* * *
Tilghman decided to hit up his favorite pub—his grandsire, many generations removed, would probably have called it a saloon, Bill having been a saloon owner himself at one time—one Tombstone Cantina.
The Tombstone could be found in the eponymous capital city of a backwater world nicknamed Rhyolite—the natives’ name was nigh-unpronounceable to any but natives—on the far edge of the Cimaron region of the Peco arm of the galaxy. Rhyolite’s principal claim to fame was its precious metal ores, including platinum, rhodium and palladium; gold and silver were considered common, and usually used in small currency coins planet-side, though electronic Union credits were more than acceptable. In addition to the native Rhyolitans, several other races were prominent on the planet, including the Caroon and the Duplato. It was fairly typical of a boom town...except the boom was the entire planet, and had been going on for a couple of centuries now.
Consequently, certain locales on the planet tended to attract smugglers and less-scrupulous speculators, both of which were against Rhyolite’s laws, and the Tombstone was a hotbed of such activity, along with the frequent subsequent killings—its name had not come by accident.
Tilghman therefore donned his full regalia before entering the saloon: his specially-designed compression suit with built-in body armor, suitable for all but the most extreme EVAs. As the atmosphere of Rhyolite was breathable, though, he left the helmet on board his ship. The tough covering of the suit gave it a silvery-white sheen, ensuring he was visible on a spacewalk; it was also equipped with a chameleon circuit which he could trigger with a single thought, to blend into the background if stealth were required. Atop this, he donned a black equipment vest, upon which was prominently displayed an embroidered badge—the blue tree of the Peacemakers’ Guild and the mark of his deputization. A white felt Stetson went on his head, and last of all, he belted on a thigh-strapped, hip-slung retention holster containing Bill Tilghman’s only surviving weapon. When the original Guardsman had carried it, it had been a lovely but lethal thing: an engraved, nickel-plated, pearl-handled Colt .45, which had been called, in the day, a Peacemaker. Bob Tilghman found that fact to be unendingly ironic, let alone amusing.
But the heirloom—which still functioned, and which had come to him upon Jack’s demise—had been upgraded over the years, to enable it to keep pace with current technology. And if anything, it was even more lethal. The handgun in Tilghman’s holster, though still resembling his ancestor’s weapon at first glance, was now outfitted with the latest in cartridges: poly-ceramic bullets propelled by the hottest “gunpowder” available. Every bit of the revolver’s metal, including the frame, cylinder, and barrel, had been molecularly densitized to ensure it could withstand the forces of that higher-velocity powder, as well. Beneath the still-gleaming pearl handles hid a micro-gyro, and a pinlink targeting system connected it to the small device nestled in Tilghman’s head behind his left ear, guaranteeing the accuracy of each shot. Tilghman had ensured that his personal pinplant and everything linked to it was ciphered using the latest tech in order to prevent hacking. It was also linked to his ship, the Uncle Billy, which proudly sported the nickname of his illustrious progenitor.
* * *
Robert Tilghman strode calmly into the Tombstone, and everyone inside became aware of his presence—a beefy, six-foot-two cowboy clad in silver-white was hardly going to go unnoticed, anywhere in the galaxy. Ironically, his getup would have attracted the most attention on Earth, where it had once been the height of fashion. Now Tilghman wore it because of the attention—he wanted to ensure his reputation preceded him; it tended to make things easier in the long run. A wave of quiet followed in his wake as he strode calmly to the bar.
“Hey, Warb,” he greeted the bartender, a rough-looking Gtandan.
“Yo, Bob,” Warb responded with a smile. “The usual?”
“Yeah. Make it a double.”
“Damn. Your nanites ‘re gonna work overtime.”
“Eh. They always do.”
“Okay, Bob, your regular table’s empty; go ahead and grab it, an’ I’ll send your drink over in a moment. You want anything to eat?”
“There’s an idea. Throw one of the house meat pies on the tray, if you don’t mind. I haven’t had lunch yet today.”
“Got it.”
