Jem swirled his glass and watched his beer move in circles. “It isn’t Seneca 6. My father died, Doc. I left. That’s the end.”
“And what of little Claire?” Halladay said. Jem did not answer. Instead, he downed his beer and looked into the empty glass. Halladay shook his head and laughed, “I see. Thus, it all begins to clarify.”
“What does?”
Doctor Halladay ordered two drinks, smiling lasciviously at the barmaid that brought them. He set one of the whiskeys in front of Jem and lifted his own glass. “To chivalry.”
Henry McCarty stood up from the poker table as Halladay set down his drink. McCarty leered at Halladay with bucktoothed contempt and pocketed his winnings.
“All finished for the evening, Henry?” Halladay said. “I was just about to sit back down and destroy your dignity.”
McCarty went to push his chair back in but missed and nearly fell into the lap for another player. “Get your hands off me,” McCarty said as he staggered to his feet. Halladay did not move as he watched the young man approach. “You got somethin’ to say? I’m taking your money, and his money, and this piece of trash’s money if I want to, too.”
“Did I dawdle too long for you, Henry? I apologize if I kept you waiting. Let’s say we have a drink and sit back down at the table to straighten this out like gentlemen.”
“You ain’t gonna live long enough to spend it anyhow, blood spitter. Better for someone who ain’t got to worry about dropping dead as soon as he sets foot outside this rat trap to enjoy it.”
“I quite agree,” Halladay said. He set his empty glass on the bar. “You know, destiny is a peculiar thing, is it not, Henry? My friend and I were just discussing fate, and her fickle habit of intersecting with each of us in ways we are barely equipped to fathom.”
The barmaid went to refill Halladay’s drink, but he waved her away. McCarty cursed at Halladay and headed for the door, heavy feet operating independently of the rest of him. Halladay watched him turn down the dark labyrinth of alleyways that led back toward the miner’s camp. “Like the rest of us, poor Mr. McCarty fails to realize that when his hour is at hand, it is already too late. That is where I have the distinct advantage, you see? My reason for living died twenty years ago. It is ironic that I’ve been dying of the same disease for two decades and the people dearest to me were cut down in the prime of their existences.” Halladay fixed his hat and lifted his jacket’s collar to conceal his face. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must go and inform our dear Henry of some rather bad news concerning his immediate future.”
5 . The Veteran
At 62 years old, Marshal Jimmy McParlan was the oldest active field agent in the PNDA, the Interplanetary Shipping Federation’s law enforcement agency. He’d spent his adult life protecting convoys and arresting pirates. He swore he’d be the first Marshal to die of old age on the job, if only to keep both of his greedy ex-wives from collecting one cent of his retirement.
The Agency was good to him though. They put him on easier assignments that allowed him to wind out his days in far-off stations where little needed to be done.
He didn’t mind letting the younger agents have the busier sectors. His days of running and gunning were over with. There was a desk drawer full of medals, a body full of synthetic parts and a cybernetic replacement eye on the left side of his face to prove it.
McParlan worked at the Antioch Shipping Station, a small stop over for long-distance haulers to refuel and enjoy all the seedy wonders of a self-contained world. It was a place where no one stuck around long enough to remember anyone else, and had little fear of being held accountable for whatever happened in the meantime. Except for the uniformed Customs Code Enforcement Units that inspected the ships and cargo, the PNDA was the only semblance of law enforcement on Antioch.
McParlan gave less than half of a damn what the Customs geeks did. Those boys seemed to get a kick out of handing out season-ending fines to truckers like they were getting a percentage of the total as a bonus in their pay. He preferred the company of the working stiff haulers to the clean-cut, straight-edged officers, and whenever he got the chance to tip off the haulers about an upcoming inspection, he did.
That morning, McParlan sat at his desk and sipped coffee from a chipped mug that read NUMBER ONE DAD. The print was faded on the mug’s surface from twenty years worth of washing. He kicked his feet up on his desk and picked up the small computer tablet to flip through the PNDA’s daily activity reports in his sector. At the tablet’s activation, the reports synced with the computer inside his artificial eye.
