by J. S. Bailey
“I’m going to follow these as far as I can before they’re gone,” Dalton said, setting off into the open desert, feeling like a detective in one of those silly old Earth shows Cadu loved so much. Give him a magnifying glass, and he could start calling himself Sherlock Kane.
The two sets of prints continued for nearly sixty meters until they stopped with an unnatural abruptness.
“There’s nothing out here, though,” Chumley said, scanning the horizon, where more smoke plumed into the sky. “Where would they have come from?”
“I’m telling you, they must have dematerialized when you were coming back with the pistols. Which means that in order to get here, they materialized first, maybe even right here.” Dalton gestured at the ground. “That’s why the prints just stop.”
“Or, the wind wiped the older prints away already.”
“I don’t think so.” Dalton ran a hand over his hatless head, having the sudden, surreal sensation he was living inside a dream.
He followed the prints back to the firing range and retrieved his Stetson from the bench inside the fence.
“Get on,” Dalton said, motioning for Chumley to join him on the quad. “We can call it a day.”
Chumley, his mouth drawn in a thin line, mounted the quad behind him. “Erm, Sheriff? If there really were people materializing out in the desert, why couldn’t I see them?”
Dalton stomped on the accelerator. “No idea, but I’m going to find out.”
Chapter 7
Dalton had never imagined that Carolyn’s face could grow so cold.
She stood behind her desk in her air-conditioned office down the street from the police station, hands firmly gripping the back of the chair in front of her. It felt so heavenly between those walls, Dalton didn’t think he could ever bring himself to leave in spite of the deep trouble he seemed to be getting into with his superior.
“Human intruders,” she repeated.
“They might not have been human humans,” Dalton said, clutching his Stetson in front of him because he didn’t know what else to do with his hands. “But they were humanoid. Two arms, two legs, ten fingers.”
“And you didn’t see them at all.” Carolyn looked past Dalton to Chumley, who’d unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt and was basking in the stream of air issuing from a nearby vent.
“I saw tracks,” Chumley said. “Whatever that means.”
Carolyn appeared to mull her words over carefully before speaking them. “Dalton, I’m concerned you might be experiencing a psychotic break.”
“What?” The hat slid out of Dalton’s hands and plopped to the floor. He didn’t pick it up.
“You witnessed two Green attacks one right after the other. I know what that means to you, and I’m deeply sorry, but you just haven’t been thinking rationally. Enlisting a salesman to be a deputy, for one, and you know the rest.”
“If I hadn’t enlisted him, they’d have killed him,” Dalton said, sourly.
“You could have paid for his passage back to wherever he came from, instead. Surely that would have been easier on you both.”
Dalton glanced back at Chumley, whose face had turned into a mask of inexplicable fear.
“I don’t have the extra money for spacefare right now,” Dalton said, which wasn’t entirely true.
Some of the lines of anxiety vanished from Chumley’s face.
“And that’s fine,” Carolyn went on. “But the fact is, I just found out Naomi Schwartzman is on her way here, which means we need to make the absolute best impression possible.”
Dalton’s insides went clammy. “She’s coming . . . here? To Richport?”
“Yes.” Carolyn allowed herself a smile. “If she’s feeling extra generous, she might gift us with free air conditioning units and solar panels to power them.”
“Who’s Naomi?” Chumley asked, sitting up straighter.
“She’s in charge of Frontier Care United,” Dalton said. “They go out to all the poorer colony worlds and make donations if they think the residents need them.”
“The last I heard,” Carolyn said as her eyes glimmered, “FCU helped build ten thousand earthquake-proof homes on Killian Six this past year. Imagine how many air conditioners they might donate to us if they think we deserve it.”
She let her words hang in the air like juicy morsels. Dalton personally tried not to allow himself the luxury of sitting in air conditioning too often so he wouldn’t grow spoiled and never step outside again, but he had to admit that Carolyn’s office held an almost intoxicating coolness. He’d need a blanket if he stayed in here much longer.
“What do we have to do?” Chumley asked, his tone soft but hopeful.
“We have to appear like a functioning society, for one,” Carolyn said. “We can chalk the hotel fire up to an unfortunate accident—it was wood, after all. But I don’t want to hear a peep from anyone about any Green attacks. I’m going to make a public announcement about it tonight, telling everyone to keep their lips sealed if they know what’s good for them. Naomi’s shuttle arrives tomorrow.”
“Won’t they give us more stuff if it looks like we’re in trouble?”
“That’s not quite how they work. They consider it a waste of money if whatever they donate gets destroyed.”
“We can ask them about the fires though, right?” Chumley asked. “They might see something important on the way down.”
Carolyn had started shaking her head before he’d finished speaking. “I don’t want them to think there’s any trouble here. As soon as they approve us, then we can continue our investigation into the fires. It’s for the best.”
Well . . . the fires didn’t seem to be affecting Richport directly, in any case. They were only sending bloodthirsty Greens fleeing in their direction.
“Is FCU visiting any other cities?” Dalton asked.
