One building in particular stood tall above the others. Clearly, that was where the Hound was now being directed. Glancing to the nav-panel on the console board before him, Gallic noted the Tillman Enterprises headquarters meta-tag designation.
The Hound slowed, descending to within several hundred feet of the building’s rooftop. The 3D display showed their downward descent. The building’s massive, Gallic thought, perhaps three-quarters of a mile across. Batches of parked space vehicles covered the roof of the building.
“Mr. Gallic . . . there is a problem. The provided set-down location, 1328, is not entirely vacant.” Gallic, now looking closer at the display, noticed there were clearly designated pad locations.
He had to smile. Sargento’s smaller and much newer repo ship was taking up pad 1327, as well as a portion—just a tad—of pad 1328. Normally, this wouldn’t have been a problem. Not for most vessels, anyway. An arriving ship would simply squeeze into the space remaining, as the pads were pretty large. But the Hound was immense; would barely fit into pad 1328 even without an obstruction present.
“I’m taking the controls,” Gallic said. The AI remained silent as the underbelly thrusters came alive.
Gallic brought the Hound down but didn’t extend the landing struts. Whereas the Hound was nearly indestructible—a beast of a ship with heavy-metal hull plating—its landing struts were somewhat more delicate. It was possible to bend retract arms or reaction links; a trunnion leg could be tweaked or misaligned. Landings needed to be controlled but what Gallic was planning was not a landing at all. Instead, a little brute force was all that would be required.
Lower and lower the Hound descended. A dense cloud from the thrusters made visibility difficult. Now, using only his fingertips, he manipulated the controls, altering the ship’s angle to a nose-down orientation. The slightest mistake, or misjudgment, could drive the nose of the Hound into the top floors of the building.
A proximity alarm began to wail, and the AI announced dangerous conditions. Gallic continued to lower the behemoth vessel downward, until it was ten feet above the landing pad and five feet out from Sargento’s ship—a King First Carryall. A transport like the Hound, only a much smaller and far more sophisticated ship. Sargento’s business must be doing very well, Gallic mused. The ship was clean and unblemished. He really takes good care of the thing. Then, out of the blue, he thought of something more. Recalled viewing an autopsy photograph of a once-pretty, young Native American woman, Sargento’s woman—her name had been Nascha.
Now, with only the slightest pressure on the controls, Gallic goosed the throttle. The sturdy, reinforced nose of the Hound came into contact with the portside of the King First Carryall. Sounds of metal crunching metal reverberated all around the compartment. A glance toward the display showed the Carryall’s hull was not holding up so well after the repeated ship-against-ship nudging taking place. Gallic tried to be as delicate as possible—a somewhat tedious back and forth process. By the time the ship, King First Carryall, was sufficiently shoved back fully into its own 1327 pad location, the once-pristine ship looked somewhat crumpled.
With well-practiced hands, and much quicker movements now, Gallic engaged the ship’s high-thrusters to raise the Hound 200 feet up. Then, lowering the landing struts, he said, “Go ahead and set us down, AI.”
Chapter 16
Frontier Planet, Muleshoe — Stanford Pride.
The killer lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He hummed a sweet melody. The same one the child had been humming quietly to herself not so long ago. His eyes followed the almost imperceptible deviation beneath layers and layers of paint—where taped drywall joints hadn’t been adequately sanded before the texturing process was started. So much work was done half-assed of late. What happened to the days when workers took pride in their skill? When being a true craftsman was a badge of honor one wore?
He adjusted the pillow beneath his head. Turning his face to the side, he breathed in the mother’s—Melissa Johnson’s—fresh scent. Hmm, what is that? Lavender, he thought. He flipped back over onto his stomach, so he could see over the side of the bed. He stared down at his handiwork—at ten-year-old Blair, younger than the others, who looked at peace. He’d tried to tidy up, both her and her mother’s appearance, their faces. He reached down and using the back of his gloved fingers, stroked the girl’s cheek.
