by Tom Dublin
If it weren’t for the fact that he was on the trail of a malicious serial killer who had slaughtered at least two individuals before his eyes, Barber might have found it comforting.
Forcing the aural distraction to the back of his mind, Barber paused just long enough to allow his eyes to adjust to the subtle street lighting. Flickering aged bulbs cast islands of yellow light here and there among the vast ocean of forbidding darkness.
Darkness which seemed to invite shady underhanded dealings. Although, with gambling, drugs and prostitution being offered freely and legally to one and all as mere pastimes in the more frequented areas of town, only police officers like Barber knew just how shady and underhanded things could really get in Hann's dim alleys and backstreets.
Once the swirling purple and green aftershocks of the main strip's neon gaudiness had melted away, Barber continued onward. He knew Malfic was injured and bleeding, so there was a possibility he might leave a trail of blood behind as he slithered into the night.
The challenge was to differentiate between splashes of fresh blood and the dried puddles of life-force spilled by other defiled denizens of these ghastly, grim ghettoes.
Suddenly, a sound!
Barber froze, listening hard; trying to separate what he'd just heard from the scratch and scrape of rats' claws and the beleaguered breathing of a trio of tramps on the next corner sleeping off whatever concoction of chemicals was coursing through their veins.
There it was again.
Footsteps.
He could hear footsteps.
The slow dragging of feet that could denote a man battling weakness through loss of blood, fighting to remain conscious in the knowledge that his escape plan was not yet complete.
That there was still time for his sudden freedom to be brought abruptly and permanently to an end.
Sergeant Barber allowed himself a brief smile. He was on Malfic's trail at last. Playing by the rules had once again proved to be the right thing to do. As always, the good guy was going to win.
It was most likely due to this moment of confidence that he didn't hear his attacker until the blade of his knife was already sliding across the front of his throat.
Moon of Hann, Outside The Blue Diamond Casino
"And where the fuck do you think you're going?" demanded Draven as he dragged Jolio Phisk from the doorway of the dungeon in which police officers were continuing to take statements.
"I'm going with the others," replied Phisk, clearly flustered. "Chief Pargo wants to debrief me on what happened in there."
"I'm more concerned about what happened back on Taglen," replied Draven. "To be more specific, back at the Temple of Persha."
Phisk pulled his arm free. "Do you know who I am?"
Draven nodded. "Even worse, I know what you are."
"Oh, and what's that?"
"A killer," responded Draven.
"How dare you!"
"And a coward," added Draven. "You don't even have the guts to murder your victims yourself. Instead, you guilt your victims into committing 'self-sacrifice,' or as the rest of the civilized universe likes to call it, suicide. All in the name of some imagined deity."
Phisk's expression darkened. "The Goddess Persha—”
"Is an excuse for your despicable behavior," Draven finished. "Religion may have saved Taglen from civil war, but it also replaced the corrupt politicians with the likes of you. Perverted priests out to fill their pockets and empty their balls in the name of the twin goddesses."
"You claim Persha is imagined?"
Draven shrugged. "Whether gods exist isn't for me to say. What is imagined is that they speak through ass-wipes like you, and that their laws just happen to benefit the chosen few able to 'hear' their unspoken commands."
Phisk fell silent for a moment, staring down his nose at Draven as if he were something he had just wiped from the bottom of his shoe.
"You are not even from Taglen," he said at last. "Who are you to presume to judge me?"
Draven slapped his palm against his forehead. "Jeez, you're right! I guess I don't get a say in this after all."
"Finally," grumbled Phisk, turning away, "you've said something that makes a little sense. Now, if you will excuse me..."
Click!
The high priest spun back, staring down at the handcuff his accuser had fastened around one of his wrists.
"However..." said Draven, grabbing Phisk's other arm and securing the other cuff. "We did place a call to a couple of judges down on Taglen, and they were very interested to learn just how much of the church's collections have ended up in the tills of, shall we say, less-than-pious establishments here on Hann. And they'd really like to discuss all that with you at your earliest convenience."