Removing his Stetson, Tilghman walked over to the booth in the corner and sat down, facing the room, which had resumed a buzz of activity as soon as he’d ordered a double. That had been his intent, of course; he needed the inhabitants set at ease, so the person he really wanted to see felt free to join him.
He had to wait some time. Warb brought his meal over personally, and Tilghman was on the last crumbs of the meat pie and halfway through his drink when a soft sound, like someone clearing his throat, came from a few benches down.
“Mickey? That you?” Tilghman breathed.
“Yes, Robert, I am here,” a voice murmured. From out of the darkness, a short person approached, his clothing changing from pure black to earth tones as he walked. “The camouflage suit you gave me works very well. I’m not invisible, but it helps. Thank you.”
“No problem. I like to take care of my sources, best I can. The last gig went well, so I could afford to ensure you stayed safe.”
“And that is appreciated,” Mickey replied. ‘Mickey’ was not the Zeewie’s real name, but given the race’s resemblance to Earth rodents, years ago, Bob’s brother Jack had nicknamed the helpful little creature after a certain legendary animated creature from centuries long past. Tilghman knew the Zeewie’s natural tendency was to hide, and Mickey, being afflicted with dwarfism, had a stronger tendency than most. The dwarfism prevented him from joining his fellows in Rhyolite’s mines, since he was too small to do the work, but it also meant he blended in and disappeared in the planet’s environs. “I assume you are looking for Wily? Um, that is, Wy’Lyn of Cochkala?”
“Yeah! How’d you know?”
“He came through about two or three weeks ago. Stopped over, here in the Tombstone, on his way from Chimsa to Sakall, over in the outer region of the Jesc Arm. When I saw you come through the door, I knew it had to be for him.”
“I’ll bet that visit did the denizens no favors.”
“No. Everyone was very...anxious...until he left.”
“So how is it you know where he was headed?”
“He got drunk,” Mickey noted. “He talks too much when he is drunk.”
“That works,” Tilghman chuckled. “So I need to head for the Jesc Arm?”
“I think so,” Mickey decided, sounding thoughtful.
“But you’re not sure.”
“Not entirely, no. I figured someone from the Guild would come through looking for him sooner or later, so I put out some feelers. It took a while, of course, but...” Mickey paused. “Evidently he did not arrive at his destination.”
“Hm,” Tilghman considered. “If something failed, and he dropped out of hyperspace before he was supposed to, that might end this contract prematurely.”
“Which would be bad for us.”
“Well, we wouldn’t get paid, for sure,” Tilghman admitted, somewhat reluctantly; while the pay could be very good, he still possessed a strong moral sense which told him an unpleasant end for the interstellar criminal would balance the scales of justice on a more cosmological scale.
“But he would be gone, and no one would have to fear him any longer.”
“Exactly,” Tilghman agreed. “But the possibility exists he broke down someplace, either before or after exiting a gate.”
“True. I made a point of looking at his craft, down at the docks, once he had passed out, and I was certain he would be unconscious for a while. It was not in good condition.”
“I can believe it. Any identifying marks?”
“No name or code, no. But there were three large scrapes running down the port side, almost from nose to tail.”
“Bow to stern,” Tilghman corrected absently. “Any chance you
got imagery?”
“Have you changed the password on your pinplant?”
“Not since the last time I saw you.”
“All right, stand by. I have some imagery on my slate; I will send it to you.”
Seconds later, Mickey had uploaded several digital photos to Tilghman’s implant, and he studied them mentally. Okay, there are the scrapes, he noted. Looks like somebody had a close shave at some point. Identifying codes, name, everything’s been obliterated in such a way that it looks accidental...but isn’t. Yeah, I’ll recognize this hunk of junk when I see it. He downloaded the images to his own slate with a thought.
“Does that help?” Mickey asked after several silent moments.
“Yeah, Mick, that’s perfect,” Tilghman averred. “Thanks. Hang on and lemme send you payment. Will the usual, plus a fifty-credit bonus for hazard pay, suit? I want to make sure you have enough to take care of your family and snooping on Wily wouldn’t be easy or safe.”
“You are generous, as always, Robert. That will do nicely.”
