Hard Bounty

The wind blew cold and dry against my skin, but I was beyond noticing the pinpricks of ice against my cheeks. I raised the binocks and studied the land around me.

Here, in this desert, in this swirling, ever-moving landscape and on this planet, I would find my prey; though ‘prey’ infers a vulnerability Peero did not have.

I am a hunter; a hunter of sentient creatures unable or unwilling to adhere to the common precepts of legally mandated civilisation. Out here, though, on a fringe world like Helios, ‘civilisation’ meant a willingness to kill to survive. If you weren’t strong enough to hold on to your land, your family, your ideals, someone would take it from you; take it all.

I could see no sign of him through normal vision and my lips tightened, changed the setting to infra. If he left any tracks, I would find him. I needed to find him, and not just for the millions of credits involved.

There were at least another two dozen hunters searching for Peero, but only one – me – had tracked him to Helios. Probably because it was the last place hunters would look.

Peero needed water, lots of it, to survive and a desert world was anathema to him. Yet, he’d left his mark on dozens of other worlds and any with large bodies of water were under guard by the United Worlds Colonial Marines and the UW Police Units.

This hunt had lasted three T-years when I finally caught up with his spacecraft on this barren rock.

I saw the faint, pale blue of footsteps marching up the next dune and smiled. Yay, me.

I activated the booster skis and slid down the dune. They powered up the next, following Peero’s trail. It must be hard going for him, but anything that made his escape hard, made my job easier.

Why was I in pursuit of this s.o.b.? Peero was a killer, but no ordinary killer. Once described as a ‘homicidal maniac’, Peero had raised the bar, all on his own. He turned himself into a genocidal maniac. A creature so deft at the slaughter of planetary populations, there could be no other name for him.

Peero is Ullarian; a species of chameleon who could lay waste planets through viral warfare. The Ullarians breathed air, like humans, but where we expelled carbon dioxide and other chemicals, the Ullarians expelled a symbiotic virus searching for a new home along with the chemical cocktail; a virus that multiplied at astonishing rates and killed anyone else breathing the same air. The symbiote was only non-toxic to Ullarians. When it happened to the first contact team, everyone thought it a contaminant, by the third group death, this one the crew of a superdreadnought ship sent to bring them to negotiations, the United Worlds Council was ready to interdict the whole Ullarian system, or kill them all.

Unwilling to go back into isolation when there were galaxies to explore and peoples to meet and trade with, the Ullarians developed their own filtering system and swore allegiance to the Council.

Peero, a convicted criminal on his own world, disagreed with the restriction and set about creating worlds where only his people could survive; for once a planet had been infected, no other species but those indigenous to Ullaria, could survive.

In some sectors of Ullarian society, he is the World Builder, in others he is what the rest of us know him to be: a murderer of innocents.

I slid up and down shifting dunes, the pale blue footmarks deepening in colour. On a hot world such as this, any cooler blooded creatures steps showed blue; a hotter blooded creature would show up orange or red. The sand still retained the heat from the scorching day, for all the wind’s chilly fury. By nightfall, the sand would cool, too, but I was too close on Peero’s tail for him to stop and wait for better travelling conditions.

I paused at the peak of yet another dune and scanned the area. Beyond the third dune, the desert shifted to a pebbled landscape. He could move faster across that flattened land to the foothills I could see in the distance. Further past the foothills, below the horizon, I was sure there’d be mountains; and in mountains, water could be found.

I knew once in the flatlands, Peero would run on four feet. I didn’t have that luxury, but I did have counter-grav technology that allowed me to bounce across the landscape. I could have used it in the sand dunes, but I wanted to keep a low profile until absolutely necessary. In the flatland, that was a moot point.

If I could see for klicks around, so could he and I had no illusions about him having a personal warning system; just how far that sensor extended was the question. Mine showed no indication of the Ullarian; yet.

I slid down the last dune, removed my skis and pressed the button to shorten them to the length of my hand, shoved them into a pocket.

The binocks didn’t locate the evil bastard, but showed Peero’s steps as lengthening. I was wrong; he didn’t lope on all fours, he had counter-grav tech and I sighed.

I supposed if you rape and kill a dozen worlds, the tech on that planet is all yours; no-one is left to tell you otherwise. It raised the question of what else Peero had in his bag of tricks. He’d been on the run for a long time, but he’d also acquired a lot of tech, weapons, too.

