Reckoned
A StonePunk + Space Western story by Holly_Gonzalez
Damn it all. I settled out here to this god-forsaken rock to get away from people. Whoever it is keeps messin' with my livestock--when I catch them, they'll get what's comin'. I don't get along with nobody, human or otherwise. And I deal with 'em all the same. Justice at the hot point of a plazblaster.
Who would dare? My reputation alone done scares visitors away. Isn't another settlement for a hundred kilos in any direction, the most remote corner of this most remote planetoid called 719. So remote that it doesn't even have a name, just a number. I like it this way.
Buf somehow, somebody's out here. Sneakin' around my homestead, disturbing my peace. Even with my surveillance systems, linked right into my wetware, they're gettin' through. Won't do, no sirree.
Well, they're gonna learn the hard way. Lexie Montacket doesn't play games. Got blood on my hands, vengeance in my heart, and plenty o' cybernetic death toys wired up in this ol' meat. I didn't earn the name Lightnin' Lexie for nothin'. Fastest left-hand draw in the outer quadrants, and I've left a trail of graves across the known worlds to prove it.
Night fallin', and I'm ready for a scrap. My bio-systems sync to the surveillance and the perimeter defenses with a clear signal. Those hooligans come back tonight, and they'll regret ever setting foot near my claim.
I clip a fresh cell into my plazblasters and buckle the holster snug around my waist. I've lost a few inches 'round the middle out here, lean and mean, my hands rough as old leather and scarred, two meat fingers missin' after a blade thug done shafted me out on the Vespra system fifteen year ago. No matter, I've still got eight synthetic digits functional and itchin' to pull these triggers.
My boots and coveralls need patchin' for sure. I don't care much. I live alone, not here to impress. Dame Death wears a tattered robe and a smug, toothy grin. I've got those a'plenty.
I tip my hat low as I step out the door of my cabin, tie my bandana around my face, secure my night visor around my eyes and connect it to my neural face plate. It's showdown time, buckaroo, whoever you are. And I've got a bandolier of seeker bolts with your name on 'em, just waiting to carve a hole into your dirty, trespassin' skull.
Greater Moon hangs low on the horizon, the two dwarf moons mere pinpricks of white light hangin' above a band of fading gold. At least 719 has a breathable atmosphere. Partially terraformed, but abandoned when the syndicates found out ain't much out here but garselope and volcanic residue from a long time ago. Not so good for farmin. Hydroponics works for me alright.
We humans can walk about 719 without oxygen gear most of the year. 'Cept the storm season, when the geyser plains down south o' here erupt en masse. Then you gotta wear a tank and mask outdoors. Only the garselope wander the regolith during that Hell season. Them varmints can breathe through anything. Pesky brutes, useful as they are to me out here. Their wool can be shorn and spun into a fiber strong as some o' the fancy nano-stuffs they manufacture on the outer reaches.
Can smell 'em meters away. Bit like an Earth rat mixed with a musk ox. Got my flock corralled out by the silos. Six females and one male. Hopin' to breed em, ain't had no luck yet. Finicky things, little understood by humans. Shy 'n hard to domesticate. I roped all these in myself, determined to find a good way to tame 'em.
So far, all they like to do is eat me out of grain and shit piles deep enough to wade through. Easy to see why most settlers gave up on raising 'em. I'm not the quittin' type. Someday, I'm gonna be the first to make a fortune on 'em.
I approach the electrified fence, give a loud whistle, and the biggest female shuffles over to greet me. She's the only one seems to have any interest in me. Named her Hope, as she's the best I've got right now, I reckon.
Garselope are huge. Size of a grizzly bear from old Earth, hunched things with big spiked horns on their heads, shaggy gray coats, flat faces vaguely resemblin' those yappy little dogs rich human ladies like to sport in their handbags.
Hope reaches toward the fence with one of those massive paws of hers and snorts. Garselope have six fingers with opposable thumbs. Some folks find that a little unnerving. Fortunately, these brutes are too dumb and docile to use their hands properly.
"Hey there, girl." I pat her massive head, scratch behind those floppy ears. "I'm gonna find out who's been vexin' ya past few nights. Keep those eyes open. You and the others can help me keep watch for--"
The others. Damn. I scan the corral, and notice the entire flock is gone. Gate's wide open. Pawprints are mashed into the mud and manure. Only Hope's left, her dark eyes narrowed, watching me with a strange intensity. Her mouth opens, and she lets out a droning bellow, ending with a short clicking sound. She lifts a paw and points to the open gate.
