was a bit preoccupied as you may recall.”
Coombes mused that while Morgan was like his father in a lot of ways, he shared Victor Grego’s gift for understatement. “Maybe you came across them at the spaceport?”
“No— Wait! They came in on the same ship I did. We were even in the same shuttle from Darius.” Morgan pulled a one-eighty, narrowly missing another aircraft as he raced back to Police House. Coombes, flustered by the aerial acrobatics, took a moment to ask what the devil was going on.
“I have an idea I want to bounce off the Marshal.” Morgan didn’t say another word until he was alone with Max Fane and Leslie Coombes, where he quickly outlined his plan.
“I’ll need to talk this over with Mr. Brannhard,” Max said. “I’ll call him right now.”
* * * * * * * * *
Affanita Goncalo drank her third brandy slowly. She had to. She was nearly broke. Affanita was a sunstone prospector. Like many in her profession, she used to work a claim over on Beta Continent until the discovery of the Fuzzies. The new Colonial Government created a reservation for the newly discovered natives and booted all of the prospectors out. Except for Jack Holloway, according to rumor, but he donated a large chunk of his land grant to the Fuzzy Reservation, so he might have gotten special dispensation to work his old properties. While sunstone deposits were planet-wide, the best diggings were on Beta; at least thus far nobody had found a better one.
Affanita and the other displaced prospectors were allowed to find new diggings elsewhere and given a land grant to replace the properties they lost, but the digs were never as good. With the Charterless Zarathustra Company granted a thousand-year lease on the unseated lands, the pickings for new dig sites were thin. In fact the Company managed to wrangle a special deal that allowed them to work the single largest deposit known on the planet, Yellowsand.
It was time to pack it in, she had decided. She could either uproot and
move to a different planet, or take a job with the Company like every other person on Zarathustra. Affanita checked her wallet and decided she could afford one more drink before calling it a night. She was about to order when the bartender brought her a fresh drink. A double, in fact.
She stared at the drink, then said, “Um, not that I’m complaining, but I didn’t order this….”
“It is from the gentleman at the end of the bar, miss,” explained the bartender.
Affanita looked over at the indicated man and quickly sized him up. A geek. He was tall, skinny, pale and looked like he could have been stood up for the prom. Not her type at all. What he was doing in a dive like the Xerxes Tavern was anybody’s guess. Then again, he was buying. That rated a thank you at the minimum. She stood up and walked to the end of the bar.
“What’s your name, Tiger?”
“Would you believe that it is ‘Tiger’?” The man smiled. “Actually, it is Richard.”
“Okay, Richard. Thanks for the brandy, but I’m not the type of girl who goes home with whomever buys me a drink.”
“I didn’t think you were, though I’ll admit I harbored some hopes. Actually, I wanted to help you out.”
“Really? With what? You got some new lotion for my dry hands? Prospecting is murder on the skin.” Affanita took a long drink from the double. It was a better brand of swill than what she had been drinking. Stronger, too. It had to be something off-planet. “Seriously, Tiger, what’s the deal? I’m not the cutest broad in this dive.”
Richard looked around the bar, and then took a sip from his drink. It looked like a soda pop. “Actually, at the moment you are the only, uh, broad in this dive. However, I want to retain your services as a prospector, not a prospective date.”
Affanita stared levelly at Richard. He seemed to be serious. “Doing what? You have a big dig you need help with?”
Richard extracted a small leather pouch and handed it to her. Affanita opened the bag and looked inside; it was full of sunstones. At least fifty thousand sols worth, if she was any judge.
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