It was time to see how fast he could run and I set off, bounding over hundred metre tracts of land, carefully choosing my landing spots before setting down and leaping off again. It would be fatal to twist an ankle or break a foot in this terrain.

Four hours later, I reached the foothills. Dried grass crackled underfoot. This part of Helios hadn’t seen rain for months and I could easily track Peero in the crushed and dusty footprints.

The air was distinctly cooler and reddened my cheeks. I adjusted the filter mask across my nose and mouth and fixed the multi-functional goggles across my eyes. Ullarians spat blinding venom, too. I set off running again, following his trail.

Peero was mine.

I traversed the valleys and peaks, keeping an eye on the blue tracks. They headed in one direction: straight towards the snow capped mountains.

Peero had come a long way to find water and I slid to a stop on a grassy crest.

Peero had come a long way… I thought, but why?

He could have landed in the foothills, or gone straight to the mountains, hidden his craft within a cavern or a valley. He had no reason to land in the desert. The craft hadn’t sustained any damage or equipment failure – at least, not until I found it and did some ‘creative’ maintenance on it.

What scenario had caused him to land in a desolate, dry place?

I could ask him when I caught up to him, but that was less important than killing him, unless it interfered with the job.

The thought that I was missing something stayed with me as I bounded across the foothills and up into the mountains.

Peero had landed in a desert when he didn’t need to… although…

I checked my scanner again. Nothing yet.

If he were meeting with someone and that someone didn’t want an armed craft anywhere near him, meant I was dealing with more than just Peero. Who would be dumb enough to partner up with him? Criminal elements might accept him. The thought of having a world filled with technology and no people would be an attractive proposition but only for as long as Peero kept himself under control. Eventually, he’d slaughter anyone who wasn’t Ullarian.

It sounded feasible and if that were the case, I needed a little help.

I jumped from rocky outcrop to rocky outcrop and with every leap, I checked my systems for blue prints. His counter-grav was better than mine: for every two leaps I took, he jumped one.

I came to a stop and stared at a four-metre wide chimney of near-smooth dark rock, at least one hundred metres high on one side, twice that on the other and up into the royal blue sky. I held my position and glanced over my shoulder. The sun’s glare stabbed directly into my eyes as it crept lower over the horizon.

Silly bitch. Blind yourself why don’t you?

I waited for my vision to clear and looked back up the chimney. I could do it… just.

My toes swivelled against the rock and I crouched, jumped as high as I could. The counter-grav kicked me up and I reached out my hands, aimed for the top edge of the chimney.

My ascent slowed as I stretched, missed the top edge and slowly descended. I scrabbled for a handhold with my right hand, found a ledge no more than a centimetre deep and stopped against the sheer rock face. I gently beat my head against the cold surface.

I had to get to get better equipment - something that wasn’t a ten-year-old Marine caste off.

The top edge of the rock was a tantalising two metres above my head, and while the counter-grav wouldn’t let me fall quickly, I had nothing but wall to push off from.

I turned my head. Solid, smooth rock rose further than the hundred metres, towering majestically above me. The only option I could see was to drop and try again, but in the gathering darkness, I had less of a guarantee I’d make the leap.

To wait until morning was unthinkable. I was so close to the bastard, I could almost smell him. In fact…

I slowly lifted my head and air above the lip of the chimney shivered, coalesced and Peero’s ugly face appeared, grinned down at me.

“Hel-lo, Say-gan.” The translator in my ear said. “You are late.”

Ullarian vocal apparatus could not replicate human speech. Their language consisted of hisses, pops, squeaks and otherwise sounded like someone torturing wood.

I glared up at his flat, green frond-covered face. Two vertically slit black pupils stared down at me. He had two hands, but fingers grew from all around his palm; he could grasp anything, manipulate anything with all those fingers. And if he lost one, it grew back.

“Peero, I’ve come to execute the United Worlds warrant.” I said and he tilted his head, crouched down. I fumbled with the dart pistol at my waist. The high velocity darts lay flat in the cartridge but when expelled from the barrel, the four wings clicked out like a throwing dart, balancing the half-centimetre wide, sharpened missile. To say it was a messy weapon, even at close range was an understatement. All I had to do was not drop it.

