Galaxy Man

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  “I can try,” she said.

  Gallic was aware she wanted to say something else. He waited.

  “Do you think . . .” she hesitated.

  “What?”

  “That this is the start of more murders? I mean, it’s strange the guy would commit a copycat murder after so long . . . what has it been . . . three and a half years? Why would he stop now?”

  The same questions had been nagging at Gallic as well. Officially, this was now a serial murder case. And she was right to ask, why would he stop now? Perhaps the more important question would be, when will he strike again?

  Chapter 10

  Frontier Planet, Gorman — Heritage Plains Township.

  Gallic watched as Silvia Tori piloted her beat-to-shit D-22 star-cruiser off the concrete drive—hesitate there twenty feet in the air for a few moments—and then gunned the propulsion system. He watched her until she gently banked and gained altitude as she went. Soon she was a mere dot on the distant horizon—and then she was gone.

  Phil joined Gallic at his side. Both were watching the Hound descend a hundred yards away, out in the pasture where there was enough room for her. Landing struts locked into place just prior to the massive Hewley-Jawbone carrier being eased down onto solid ground.

  “That’s quite a ship.”

  Gallic glanced over to Phil.

  Phil said, “I must say . . . I’m a bit envious.”

  “Can you hang out here for a while?” Gallic gestured toward the distant ranch.

  “Interview the woman? Sure . . . wouldn’t miss it.”

  * * *

  The neighbor’s ranch was about a half a mile walk. On the way, Phil spoke about his life living here in the territories. He didn’t live here on Gorman, beyond his pay grade. Nor did he live back on Muleshoe. He lived on Rawhide, the farthest in the chain of agricultural-based worlds within the territories. Gallic thought about that. About having a house . . . a home. What the implications were of that. Perhaps a feeling of belonging somewhere, or to someone. Gallic wasn’t sure if Phil was married or had someone special in his life. He didn’t really care enough to ask. He thought about his own situation. That after so many years now of living on the Hound—having the freedom to pick up stakes and leave any place at any time—he had no desire for a different kind of life. Not without the people that had made that kind of life possible.

  They’d reached the neighbor’s barn. Like the house in the distance, it was freshly painted white. The contrast between all the white and the surrounding emerald green pastures was dazzling.

  “Quite a barn . . . you could put my damn house in there five times over,” Phil said.

  Not mine, Gallic thought, reflecting on the size of the Hound.

  They were making their way around the back of the barn. Phil stepped around the corner first. There was a thump sound and Phil’s body flew by in front of him. He hit the ground with arms and legs askew. Gallic had just enough time to hold back and step sideways. A man holding a shovel appeared. He was gripping the end of a four-foot-long wood handle—batter-up, style. The business end of the metal spade was up in the air above his right shoulder. He was ready to swing again. Two more men appeared behind him. Ranch hands. They were dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Two had beards. One was clean-shaven. All wore cowboy hats. And all of them were young and big and most likely in the best shapes of their lives. But there was a difference between being in good shape from activities such as lifting hay bales or pile driving fence posts, or whatever ranch hands do. They had a different kind of muscle memory than Gallic had. A muscle memory that was ineffective when going up against someone that had spent years as a Royal Marine—the years prior to becoming a policeman and the eventual rise to become DCI for the Colonial Police—Space District 22. As a marine, he’d learned how to stay alive. And how to end the lives of those trying to take his away from him.

  Gallic glanced at Phil’s inert body. There was a crimson colored welt in the middle of his forehead. Phil wasn’t moving.

  “We’re the welcoming party,” the ranch hand with the shovel said.

  The two others fanned out making a semicircle around him. Gallic stood with his arms loosely held at his sides. The three of them were smiling and looked pleased with themselves. Gallic, looking bored, continued to stare at the man with the shovel.

  “You know . . . when planning something like this. You really need to think things all the way through.”

  The one with the shovel adjusted his grip and raised the shovel higher. “Don’t worry . . . not a lot of thinking will be necessary for what’s planned for you.”

