Galaxy Man

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  Gallic’s thoughts flashed back to the Cugan’s den and to Juaquin, in her designer jeans. It wasn’t news to him that the fashion design capital of Earth, and eventually to the frontier of space, was Fukuoka.

  “Can you talk to me about security. How was it possible to move a vessel out of here without tripping an alarm?”

  “It wouldn’t be possible. It would be impossible, Mr. Gallic.”

  “I imagine your insurance premiums will skyrocket now.”

  Stannis looked as if he’d swallowed a bug. “When activated, this building has it all . . . infrared sweeps, pressure plates, atmosphere analyzers . . . which can detect when CO2 levels change after hours. Temperature triggers, vibration triggers, auditory triggers, continual diametric laser comparison technology, not to mention all the rooftop alarms and security up there, which is the only way a vehicle could have been removed.” Stannis pointed to a large, nearly imperceptible access panel on the ceiling. “There’s a long list of security measures that, combined, are simply impossible to avoid.”

  “Yeah, and the Titanic was unsinkable,” Gallic said flatly. “Standing now, in front of this empty space . . . someone’s figured it out. Either that, or—”

  Stannis stopped him. “No . . . not an inside job.”

  Glancing about the space, the strut indentations still visible in the low-pile carpeting, then at the big ships both left and right, Gallic wondered if this wasn’t an insider job. How could someone defeat all those safeguard systems, otherwise? And how many would it take to do so? “I’ll need all the specifics. Brands . . . the model numbers of your security equipment, specifications. There are a finite number of people with the technical background . . . the wherewithal—to pull off a job like this. I still have connections within D-22. I should be able to database, cross-match potential criminal elements. Those who could possess the capability to pull off an operation like this.”

  “Ms. Tillman is well aware of your qualifications. Yes, the Galaxy Man comes highly recommended,” Stannis said, as Gallic inwardly cringed.

  Stannis, positioning his hands on his hips, looked suddenly thoughtful. His jacket had pulled apart enough for the butt of his holstered pistol to be seen.

  Gallic’s thoughts turned to Tori, who’d be arriving back on Muleshoe sometime the next day. He hadn’t planned on staying on Spector overnight, but it clearly was necessary now. “Look, it’s getting late. This will take me far more time than the hours left in the day. I’d like to take a vid sweep of the premises . . . this floor, as well as the roof, and the floor beneath . . . then come back in the morning and finish up.”

  “That will be fine. I should have the information you want collected by then. Ms. Tillman had me make overnight accommodations for you at the Bollinger, in Harriot City.”

  “Also, I was under the impression I’d be able to meet with her . . . in person, while here on Spector,” Gallic said.

  Gallic proceeded to spend the better part of the next three hours at the museum. Using his ComsBand, he completed detailed vid sweeps of the penthouse—its numerous spacecraft exhibits, the vehicle set-down upper parking lot, and the floor below the penthouse—primarily used by executives, including Allison Tillman’s expansive 3,500 square foot office space.

  Periodically, Stannis Kay would check in on Gallic. Finished for the evening, Stannis appeared again.

  “I trust you made good use of your time, Mr. Gallic? Ms. Tillman is keen to resolve this mystery . . . has been inquiring about your actions on a regular basis.”

  “She’s free to contact me directly should she want to,” Gallic said, tapping the face of his ComsBand.

  “I’m sure she has every intention of doing so.”

  “It’s been a long day . . . I’m tired and hungry. I’ll be heading off to the Bollinger now, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Of course. But you’ll want to leave your, um, vessel here. There’s no adequate set-down facilities for a vessel that large anywhere in Harriot City. If you’re ready, I’ll have a shuttle brought around for you.”

  “That’ll be fine. Just need to grab an overnight bag from the Hound first.”

  At the mention of the Hound, Stannis did a poor job hiding his distaste. “Well, until tomorrow then, Mr. Gallic. Have a good night.”