“You are late.” He said again.

“Okay, I’ll bite, late for what?” I unclipped the holster.

“I want you here soon-est; leave trail.”

I adjusted my fingers over the protrusion of rock. “And I followed.” Slowly drew the weapon.

“Say-gan not so good hun-ter. You are late.” He moved slightly then showed me the head-sized rock in his hand.

Not good. My thumb clicked the pistol over from one shot to a three shot burst.

“Look, just tell me what I’m late for, okay?” I was not a left-handed shooter. Oh, I practiced, but it still felt unnatural and I’d have to bring up the weapon in an obvious arc to fire without losing my grip.

“Ullars need meat, Say-gan. Ullars wait long time for you. You good eat-ting?” He smirked down at me and the hot/cold burst of fear exploded over my skin.

Of course. This rock of a planet had limited animals for any carnivore to consume. There wasn’t much vegetation and that meant not many herbivores, ergo, fewer carnivores. It’s primary export? What else but the crystalline sand that covered so much of the planet.

I grabbed onto what he said. “Ullars? There are more of you?”

“Fam-il-y. Big fam-il-y.”

Oh, hell, he’d been breeding! Once I was done with the warrant, I’d have to report it. Whether or not his family lived was up to the UWC, not me, thankfully.

And that was why he’d landed so far out. Anyone who followed in my footsteps would lose my heat signature unless they landed within twenty-four hours; and that wasn’t possible because I hadn’t told anyone my destination for fear of losing the bounty.

Greed and arrogance can be a terrible burden. I thought with a sigh.

The weapon hung down by my side pointed to the earth; Peero held a rock in his hand that would bash my head quite nicely. Timing would be everything and I had one chance.

I shifted my feet to lie flat against the rock face. Peero narrowed his eyes at me and lifted the small boulder in his hand. All he had to do was drop it on me and I was as good as dead.

“Aren’t you going to help me up?” I asked with a sneer.

“You lie; you cheat; you trick-ster.” Peero drew back his arm to hurl the rock. “You dead.” He growled as his arm moved forward to throw.

I pushed off against the cliff-face, lifted the weapon and fired up at him.

The rock slammed into my chest and then I slammed into the opposite wall, but I kept firing as I fell, saw chunks of the Ullar spray backwards in an explosion of green. He wavered for a moment, grasping the holes punched through his body, and then he plummeted towards me.

A hundred metres might sound like a fair distance, but we covered it exceptionally fast. Peero collided with me halfway down, increasing my velocity. A one-person counter-grav couldn’t carry two and it burned hot against my feet, ankles, and waist as it struggled to compensate. I managed to shift Peero slightly to the side before the awful shock of smashing into the ground.

* * *

I opened my eyes to full darkness, zig-zaggy vision, nausea and pain. Lying still didn’t help as jagged throbs pulsed through my chest and head.

On the plus side, I’d done my job. On the negative side, I had to bring back proof and it was a hike and a half to my ship, maybe impossible in my condition.

I lifted a hand to push Peero’s shredded remains off me and agony exploded through me. I’d need a little help; so I reached across my body to unseal the med-kit in my left sleeve, injected myself with painkiller and sat up once it kicked in.

From the same pocket, I took out a syringe, jammed it into Peero’s neck and sucked out a good dose of dna and tissue sample. Then I shoved him off me.

His blood drenched my lower half with sticky green blood; lots of it. If the darts hadn’t killed him, the fall would have given the unnatural floppiness of his head and legs.

I used the counter-grav to help me up and stared into the darkness of the hills with a sigh. I pressed a stud on the back of my wrist. It glowed green and a matching green pulsed not three metres from me. I walked over, picked up the gun and holstered it.

Time to go home.

The relief at the thought, at a job done, though not well and not easily, helped motivate me. I would use that focus on the long march back to my ship.

As for Peero’s family, only the UWC could make that decision; and I would take no part in the slaughter of children.

But that’s just me, Rhianna Sagan, bounty hunter.

Hunting Death

Sabra Parrish slowly pulled the gun from her leather holster as she glanced around the corner of the alley.

The sound was subtle, even to her own ears, but her quarry had sharper hearing than hers. Bionic enhancements were available to anyone who could afford it.

