A lit cigarette hanging loosely from the corner of his mouth, Larz Cugan’s eyes met Gallic’s as he approached. Designer stubble on his face, he wore his highlighted, streaked hair parted far over on one side—his angled bangs strategically flopped over one eye. Sitting there, Gallic guessed he was about six-feet-tall. He’d soon find out.
A woman’s thin tanned arm was casually draped over Larz’ left shoulder; sitting close behind him, and just to the side, like she’d joined the party late and had to pull a chair up from an adjoining table. Her dangling, bobbling, earrings caught the light as her head turned this way and that. She wore faded snug jeans and some kind of halter-top that emphasized her breasts. All in all, though dressed more casually than the other women there, it all worked—she was stunning. As Gallic closed-in on the end of their table, a bemused smile crossed her lips.
Seated to Larz’ immediate left and right sides were two big barrel-chested guys. Gallic knew the type. Sure, the bulk was there, but it was comprised more from pork than any real muscle. Looking weirdly similar, even down to their shiny grey suits and abundance of wet-looking product slicking back their hair—they were two matching, oversized, bookends.
Through narrowed eyes they assessed Gallic and smirked. His guess, they were more like a rich boy’s protection than actual friends. As Gallic leaned down to say something to their boss, they tensed, straightening up in their chairs.
Larz took a pull from his cigarette and leaned forward. The girl with the bobbling earrings watched on with mild interest.
Gallic said, “Hey, man . . . you Larz?”
He exhaled a cloud of smoke, “What’s it to you?”
“Looks like someone just backed into your ride. Hurry . . . and you can catch the son-of-a-bitch; probably still out there in the lot.”
Larz stared up at him, then over to the bookends who Gallic had mentally assigned the names Tweedle-dee and Tweedledum.
Larz said, “Just know, that if it was you . . . you’re a dead man.”
Chapter 2
Frontier Planet, Muleshoe — Renegade’s Haven.
Gallic stood aside as Larz flew from his seat, shoved past him, and headed for the exit. Looking startled, the two bookends in their shiny suits clumsily extricated their legs from beneath the table and hauled their bulks quickly between chairs and tables, disrupting customers. After knocking over someone’s drink and tipping over two chairs, they were hot on the heels of Larz.
They move pretty fast for porky guys, Gallic thought. The girl with the earrings rose to her feet, giving Gallic an appraising look. She stood there for several moments with that same bemused expression. She held out her hands, palms up, in a gesture that implied: Are you going to move out of the way?
* * *
Outside, the wind had settled down to a mild breeze—the sand cloud was moving away to the South. By the time Gallic arrived at the Hausenbach L35T, Larz had apparently completed his circling of the ship’s hull, giving her a quick look-over. Undoubtedly making sure there were no new dents or scratches on the vehicle’s pristine finish.
Seeing him approach, Larz studied Gallic from head to toe, an expression of distaste crossing his face; like he was looking at a bug, or maybe a wayward turd lying on the ground.
“What the fuck’s your problem, dude? There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my 5T,” he said, moving into Gallic’s personal space. Placing his hands on his hips, cigarette still dangling there in his lips—his angry face glared up at Gallic.
And there they were, Tweedle-dee and Tweedledum. They hovered a close step behind him—one on each side trying to act menacing.
Gallic hadn’t known the proper abbreviated vernacular for Larz’s ship was simply 5T. It had a nice ring to it. 5T. “Hey, it’s your ride, man,” Gallic said. “It’s no skin off my nose if you think she’s fine.”
“So why don’t you tell us what you think you saw?”
Gallic shrugged. “Looked like an old Buick Starflight. Green . . . I think. It bumped your 5T down low . . . over there in the front . . . jostling her pretty good; but hey, she’s probably fine.” Gallic turned, as if he were going to leave, then spun back around. “Um . . . you did fire her up, didn’t you? See that she’s still operational after being slammed into like that. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you—that’s a fine-tuned precision craft.”
Larz seemed to contemplate on his suggestion for a moment. Then, turning his attention to the girl with the dangling earrings who’d just arrived, now standing closer to Gallic than to Larz himself, he raised his brows, questioningly. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should at least check her out to be on the safe side.”
