The Sheriff of Yrnameer Read online

  For Alicia and Minya

  The Bad Men set out at dawn.

  There had been a somewhat involved discussion over the appropriate time to depart, a debate ultimately settled with a firestick—a double-barreled Firestick 24, to be precise, the weapon of choice for those who want to decorate the landscape with bits and pieces of their opponent. At least that’s what the promo copy said, and in this case the description was fairly accurate.

  The eleven remaining riders picked their way down the steep, rocky slope past what was left of the twelfth Bad Man, a process that continued for several hundred yards. One of them later discovered a lone digit from the twelfth Bad Man lodged in his bedroll. A few solemn words were said over the finger, and it was reverently lowered into the dog’s mouth.

  The Bad Men were not all men, either by gender or species. But they were Bad Men just the same. The ones who had teeth had bad, blackened, rotten teeth. The one who had a sucker instead of a mouth had a bad, blackened, rotten sucker. There were many scars on their flesh, and much of that flesh was devoted to home- and prison-made tattoos. One of the Bad Men had a professionally crafted design, but the tattoo had long since malfunctioned, the animated image skipping in an endless loop just before the illustrated figure finished lifting her skirt. The Bad Men all stank of grime and sweat and desperation, and carried with them a cloud of menace and senseless violence.

  The dog was mean, too.

  They had a long ride ahead of them: down from the mountain encampment to the brown, sandy dryness of the alluvial plains, hoping the wind didn’t kick up one of the choking, punishing sandstorms; then back up again, but not nearly as high, to a plateau, and then to hills thick with thorny scrub brush, and then up some more to the forest and the rolling fields beyond that. And then the town.

  None of them wanted to make the journey, but Runk had sent them. Runk was the one who’d put an end to the impromptu morning discussion session with the Firestick 24. He was their leader. They didn’t fear much, but they feared him.

  So they complained and grumbled and argued among themselves. They took out their aggression on the baiyos, the indigenous herd animals they used as mounts, whipping at their thick, brown hides until they raised welts. The baiyos, in turn, snapped and kicked and spat at them at every opportunity, their dispositions being as evil as those of their riders. On the second day one of the baiyos managed to plant its two rear hooves square in the midsection of one of the Bad Men, launching him in a high, graceful arc that ended in a deep ravine. Then there were ten Bad Men.

  Although the incident provided a few moments of levity, the laughter died away when they realized that the recently deceased was the only one who knew how to start the Krager portable stove. Their collective mood darkened further.

  They didn’t have to ride. They could have used the one functioning skimmer and flown. If they’d done that, they could have made it to the town in a few hours, instead of getting torn up and dried out by the country. But Runk told them no, he didn’t want to waste the fuel. What he didn’t tell them was the real reason: he wanted them in a vile state of mind when they arrived at the town.

  When they did, all that knotted-up fury would explode on the unsuspecting townspeople. The guns would come out, the Bad Men would state their demands, and the terrified townsfolk would acquiesce without resistance, because they’d know that the Bad Men were just the messengers—there were a whole lot more from where they came.

  The unsuspecting town was nestled in a peaceful valley, which narrowed into a pass and then opened up again into fertile farmland. The freestanding gate at the eastern end of the settlement had no door on it, just a sign that announced the name and existence of the village and welcomed visitors to it. It was a gate that seemed to suggest: Things Are Different Here.

  Inside the gate, the streets and passageways radiated out in a cheerful, organic jumble from the wide Main Street. The buildings and domiciles were as varied as the townspeople, but they tended toward the modest and hand- or other prehensile-appendage-made. A river did not run through it, but it ran nearby, clear and fresh and full of fish.

  The townspeople—or townscreatures, really; they were quite a mix—were refugees of a sort. They came from across the galaxy, drawn there by an ideal, even if they weren’t always in complete agreement over what, exactly, that ideal was. It was a wondrous, magical community, blessed with an abundance of artists and craftsmen and musicians and philosophers and poets.

  Perhaps, some might say, a slight overabundance.