With her back to the grime-stained wall, she eased down into a crouch and risked another peek.

There he was, but why was he rummaging around in the garbage hopper? Aloysius MacNamara, cult leader, was more renowned for his silk suits, hand-made shoes, manicured hands and salon-styled short blonde hair. But here he was, dressed in filthy rags, a noxious goo dripped from the back of his head and dirt and other… substances smeared his face. Charismatic, charming, handsome, erudite, was his usual style, not mumbling, grumbling, filthy and dumpster diving. So what was he doing?

Only one way to find out.

She held the weapon two-handed and thumbed off the safety. Sabra had no concerns about hitting the innocent: there were none in this part of town, nor at this time of night.

As slowly as she crouched, Sabra got to her feet and went around the corner. She stood with one foot planted in front of her, knees slightly bent and aimed at the man leaning over a particularly fragrant trashcan.

“Freeze, MacNamara, this is the police!”

MacNamara froze. Then he gradually stood upright and turned to her.

“Wha..?” He slurred and staggered slightly.

Was he drunk? The public figure eschewed alcohol, condemned it as the work of the Devil.

“You’re under arrest!” Sabra slid forward, made sure he saw the weapon in her hands. “Put your hands on the rim of the garbage hopper and spread your legs!”

He squinted at her, looked at the dumpster, then at the gun. “Pretty.” He slurred and staggered towards her.

“Stop there, mister, or I will shoot.” Or make you take a bath, she thought as she caught a whiff of him. She kept her eyes on him; she was well aware of how dangerous this mutt could be.

MacNamara leaned a hand against the wall and hung his head as if he had no idea were he was or what he was doing.

“Not me,” he mumbled. “I’m not me. Not me, not me, not me.”

“Yeah, pal, you can tell it to the judge.” Sabra replied and took a step forward.

His head whipped up and she noticed he had a large polished wood crucifix in his hand. “Sinner!” He sneered and held out the cross. “Devil-spawn!”

“Drop the weapon, MacNamara, I’m not giving you any more warnings. I will shoot your God-damned kneecaps off!” She lowered the gun, and her gaze, aimed for his knees.

He lashed out with his fist as her eyes came back up.

He struck her flush on the cheekbone, the shortened edge of the cross gouged a path through her flesh.

Sabra went down as bright spots of light and pain exploded in her face. She rolled with the punch and came up onto her knees, vision wavering as she sighted down the barrel at the fleeing MacNamara.

“Shit!” She muttered as her quarry disappeared around a corner. Sabra pushed up into a run, but when she got to the edge of the alley, MacNamara had disappeared.

No one out here would tell her where he’d gone either; the street was empty of people, as if they’d known MacNamara would be around; no druggies, no drunks, no homeless. Not one soul. The area was empty of humanity.

Warmth slid down her throat and seeped into the shoulder of her shirt. She lifted a hand and brushed her chin. The back came away bloody. Now her face went from ache to full-blown pain. Her left eye was beginning to close, too. “Miserable, scum-sucking, bottom feeding, motherf…”

“I take it from your colourful language that you lost him.” Her cyber-partner, Rad, cooed in her earbug with a deep and smooth voice.

“Yeah.” Sabra holstered her weapon and went back to the dumpster. “He was looking for something, though. We need a team down here to sift through this garbage. I don’t know whether he found what he was looking for, but I’d say not.”

“You didn’t tag him?”

“No, smart arse, I didn’t!”

“He was hard to locate, this time. He will be harder to find now.” Rad murmured, aggrieved.

“Oh, gee, I didn’t think about that when he bashed my face in.” Sabra walked back towards her unit car.

“Do you require medical intervention?” He inquired with more concern.

Sabra lifted a hand to her cheek, gently touched the wound with a finger. Fire streaked across her face. Even her nose throbbed. No point in being wussy about it. “Yeah, I do. Bastard nailed me good.”

“Mobile Medical Facility Unit refuses to attend, Lieutenant.” Rad reported brusquely.

“Oy, as if that’s a surprise.” She muttered and got into her car. “I’ll go to Webley.”

“Medical Unit is on standby.”

“Thanks, pal.” She murmured tiredly and drove towards the closest hospital.

* * *

“It’s not like you to underestimate a perp, Sabra.” Captain Rodgers grumbled and leaned back in his office chair, rested a hand on the desktop for balance.