“Certainly, couldn’t hurt,” Gallic said.
Larz, patting his breast suit jacket pocket, brought out a start-cube and walked around the 5T to where, Gallic figured, the vessel’s hidden access hatch was located. Holding the cube between two fingers, he positioned it at waist-level height against her pristine fuselage. The cube flew—disappeared into the ship, as though it had melded in there. Curz technology. Gallic had heard about this latest application of the alien science and wondered how much extra Larz paid for such a useless option: A million? Two million?
Then, almost magically, the 5T’s hatch began to lift up and outward—like a graceful gullwing in mid-flight.
Gallic let out a breath. So, so easy! Having the start-cube in place was exactly what he needed. The vehicle, now accessible, was also drivable—either by him or anyone else. He said, “Hey, hold up there a moment.”
Frowning, Larz halted, one leg poised on the first step leading into the ship. Gallic reached him in three strides—already unfolding an electronic vid-sheet¬. Handing it to him, he said. “This authorizes me to take possession of this vehicle. I’m repossessing it. Step away from the craft. Do so, now!”
Larz’ cigarette flipped end over end from his lips and bounced off his knee. “Like hell you are!” he spat. He grabbed ahold of both sides of the hatchway. “No one’s taking my 5T . . . there has to be a mistake . . . I pay my fucking bills.”
Gallic shrugged, “Either that, or your daddy does. Unfortunately, one of you has missed a few payments . . . three, to be exact. You can either take care of the default at your bank or at the dealership. She’ll be waiting there for you in the morning. Now move aside.”
Larz, hunkering down, wasn’t going to make this easy. “Johnnie . . . Donnie, don’t just stand there! Take care of this guy!”
He sensed the two of them had moved in closer behind. He could smell their foul breath. Gallic felt a heavy palm on his right shoulder. A surprisingly high voice then said, “You’re going to give Mr. Logan a bit more time to take care of this business. If you don’t . . . we’ll hurt you. Hurt you bad. Leave you here bleeding in the dirt and gravel. You understand me? Now, why don’t you put that little vid-sheet back in your pocket . . . you know . . . before we get angry . . . and do something we’ll laugh about later.”
Gallic, not turning around, glanced at the meaty hand still resting on his shoulder. “Which one are you? Johnnie or Donnie?”
“I’m Donnie.”
Gallic said over his opposite shoulder, “Johnnie, best you head back into the bar. Ask for Randy.”
“Yeah? What for?”
“Ask to borrow a bucket. You know, one of those big steel jobs . . . with a metal handle.”
He snorted and made an irritated expression. “What would I need with a damn bucket?”
Gallic sensed the beefy twosome were exchanging perplexed looks.
“Because, if your friend here doesn’t take his hand off my shoulder, you’ll be taking what’s left of him home in it . . .”
Gallic felt Donnie’s hand come off his shoulder and he sensed Larz’ bodyguard was in the process of turning his upper torso—that he was winding-up to deliver a punch. Gallic didn’t need to look at him to know precisely what he was going to do. The mistake most people make in this situation is to try to duck away. Avoid being hit. But Gallic did
the opposite. You never do what your opponent expects you to do—in this case, what Donnie would expect. Instead, he stepped back—right into him—up close and personal. When Donnie’s punch came, there was no room for him to extend his arm. No way for him to put any of his porky weight in behind it. Directed at the vicinity of his kidneys—it arrived more of a love tap than a real punch. Without hesitation, Gallic—half-turning and faking a half-step forward—quickly rocked back on his heels while at the same time, he ratcheted his right elbow back hard. The height differential between Gallic and Donnie couldn’t have worked out any better. The familiar knob protrusion, located at the end of the elbow, is actually a part of the humerus bone. Gallic’s arms were large and muscular, and the round knob at the end of his humerus was poised to act more like the business end of a sledgehammer than that inconsequential bone most people took for granted. Gallic’s fast-moving elbow made contact with Donnie’s nose and, in the process, totally annihilated it. In that fraction of a second, Donnie’s nasal bone—the supporting septal cartilage, as well as both sides of the maxillary bones—either splintered outright or instantly turned into something akin to toothpaste.