  If one were, for instance, looking for a skilled sculptor, or a talented wordsmith, or a painter or ceramicist or bodyworker or someone knowledgeable in the finer points of macramé, one could hardly be in a better place. But if one instead required a person who could stand down a rancid, murderous horde of bandits, with violence if necessary, one would—to put it somewhat indelicately—be absolutely farged.

  And while the townsfolk didn’t know it yet, they very much needed someone like that, and very soon—someone to organize and inspire them, someone to shake them up and help them defend themselves, someone bold and courageous and honest and forthright and capable.

  They needed a sheriff.

  A very different planet.

  Cole, in the most dignified, reasonable tone that he could muster, said, “Kenneth, seriously, you don’t want to lay your eggs in my brain.”

  Kenneth, who was dangling Cole upside down by one leg, said, “Stop squirming, Cole. You’re making this very difficult.”

  Kenneth had a truly wonderful voice—cultured, warm, soothing.

  “I don’t mean to be a scold, Cole,” he said in that voice, “but you shouldn’t gamble if you can’t pay your debts.”

  “Kenneth, I can’t even begin to tell you how well I’ve learned that lesson,” said Cole. “In fact, I—whoa! Is that your ovipositor?!”

  “Mm-hmm. Oh, come now—you don’t have to make faces.”

  “No, no, it looks fantastic—have you had work done?”

  “Nope. Just clean living. Hold still, please.”

  Kenneth’s voice did not match his appearance.

  His appearance, while not precisely defying description, did manage to challenge it mightily. A casual observer would quickly note an overall design direction that leaned heavily on marine-inspired elements—tentacles, claws, tentacles with claws; a fin here and there, hints of bioluminescence; plus an overall squishi- and squidginess. Added to the mix were subtle insectoid influences: boldly colored patches of exoskeleton; clumps of coarse, rigid hair. And eyes. Many, many eyes.

  Kenneth did, however, have a really sensational voice.

  “You’ve got a really sensational voice,” said Cole.

  “You’re too kind.”

  Cole was in no way a casual observer. He was at the moment an exceedingly up-close and upside-down observer, face-to-face—or face-to-whatever—with Kenneth’s complex mouthparts and impressive array of eyeballs, swaying on their lengthy stalks.

  Cole could see his own reflection in dozens of their shiny black surfaces. His overall design direction placed him squarely in the human category. His flight jacket was hanging around his ears, providing a backdrop for his dark hair and a face that rated a solid eight on the official Handsome Scale. Right now, however, his face merited about a 4.5, distorted as it was from gravity pulling it in the wrong direction, and from sheer terror.

  The most immediate cause of that terror was Kenneth’s ovipositor, hovering just at the edge of Cole’s peripheral vision, the hairy appendage ready to posit Kenneth’s ovi where Cole very much did not want them posited.

  “You know, Kenneth, have you ever considered doing any VO work? I could probably put you in touch with some people,”
offered Cole.

  “You remember the Xhat’s campaign? ‘Xhat’s Poog Sticks—’”

  “‘—the poogiest sticks of all,’” finished Cole. “Of course! I love that one! I can’t believe I didn’t recognize it!”

  “Really? That’s very gratifying to hear,” said Kenneth. “Anyhoo, where were we. Oh, right. My brood.”

  “Kenneth, stop! I can get Karg’s money!”

  “That’s what you told me on InVestCo Four, and InVestCo Seven, and FunWorld World.”

  “No! I mean, yes! But this time I mean it—I can get it. I am getting it!” Cole gestured up, or rather down, at the assortment of coins and bills that lay strewn on the pavement of the alley.

  A few of Kenneth’s eyeballs lazily extended down on their eye-stalks to examine the money.

  “Wow. Four point three-seven percent of what you owe. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

  They were alone in the alley. Just a few kilometers away were the towering buildings and broad, ordered streets of the Bourse, the largest of the Exchange Cities of InVestCo 3, the largest of the habitable planets of the Financial System system. Beings of all shapes and sizes were bustling about there, happily buying and selling and putting and calling and marketing and branding and shareholding and producing and consuming and whatever else the more-or-less honest folks did.