Sabra resisted the urge to rub the skin-seal over her cheek. Instead, she propped her right ankle on her left knee. The swelling had subsided - a bit - and the medics had given her powerful painkillers for the fractured cheekbone, which was great since she said she was on the trail of a serial killer and needed them. Now she felt bright eyed. It was a false energy, she knew, but neither she, nor the city, could afford to let MacNamara remain on the streets.

Her problem was evidence. They had plenty of circumstantial stuff, but no smoking gun, no absolute proof, no witnesses, only hearsay.

“It’s not like him to leave me alive, either, so I guess that makes us even.”

Rodgers narrowed his eyes at her and she held her breath. It was probably the wrong thing to say and she took note of the comment in his expression. No ‘maybe’ about it, Sab, get it together or I’ll dump off this case.

“Sorry, sir.” She murmured.

“Are you alright to continue this case?” Rodgers asked.

“Yes, sir. I’m going to go back to the alley with Hawk. He’ll find the trail again and I’ll follow it.”

Rodgers tipped his chair forward, rested his forearms on the paper-strewn desk. “We need to catch him in the act. No more pussy-footing around, Lieutenant. I want an absolute, rock solid, no alibi, you’re the witness, case. You get me?”

“Yes, sir. ROE?” She needed to know what she could or could not do and asking for the Rules of Engagement would give her official sanction.

His lips firmed. “Everything recorded, visual and audio. Rad to monitor constantly, back up as required, by you - or should you become incapacitated, by Rad.”

Sabra raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“I mean it, Lieutenant. No more screwing around and being polite. You bring him in with evidence, or you let him go without a scratch. I don’t want this department to be accused of beating a confession out of a suspect.”

“Sir!” She protested. “That kind of thing went out a hundred years ago!”

“Alright then.” He paused and studied her for a moment, his liquid brown eyes fiery as he came to a decision. “KOS if threatened, by MacNamara and/or any who are armed. Now, get out of here before I send you back to Medical. You look like shit.”

Sabra slowly got to her feet. Kill On Sight? The powers-that-be must be really pissed off to order that. Then again, the ritualistic murders of twelve people would piss anyone off.

She’d try to avoid it, but if it became necessary, she’d oblige.

“Returning to duty, sir.”

He gave her a nod and bent his head to the waiting paperwork.

“Rad?” She asked as she walked through the busy bullpen. “You get all that?”

“I did, Sabra. Audio and visual surveillance initiated.”

From now on, she would have to watch every word she uttered, every action she performed.

She looked neither left nor right, nor responded to the hails of other cops as she walked out. They would understand; they’d all had a total Rad monitored mission.

“Systems check please, Rad.” Sabra punched the down button and waited for the lift and for Rad.

She was on her way to her car when he reported in. “Remote Assistance Device systems are green. Systems check is clear and active.”

“Thank you, Rad. Contact Hawk, send the co-ordinates, please.”

“Acknowledged.”

Sabra drove back to the alley. It was a shame Rad wasn’t human; he had the best voice she’d ever heard in a machine. But… she could easily picture him if he had been human: tall, broad-shouldered with black hair to match black eyes and all of it would be made just perfect when he opened his mouth and spoke in that low sensual tone of his.

She sighed. Those AI geeks sure got it right when they made him.

The street remained deserted when she parked the unit and initiated the anti-theft devices by remote. Anyone foolish enough to mess with the car would get a nasty electrical shock.

She raised her eyes to the faintly smog-filled sky. Circling above her was Hawk and she walked down the street to the end of the block.

The result of illegal genetic experimentation in the earlier part of the century, Hawk, and his comrades, had finally gained acceptance in the wider community. Once hunted as dangerous mutants, now they were an integral part of the military, the law enforcement and the diplomatic agencies.

It had taken a World Council decision to grant them full amnesty and human rights. They were not, the ruling said, to be persecuted because of their unnatural births – they laid eggs - and as sentient beings, they had the rights and privileges of any other sentient creature.

“Report please, Hawk.” Sabra asked.

The winged man turned in a circle once more then glided down to earth. He landed lightly before her and folded his black wings against his spine.

“Greetings, Sabra.” He smiled and bowed.