The sudden impact was enough to bounce Donnie’s brain, hard forward first, then just as hard backward, within the confined space of his oversized cranium. Suddenly unconscious, Donnie dropped like a sack of rice. Gallic next turned his attention to Johnnie—holding a semi-automatic handgun in his left hand—whose attention was still focused on the bloodied heap lying at his feet. Gallic stepped forward and grabbed the gun out of his hand. Fully intending to do the same thing to Johnny that he’d just done to Donnie, the girl said, “Stop! Just leave him alone.”
Gallic hesitated.
Looking over to Larz, she said, “You can get the T5 back tomorrow. Let the creep take her. Larz . . . it’s not worth it.”
Larz glared at Gallic, whose expression remained impassive.
Eventually, Larz stepped down from the open hatchway. “Do you know who I am? Who my family is?”
“Nope. Can’t say that I do,” Gallic replied.
“You’re done! I hope you’ve enjoyed this lowlife job of yours because you’re finished. You’ll be fired by morning.”
Gallic, after pushing past him and stepping into the open hatchway, turned around to face the still seething Larz Logan. “Good luck with that, I work for myself. An arbiter. Best take care of your friend there . . . I’d turn him over onto his side for a while, if I were you.”
Stepping inside the craft, he caught the girl’s eye as the gullwing hatch began to close. Not quite reading her questioning expression, she said, “You’re a piece of work . . . you know that?”
“Yeah . . . well, I’ve been called worse, sweetheart.”
The 5T’s cockpit, with its myriad of glowing dials and indicators, was just as impressive inside as it was outside—a sweet high-end spacecraft. And Larz certainly hadn’t foregone adding the more luxurious options. Gallic sat down in the pilot’s seat, feeling it automatically adjust to his girth.
He’d never sat in anything so comfortable. Certainly, a far cry from the rock-hard cushions found in the Hound. Spinning the seat around, he studied the craft’s warm and inviting cabin. Padded leather was everywhere—cushy, wrap-around leather chairs and sectional couches. Inset strips of decorative wood—perhaps walnut—accented the padded interior sides and overhead bulkheads.
Gallic swiveled his chair back around, ready to face the business at hand. Firing up the 5T’s propulsion system, he took the controls in his hands. He activated the underbelly thrusters and lifted off. Thirty feet above the landing lot, he cranked the controls hard left. Accelerating fast, he left behind Renegade’s Haven, the sprawling pastureland, and the sporadic clustering of cattle.
At a quarter-mile out, Gallic reached into his inside coat pocket and fingered the small opener device. The rear hatch on the Hound began opening up. Light instantly peeked through the quickly expanding gap around it. He slowed the 5T’s progression and waited for the hatch—doing double-duty as hatch and gangway—to descend all the way to a reverse downward angle. Goosing the 5T, he piloted her directly into the Hound’s hold—a hold large enough to transport several old jetliners, if the need for such a thing ever arose.
It took him another five minutes to carefully strap down and secure the 5T onto the inside deck. Any damage incurring to the craft now would come right off the top of his repo fees. Once satisfied, he initiated the closing of the hold’s rear hatch—he glanced around to ensure the handful of other vehicles in there were also strapped into place. Everything looked to be in order.
By the time he crossed the hold into the entranceway of the rear airlock, he heard the familiar pressurized thunk sound as the Hound’s massive back hatch seated into the cowling surrounding it. Exiting the airlock, Gallic headed up the ship’s internal stairway, which led to the second level.
* * *
The top level of the Hound looked more like an open, New York City loft build-out than the top deck of a working hauler-type spacecraft. Fifty-five-feet wide by fifty-nine-feet long, it seemed like one huge square. Even though the large compartment looked industrial, there was something strangely inviting about the space, nevertheless. Due, perhaps, to its wide-planked timber decking and the soft, indirect lighting, generated from large canned lights, fifteen feet overhead. Also, there was a decorative intermixing of home furnishings—colorful Navaho throw rugs draped over stuffed, worn, leather couches, and a set of multi-prism Tiffany lamps set on craftsman style side tables. Long observation windows, installed on opposing bulkheads, provided scenic, high-up views to the now-darkening landscape below.