Rising up on his elbows, he contemplated changing the wording on the nearby wall. Good luck with that, he mused. Blood was not exactly erasable. Then again, it got the message across. He tried to picture John’s reaction; the contours of his face as he pondered its true meaning. The killer smiled then became serious. He wanted John to know he missed her too; that it wasn’t all about him. At what point, he wondered, would John realize that? Probably not for a while—not until more were silenced.
Chapter 17
Planet Spector — Harriot — Tillman Building.
Coming down the Hound’s ramp, Gallic spotted the competition. Sargento and his partner approaching at a full out run from the far side of the rooftop. He then remembered that Sargento’s partner’s name was Hok’ee, which meant something like high-backed wolf. Dressed similarly to what they had on the other day, both wore identical leather vests. Today Hok’ee’s hair was tied back into a long hanging braid. Sargento, the bigger of the two, was two strides ahead of Hok’ee. His pockmarked face was set tight—defined by an angry sneer. Gallic could hear his angry voice, though not what he was saying.
Gallic casually turned his back on the approaching duo to tap in the code that retracted the Hound’s ramp. From this vantage point, he could see the side of Sargento’s ship. The damage looked even worse up close.
The angry repo man came to a stop two paces behind Gallic. Turning around, Gallic found the guy’s chest still heaving, murder in his eyes.
“Hey, Sargento . . . what’s up?” Gallic noticed Hok’ee was no longer with him.
“You son of a bitch!” Coming close to Gallic, he raised a fist. “First, I’m going to kill you, then I’m going to cut you up and feed you to my dogs.”
“Where’s your boyfriend?” Gallic asked, looking around.
The implied question momentarily took Sargento off-guard. “Boyfriend? What the fuck . . .”
“I just assumed. You know . . . with the matching vests and all. Hey, it’s the twenty-second century. I’m certainly not here to judge anyone’s preference . . . who they cohabitate with . . .”
“Cohabitate? What . . . you think . . . we’re like . . .”
“Easy there, boss,” Gallic said, his palms raised up. “Looks like you’ve got bigger problems on your hands. Have you taken a look at the side of your ship lately?”
“Yeah. You did that! I saw you . . . you shoved my ship. You and that monstrosity of a ship. You know what a King First Carryall costs these days? You’re going to pay for that damage. Every penny.”
“Come on . . . all I did is land within my designated set-down space. The one I was instructed to use. Let me ask you a question. Were you designated one or two set-down spaces?” Gallic didn’t wait for an answer, instead walking over to the damaged section of the King First Carryall, then over to the nose of the Hound. “Do you see any damage on my ship?”
Sargento, who’d followed behind him, stared up at the bow of the larger vessel. No damage was evident. “Don’t turn this around . . . you did that to my ship.”
Gallic shrugged. “Prove it.” Prepared for Hok’ee when he jumped out from behind the Hound’s front landing strut, he had time to move his head aside. Even so, he took a glancing blow to his ear—an old-fashioned roundhouse punch that the smaller man put all his weight behind. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Enough to cause Gallic’s eyes to water and shut down all hearing in that ear for the time being.
Sargento’s arm was drawn back for his own punch to Gallic’s face. It came at him in the form of a jab. Gallic slapped it away with little effort. “You should probably stop now while you’re still ahead,�
�� Gallic said, suddenly conscious he didn’t have time for this. He was expected to meet up with Allison Tillman soon.
Then Hok’ee was again on the move—circling around and coming in low on Gallic’s right side. Timing his move, Gallic waited another second and then, not taking his eyes off Sargento standing right before him, he used a step-back kick to plant the sole of his boot hard in the middle of Hok’ee’s chest. Like a mule kick—no, more like a Clydesdale kick—the kind that snaps someone’s sternum and a handful of ribs. Suddenly airborne, Hok’ee landed with a painful sounding thud some eight feet away. Gallic caught the glint of something metallic in Sargento’s right hand. His pocked face sneered as he rushed forward, swiping the six-inch blade fast sideways, and coming within an inch of Gallic’s neck—his carotid artery. Gallic caught the now off-balanced Native American’s ponytail, wrapping it in his fist, first once then twice. Yanking down hard, he flipped him onto his back. Sargento gasped, the air knocked from his lungs.