"What? But I..."
Draven pushed the now-handcuffed Jolio Phisk in the direction of the nearest police vehicle. "Time to say your prayers, Father Fuckball!"
On the other side of the police cruiser, Tc'aarlat sat on the back step of an ambulance while a paramedic stitched up the cut above his right eye.
"OW!" he yelled, wincing as the medic stabbed him with the fifth needle he'd used during what should have been a simple procedure. "Watch it, fella! That hurts!"
"It's not my fault the needles keep snapping on your exoskeleton," countered the paramedic. "I'm down to the last few in my kit, and they're thicker and blunter than the others."
"Would it help if I held your hand?" asked Callis, sitting beside the Yollin. From her perch on the teen's shoulder, Mist shrieked loudly.
SKAAWWWWW!
Tc'aarlat met and held the paramedic's gaze for a moment, then whispered to Callis, "Yes. Please."
As the pair linked fingers, Tc'aarlat looked at his raal hawk. "She's still green."
Callis nodded. "She has been all the while I've had her. What do you think it means?"
"I really don't know," admitted Tc'aarlat with a small sigh. "But I'm worried in case she's feeling— OW! FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!"
"Sorry!" muttered the paramedic. "Almost finished!"
Deedee Joh glanced at the ambulance as Tc'aarlat's cursing reached her ears, and she shivered. Normally the only place she stood while dressed in her sequined bikini was beneath the hot air blower across the top of the entrance to the casino.
The outfit wasn't designed to be worn elsewhere.
Someone carefully placed a jacket around her shoulders.
"Oh, it's you!" said Deedee, looking up to find Zalah Gilt smiling down at her. "Thank you, that's very kind."
"Don't think about it," Gilt smiled. "Crazy night, huh?"
Deedee snorted a laugh. "And my last!"
Gilt frowned. "What?"
The door girl looked at her boss as if he were crazy. "If you think I'm coming back here again after all this, you're crazier than the fools who bet their hard-earned cash beyond those doors. My days of smiling at fat handsy business men and college kids are over!"
"What if you didn't have to smile at them?" asked Gilt.
"What you talkin' about?"
"Well," continued the floor manager, "what if you could arrange things for them, or kick them out when they're getting too rowdy or, as you say, 'handsy' with the girls at the door."
Deedee scowled. "That sounds a lot like your job."
"It is," replied Gilt. "Or at least it was. Now that Mr. Domp is...not with us any longer, this place will most likely pass into the hands of whoever owns the largest number of shares."
"And that person is?"
Zalah Gilt bowed. "Sixty-two percent, at your service." He beamed. "I've used just about every single paycheck to buy 'em up one or two shares at a time for over a decade now."
Deedee glanced back at the casino, which was now swarming with crime-scene investigators is matching white jumpsuits. "You're the new owner of that nasty ol' dump?"
"One and the same," agreed Gilt. "And that dump needs a new floor manager now I've taken the bold move of promoting myself."
Smiling, Deedee Joh linked
arms with her boss. "What say we continue this conversation after you buy me a couple drinks and a big 'ol steak?!"
The pair turned, almost bumping into Lowlon Quell as he stumbled along the sidewalk. The effects of the vast amount of alcohol he'd consumed earlier in the evening had combined with the fumes from the smoke grenade to result in the only prize he was taking away from his visit to The Blue Diamond Casino-—a killer headache.
"Hey, Mr. Quell!" called a voice. "Lowlon! Wait up!"
Quell turned to discover Nat Farrow hurrying to catch up with him, still dressed in her smart croupier uniform but now with a dark windbreaker over the top.
"Which way are you heading?" she asked. "Which hotel are you staying in? You need a ride?"
"I was at The Regal," answered Quell. "But I doubt I can go back there, even to get my stuff."
"Why not?"
Quell turned out his empty pockets. "I don't have enough to pay the bill for my stay," he grumbled. "I was supposed to check out first thing in the morning, but unless I exit via the fire escape they're likely to spot me at the front desk."