  * * *

  Once checked-in at the Bollinger, a luxurious hotel Gallic normally couldn’t afford, he figured he may as well take advantage of the situation since he wasn’t paying the tab. He left his long leather overcoat in his hotel room. Cowboy sheik wasn’t going to cut it around there. Dressed in dark-gray slacks and a button-down white dress shirt, he ventured down to the hotel lobby. Discovering the Bollinger had four, on-site restaurants, he chose the one called The Captain’s Maiden. It sounded the least snooty of the bunch. Seated at a small table in a dark corner of the noisy eatery, he found the attending staff both polite and efficient, though neither warm nor particularly welcoming. He obviously didn’t fit in—at the hotel or in Harriot City.

  He ordered a rare steak and the hotel’s on-tap beer. The steak was overcooked and the beer tasteless—the color of piss. An altogether forgettable meal, he put the bill on his hotel tab. Still relatively early, he decided to take a walk around the city—see the local sites.

  Outside, the night air was warm, the streets buzzing with fast-moving hovercrafts. The sidewalks bustled with pedestrians, and Gallic received his fair share of subtle sideways glances. Not a city where conservative dress was the norm, the citizens of Spector, at least the ones in Harriot City, were primped and fluffed. Dressed up in gaudy clothes, both men and women were laden down with glitzy jewelry. Glancing into a still-open shop window, he noticed that the price of a pair of men’s leather shoes was well over one thousand dollars. He wondered why everything in this city was so expensive.

  Eventually, Gallic hit what he guessed was the city’s heart. Lights blazed bright and overhead holograms spoke, yelled, or sang competitively over one another. A distraction, that seemed to bother only him and no one else. The main street, called River Ridge Drive, reminded him of Las Vegas, back on Earth. Clearly, there was an abundance of wealth around—young rich men and women buying whatever they wanted, to the point of excessiveness.

  Leaving behind the noise of River Ridge Drive, Gallic spotted a virtual movie theater off to his right. An animated holographic poster was promoting several scenes from Zip Furlong’s, aka Teddy Walters’ current movie—titled “Alpha Man.” He played the villain in that galactic space opera.

  Looks entertaining, Gallic thought to himself, but maybe a little stupid. His thoughts were suddenly drawn back to his second encounter with Teddy, when Teddy invited him and Clair to the premiere of his latest movie, some five years past. Gallic experienced a funny feeling in his gut just thinking about it. He always thought Teddy had a thing for Clair. Hell, who didn’t? She was beautiful and brilliant and funny, yet also humble and unpretentious. He remembered when he’d first met her in college, back after a four year stint in the Royal Marines, and enrolled in law enforcement courses. She was a graduate student techy-nerd—even then, she was designing and innovating systems for the burgeoning space industry. Later, she received her PhD in physics while pregnant with Mandy. So different from each other but somehow their pieces came together; somehow fit. A young woman clearly out of his league. He still wondered how they’d ended up together. But . . . then they didn’t end up together for very long. The hammer-and-nails murderer saw to that.

  The holographic preview changed to a new scene—one with Teddy looking villainous, yielding some kind of energy weapon. Gallic thought back to the movie’s premiere, five years past. Teddy’s girlfriend then was a gorgeous woman too, only she wasn’t all that bright. And there was a weird kind of tension in the way Teddy treated her—protective, but overly possessive too. He clearly didn’t approve of her speaking to other men when she was alone; was even leery when she went to the ladies’ room, to the point he hassled Clair to go along with her on
e time. Gallic didn’t realize how much it all bothered him until now. He didn’t like seeing women treated like prize possessions, or decorator arm candy. Musing, he thought about the great advances civilization had made in the past one hundred years, but how sexism and racism still continued to exist. How was that possible?

  His wrist began to vibrate. Checking it, there was a waiting message from Danbury.

  Heading back to the hotel, he tapped at the band and listened.

  “John . . . I was hoping to speak with you in person. There’s been another murder. Right there, in your neck of the woods. Another woman vic, I’m afraid. Tori will have further details by the time she arrives on Gorman.”

  Listening to the message for a second time, Gallic’s heart began to race. For some reason, he thought of Lane then quickly pushed the image of her away.

  Chapter 19

  Planet Spector — High Orbit.

