by James Palmer
“You took a huge gamble.”
“So did you. I’m assuming that was enough current to fry your circuits.”
Now it was Betty-12's turn to shrug, an expression that was strange coming from an android. “The engines are offline. Shall we see where we ended up?”
McCoy nodded, and they ran from the engine room, pausing just long enough to glance back at the singularity containment area as it was rent and pulled into an invisible point and vanished.
Then the lights flickered and went out.
*
The battle for the Star Lance was getting more heated by the second, and Commander Verne did not like it.
He paced the deck of the command center, banging dents in the control consoles with his metallic right arm.
“Sir,” said the communications officer, “the Orgum-Ree are demanding the immediate surrender of the Star Lance.”
“Robes of the Emperor!” Verne shouted. “They can see it's gone!”
“They think we did something with it,” said the officer.
“That’s ridiculous,” said Voroshilov. “If we had it, we wouldn’t be here.”
“Try telling them that,” said Verne. He glanced at the viewport. The Lance vanished again, and they were risking an interstellar war over a ghost.
Then a rainbow flash of light appeared, and the characteristic null space distortion belched forth the largest ship Verne ever saw. It was long and thin, and heavily damaged.
The fighting stopped, all sides surprised by this new contender emerging in the middle of their battle zone. Black Birds and pirate ships kicked their thrusters into overdrive to get out of the ship’s path. It listed wildly.
“That is the Lance,” said Voroshilov.
“Get me readings, people,” ordered Verne.
“There’s some energy fluctuations coming from the engines, Commander,” said the tactical officer. “X-rays, Hawking radiation. The rest of the ship is dead.”
“Life readings?”
“Just one. And one android. And they’re coming this way.”
“Yes!” said Verne, pounding his real left fist into his artificial right hand. “I knew Mars McCoy and Betty-12 were still alive. Get them on the radio.”
“He’s calling us.” The communications officer flipped a switch and the command center was filled with thruster noise and static.
“This is Black Bird 5 to Black Hole.”
“This is Commander Verne. We read you, McCoy. What is going on?”
“Long story. There’s a black hole onboard the Star Lance, tearing the ship apart.”
“That explains the X-rays and Hawking radiation,” someone said.
“You heard the man,” said Verne. “Everyone pull back. This fight is over. Send out priority message, all channels. I want the Orgum-Ree and the pirates to know. Recall the Black Birds.”
Tactical zoomed in on the Star Lance. A Black Bird emerged from it, looking like a fast-moving fly against the large bulk of the larger vessel. Seconds later the large bulge at the rear of the vessel imploded.
Even the Orgum-Ree could not deny that what McCoy said was true. Section by section the Star Lance was pulled into a single point, its molecules superheating, giving off X-rays and Hawking radiation. Within minutes, the Star Lance was no more.
Without another word, the Orgum-Ree ships skipped into null space as one by one the space pirate vessels blinked out.
“We’re still tracking the black hole, Sir,” said tactical. “It’s shrinking. It won’t hold together much longer.”
“That’s a good thing,” said Verne. He glanced at Voroshilov.
“Black hole?”
Voroshilov grumbled low in his throat, but said nothing.
*
After having their injuries repaired, Mars McCoy and Betty-12 spent uncomfortable hours in a Black Hole conference room being debriefed by Voroshilov, Verne, and Navy brass. Confidentiality agreements were initialed and signed in triplicate, and they told everything about what happened onboard and what they had learned of the fate of the Star Lance’s crew.
The Navy brass were especially interested in the fate of Science Officer Tracer and the Ch’Thoon, about which McCoy figured the Navy knew more than they let on. Eventually satisfied, the Navy brass let them leave, after swearing an additional oath of secrecy.
When the meeting was over, Verne ordered McCoy and Betty-12 not to tell anyone what had happened aboard the Star Lance, though he promised McCoy the drinks tonight at the bar were on him if he would go through the story for him one more time.