Hawk – no one but other hawks knew their true names – wore leather-strip wrapped woollen leggings, but his muscled, tanned chest was bare. He wore his sable brown hair down to his shoulders. His face had the sharpness synonymous with his people, sharp blade of a nose, narrowed eyes, pointed chin, thin, tightly held lips. Even his ears were sharp, elfin-like.

She returned his smile. The hawks were friendly, gentle people who’d suffered for years and yet didn’t hold a grudge against humans.

“What did you find?”

“Ah, Sabra, that’s why I like you. You never question ‘if’ I found something, you always assume I did.” He folded his arms across his chest.

“And?”

“He headed for Monument City.” Hawk tossed his head. “The centre. He has not left.”

‘Monument City’ was the name the hawks gave the cemetery, because of its statues and ‘monuments’ to the dead.

“Excellent. Thank you, Hawk.” She turned to go back to her car.

“There are others.” Hawk called after her and she stopped. “Many people have joined him. Be cautious, Sabra.”

She turned back to him. “Idents?”

“All wore a black armband.” He frowned at her pale blue, blood-stained shirt and dark blue pants with the black utility belt.

“Back way?”

“I will fly and tell you.” He broke into a run, spread his wings and launched himself into the sky.

“Do you copy, Rad?” She disabled the anti-theft program and climbed into her car.

“Yes, Sabra.”

“Monitor Hawk. Keep him safe.”

“Acknowledged.”

Monument City was the area of twenty football arenas. It would take time to get to the spot Hawk had detected the traces.

She parked across from the main entrance and drummed her fingers lightly against the steering wheel. She had no idea how many ‘civilians’ were in there and her ROE was only for MacNamara. If he was surrounded by ‘acolytes’ her job was going to be difficult, if not impossible. There were also too many escape routes from the cemetery.

On a sigh, she got out and went to the boot of the car. Inside was an assortment of weapons. She checked her side arm: full clip.

Sabra attached another hi-powered side arm to her left side. Both guns she set to automatic. If needed, she could shoot with both hands.

She slid sheathed knives into each boot and hooked sheathed, razor sharp throwing stars onto the back of her belt. If she needed any more firepower, she was a dead woman. There was no way Rad could get back up to her in time. At least he would know what went down: irrefutable proof.

Sabra was about to close the trunk when she noticed the bullet-proof vest. She couldn’t wear it; it would give her away, but… she used another of her knives to cut a length of black cloth off the front and tied it around her arm. If she couldn’t sneak in, why not go through the front door? Finally, she tugged on thin, reinforced gloves. The stars would not cut through the material should she need them.

“Guide me in, Hawk.”

* * *

The sound of chanting was the first thing she heard as she walked down the stone steps into the mausoleum. The crypt had a sign on the outside: “Welcome Righteous Believers”.

MacNamara made no effort to hide his latest meeting and she wondered why.

She reached the bottom step. Old-fashioned lanterns set a couple of metres apart lit the stone corridor. At the end was a double stone door, slightly ajar.

“A trap?” Rad murmured.

Sabra didn’t reply, merely stepped forward, her hands resting on her guns.

At the door, she peeked in.

MacNamara stood in front of a low altar. He had his back to the ordered crowd as he slid a red robe over his suit. He smoothed his hands down the sleeves. He reached out, for what she couldn’t see, but when he turned, she saw he had the wooden cross in one hand and a goblet in the other. His gaze drifted over the crowd and he smiled.

“Open the doors for the Lieutenant, please.” He called and Sabra jerked back.

“Trap.” Rad murmured. “Back up en-route.”

“Not yet.” Sabra gritted as the doors opened wide with a grind of stone-on-stone and puffs of dust. “He hasn’t done anything.”

All the faces of the audience turned to her; they were smiling at her from their rows of wooden seats, but she had a clear shot at MacNamara down the centre aisle.

“Come in, Lieutenant Parrish, and join us in our thanks giving.”

Sabra hesitated. There were too many people here to risk spraying bullets. She put her hands behind her back and unlatched the star pouches.

“Please.” He nodded encouragingly. “I didn’t think the police were so shy.” He said and the crowd dutifully chuckled.

Sabra stepped into the room and glanced back. Two big men, also dressed in red robes, stood by the doors. They did not close them, but stepped away and held their hands in front of themselves.