I've never seen her act like this. None of the critters ever behaved such, for that matter.
"What's got into ya?" I back away, drawing my weapons. My heart's thumpin' wild against my titanium-plated ribcage. "That scoundrel sneak in here again, let you all out, put somethin' funny in your feed trough?"
No answer. Hope just chews her cud like she always has, ordinary as an Earth heifer.
Then, as the Greater Moon's yellow light hits the barn wall, I see markings there. Paintings, that is, drawn in drippy blue garselope manure. Spiraled arrows surround a two-legged figure. Around the edge, horned beings with long fur hurl dripping spears at the two-legger in the middle.
"Son of a five-bit freighter whore!" Rage swallows my fear. Damn vandals been at it again. Right under my nose. Druggin' my stock? Graffiti all over my barn? I've had it. They've gotta be close. Wherever, however they're hidin', I'm gonna find 'em. Flush 'em out, and they're good as dead.
I was once the best hired gun in this sector. Not gonna live it down now to some intruders with high-tech camo. I tap my neuralink into the wider system. Lookin' through all cameras.
Nothin'.
After several minutes of empty feed streamin' into my brain, I trudge to the corral gate and shut it. I grab Hope by the halter and lead her into the barn. Once I've killed this damned intruder, I'll head out and find the rest of my flock before morn.
"Stay here, girl." I lock Hope into the main stall, throw her some grain, then crouch in the corner next to her. From here, I can see the corral through a crack in the slap boards.
Only sound is the soft munch of Hope chewin' her sandbean chaff.
I wait. Plazblasters in hand, scannin' through all my cam feeds. How long? Hours, most likely. Don't matter. I'm on a mission. Failure's not in my book.
My arthritis done kickin in, crouched up like this. Not as young as I used to be, even though the cybernetics keep me alive far beyond my years. I'm a hundred and five, Earth time. Look like I'm fifty-odd. Damn, I'd love a cig and some coffee right now. Moons have set. Sun's soon to break the west. Where the blazin' Hell are these bastards? Ghosts ain't to blame, but some sheepish part of me wonders.
There in the distance. That low moanin' sound, right as dawn breaks. Sends shivers down what's left of my bones. It's like singin'. Maybe chanting? Never heard such a caterwaul in all my wanderin'.
It can't be. But it is. The missing garselope. There on the hill. I see 'em, filing down the path, toward the barn. They're walking upright on their hind legs, carryin' torches and--I'll be damned--spears.
Afore I can curse my mother's grave, somethin' large looms over me.
Hope. Why did I ever name her somethin' so sweet? She's pure monster, now. She stands upright, like the others. Last thing I see is her enormous face, yellowed teeth bared in a smile. Her enormous paws, clenched into fists, crash onto my head, and everything goes dark.
Somethin' like stars swims in my brain. I can't dream anymore, with all the cyberware laced in the meat and bone. My blood still pounds, though. In time with my heart. Muffled thuds and shuffling fill my gathering senses. Comin' to, slowly. Takes a lot more than a two-ton garselope thrashin' to break this body. But damn, does it hurt.
I wake and find myself alive, pain screamin' through every nerve. Drums. Firelight, figures like those I'd seen on the barn scrawled over every wall of a dimly lit cave.
I try to move, can't. Wait. No, it can't be. My body's lyin' on the ground before me, my head...my head. I'm still alive, damn cyber-extensions. Just my head, now. Looks to be stuck on a spear or a stick or somethin'. Garselope, movin' about on their hind legs, sentient as hell, it seems. They're pickin' over what's left of my body.
And there's Hope, damn bitch. She's wearing some kind of hide for clothing. Covered in white paint, a stone axe in one paw, she throws her head back and howls.
The others join in.
Drums, dancin'. A straight up cave-cow party. They string my body up in a net of pulleys and rocks, dangle it all overhead like a fly in a web. Then Hope picks up the stick with my head on it and looks me straight in the eye.
She speaks in that strange, moanin' garselope language. Waits, as if I'm supposed to answer.
So I do. "Well, what's this? Your master's now a talking toy? You playin' to be dumb animals until you could get one up on me? Heh. Of all the tricks I've seen, gotta say this one's the best."
Hope lifts my head higher, and her companions fall to all fours and bow to me.
Great. I'm a disembodied head to be worshipped for all time by my own livestock. Guess the Maker done decided it's time I pay for all my sins.