Looming above him, Gallic placed the heel of his boot on Sargento’s exposed neck.
“Life isn’t always fair, Sargento. Hell, ask Nascha. See what she has to say about fair. Oh yeah . . . you can’t do that, can you? Not since someone pushed the young woman down a flight of stairs. Someone who claimed she was clumsy . . . that she’d simply tripped.”
Sargento didn’t respond to his comment.
“I’m going to wait right here while you collect that pile of trash lying behind me. Wait for you to climb into your little spaceship and fly far away. Deviate from that, even in the slightest, and I’ll break every bone in your body. Now move!”
* * *
Already running five minutes late, Gallic walking fast entered the lift. Arriving one floor down, he entered into the Tillman Penthouse Museum. While exiting the elevator, he glanced down at his perpetually vibrating ComsBand. The Hound’s AI was all excited about something. About to make the connection he heard—
“Stop where you are!”
Gallic did as told and looked up—looked up into five ominous black holes. Each was trained, he was certain, at a precise point right between his eyes. He was looking into the muzzles of five automatic rifles. The men holding those rifles were dressed in matching gray uniforms that were topped off with matching little caps upon their heads. They each wore military issue assault vests and had alternate side arms strapped to their thighs. They were loaded for bear.
Gallic closed his eyes. Of course, there would have been security feeds all around the rooftop and taking in every possible angle. His altercation with Sargento, and his hopefully still unconscious partner, surely captured into digital media for all time. Crap!
A sixth man, short and dressed exactly like the others, with one exception—a silver star mounted on the crown of his cap just above the bill. “Raise your hands over your head. Mr. Gallic. I am Security Chief Pepper. You are under arrest. Your vessel is in the process of being impounded.”
Two men from the firing squad quickly shouldered their weapons and hurried over to where Gallic stood. Four hands began patting him down. His coat was thrown open and various items were methodically removed—his wallet, his arbiter’s license, with an attached badge, and his Emanuel Dual 5. A rare, dual-barreled, over-under, .45 handgun, which had been secured into a custom-made holster inside his coat. The gun was tooled within the outer Frontier regions and given to him by a friend. Actually, he was more of an associate than a friend. Gallic had fired the weapon in the course of his arbiter duties six times. Of the six men who had drawn down on him—six were now taking a forever dirt nap. Two of those had been on Muleshoe.
Chief Pepper glanced at his license then spent more time looking at his weapon. He paid extra attention to the trigger mechanism.
“Not often you see that . . . huh?”
Chief Pepper’s eyes looked up at him.
“Two barrels, two firing mechanisms, one trigger and one hammer. Both lethal and compact . . . don’t you think?”
“What I think is the carrying of this weapon on Spector is illegal. Will only add to the minimum incarceration times for your other highly egregious offenses.”
His arms were being pulled backwards, behind his back. Gallic felt his wrists being secured together with some kind of security bindings. Then Security Chief Pepper was holding two fingers up to one ear. His face went taut and he said, “Yes. Of course, Ms. Tillman . . . but . . . no ma’am. I work for you . . . yes, but . . . right away.”
Chief Pepper took in a frustrated breath and then said, “Release him.”
The two security guys, on each side of Gallic hesitated.
“Now!” Chief Pepper’s face had reddened and a vein throbbed on his left temple. He stepped in close to Gallic and spoke just above a whisper. “I will be watching you. You won’t be able to crap without me knowing about it.”
“You want to know when I take a crap? Is that the important kind of work you guys do here?”
By the look in Chief Pepper’s eyes, he didn’t appreciate Gallic’s humor.
“Give him back his things.”
They did as told, then all six of the security detail hurried off leaving him standing there alone.
Gallic looked about the Tillman Penthouse Museum. The first thing he noticed was the penthouse’s ceiling, easily looming seventy-five to one hundred feet above him. A breathtaking panorama, too, was the view out the floor-to-ceiling encircling windows—just spectacular. But nothing compared to what was featured within the building—exotic personal spacecraft. Even more ships than Gallic expected to see, yet from his present vantage point, he was viewing only some of them due to the curvature of the massive building. Some suspended from above—others not—each space vehicle was presented in a showroom-like condition.