  “Well, maybe if you’re a group of ten-year-old bullies on a school yard. Sure, that’s fine . . . you just go for it . . . go for the new kid or the awkward kid without any friends . . . it’s a free for all. But you’re not ten-year-old’s . . . are you? You have somewhat, although minimally, matured brains. The planning becomes more of an issue. Like what precautions should be made before going up against an unknown quantity.”

  “Precautions?” He laughed. “That’s not how we roll, jerkoff. That’s not how this is going to go down.”

  Gallic continued, “Well, let me give you an example. A hypothetical one . . . Okay? . . . one you, as the apparent leader here, should have considered. What happens when I take that shovel away from you? Use it on you in a way that will haunt you for the rest of your worthless life. Will cause you embarrassment . . . and humiliation . . . because you’ll know what others will be thinking about when they see you gimping along at the side of the street. They’ll be picturing how you had endured having the long end of a spade handle shoved so far up your ass. Farther than anyone would have ever imagined possible. And you need to consider what your friends here will do. Will they stay and fight with you? Or will they cut their losses—run and thank their lucky stars above that they didn’t have to experience the same unpleasant effects of that hardwood, probably hickory or maybe ash.

  The confident smiles wavered. Eyes were shifting in their sockets.

  “You have a big fucking mouth. You like to talk too much—”

  Caught mid-sentence, it wasn’t the shovel baring guy that Gallic came for first. It was the closest one who was mouthing off—directly to his left. Gallic lead with a left jab that caught him with a stinging blow to the chin, immediately followed by a straight on punch to the face. He went down fast—like he fell through an open trap door.

  Gallic spun away, but not quick enough to avoid the already swinging spade coming from behind. It missed his head, but caught him, a slicing blow, on the upper back. The pain was immediate and intense—as the sharp edge of the tool ripped through his shirt and the flesh beneath. He wind milled his straight arm around and captured the handle before it could be pulled away. Gallic grasped it and jerked it out of the hands of the attacker. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the other ranch hands take off. Gallic twirled the handle around and readied himself to take down the lone standing ranch hand. The lone man took a hesitant step backward. He eyed the shovel. He looked at the long handle. Gallic was fairly certain he was dreading what was coming next.

  A nearby shotgun blast stopped everyone in his tracks.

  “Knock it off . . . all of you!” It was the girl with the bobbling earrings. Only now she was on horseback and pointing a bolt-action Winchester rifle at Gallic’s head. “Jordan . . . get your idiot friends and pray you still have a job tomorrow.”

  Jordan did as he was told. The other handyman, lying on the ground, was a little slow to get up, but eventually he rose to his feet. They headed off and disappeared around the side of the barn. Gallic heard the sound of two nearby hovercrafts start up then speed away.

  Gallic went down to Phil’s side. He hadn’t moved since he’d been hit. He put two fingers to his neck and waited to feel a pulse. It was there. Strong and steady. Phil’s eyes fluttered open.

  “What the hell . . . happened . . . I was hit . . .”

  “With a shovel,” Ga
llic said, finishing his sentence.

  Phil came up on his elbows and winced. Gallic helped him sit all the way up. Phil touched his forehead. “Christ! Does it look as bad as it feels?”

  “Fraid so,” Gallic said. Careful . . . undoubtedly you have one hell of a concussion.” He took one of Phil’s arms and helped him stand. Phil waivered there. They both looked at the girl sitting atop the horse. Gallic watched as she lowered the barrel and dropped the weapon into a leather scabbard at the side of the saddle—which ran parallel to her lower leg.

  Gallic said, “I’m going to need your help . . . get Phil here over to my ship where he can lay down.”

  She seemed to mull that over for a few moments before she dismounted, loosely tied the reins around a nearby fence rail, and hurried over. She took one of Phil’s arms and placed it over her shoulder while Gallic, wincing, repositioned the other arm.