McCoy and Betty-12 walked away from the meeting together, their journey taking them past a window cut into the skin of the asteroid. Betty-12 paused to look out at the stars.
“What is it?”
“I am thinking about the Ch’Thoon. Do you think they are still out there somewhere?”
McCoy shrugged. “What happens on the inside of a black hole? Was that every last Ch’Thoon inside Tracer’s body? We’ll probably never know.”
“They seemed so smug, so full of themselves. Like many humans I’ve met.”
McCoy laughed. “I’ve met a few braggarts myself. Maybe we’re not as different from the Ch’Thoon as they wanted us to believe.”
“Perhaps.”
McCoy stared at his copilot, her dark hair spilling down her shoulders, her face limned in starlight. Did they have to make her so beautiful? He put his left hand on the small of her back.
“What are you doing?”
McCoy’s hand shrank back, falling to his side. “I . . .” he trailed off.
“You saved my life today.”
“You would have done the same for me,” she said, moving away from the viewport and continuing down the corridor.
“Yeah.”
“Besides,” said Betty-12 evenly. “If something happened to you, there would have been a lot of paperwork.”
McCoy laughed, then quickly stifled it. “I can never tell when you’re joking. We have to work on that.”
When the Dead Ride
The first sensation Josiah Cairn felt was the noose around his neck, pulling, choking him.
Not again.
He remembered the knife, its bone handle still cold in his hand. He reached up with it, barely touching the thick rope before it severed, sending him tumbling to the dirt. He coughed, pulled at the stinging, burning rope where its fibers had bit into his neck, yanking it over his head and flinging it into the dust beside him.
How long had it been? Old Scratch said time moved differently…
Where? It was a dream. It had to be. He was still alive. He must have simply lost consciousness, had a nightmare dream. Josiah Cairn looked at the object in his left hand.
That doesn’t explain the knife.
The hellblade. The word leaped to the end of his tongue and died there unsaid. But that was what it was called…in that other place. Wasn’t it?
He had never seen a knife like this before; was pretty sure no one else had either. It was long and slender, and wicked sharp, with a dull gray blade and a shiny black bone handle. Black bone?
It had certainly made short work of the rope that tried to hang him.
Keep this, as a token of our bargain, and to know this wasn’t a dream.
Josiah Cairn stuffed the knife in his left boot and stood. His knees creaked, his neck felt sore and blistered—he touched his hand to a particularly tender spot and brought back blood—but he appeared none the worse for wear.
He touched his hips, and a chill wind blew through him. My guns are gone.
And his horse. He was alone on the road. Josiah Cairn reached down to pick up the rope, then started walking, twisting the hangman’s noose into a tight little bundle.
He started walking east, since that was the direction Shade and his men had been going when they decided to string him up. East was where Cairn felt sure he’d find them. Then he would untie the rope.
Judging by the sun, it was early afternoon, and it was ho
t. The sun beat down on Cairn, making his raw neck feel that much worse, and made him thirsty. He would need to find water, shelter. And soon.
“We thought you might come back.”
Cairn had been watching his sprung boot heels kick up fine clouds of dust. Now he looked up. A bearded, heavyset man sat on a horse—Cairn’s horse—leveling a rifle at him. A hand-rolled cigarette smoldered between his thick, dry lips.
Krieg.
“Well, Shade thought you might, anyway. I thought he was crazy, but you know how that goes. We drew straws to see who would stick around, make sure you didn’t make like that Injun over in Tulsa. Took us three whole days to kill that sumbitch.”
“You always did get the short stick, Krieg,” said Cairn, hoping he didn’t sound as dry and parched as he felt.
Krieg shrugged his bulky shoulders. “Yeah, well. That’s life, I guess.”
Cairn took a wary step forward. “Where are they, Krieg? Where’s Shade?”
Krieg laughed. “Hell should I know? He’s off chasin’ his lines of power. I’m supposed to meet up with him in…” He leveled his rifle at Cairn’s head.