"Oh," said Nat, lowering her gaze. "I'm sorry."
"Not your fault," smiled Quell. "You can only deal the cards in the order they're stacked."
"That's not strictly true," admitted Nat with an expression of guilt. "Mr. Domp owns the company that makes and packages the playing cards we use. He has them arranged in a sequence that works against the players."
The conquered cardsharp let loose a grunt of frustration.
"GAH! To think that just a few hours ago I was the owner of a Jackpot Chip! I had a million credits right there in my hands! Do you have any idea how that feels?"
"In a way," said Nat. "My dad owes a lot of money to Mr. Domp. Well, he did. I guess that will have passed to whoever takes over next."
Lowlon Quell wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Well, if I still had that chip I'd make certain his debt was paid," he insisted. "You're the only person who’s not out to get me drunk, rip me off, or shoot me in the face since I landed on this blasted excuse for a moon."
Nat glanced up and down the street. "That Jackpot Chip..." She smiled. "Did it look a little like this?"
The croupier reached into her pocket and pulled out a bright-blue chip with a diamond-shaped logo etched on the front.
"You took one!" gasped Quell, his eyes large.
"Of course not!" Nat scolded sternly, producing a second identical chip. "I took two! One each."
Lowlon Quell's mouth opened and closed as the croupier handed one of the chips to him, but no sound came out.
Nat beamed. "I figured I was due a raise after what happened tonight—not that I'll be working there again after all this."
"But... But... We can't go back there to cash them in, can we?"
"No need," said the croupier conspiratorially. "All the casinos on Hann have signed a chip transfer policy. We can swap these bad boys for cold hard cash just about anywhere!"
"Then what are we waiting for?" Quell grinned. "Let's go celebrate!
Hand in hand, the pair raced off along the street, ducking under the boom microphone dangling above the bleached-blonde head of Minty Clinch as she crooned a piece to camera about how the moon's visitors from the Etheric Federation had ended the hostage situation.
"And so, the business owners of Hann owe these men and women a huge debt of gratitude for everything they have done," she concluded.
Making a “cut” gesture, Minty turned away from the camera. "Get that edited and ready for the next bulletin," she commanded her two-man team. "Then come back in case the producer wants to do a live link-up with the studio."
The gargantuan camera operator grunted his agreement and the two men marched away with their equipment.
As they vacated the spot beside their boss, Chief Bis Pargo quickly sidled up to fill it.
"So..." he said in as seductive a voice as he could emit. "How about a one-on-one with the guy in charge around here? An interview with the real power figure on Hann..."
Minty Clinch's false eyelashes fluttered. "Capital idea, darling!" she cooed. "I saw him just a moment ago... Wait, yes! There he is!"
Her ridiculously high heels played a staccato rhythm against the sidewalk as she scurried over to plant a wet kiss on the cheek of a very surprised Oxbo Lake.
"The man in charge!" she exclaimed loudly. "The power behind the throne, so to speak! What say you and I go somewhere quieter and have a little tête-à-tête, huh?"
The bemused publicist blinked hard, nodding as he allowed himself to be led to the entrance of the Shrillexian restaurant.
Pargo's face turned a deep shade of purple. "Barber!" he roared. "With me, now!"
Mike Janely, the officer who had loaned his gun to Barber, hurried across to Pargo. "The sergeant isn't here at the moment, sir!"
"What?" spat Pargo. "Well, I'll deal with him later."
"Yes, sir!"
"In the meantime, get me those interlopers from the Etheric-Fucking-Federation!"
"At once, sir!" cried Janely, scanning the crowd. He could see one member of the group being attended to by paramedics while the young girl held his hand, and there was another in the process of transferring a handcuffed suspect into the custody of a local officer. But that left two others—the guy who appeared to be in charge, and the woman.
They were nowhere to be seen.
Moon of Hann, Back Streets
Jack and Adina crept down the alleyway, each clutching a Jean Dukes Thunderbolt.