“I’ve heard they’re making stops in Paris and Cloud City. The better the impression we make here, the better life could be for everyone on the planet—I heard a rumor that the colony on Marris was denied any assistance because the governor frowned too much. You do understand how important this is, right?”
It was difficult not to.
“Suppose trouble just happens while she’s here,” Dalton said.
A manic gleam appeared in Carolyn’s brown eyes. “I won’t let that happen. I want you to take the rest of the day off, Dalton. You and Chumley both. You’re going to get some sleep, and tomorrow when Naomi and her people arrive, you’re going to be all smiles and manners, none of that brooding cop bullshit.” Carolyn looked to Chumley. “And you go out and buy some clothes that fit. I can see your ankles from here.” Carolyn dug in her blazer pocket and pulled out a crinkly hundred-pound note, which Chumley goggled at as if it were gold.
He took it and pocketed it, uttering a soft, “Thank you.”
“It’s barely even noon, and you want me at home?” Dalton asked, struggling to maintain an even tone.
“If any trouble arises between now and tomorrow morning, Errin will be there to help. They volunteered on the force ten years ago, and they know how to deal with interpersonal disputes. Perk of working with me.” She flashed bright, white teeth at him.
“Errin is an aide,” Dalton said.
“And Chumley is a salesman. You tell me who’s more qualified to keep the peace. Chumley, there’s a charity shop over on Boulder Avenue where you can buy used clothing. If either of you need anything, call me.”
“See any more people in white?” Chumley asked when he and Dalton stepped out into the noonday sunshine, sarcasm tinging his voice.
Dalton swept his gaze from left to right. A rickety, solar-powered bus painted with a Desert Van Lines logo lurched its way down the street, and Sumeet Johnson, a postal worker, lumbered down the sidewalk gripping a bulging sack of mail.
“Hey, Sheriff!” Su
meet called. “See any spooky grocery bags yet today?”
Dalton turned away from the postal worker, his face burning with humiliation.
Chumley smirked at him. “How do I find Boulder Avenue?”
“Head north from here for two blocks, and it’s a block and a half ahead on the right. Do you really want to risk shopping by yourself?”
Chumley absently adjusted the seven-pointed deputy’s badge Dalton had given him earlier that morning. Slightly tarnished, it was pinned to his shirt right over his heart. “I’ll have to try. If anyone wants to hurt me, I have a few moves I can use.”
“Moves.” Dalton imagined Chumley ineffectually aiming a water pistol at a disgruntled sales clerk.
“You don’t really know me, Sheriff. The only reason I couldn’t defend myself yesterday was because I was dying of dehydration. Thanks for rescuing me, by the way.”
“You’re welcome.” Dalton paused. “You’re really sure . . . ?”
“I’ll manage.”
It seemed there would be no arguing with him. “Well, then. Happy shopping.”
He turned away from Chumley, mounted the quad he’d left outside Carolyn’s door, and headed toward home, keeping a lookout for more of the people in white. The city looked as normal as it always did, with its adobe structures and dusty citizens going about their business.
On a day like this, one could almost believe that nothing bad could ever happen in Richport. If Naomi Schwartzman arrived this very moment, she’d be pleased at the rugged determination of the colonists who’d eked out an existence in such a hostile climate, tapping into the underground water supply when the Rosa River ran dry and building homes with walls thick enough to keep out the majority of the heat.
But not all of the heat, Dalton thought. The air conditioning in Carolyn’s office called to him even now, beckoning for him to turn the quad around and spend the rest of the day soaking up the chill like a human sponge.
Ahead of him, a figure in a neon kaftan stepped out into the street.
He braked.
It was Gwendolyn Goldfarb.
God help him.
“Ghosts,” she murmured, turning her head toward him. Today she wore an immense pair of sunglasses that concealed half her face. “They watch us with secret eyes, plotting, destroying.”
Her words conjured the image of the robed pair he may or may not have encountered outside the firing range.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts, Gwendolyn,” Dalton said, hearing a slight tremor in his own voice. He wished he could see her eyes behind the sunglasses; whether she appeared coherent or not.
“But they believe in you, Sheriff.”
She continued her way across the street, the epitome of calm.
Dalton wished he could say the same for himself.
Chapter 8
Dalton still thought about the white-clad intruders as he came through his front door and regarded his vacant living room; the empty sofas yearning for someone to come along and warm them. Richport had always been an ordinary place with some obvious exceptions, and the presence of the intruders made him wonder what else might be going on unseen right under his nose.
He didn’t have too many memories of Earth. The ones he did have largely featured him and his older brother, Rob, clambering over rocks along the northern Cornish coast, finding shells wedged among them and taking them home to add to their collections. He remembered cloudy weather and rain, and storytelling around the fireplace in the evenings.
His father, an Arizona native who’d met Dalton’s mother while on extended holiday, pined for a drier climate and suggested they transplant the entire family to the budding settlement on Molorthia Six. With such a vast universe to see, why should they stay in Cornwall?