The engineers who periodically made adjustments to the device told him that some of the younger agents were voluntarily having their natural eyes replaced with cybernetic ones. The new units functioned the same as his, but were implants instead of the large mechanical looking box bolted into his skull. McParlan’s eye was just a prototype when they gave it to him, and the casing stuck out of his head an inch like a telescopic monocle. His only regret was that he was ruined from wearing a good pair of sunglasses.
His coffee was finished and he got bored of sitting at his desk. He slid the tablet into a holster on his belt and touched a button on his eye’s frame. The red feed went dark for a moment, then flickered and started to scan the things he looked at.
McParlan walked into the shipping yard. It was full that day, with large freighters capable of hauling mountains of stone and tiny one-man courier vessels barely able to break through the station’s gravitational barrier. McParlan looked them over as he passed, admiring their colorful names. He passed ships with “Hell of a Heap” and “Fat Sally” emblazoned on their sides. Some were decorated with paintings of pinup models.
The registration numbers of each vessel he passed printed out instantly within the red spectrum of his mechanical eye, listing the class, weight, and owner information of each vehicle. Many of them were in violation of some damn code or another. There was a loud buzzing in his eye’s case and the word ALERT flashed onto the screen.
“Come on, not again. Damn loose wires,” McParlan sighed. He tapped his finger on the unit impatiently. The casing vibrated in his skull, distorting his vision. He tried to focus as information flooded his screen. He stopped moving when he saw:
PRIORITY TARGET ALERT PRIORITY TARGET ALERT PRIORITY TARGET.
“Alert acknowledged,” McParlan said.
The next message read PROCEED WITH CAUTION. ARREST IMMEDIATELY. McParlan ducked between two cruisers and removed the tablet from his belt. The mugshot of a slope-browed, simian looking man appeared on the screen.
ELIJAH HARPE—member of the Harpe Gang—wanted for seventeen counts of Rape and Torture. Fifty-three counts of Felony Hijacking. Two hundred and thirty-three incidents of assault by firearm. Four hundred counts of Murder.
Another image flashed of Elijah Harpe standing next to a taller, thinner man labeled as William “Little Willy” Harpe.
McParlan searched for the most recent incident and found a video of Elijah Harpe dragging a woman into a Medical Transport. The woman was screaming and fighting with him but he had his arm around her neck in a chokehold. Laser blasts ricocheted off the hull of the Transport. and Harpe was firing back as he shoved the woman into the ship and shut the door behind him. McParlan punched up a still image of Harpe’s face and studied it. He moved the camera over to the terrified looking woman. The feed read: Wendy Diaz, medical technician. Thirty-three years old, mother of two.
McParlan scrolled through Custom’s list of vehicle registrations that had docked on Antioch and found the same Medical Transport vessel from the video. “What the hell?” he whispered. “How did that make it through?”
He went out into the rows of vehicles in the yard and found it parked between two long-distance haulers. People walked past the transport without noticing the fresh laser marks across its side. McParlan unholstered his Balrog 6K pistol and pointed it at the glass window as he stood on his toes to look inside.
The cockpit was empty. He
went to the ship’s side door and typed a special emergency inspection code into the panel, stepping back with his weapon raised as the door whooshed open.
McParlan closed his good eye as he went inside, letting the cybernetic one scan the darkness in infra-red. There was dried blood on the floor in trails that led from the cargo area to a small ladder that rose up into the passenger compartments.
McParlan lifted the tablet close to his lips and kept his gun trained on the dark passenger area. “Field Marshal 717-A to Control,” he whispered.
“Control. Verify your status, 717-A.”
“I’m aboard that vehicle. Confirm directive.”
“That vehicle is associated with an Alpha Level 1 wanted subject. Control authorizes the capture or termination of subject.”
“How the hell did that ship get clearance to land on Antioch? Customs should have flagged it immediately before it docked,” McParlan said.
There was a long stream of static in response from the tablet, and McParlan shook it violently. “Of all the goddamn times to go on the fritz. Control? Can you read me?”