  High above the planet, above the branding campaigns that scrolled endlessly across the upper cloud layer, the advertsats patrolled the orbits, zooming up with aggressive cheerfulness to welcome visitors from other planets and systems across the galaxy, places where yet more folks were buying and selling and commercing and et cetera. Places where very few beings—if any—were being dangled by one leg by a creature like Kenneth, and desperately wishing they had a big gun.

  Cole had a big gun. He’d pointed it at Kenneth when Kenneth grabbed him. Kenneth ate it.

  “Kenneth, this money is just a down payment. I’ll get the rest.”

  “How, Cole? More gambling? Another inept smuggling mission? Some complex scheme, doomed to failure from the start?” Kenneth sounded almost sorrowful. “You know, I think you should reflect on the life choices you’ve made. Some beings are just born to be itinerant space adventurers. Others aren’t. You know who’s really good at it?”

  “Uh, jeez. Let me guess: Teg.”

  “Teg!” said Kenneth, apparently not hearing him. “He’s courageous, handsome—”

  “He’s not that handsome.”

  “—dashing—”

  “He’s not that handsome.”

  “Oh, please. He’s easily a nine point four, and an honest nine point four. He certainly didn’t need to pay some kid to hack into the dating-service system and boost his Handsome rating from a seven point six to an eight.”

  How did Kenneth know about that?

  “I know a great deal about you, Cole. Don’t forget, I’ve been following you for quite a while. Anyway, this is all academic,” continued Kenneth. “Have you been consuming a lot of the local fish lately?”

  “What? Why?”

  “High levels of amargam. Very bad for my offspring.”

  “You know, now that you mention it, I’ve been on a total bender with those fish. Fillets, steaks—”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “—uh, soup, fish sticks … uh … sashimi! Raw sashimi! Raw!”

  “Strictly speaking, ‘raw sashimi’ is redundant. So, which of your eye sockets would you like me to use?”

  “Kenneth, listen, I’ve probably got amargam coming out the hoo-ha!”

  “Well, fifty thousand eggs, I’m sure some will survive.”

  “All right, Kenneth, I didn’t want to do this. But I’ve about had it. I’m going to count to three, and you’re going to put me down, and then you’re going to give me back my gun, which was very expensive. One—”

  “Two three,” said Kenneth, finishing for him.

  “Kenneth! Farg it!” Cole kicked and thrashed about violently. He took a vicious swing at Kenneth’s collection of eyes. The eyes easily moved aside, like wheat parting gently before the wind.

  Cole was left panting, exhausted. His shirt succumbed to gravity and flopped down, bunching up under his chin. He could feel the cool night air on his rather pasty belly, not quite as firm as it once was. He sighed.

  “Kenneth, please—this is humiliating.”

  “Nonsense, Cole. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I’d think you’d be proud to host my young.”

  “Not for me. For you. This is beneath you.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Kenneth’s ovipositor drew back to strike.

  “Hold on!” said Cole, “Can’t we just hee hee hee!”

  Kenneth paused. “Something’s amusing?” He sounded amenable to joining in the joke.

  “No, I’m hee hee hee!” said Cole. “Your tentacleheeheeheeee!”

  Kenneth was holding Cole by his right leg, a tentacle wrapped around his calf. An unseen patch of that coarse insectoid hair had started to brush Cole lightly on the sensitive skin above his ankle.

  “Help! Hee hee heeeee!” screamed Cole. “Heehee SOMEBODY HELP ME HEE HEEEEEEH!!”

  “Cole—ho ho ho—it’s no use. Ho ho ho.” Kenneth was now chuckling jovially. “There’s no one—ho ho—around.”

  “Hee hee hig hig hig!”

  “Ho ho ho! The stress monitors—ho ho!—have been disabled. The police won’t be respondinghohohohoho!”

  “HEE HEE HEE!”

  “HO HO HO!”