“Welcome. They are presented in chronological order . . . the date they were first launched or flown into space.”
Gallic heard the voice but didn’t see the man connected with it.
“Up here, mate.”
Gallic tracked the Aussie-accented voice upward to the closest spacecraft, one easily recognizable as a Kipling Toring Una. Thirty feet up, standing on the nearest wing, a man stood—hands on hips—in a “king of the mountain” pose. His royal-blue suit jacket fit snugly around his clearly muscular chest and upper arms. Nearly indiscernible, a faint bulge protruded just under his left armpit—a concealed weapon.
“What do you think of her?”
It was obvious to Gallic that great pains had been taken to bring the ninety-something-year-old craft back to its original grandeur. “I think I’d like to take it out for a test drive.”
“You and everyone else. Hold on, be right down,” he said, then turned and disappeared from sight.
Craning his neck upward, Gallic circling, eyed the antique spacecraft. The Kipling Toring Una was a medium-sized ship, little attention given to either style or aesthetics. Even the color, an Army olive-green, gave the vessel a more brass tack—utilitarian—appearance. The bow was rounded and bulbous—bug-like—while the remainder of the ship was mostly cylindrical. Two sets of stubby, angled-back wings were on each side. The last quarter of the ship, all the way back to its stern, flared out like the barrel of a Blunderbuss war musket.
“Ridgy-didge,” the blue-suited man said, exiting from a power lift at the ship’s midpoint.
Gallic looked at the man questioningly.
“Sorry . . . silly slang. All are its original parts. The Una was one of the first Tillman acquisitions. One of only three that exist . . . anywhere.” Putting his hand out, he said, “Stannis Kay, at your service . . .”
The flamboyant Australian had stubby arms and legs on an oil drum of a body. His wheat-colored hair was slicked back, looking like he’d spent a lot of time on it. Gallic took the man’s outstretched hand and shook it. Fleshy and moist, after shaking it, Gallic wanted to wipe his hand on something but thought better of it.
“John Gallic here . . . I have an appointment to see Ms. Tillman.”
&
nbsp; “Yes . . . I am the curator of the museum. All that you see here is under my charge. As I mentioned to the others, Ms. Tillman is running late. I’m here to assist you . . . answer any of your questions. Security of the building is also within my purview.”
The others? Stannis undoubtedly was referring to his competition—Sargento and Hok’ee. Gallic briefly wondered if the curator had posed high up on the Una’s wingtip for them, too.
“Can I see where the Hayai was parked?” Gallic asked, starting to walk underneath the next ship in line.
“Best we go the other way around . . . the Hayai was one of our later additions. No need to walk past one hundred years of history. Come, we’ll go this way, sir.”
Chapter 18
Planet Spector, Harriot — Tillman Building.
Passing in front of the same bank of elevators Gallic had emerged from only minutes before, they came around near the end of the circular exhibit. They passed under three vessels, billionaires’ toys, each nearly reaching the penthouse ceiling. Shiny, new, and ultra-modern, one was dark red, one a neon-blue, and one polished metal. Gallic could spend all day viewing the luxurious, oh-so-sleek-looking vessels inside and out, but with Sargento and Hok’ee already on the hunt, that wouldn’t be smart.
Stannis came to a halt in front of an open space where the fourth spacecraft should have been on display. He shook his head, looking genuinely sad. “Do you know what the name Hayai means, Mr. Gallic?”
“It’s a Japanese word, isn’t it?”
Stannis nodded. “It means fast, and this ship,” he gestured to the open space, “is very, very fast. But more than that, it is the quintessential pinnacle of luxury and high-tech.”
“Wish I could have seen it,” Gallic said.
“These days . . . most of Earth’s finest designs come from Fukuoka, Japan . . . on the island of Kyushu . . . from furniture to fashion to industrial and mechanical design. The Hayai was designed there. Of course, nothing is built on Earth . . . not anymore.”
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