Gallic moved swiftly across the sectionalized space to a bank of extending out forward-facing windows—where two rotating seats, and a waist-level-high, semicircle-shaped, console were positioned—the paint both dinged and scratched. Not fully a ship’s bridge—nothing that elaborate—or a cockpit. More purposeful, it was the Hound’s command center. As he approached, a projected holographic display came alive on his right. Nearly as high as himself in height, the display was in the process of updating his weekly job log. He noticed the latest repo job:
Vehicle: Hausenbach L35T; Owner: Mr. Larz Logan; Current Standing: impounded/transferring, Final Destination: Dealer @ Bantum Exotic Starcrafts.
As Gallic traced with his index finger other open work repo orders, he noticed another three, which would also require his attention over the next day or two.
A reminder window popped into view: You have two vid-messages! Both messages are tagged high-priority.
Gallic, after taking a seat, addressed the Hound’s AI, voicing out loud, “Go ahead, play first one.”
A blue-tinted, life-sized holographic image came to life. A short, bald-headed man, in a wrinkled Hawaiian shirt, stared at Gallic. One of Gallic’s past associates—Polly Gant—a less than scrupulous provider of both repo and bail bondsman services, that he tended to avoid, unless there was absolutely no other work at hand. Polly smiled, “Hey, Galaxy Man, call me. You pick up that Hausenbach craft yet? Listen . . . I’ve a special project for you. It’s perfect for someone with your . . . unique capabilities. Time-sensitive, so don’t—”
Gallic said, “Skip message . . . go to the next.”
On the projected display, an older black man appeared—dressed in a smart-fitting, navy-blue uniform. His heavily lined face seemed more covered with age spots than Gallic remembered. And his hair, although still mostly black, looked peppered now with more white, as did his immaculately trimmed goatee. The man was Chief Superintendent Bernard Danbury, who—three-and-a-half years prior—was his boss, friend, and mentor. Gallic resisted the oncoming flood of memories—like snakes—trying to twist and wiggle their way into his consciousness.
Danbury said, “Hello, John. I hope this message finds you in good health.”
“Pause message,” Gallic commanded the AI. He stared at the frozen-in-time holographic image. He’d worked for the super
intendent for close to a decade, rising quickly within the Territorial Police Department, Spatial District 22. On becoming DCI Chief Inspector, he reported directly to him. He left the position soon after the murders—murders never solved—which he had not been allowed to have any involvement with. John closed his eyes, fighting to keep the ever-intruding vermin at bay. Nothing held more importance for him than finding the person responsible for the murders of the young and beautiful thirty-one-year-old woman and her equally beautiful three-year-old daughter—John Gallic’s wife and little girl. His old life, as he knew it, ended the day the two were taken from him. Now, he merely survived, though he continued to follow-up on what he wasn’t permitted to do as DCI for the Territorial Police Department, Spatial District 22. Since he was both the husband and father of the homicide victims, he wasn’t allowed to have direct involvement in the case. Deemed a serious conflict of interest. Something the lead Investigator, Freddy MacDonald, was all too happy to enforce. There had already been bad blood between the two for years; Gallic, younger and newer to the department, had quickly moved up in the ranks to the coveted Detective Chief Inspector, DCI, position, above MacDonald. He hadn’t taken it well. As the lead investigator of the case, MacDonald stonewalled him—restricting any further access to the case files. Gallic and MacDonald fought continuously. Blows were exchanged.
The grisly crime was front-page news for weeks as the investigation proceeded in earnest. His disputes with MacDonald aside, Gallic knew everyone involved in the case had good intentions: Three, full-time investigators were assigned, each working hard and piling on the OT. But encouraging leads eventually hit a dead end. As the promising prospects dried up, official personnel, plus other resources, were assigned to new active cases. Other crimes now captured the media’s headlines. But that didn’t halt Gallic’s off-time pursuit. For months, his friend—Chief Superintendent Bernard Danbury—turned a blind eye to Gallic’s growing number of sick-days off; days spent in his private crusade to find the killer, or killers, of Clair and Mandy.
Galaxy Man Page 2