The tablet’s lights blinked as the unit went into reset mode. Disgusted, McParlan clipped it back to his belt and climbed the ladder. He lifted his gun over the top rung and inched upward, ready to blast a hole in anything waiting for him. McParlan reached over the ledge and felt a mop of wet hair. When he pulled his hand away and looked at it, it was covered in blood.
The Marshal cursed when he saw Wendy Diaz lying on the floor, her face turned toward him. He tried turning her head but the broken bones in her neck crunched together. He removed the tablet again, seeing that the lights were steady green. “Control, confirm one victim. Prepare to receive scan.”
He waved the tablet over the woman’s body, recording her injuries. Her wrists were still bound. There were deep cuts in her skin under the ropes that showed through to the bone. “Had fun with her all alone out in space, didn’t you, Elijah?” McParlan whispered. “Gonna make you pay for that.”
The tablet crackled. There was a stream of static when it said, “717-A, be advised we are unable to maintain a steady signal with your unit at this time.”
“Only the best equipment for Field operatives, Control. Thank our superiors for that,” McParlan said.
“Negative,” Control responded. “There is interference coming from your location that is jamming our equipment.”
The screen went blank. McParlan put the tablet away and searched for a blanket to cover the body of Wendy Diaz.
***
The Marshal checked the supply stores and bath houses, thinking Harpe would be seeking refreshment after a long journey. He checked the gambling halls and bars, and whore houses, thinking that Harpe had ravaged Mrs. Diaz for weeks in the vast emptiness of space, but still not been satiated.
Finally, only one place remained on the station, and McParlan cursed himself for a fool even for considering that Elijah Harpe had ventured into the Antioch Chapel for Travelling Souls. McParlan threw the doors wide and strolled in, lazily scanning the empty pews without even bothering to keep his gun ready. He saw a man kneeling in prayer at the base of the altar with his head bent low toward the ground.
McParlan’s cybernetic eye adjusted as he approached, trying to obtain enough visual data to make a positive identification. McParlan came close enough to stand behind the man and listen to him mutter, “Protect thy servants of your will, Oh Lord. Strike them down where they stand.” The man had a pistol on the ground in front of him.
McParlan undid his Balrog and quietly slid it from his holster. He leveled the gun at the man’s head and said, “Pardon me, mister. You seen the preacher?”
Elijah Harpe turned and looked back at McParlan. His cheeks were smeared with tears and he smiled at the sight of the Balrog pointed at him. Harpe closed his eyes and sighed with relief. “I knew he would send you,” Harpe said. “I knew he wouldn’t force me to send myself to him in sin.”
McParlan cocked back the hammer on his gun. “Don’t you move, boy. I am placing you under arrest for multiple counts of every crime known to mankind. If you don’t put your hands behind your back and come peaceably you’re a dead man. Please don’t put your hands behind your back.”
Harpe lifted his hands to the sky. “I come to you my Lord, prepare my seat beside your throne.”
“I swear to God, Harpe, I will blow your head into pieces all over this floor if you don’t put your hands behind your back.”
“You would murder the Lamb of God, but when you come before the Lord, I will still speak on your behalf.”
McParlan cracked him across the back of the head with his gun and watched him slump to the ground. Blood leaked from the back of Harpe’s head and across his ears. McParlan pulled out a pair of restraints and slapped them onto Harpe’s wrists, then stood up and caught his breath. He used the tip of his boot to turn Harpe over onto his back. “Can you hear me, Elijah?”
Harpe groaned and murmured, “You idiot. You were supposed to kill me! My table was prepared in the House of the Lord.”
“Yeah well, I’m famous for ruining people’s travel plans. Sit up.” McParlan yanked Harpe upright. “I’m going to tell you about your situation, although I’m tempted as hell to let you find out for yourself. You are handcuffed with a brand new piece of technology pre-set to respond to either my command or your actions. You ain’t never seen anything like these before. If you struggle, squirm, run, or otherwise attempt to take undue action, they will administer an electrical shock that will feel like somebody shoved a Tesla Coil up your behind. If you attempt to say anything louder than the volume I am speaking to you in now, they will release a sonic disruption wave that is designed to displace your balance and vision. I had to experience that particular sensation in order to be issued those puppies, and let me tell you, it’s all a fancy way to say that if you yell, it’ll feel like two steel fists are boring their way into your ear holes and reaching into your tiny little twisted brain. You understand me?”