Cairn waited for the killing shot, for a hundred tiny pellets to finally do what Shade’s rope had not. Finally, he said, “What’s on your mind, Krieg?”
Krieg lowered the rifle, but he still kept it trained on Cairn’s gaunt form.
“How’d you do it, anyway? I heard your fucking neck snap. How’d you come back?”
Cairn grinned. “Give me a smoke and I’ll tell you.”
Krieg grinned, resting the gun across the saddle and reaching into a pocket of his duster. He threw a small leather pouch at Cairn. It landed at his feet, and he took another step forward before picking it up. Inside was a wad of tobacco and a handful of rolling papers. The good kind. Only the best for Shade and his merry band of outlaws.
Cairn smelled the tobacco, a deep rich smell that went down into his bones. He felt more alive than he had since returning from Hell, if that was in fact where he had been. He took some and made a cigarette, hunkering down before the dying campfire and lighting it with a lone ember.
“Much obliged,” he said after inhaling deeply, then blowing blue smoke between his teeth.
He took another step before tossing the pouch back up to Krieg.
“Now tell me how you did it. Shade knew you was touched. He knew you had the glamour, soon as he laid eyes on you. He said if we killed you, we’d score extra points with them ditties he’s always ranting about. You sure gotta funny way of showin’ it, though. I mean, you tracked us down, all right, even though you shoulda stayed home. I mean, did you even stop to bury that pretty wife of yours?”
Please, let me go.
Cairn’s hands balled into fists near where his guns should be.
Krieg grinned at Cairn’s discomfort, and he imagined that the younger man must have delighted in pulling the wings off flies as a child. He wondered what part Krieg played in Maggie’s death. Did he pull her out of the cabin they shared? Had he put his hands on her? Had he laughed while Waters had his way with her?
“Lookin’ for these?” He motioned to Cairn’s twin revolvers, resting in his gun belt strapped to the saddle.
“You want to kill me, don’t you?” said Krieg. “I can see it in your eyes. But I’ll do you one better. I’ll bring Shade your head on a stick, if I can find a stick out in this barren, god forsaken scrub to impale it on. But first, tell me.”
Cairn grinned, though it was the grin of a predator about to pounce. He took one final step closer.
“I’m not sure how it happened,” said Cairn. “I think I was dead. But I’m not anymore.” He turned the hell knife in his left hand, which he had pulled from his boot when he knelt by the fire to light his cigarette. Krieg didn’t notice the knife, or the fact that Cairn was now too close for him to aim the rifle quickly enough.
“But I know why it happened,” said Josiah Cairn. “I came back to set things square. I came back for Shade.”
Krieg bellowed raucous laughter. “That’s rich, compadre. Back from hell to send Shade to his maker. How’s that working out so far?”
“You tell me,” said Cairn as he sank the knife to the hilt into Krieg’s right leg. He dragged it downward six inches before pulling it out again. Krieg’s leg might as well have been warm butter for how effortless it was. The fat man’s laughter turned into a sobbing scream, and he fumbled to bring the rifle to bear one-handed as he grabbed at the wound in his leg.
Cairn deflected the rifle easily, and Krieg dropped it onto the ground.
“Where’d you get that knife, huh?” blubbered Krieg, tears running down his fat, dirty cheeks. “We searched you good!”
“Devil gave it to me.”
Krieg’s eyes bulged, and he twisted his horse around, spurring it into motion, but Cairn managed to grab something from the saddle as his horse galloped away.
Cairn looked down. It was his gun, and it was fully loaded. He took aim at Krieg’s broad back and fired. The big man spasmed, fell off the horse backwards and lay still. Cairn’s horse stopped a few feet away.
Cairn walked to where Krieg lay in the dust, blood pouring from his leg like a spring. He was dead.
Cairn retrieved his horse and supplies, returning his guns to his hips.
“Nice going,” said Krieg.
Cairn looked down at him. The dead man smiled up at him. “That was a nice touch with the knife. Couldn’t have done it better myself. Then again, Krieg never was very bright. Did you know his mother was a whore? This little one horse town called Digby. He used to listen to his mother work in the next room. Anyway, one down. Four to go.”