Moments later the electronic transaction was complete. A murmured thanks came from the Zeewie, and the other side of the booth became exceedingly quiet.
Tilghman finished his drink, paid his tab, nodded at Warb as he donned the Stetson once more, and departed the Tombstone.
* * *
Tilghman climbed back aboard the Uncle Billy, departing the docking area and heading offworld in the direction of the nearest Lagrange point. The Uncle Billy had good legs, and unlike most small ships, it also had its own hyperdrive. The ship had been Jack’s spacecraft before his death, and his last few contracts had been lucrative, as had several of Bob’s.
Sometimes he wished they had superluminal travel, like that depicted in some of the ancient speculative fiction stories; it would have made his job even easier. Not that it was really that easy to begin with, especially when he was sicced onto slimy pieces of shit like Wy’Lyn. But at least it was a lot faster than standard subluminal-speed interstellar travel.
Tilghman set the Uncle Billy on a course for the stargate and, as soon as he arrived, he used his ever-valuable Peacemaker authority to trigger the stargate and made the transition into hyperspace. A moment’s disorientation, and then the viewport image whited out.
“Time to hit the head and dump that shit I drank,” he decided, rising and heading aft.
* * *
As the Uncle Billy rode through hyperspace toward its destination system, Tilghman spent the time preparing for the confrontation. He did maintenance on his weapons and spacesuit, he reviewed the files Liiban had given him, and he considered the briefing the peacemaker had provided.
* * *
As he sat in Liiban Aachat’s office, across the desk from the peacemaker himself, Tilghman studied the details of the relatively short contract on his slate, along with a dossier on Wy’Lyn. The remuneration was handsome, especially given that not only the Cartographers’ Guild, but the ruling family of Te’Warri, was chipping in on the payment—”reward money” was how Bob thought of it, not unlike the rewards his sire Bill had received. It was the details of the contract that concerned him.
“Perpetrator Wy’Lyn of Cochkala, aka “Wily,” wanted. Condition: dead or alive. 200% bonus for return of and Cartographer Guild data chip in his possession. No questions asked.” There was little more to it, other than some general terms and conditions standard to such contracts.
The order of condition for the perpetrator generally stated the preference; both the Guild and the House of Te’Warri wanted Wy’Lyn dead, if legally feasible. In fact, it pretty much translated to, “alive if possible, dead body more than acceptable.” However, given the number of murders Wy’Lyn had committed, and the fact that a member of House Te’Warri was cold-bloodedly killed and cut up in this latest incident, it was pretty much ensured that, even if Tilghman brought him back alive, the Cochkala would be executed shortly thereafter.
“Assuming he stays in custody,” Liiban reminded the bounty hunter. “You know how many peacemakers he’s slaughtered in the course of his escapes.”
“There’ve been...what? Three, four?” Tilghman asked. “Escapes, I mean.”
“Try six,” Liiban practically growled. “Six dead Peacemaker Enforcers, and twenty-seven dead bounty hunters and guild associates. All good beings too, just not in Wy’Lyn’s league. None out of my office, thank the Maker. But remember that, Bob. He is daring, he is creative in a rather vile fashion, and he is ruthless. And he will be desperate...and the more desperate he is, the more daring and ruthless he becomes. He will try to kill you, and no amount of family or personal reputation will stay his hand.”
Tilghman took that in, then simply nodded.
“Have you ever had dealings with him?”
“No sir. Know ‘im by reputation, though.”
“I’ve discussed the matter with our Cochkala profiler, and she swears the being is...well, her words were, ‘not right, here or here,’” Liiban said, touching a hand to his temple and his chest. “And I believe her—she’s Cochkala, herself, and trained in psychology.”
“I’ve always thought,” Tilghman began, then hesitated, not wanting to offend the other male; the Cochkala profiler was one of Liiban’s dear friends.
“Go ahead, Bob. It’s just you and me, and it won’t go any farther. And you know I don’t take offense readily, especially from you, as long as we’ve known each other.”
“All right, if you’re sure.”
“I am.”
“Okay. Well, you know Earth has these critters called badgers...”