  * * *

  Climbing up the Hounds’ extended underbelly stairs, while holding a nearly comatose body—even with there being two people—was challenging. At the top of the stairs, the girl said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “I’m fine.” They moved into the Hound’s airlock and right through to the hatch on the other side. “In here . . . we’ll take the lift.”

  She eyed the cramped space. “We won’t all fit in there.”

  “Sure we will . . . just huddle in.”

  She had to press her body in closer to both Phil and Gallic for the open metal cage door to slide down and latch. So close to her, he could smell her shampoo. Like strawberries. Gallic reached over and hit the Level 2 button. The motor squealed to life—the lift began to rise—cables and pulleys and other mechanisms strained under the added weight.

  She glanced up at Gallic. “Am I going to die in your old elevator?”

  “Probably not.”

  “So . . . my name’s Lane . . . by the way.”

  Gallic nodded. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

  “With what?”

  “That ambush by the three ranch hands.”

  “God, no. That, most likely, was the work of Larz or Johnnie . . . or maybe both of them, for repossessing his 5T. The ranches around here often share the help. I’ll deal with it.”

  “They could have killed Phil . . . hitting him like that.”

  The lift slowed then grinded to a stop. Gallic slid up the gate and with Lane’s help half-carried, half-dragged Phil out into the loft area.

  “Over here. We can put him on the couch.”

  They got Phil situated, lying flat on his back. His eyes were open but unfocused. Gallic reached over, pulled the Navaho blanket from the back of the couch, and spread it over Phil. “Try to stay awake if you can, Phil. For a while anyway.”

  Phil mumbled something unintelligible.

  Lane glanced around the Hound’s large, open loft-like space. Her eyes settled on a long bookcase, set up against a far bulkhead within the study section. Gallic watched as she approached the deck-to-ceiling shelves, packed tight with his hardback books. Running long tapered fingers across the book spines, she walked from one end of the bookcase to the other. “Boy . . . someone’s really into American history . . . late nineteenth century. I’d say . . . the old west.” Taking a half-step back, she studied a lower shelf. “Most of these books deal with criminals of certain eras,” she said.

  For some unknown reason, Gallic felt a little embarrassed. Not used to anyone staring so closely at his things. Certainly, no one before had ever taken anything more than a passing interest in his books. Books blatantly exposing—to anyone who took the time to look—his hidden passion for the American crime figures.

  “So, who’s this Boles character? Quite a few books are dedicated to him.”

  Actually, four books are dedicated to him, Gallic silently mused, saying nothing.

  Lane pulled one of the books free from the shelf and then held it up. “Mind?”

  Gallic shrugged, as if her request was inconsequential to him, though it was anything but.

  Flipping through the pages, Lane paused every so often to examine a photograph or read some arbitrary passage of text. She looked up and smiled—almost conspiratorially. “You admire this . . . what is he, a thief?”

  “Not so sure admire is the best way to put it,” he said.

  “Who was he?”

  Gallic, joining her at the bookcase, said, “Well . . . if you really want to know, he was a gentleman criminal. Born in England, his real name was Charles Earl Boles. Better known later as Black Bart.”

  “So, what makes him so interesting?” Lane asked, as she flipped to an illustrated page depicting a stagecoach being held up by a lone robber. She turned the book around toward him, raising a brow.

  “Got financially screwed-over in some financial dealings in Northern California . . . around the gold-rush time period, late 1840’s. He had a particular hard-on for Wells Fargo Bank.”

  “I’ve heard of them.”

  “What made Boles, or Black Bart, so interesting was the simple fact he was a gentleman robber. Although he carried a rifle, he never used it. He was courteous and humorous. Likeable. Also known to leave poems behind in the stagecoaches’ emptied-out strongboxes.”

  “Really? Hey, I like this guy. And was there a girlfriend in the picture?”

  “Had a wife and a couple of kids. Didn’t see them much, though. As a young man, he joined the army—was a Union soldier in the Civil War. After he was injured in the Battle of Vicksburg, he returned home to Illinois. But soon thereafter, he got the itch to head west . . . follow the gold rush craze sweeping the country. Unfortunately, he never saw his wife or sons again.”