Cairn’s jaw worked, but no words would escape.
Krieg’s mouth stretched into a smile. “It wasn’t a dream. You really did make a deal with me. In return for letting you come back, you give me Shade and his murderous minions. I gave you the knife in a show of good faith. It’s come in handy so far, hasn’t it?”
Cairn simply nodded.
“Don’t let me down, Josiah Cairn,” said the dead man. “I’m counting on you. There is much at stake. You mustn’t get sidetracked from your mission. Bring me Shade. Understood?”
“I’ll get you Shade, all right,” said Cairn. “Because I want to. Not because of our deal.”
“I love that you are so enthusiastic,” said Old Scratch through the dead lips of Krieg. “But never forget, a deal is a deal. I’ve honored my end of the bargain, now you must keep yours.”
*
Cairn rode through the scrublands where Shade and his men hung him and left him for dead. There had been five of them; with Krieg gone, that left four. He made a list of them in his head.
Shade, the albino.
The Apache, Dan Thunder.
Chow, the Chinaman.
And Waters. He mustn’t forget him.
I rode that filly of yours good!
He would find them and send them all to Hell. But he needed to pick up their trail.
Oblivion was one of those towns that kept on living long after it died. It looked dead, it smelled dead, but to Cairn it meant life for him and his horse. It was also likely that Shade had gone there too. So he went there.
Cairn had heard of this place, and would have set up shop here during his wild days, but he had never been here before. It had once been a prosperous little place, but it had fallen on hard times since the turquoise mine played out. Cairn saw haggard, sad people haunting its streets. Most never bothered to look up at this stranger passing through their midst, and those that did paid him no heed. It seemed as if there was a pall about the place, a shadow that went much deeper than the now dead mine.
Oblivion was a town that should have moved on long ago; another boom town long since gone bust.
Cairn walked his horse at a steady gallop, and wondered if Shade and his minions had passed through here. He found the livery easy enough—its faded gilt lettering was still bright enough to catch the waning rays of the sun—and
urged his horse toward it.
The proprietor, a fat balding man sitting hatless in the shade of an overhang, squinted up at Cairn as he stopped before the stable’s yawning opening.
“I need to board my horse for the night,” said Cairn, climbing down.
“Heh,” said the fat man. “Best put a bullet in that nag and be done with her. She looks half used up.”
“Just the same,” said Cairn. “I think I’ll board her for the night.” He tossed the man a silver piece from Krieg’s purse. The man suddenly became animated, reaching up to catch the oncoming coin. It disappeared onto his person, and he stood. “Boy! Get out here and fetch this man’s horse!”
A young thin boy, wearing round-rimmed spectacles with smoked lenses, emerged from the cool interior.
“My stable boy here’ll take care of your nag for ya, mister. He’s blind as a bat, but he knows his way around a horse and saddle. Mark my words.”
The boy seemed to look directly at Cairn. “I’ll take him for you, mister,” he said.
“Cairn nodded and led his horse inside, handing the reigns to the boy.
The boy didn't look directly at Cairn as he gripped the horse's reins, but Cairn had the feeling he was being watched just the same.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Matthew, sir” he said.
"You can see me, boy?"
"How can I not? Christ, mister. You're lit up like Carson City."
Then the boy grew nervous. He stared at the horse, then back at Cairn, and his expression was one of someone learning a dangerous secret they weren't supposed to know. He touched the blood-soaked hangman’s noose tied to the saddle, counting the knots with his fingers. When the kid got to thirteen, Cairn felt the memory bubble up in his mind, unbidden. How Cairn shot Krieg in the back as he rode away from him.
Cairn was on the boy in an instant, grabbing his wrist and squeezing hard. "You've seen enough, boy!"
He had heard about seers all his life, but this one was young, and needed to be taught a lesson. It wasn't nice to peak behind the curtains without asking.