The family had uprooted themselves with both trepidation and excitement. They’d settled in the Molorthian city of Paris, where they lived for the next five years while other branches of the Kane clan departed Earth and joined them; and then they’d moved down to Richport when Dalton’s father accepted a new job managing the city’s largest bank.
Life for the Kane family became ordinary to the point of boredom, but they got along well enough, and they were all comfortable in spite of the scorching heat.
Now, though . . .
Dalton shivered as he thought again of the white-clad specters. Gwendolyn had clearly seen them, too, and he didn’t like the idea of having something in common with her.
He hung his trench coat and Stetson on the hooks near the door, undid his bootlaces, and sank, bewildered, onto the sofa along the farther wall.
Idleness like this made him antsy, and sitting around for the rest of the day was bound to turn him into a jittering, nervous wreck. He had to do something, dammit, and something useful, before his mind cracked worse than Gwendolyn’s.
Then he thought, Aha.
He retrieved his comm unit from the pocket of his coat, switched it back on, and keyed in a number he hadn’t used in a while.
“Annaliese?” he said in a brusque tone. “You there?”
After a pause, a deep feminine voice came through, slightly husky from a few decades of smoking. “Dalton Kane? Is that you?”
Dalton allowed himself a grin. “I think so. How are things up your way?”
“Hold on a minute, hon.” There came a scraping sound, a series of footsteps, and the soft thud of a closing door. “All right, I’m back. You hear Naomi Schwartzman is on her way?”
“I did,” Dalton said. “You folks wouldn’t have anything to hide from her, would you?”
“Um,” Annaliese said.
The speed of Dalton’s pulse ticked up a notch or two. “Um, what?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said ‘um.’ That means something.”
“Nothing important.” Annaliese cleared her throat. “How are things in Richport? We heard about the hotel burning down. Damn shame. I stayed there a couple times. They had a nice buffet.”
“You didn’t happen to hear why it burned down, did you?”
“Wood does that, last I heard.”
“Wood especially does that when someone’s fending off a bunch of Greens with flamethrowers indoors.”
A peculiar thud crackled from the comm, as if Annaliese had just dropped hers on the floor.
“Sorry,” Annaliese said. “What did you say?”
“Greens attacked the hotel. People died. We can’t let Naomi Schwartzman know anything is wrong here.”
“Holy sands, Dalton. How many?”
“Greens?”
“Fatalities.”
Dalton swallowed. “Six, I think they said.”
“No es bueno.”
“No kidding. So, what about you? Wondered what you lot thought of all that smoke up in your direction.”
“You can see the smoke?” Annaliese blurted.
“It’s a bit obvious.”
Annaliese let out a huff. “It’s coming from the forests. I sent out two teams to go investigate earlier this week, and none of them have reported back. I don’t know if that means . . . well, there’s no need to speculate so soon. Just wish we had a copter so we could get a good look at things from up in the air.” Desperation crept further into her tone with every word she spoke. “Dalton, I don’t know what’s happening, and I don’t know how we can hide it from the FCU people when they get here.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“Are you crazy?”
Dalton shrugged, though Annaliese couldn’t see him. “Has anything else happened up your way I should know about?”
“Only what I’ve said. Well, that and the fact a few of the outlying ranches saw some Greens scampering the hell south like the devil was after them. Wonder if they’re the ones who got your hotel.”
Dalton frowned. “Let me know if you have any
more trouble, you hear?”
“Loud and clear,” Annaliese said. “And the same goes for you.”
They exchanged farewells. Dalton severed the connection between them, then wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand. His nose itched again, but he wouldn’t apply more sunburn cream until he’d finished his off-the-clock correspondence.
He keyed in another number and said, “Janelle, do you copy?”
Nobody responded. Dalton drummed his fingers on his knee while he counted off sixty seconds, then tried again.
Still no answer.
Frowning, Dalton rose and went to the north-facing window in his living room. He slid aside the drapes and regarded the sandy plain and the few low mountains, counting four separate plumes of smoke clouding the horizon in various directions.
The closest forests lay a hundred and twenty kilometers to the north. Paris, the city where Annaliese led the police force, sat a scant fifty kilometers from the forests—too close for Dalton’s liking, which was why he visited Paris only when he absolutely had to.
He shuddered to think of what might have happened to the teams Annaliese sent to investigate the fires. Paris wasn’t as large as Richport, so he could only guess at how ill-prepared the teams might have been before they went in. Had they forged suits of armor by which they could protect themselves from the Greens? Did they drive into the forests with armored vehicles? Where on Molorthia Six could anyone even get an armored vehicle?
If they were lucky, maybe FCU would donate one or two of them. Which of course would mean they’d have to know about the recent Green attacks, which Carolyn would never allow.
His hands balled into fists, and he went back to his comm unit to call Janelle again.
“Dalton?” the woman panted when she finally picked up. “Is everything okay?”
Her tone sent a chill directly into Dalton’s heart. “Why do you ask?” He tried to sound casual, as if the threads of his sanity weren’t on the verge of unraveling.
“The last time you called, someone’s entire herd of field beasts had escaped their enclosure and went stampeding through town. You wanted advice on how you all could round them up.”