  “Typical male . . . so what happened to him? Wait . . . don’t tell me . . . it’ll only depress me. Like what happened to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid . . .” Closing the book, she slid it back into the empty waiting gap on the shelf.

  “He got caught . . . eventually . . . did a few years in jail, but he got out. Some say he then picked up where he left off . . .”

  Lane’s fingers rested on the book’s spine a moment, seeming to appreciate Gallic’s further explanation. “Black Bart . . . gentleman robber, poet, and survivor. I can see why you’ve taken an interest in him.” She looked at the rows and rows of books then at Gallic. “Well . . . you should, um . . . take a hot shower. Cleanse out that open wound on your back. I can help bandage, dress it when you get out . . . if you want.”

  Chapter 11

  Frontier Planet, Gorman — Heritage Plains Township.

  Escaping steam swirled as Gallic, a towel wrapped around his waist, emerged from the shower. He was surprised to see Lane, sitting on the edge of his bed.

  Smiling, she held up a zippered red plastic case. “Found your med kit in the kitchen, or should I say in the mess, since this is a ship?” Patting the spot next to her on the bed, she said, “Sit. Let’s get your wound sutured and dressed.”

  “Phil?”

  “Asleep.”

  Gallic sat on the bed then turned so that his broad back was facing her.

  “Wow! That’s even worse than I thought. Maybe I’m not the best person to do this . . . you probably need a real doctor.”

  “You’ll do just fine. Everything you need is in that kit.” Gallic felt the tip of a cool finger outline the wounded area, then move on to touch several other, older wounds. “You’re either ridiculously accident-prone, or you’ve seen your fair share of combat . . . action.”

  Gallic didn’t respond to that, saying, “There should be suture gel in there.”

  “I see it. I’m going to disinfect the area first. This might sting.”

  It did. A lot! He drew in a quick breath through tightly clenched teeth.

  “Told you so,” she said. Next came the suture gel. Using one of the special application sponges, which came with the gel, she dabbed it on. Almost immediately, the skin surrounding the open wound began to constrict—closing in on itself. He gave it a minute to let the stuff do wh
at it was designed to do. As he prepared to stand up, she said,

  “Hold on! The wound needs a bandage . . . suture gel only goes so far.”

  Gallic sat back down and waited as she placed a self-adhering bandage over the injured area. Then, giving his back a pat, she said, “That should do it.”

  Gallic re-shifted his position around so he could better see her. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  He was taken aback by how lovely she was—sitting there on his bed putting the various items back into the med kit. An awkward silence prevailed until he said, “So you live here . . . on Gorman?”

  “Among other places. But yeah, this is where I grew up . . . where my family is.”

  “You live with your parents?” Gallic asked.

  “Come on, I’m twenty-six, Gallic. Went four years to college . . . Yale . . . lived a spell in France, mon ami, and spent some time knocking around the Frontier worlds.”

  Gallic slowly nodded, taking in the information.

  “As for my mother . . . she died when I was young. My dad’s usually away on business. Truth is, we don’t speak much. Other than the obligatory hi and goodbye. The house here is usually empty.”

  “Siblings?”

  “I have a brother, Scott. He prefers to live on Earth.”

  “So, he’s not a rancher?”

  Lane shrugged a tan shoulder. “I heard you were once a cop . . . you interrogating me?”

  “Sorry. Old habits.”

  “My brother has . . . issues. As much as I don’t get along with my dad, he and Scott can’t be in the same room together without an all-out-war happening. Maybe someday they’ll grow out of it. Wasn’t always like that. As kids, we were just an average family. Grew up with the Cogan’s. You met Larz.”

  “And you, you’re visiting?”

  “No, I just told you, I live here now. I manage the ranch. All three thousand acres of it.”

  “I’m impressed,” Gallic said, and meant it.

  “Don’t be . . . it practically runs itself. We hire a lot of folks who know what to do and when to do it.”