  Gallic nixed spending the night at the Bollinger—too damn riled up now to sleep. After hailing a hover cab to the Tillman building, he was back at the controls of the Hound within the hour. He left Ms. Tillman a vid message—letting her know he was on the case; had ample information to begin the search for the missing Hayai. Gallic verified with the Hound’s AI that Stannis Kay had indeed CoreNet mail-beamed him the on-site security equipment’s technical specifications.

  Leaving high orbit, Gallic set a course for Heritage Plains on Gorman then tried to get some sleep en route.

  * * *

  The vermin visited him in his sleep again, waiting in the shadows of a splendid, though fairly mundane dream, just waiting to pounce. A dream of everyday life with him, Mandy, and Clair eating a sleepy Sunday morning breakfast. When Mandy grabbed for the box of Cheerios, the box exploded into a rampage of squirming swine.

  “Mr. Gallic . . . we have entered Gorman high orbit. Will we proceed to the Cugan ranch again?”

  “No.” Gallic, rubbing his face, stared blankly at the bulkhead across the compartment. Climbing from his bunk he made his way to the head—washing his face then brushing his teeth. Once settled back in the control center, he brought up the coordinates left by Danbury. The murder location was several hundred miles away from the Bower crime scene—in. He inwardly sighed in relief, that the vic couldn’t be Lane. Over the past twenty-four hours, he’d purposely veered his thoughts away from that enticing, surprisingly distracting, woman.

  “I’m entering the coordinates now. Do me a favor, AI, keep an eye out for Sergeant Tori’s star-cruiser.”

  “Yes . . . I will do that, sir,” the AI responded, in its all too pleasant voice. Gallic momentarily wondered if the AI was aware of his dislike for it—for artificial intelligence, in general. Not personal to this AI, he didn’t much like AI’s . . . period. Why he hadn’t gone the route most ship skippers did—naming their ship’s AI. Cute names, like Ted or Bart or Dave. AI’s weren’t human—only an assemblage of advanced circuitry; endless lines of software code. They didn’t possess human traits, like empathy or loyalty. AI’s were only a tool, and this one in particular was a bigger tool than most.

  “We have arrived in the township of Stanford Pride. Sergeant Tori’s star-cruiser is not present at the scene, Mr. Gallic. I will notify you upon her arrival. We will touch down within eight minutes.”

  “Just hand over the controls now . . . I’ll take her in.”

  With the Hound coming in low over thousands of square acres of fertile ranchland, Gallic took notice of the various ranches—the older, one-story homes, barns, and miscellaneous outbuildings. Here at Stanford Pride, the properties were far more modest than the wealthier residences of Heritage Plains. The real thing here—not only working-cattle ranches but agricultural-producing properties interspersing them as well.

  The console nav display indicated the Hound was approaching Gallic’s destination—the crime scene. He mentally went through a now-familiar routine of closing windows and doors—double-checking all points of egress into the darkest recesses of his mind—then slowed, fired-up the underbelly thrusters and lowered the landing struts. He set the big vessel down, fifty yards from the front entrance of the faded-yellow farmhouse. Sitting back, he listened to the propulsion system wind-down, eventually silencing. He waited.

  Fifteen minutes later, Gallic thought about having a drink, what with all the old memories and feelings churned up over recent days. He’d thought a lot about Clair and Mandy. He looked over his shoulder in the direction of the ship’s den, where a not-too-shabby bottle of bourbon sat locked in his safe. He thought about the contents in the brown-amber bottle—the elixir he’d turned to for so many months, after the death of his wife and child. Drinking heavily every day for nearly a year had almost killed him. He’d vowed to rein in any alcohol consumption until he found their murderer. And for today at least, he would keep that promise.

  “Sergeant Tori’s star-cruiser is inbound, Mr. Gallic.”

  Gallic, glancing out the window, caught the small dot now moving into view on the distant horizon.

  * * *

  Gallic stared at the front door. His inner vermin, restless once again, were back on the move. A part of him contemplated leaving—getting as far away from the place as possible. The spat of murders had become intimately personal. Slow, John, take deep breaths.