Like the Specials strapped to their sides, the Thunderbolts had the facility to be dialed up or down depending on the ferocity of discharge required by the user.
Each currently had their weapon set to six.
"You're certain Malfic came this way?" hissed Adina.
Jack shook his head. "No, but if I was trying to stay one step ahead of the cops and find a ship off of this rock, this is where I'd go."
Coming to a corner, they silently checked if the street was clear in both directions before continuing.
After the near-blinding lights and pounding music of the tourist area, the silence blanketing these backstreets felt heavy and oppressive. As if everything were covered with a thick layer of wool.
Every single sound, from the chittering of the moon's cockroach-like insects, to the buzzing of the street lights, seemed to be amplified by the inky-black darkness all around them.
Then they heard it.
A new sound. A different sound.
A disturbing sound.
Turning the next corner, they found the source and aimed their Thunderbolts directly at it.
On the opposite side of the street was Vimor Malfic, blood still oozing from his injured shoulder appearing black under the artificial yellow light from above.
His good arm was wrapped around another figure—a figure whose throat and chest was smeared with the same thick, black substance.
As was the blade of the knife in Malfic's hand.
The figure forced his head up and looked at them drowsily.
It was Sergeant Barber!
Like his assailant, he had lost a lot of blood.
He too was growing weaker by the second.
"I'm not going back!" slurred Malfic over Barber's shoulder. "Not to jail. Not with you."
"The choice isn't yours to make," called Jack.
"Yes, it is!" spat Malfic. "You can either let me go or I'll kill you both, just like I'm going to kill this guy!"
"We can't do that," replied Adina. "Let the officer go and we'll get you some help for your shoulder."
Malfic laughed, resting his head against the wall behind him as if the effort of holding it up added to his exhaustion.
"He's not walking away from here!"
Jack peered down the sights of his gun. "Then neither are you, Malfic."
The felon's fingers tightened around the handle of his knife.
"Drop it!" yelled Adina.
Malfic moved the blade closer to Barber's i
njured throat.
"I said drop it, now!"
Barber winced as he felt the tip of the knife dig into the flesh inside the already-open wound.
Forcing his eyes open as wide as he could, he locked his gaze on Jack. "Do it," he croaked thinly.
Jack's finger played against the trigger of his weapon. "You sure?"
Barber nodded slowly. "Do it."
As Malfic pushed the knife deeper into Barber's throat, both Jack and Adina fired their Thunderbolts, ending the hunt for Vimor Malfic.
22
ICS Fortitude, Bridge
Jack Marber spun in his chair, planning to check that every member of the Shadows was wearing a seatbelt. After everything he'd been through in the past twenty-four hours, he didn't think he could take another dressing-down from Solo.
"OK, before I ask Solo to—”
He stopped short when he realized that Tc'aarlat and Adina were crying.
Jack glanced at Draven in the pull-down seat. Even he was wiping tears from his eyes.
"Have I missed something?" he asked, giving Solo the signal to take off.
Adina dragged a clump of tissues from her pocket. "I'm okay," she sniffed. "It's just that I'm going to miss Callis."
Jack offered her a comforting smile. "We all are," he said as the ship's boosters kicked in and lifted them off the ground. "She's a great kid, and I think she's going to be just fine."
They had left the teenager behind on Taglen after returning to hand Jolio Phisk over to the authorities. Dabriel Yagash, now promoted to High Priest of the Temple of Persha, had agreed to testify at Phisk's trial.
Dabriel had a lot of work to do rebuilding the public's trust in the Church and had enlisted the help of Corlon Strumm in order to make that happen.
Callis had asked to stay once she'd met Dabriel's daughter Hamble. The teen had fallen for the child big time, claiming she was the little sister she'd been deprived of when her parents had sold her into slavery.
Dabriel had happily accepted Adina's suggestion that Callis stay with him as Hamble's full-time nanny. While she didn't want to abandon the girl on the first planet they came to, she knew she would be happy within that community.