“You are interfering with the Lord’s plan, and I will not listen to you.”
“I’m taking you to court so you can stand trial and hopefully they will roll your diseased ass out the nearest space dock and let you float off into the darkness.”
Harpe said nothing else, and McParlan pulled him up to his feet. He shoved the prisoner down the aisle, when the chapel’s front door opened and a uniformed Customs officer rushed in with his weapon drawn. “It’s ok! Calm down,” McParlan called out, holding up his badge. “I got him. Took you boys long enough to realize his vehicle was docked in your parking area. What’s the matter? Your technology as reliable as the PNDA’s?”
The officer lowered his weapon but did not holster it. He moved forward cautiously, looking from McParlan to Harpe and then back again. “I’m taking the prisoner from here, Marshal.”
McParlan put his hand on Harpe’s shoulder. “Come again?”
“Hand him over, sir. Let’s do this nice and easy.” The officer’s weapon came up again, leveled at McParlan. His eyes turned red and started to water. “Please, sir.”
Elijah Harpe rolled his eyes and said, “Just shoot him already.”
Information about the officer scrolled across McParlan’s eye. “It’s Vale, right? You’ve been here three years. This is your first assignment.”
“Stop scanning me with that damn eye!” Vale shouted. His weapon shook in his hand but his finger was wrapped around the trigger.
“This had to be some sort of misunderstanding. Tell you what, let’s call your sergeant down here and see if we can’t work things out.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Then how about I call my Headquarters?” McParlan reached around his back for his tablet. His eye identified a blinking red device on Vale’s shoulder strap that was not part of the standard Customs uniform. “That’s a jamming device, isn’t it?” McParlan said. “Tell me, son, what’s this piece of garbage holding over you?”
Vale’s hand
s shook. “Just let him go! Please, don’t make me do this. Give him over to me and we can say he escaped. We can say any damn thing you want. I don’t want to kill you.”
Elijah Harpe shouted, “Shoot him!”
“I warned you,” McParlan said. The Peerless binders released a sonic-disruption wave that pierced Harpe’s eardrums and sent him to his knees howling in pain.
Vale looked down at Harpe in confusion and McParlan lifted his Balrog. A jet of flame spat from the mouth of the gun into the center of the young officer’s forehead. McParlan pulled Harpe to his feet and shoved him past Vale’s body.
“My goodness, Marshal. I cannot believe you just murdered a hard-working , fellow officer of the law, in such cold blood. Very disheartening, sir. Don’t he look young just laying there? Like a sweet little angel that you sent to heaven.”
“Shut your filthy mouth before I put a bullet in you too, you son of a bitch. You turned that boy and he was dead the second he got in cahoots with you.” McParlan shoved Harpe at the chapel door. Harpe’s hands were still bound behind his back, and his face made a satisfying thump against the wood before the door swung open.
McParlan looked around the shipyard, inventorying the things that he knew. He knew he’d killed a uniformed customs officer on a space station inhabited by a hundred of his fellow officers. He knew his nearest PNDA backup was three days away. If this were a standard arrest, McParlan would escort the prisoner back to his office and notify Customs, who would agree to house the prisoner until a PNDA wagon came by. A heavily-armed uniformed Customs Officer was standing in the center of the shipyard, looking over the ships. McParlan saw the same blinking device on that officer’s shoulder, and pulled Harpe back into the shadows. “Time for Plan B,” he whispered.
McParlan found a small, beat-up messenger craft whose landing gear consisted of three good struts and one that buckled. He held Harpe by the elbow and banged on the port-side door.
Guns of Seneca 6 (Chamber 1 of the Guns of Seneca 6 Saga) Page 4