  Gallic waited for Tori to emerge from her ship. It was a newer model than the one she’d first arrived in at the other crime scene in Heritage Plains. This ship was a good deal larger and, judging by the deeper rumble he heard coming from the aft section of the cruiser, a bit more powerful.

  She opened the hatch and gave Gallic a half-hearted smile. Climbing out, she stretched, saying, “These treks to the Frontier worlds are getting old.”

  “You get used to it,” he said. “Nice new ride.”

  “Yeah . . . and that’s only the half of it.”

  He noticed there was something different—a glow about her. Maybe confidence? Gallic didn’t want to take credit for that but giving her the support she needed to become a real detective—well, that could go a long way.

  Tori walked around the cruiser to the double-hatch doors at the rear of the vehicle. “The victims here are a single mother and her ten-year-old daughter. The Johnsons—mother Melissa, daughter Briar.” Tori stopped talking just long enough to pop an anti-nausea pill into her mouth and grimaced. “Nasty tasting things.”

  But Gallic was studying the contents lying in the cruiser’s rear hold area. “You’ve got . . .”

  “Some new toys!” she exclaimed with enthusiasm.

  “I can see that. I didn’t think D-22 had invested in this level of field forensics.”

  “Oh, it’s bigger than that, Gallic . . . we’re talking a whole new approach to field work. Field work that now goes so much farther . . .”

  Gallic stared at the shiny new equipment cases. None, he’d even bet money on, had been opened yet. With this equipment, full autopsies could be conducted in the field. The digitized results forwarded onto D-22 practically in real time. No longer laboriously waiting for the vic’s body to be transported and tabled—days, sometimes weeks, later.

  “Did you get any kind of training . . . to use this stuff?”

  “It’s called Micro blading. Micro autopsy drones.”

  Gallic nodded as Tori climbed into the rear hold, handing out various-sized equipment cases.

  “I did get a quick run-through back at the division, but everything’s pretty much automated. Idiot-proof; plug and play. I figured you and I could get acquainted with the equipment together,” she said, gesturing with her head toward the house.

  Her new change in attitude surprised him, considering that projectile-hurling episode at the last murder scene.

  Gathering up the equipment, they moved ahead to the front door. Stopping to put on crime scene booties and latex gloves, Gallic thought about the other murder, also taken place within the last week. Was the murderer getting impatient? Starting to move things along?

  “Who’s been in
here, prior to us?” Gallic asked, turning the doorknob and finding it unlocked.

  “One of the ranch employees. Apparently, he and others come inside during an average day. The house doubles as the ranch’s front office. In the mornings, the kitchen is where you can find coffee. His name is Alejandro. Reporting the crime, he apologized for throwing-up on his way out of the house . . . so watch your step heading in.”

  “Noted. Another contaminated murder scene.”

  “Hey!” she said, feigning a look of hurt feelings.

  Gallic swung the door open then stepped inside, silently letting the dormant space speak to him. First impressions were often a fundamental element of the forensic process; the intangible sometimes provided an astute investigator some subtle insights at an unconscious level. Gallic didn’t subscribe to having psychic abilities, but he was intuitive—sensitive to unseen currents at a murder scene. A good detective had to be.

  “What are you doing?” Tori asked, transferring the new equipment off the front porch and into the house.

  Gallic explained to her the best he could. Actually listening intently, he saw her close her eyes—attempting to attune herself the same as him. The house was oppressively dark and quiet, appearing larger from the outside. A small living room held an upright piano, pushed up against the far wall. Two light blue couches faced each other; a small, glass coffee table placed between them. Three medium-sized oil paintings hanging on different walls looked amateurish—perhaps made by a family member, or a friend. Near the door lay a puddle of vomit—splattered halfway on the floor and halfway up the wall.

  “The bodies are in the master bedroom, Gallic. Other end of the house.”

  Bodies—bodies like Clair’s and Mandy’s. Gallic took two of the heavier cases from Tori then proceeding forward, walked down a narrow hallway covered in worn, dark-brown carpeting. Only then did he breathe in the unmistakable odor of death.