“Yes, and from what I’ve heard, Cochkala resemble big, bipedal, intelligent versions thereof. Go on.”
“Do you know the badger’s reputation?” Tilghman wondered, and Liiban shook his head. “They’re predators, they’re generally loners, they’re aggressive, and you do not want to piss one off; they can flat tear you to pieces. And they don’t give up. A rabid one...” Tilghman broke off and shrugged. “A rabid badger is about like a damn buzz saw. Now, the average Cochkala doesn’t, but I always thought—at least based on his reputation—that Wy’Lyn didn’t resemble a badger just in appearance.”
“And rabid, at that, eh?” Liiban said, a wry, mirthless grin on his face.
“Pretty much, yeah, I reckon.”
“All right, then. It sounds like you have a good read on him. Do what you have to do. That means, fulfill the contract if you can, but stay safe.”
“I know it says no questions asked, but there’s something goin’ on here that’s a helluva lot bigger than a cartographer getting killed.”
“And that’s not for you to know.”
“Damn, Liiban, a body’s got a right to know what to look out for, doesn’t he?” Tilghman protested. “When have you ever known me to spill the beans on a classified matter? To anybody?”
Liiban sat back in his chair, drawing a long, deep breath and letting it out in a sigh. Tilghman could read the hints of expression that flitted across the other being’s face, and he knew he’d hit home—the Cartographers’ Guild must really need this data chip back badly, and Liiban knew it. More, Tilghman adjudged, Liiban was worried for his deputy.
“All right,” Liiban finally capitulated. “That chip contains something; I just don’t know what. The guild is desperate that it be retrieved. Judging by all the mayhem its loss has created, there’s something important there. And that’s all I know.”
* * *
And that had been the extent of his briefing.
But considered in the light of the information he’d just gotten from Mickey, Tilghman didn’t think it was any accident that Sakall had been Wy’Lyn’s destination, given that the Sakall system was in the Skyy region of the Peco arm, right at the edge of explored space. He looked at a Tri-V map of the galaxy. Right next to the 4th Arm. No one lived there; it was a galactic wasteland. Legends abounded of destroyed worlds, ravaged by ancient war, and hyperspacial dead ends. Would Wy’Lyn be going to Sakall, th
inking of hiding in no-man’s land?
No, he would likely use the information on the chip to make a jump that wasn’t on the usual mapped routes. More, he was willing to lay money on the notion that Wy’Lyn was planning to meet someone on one of the dwarf ice planets in the system’s Kuiper Belt...if such things existed.
The question was, had Wy’Lyn made it?
And, Tilghman considered, what was on that data chip that was so damned important it had attracted Wy’Lyn’s interest...?
* * *
Tilghman exited hyperspace at the Sakall system’s emergence point and promptly engaged his ship’s EM masking to decrease its signature. Tilghman sent out a couple of drones to increase his range and resolution and did a thorough scan for gravimetric anomalies that might indicate a world where Wy’Lyn might flee. Although the scan didn’t find Wy’Lyn, he found a gas giant, very nearly a brown dwarf star, far out in the Sakall system, nearly in its Kuiper belt.
The stargate was some distance away; it had little traffic around it and no sign of Wy’Lyn’s ship. He sent a query to the stargate with his codes, and he was informed no freighters had passed through matching its description. Wy’Lyn might still be there! There was only one hiding place in the system, so he set a course for the gas giant.
* * *
This is...not good, Wy’Lyn considered, as he worked frantically on his broken-down spacecraft in the rusty, grimy excuse of a chamber that passed for its engine room. Bad enough I have a hot kakafa in my hands that I have to toss back and forth to keep from burning myself. Then this shit pile of junk has to go and break down, in the middle of nowhere, before I can even get to the rendezvous.
He kept “this shit pile of junk” because, in general, it served him well and was too nondescript to be readily identified, especially given that all official identification markers had been obliterated in this collision or that shootout. But he had known it was getting close to the end of its useful lifetime, and now he was starting to wonder if it had exceeded it.
The Good, the Bad, and the Merc: Even More Stories from the Four Horsemen Universe (The Revelations Cycle Book 8) Page 21