  It was true about the stress monitors. Cole had made sure of that, although it was Bacchi who did the actual disabling. The clean-scrubbed network of alleys, set within the warehouse district, was the perfect location for an ambush. Which is why Bacchi had chosen it to ambush the tudpees, and Cole had chosen it to ambush Bacchi, and Kenneth had chosen it to ambush Cole.

  “Ho ho ho!” repeated Kenneth, jiggling with laughter, the ovipositor quivering as it approached Cole’s right eye.

  Cole’s sheer terror expanded far beyond its original borders and became all-engulfing, overwhelming terror. He opened his mouth to scream. “Hee hee heeee! Hee hee heee!!” was what came out.

  “Hohohohohoooo!” replied Kenneth.

  “Hee hee hee hig hig hig!”

  “Hohohohohohohohooooo!”

  “Hee hee hee hee heeeeeGACK!”

  Cole’s laughter was abruptly cut off as Kenneth wrapped another tentacle around his neck and squeezed.

  “Sorry—ho ho—about that. Ho ho ho,” said Kenneth. He let out a big sigh of pleasure, wiping several eyes with another rubbery limb. “Aaaah. I’ve always so enjoyed our conversations.”

  “Kenneth,” croaked Cole, “Wait. You can’t do this. We’re two old pros. There’s a grudging respect between us.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  The ovipositor was drawing back again, coiling to plunge its way through Cole’s eye socket into his skull.

  Cole clapped his hands over his eyes. Two tentacles pulled them away. He shut his eyes as tight as possible. He felt a slight sting near his right eye, and his eyelid popped open of its own accord—and he couldn’t close it.

  “Sorry. I’ve had to paralyze your eyelid.”

  Cole stared unwillingly at Kenneth and his hideous ovipositor.

  “Kenneth, wait. Wait! Wait!”

  “Too late, Cole. Feed my young well.”

  And things had been going so nicely.

  Ten minutes prior to his encounter with Kenneth, Cole had been watching two innocent, gnomish-looking tudpees, hardly taller than children, as they made their way down the narrow, dimly lit alley. Concealed in his hiding place, he could just barely hear them as they chatted in the high-pitched and pleasing tudpee language.

  “Heeblee beeblee,” chirped one.

  “Heeble leeble beeblee,” chirped the other.

  Add conical hats and they wouldn’t look out of place standing motionless in someone’s garden. There’s a species you can trust, thought Cole.
Their tastes simple, their clothes demure; hardworking, blameless craftscreatures and merchants and keepers of records.

  Other than that idle thought, Cole had no interest in them. He had a great deal of interest in Bacchi, who owed him a great deal of money. And wow, did Cole need that money.

  He’d been tracking Bacchi for quite a while, trailing him from FunWorld World to InVestCo 3, and carefully observing him over several days as he made repeated trips to the sprawling warehouse district. Except for a waste-treatment plant, the area was dominated by massive buildings that existed solely to store financial transaction records printed on nearly indestructible Payper. Those Payper financial transaction records, in turn, existed solely to enrich the Payper Corporation, which had skillfully lobbied to require that all financial transactions be recorded on nearly indestructible Payper.

  Bacchi had clearly been reconning the alley behind the treatment plant for what Cole assumed were nefarious purposes, because if Bacchi had a purpose, it was by definition nefarious. There’s a species—or at least a member of a species—that you can’t trust at all, thought Cole.

  Cole had watched him deactivate the stress monitors half an hour ago, ensuring that the authorities wouldn’t detect any untoward activity. Then Bacchi had climbed into his hiding place to lie in wait. But for whom? Not the tudpees, who wouldn’t have anything to steal. They were now about ten meters from Cole, nearing a battered Dumpster.

  “Beeblee heeblee,” said one, cheerfully.

  “Leeble leeble beeblee,” said the other with equal cheer, apparently agreeing with his compatriot.

  Cole shifted, itchy and uncomfortable. So who was it? Why come here, where most of the foot traffic was of the robotic sort?

  “Heebleeble?”

  “Leebleeblee.”

  And then the top of the Dumpster exploded open and Bacchi leaped out, his gun ready even before his boots hit the pavement.