Unarmed? Maybe. But if they did have weapons, they’d have to lift the robes to get to any guns and that was to her advantage. Maybe.

The silence in the room unnerved her, but she strode forward under the watching eyes of the smiling crowd. “Mr MacNamara…”

“Lord Death, please.”

Sabra stopped. “Lord… Death?”

He smiled benignly. “Yes. It’s what I give those who wish it.”

Sabra looked closer at the crowd, stared into those pleasant and peaceful faces. To a one, she could see signs of illness; pale white or yellowed skin, lesions or scabs and the scent of sickness. The old eyes that held the perpetual tightness of chronic pain, the young whose limbs were deformed, the middle-aged shoulders that slumped with hopelessness. All the faces held a desire for release from what ailed them. All of them expressed despair.

Had he convinced them that death was easier? That it was better than living? That death was the only answer to their problems?

“You know this is wrong.” She said, and dragged her eyes from the crowd, focused on MacNamara.

“On the contrary. Your laws might say it is so, but in the natural world, those who live in pain are killed or left to die; those who are no longer useful are abandoned. I give my followers hope for better things to come. That is all.”

“It is still wrong, and I’ve come to arrest you.”

He smiled at her and held out the goblet. “Any and all here would kill you to reach this. It is the elixir of Death!” His voice rose at the last words and the crowd looked at him with hope. “I only offer it to a select few.”

She heard the moans of profound disappointment behind her as she plucked out a star and threw it. The metallic whine ended in a clang as the star struck the goblet and knocked it out of MacNamara’s hand.

Pale liquid sprayed away from him, but he flinched and flung his hand back. The liquid splashed on to the altar and began to smoke, hiss as it devoured the cloth.

He turned back to her, fire in his eyes.

“You would have them drink acid?” She asked softly. That’s why he rummaged around in garbage: he was looking for illegally dumped hydrochloric acid outside the scrap metal works; behind which, Sabra had tried to first arrest him.

“It is not!”

“Oh, yeah, it is. It’s stripping the metal from your goblet as we speak.”

MacNamara strode forward. “You are a heathen!” He held the crucifix out. “You are not worthy to witness this mass of thanksgiving! Begone, Devil spawn!”

Sabra pulled out both her guns and turned to the side. “Stop where you are. Nobody move!”

She glanced behind her. The goons remained where they were, watched with fascination. Only MacNamara advanced.

“I mean it, MacNamara, stop where you are.”

“Not me.” He sneered. “Not me, not me!” He shouted and a blade slid out from the bottom of the crucifix. “Sinner! I will smite thee!” He turned the crucifix around and held it like a knife.

Sabra stepped back to give herself room. Those nearest the aisle scrambled away.

“Don’t do it, MacNamara!”

He slashed at her and she lowered the weapon, fired.

MacNamara finally stopped his advance, surprise on his face. “You… you shot me!” He lowered his eyes and leaned forward slightly to see the blood flowing down his leg from the wound above his left knee. “It… it… hurts!” He said and crumpled to the ground, howled in agony.

More people shifted away as she holstered one weapon but kept the other trained on MacNamara.

She unhooked her cuffs and rolled the screaming man onto his stomach. It took all her strength to pry one hand away from the wound and clip the bracelet around his wrist.

“Bitch!” He slashed at her again and she retaliated by stepping on his hand as he followed through with the strike. He thrashed about, his unwounded leg kicking out at her.

Sabra kneeled on his lower back and grabbed his arm, tugged it back until she had him secured.

“Rad?”

“Medics called, Sabra. Back up eta is…”

Sabra turned at the commotion at the door. “Here, Rad. Thanks.” Uniforms, armed and dangerous, poured through the doors.

“Hey, Lieutenant,” Officer Brogan said as she approached, “want me to take that out for you?”

Sabra glanced down at the moaning MacNamara, then at the crucifix blade sticking out of her calf. “It’s gonna hurt, isn’t it.” She sighed.

“I meant the perp, Lieutenant. We all know you are one tough bi…, er, cop.”

“Ha, ha. Here, take him.”

Sabra slowly got to her feet and stared down at the cross.

“I go for months without a scratch and within twenty four hours, I’ve been done twice.” She muttered and stepped out of the way.

“Just another day at the office, Sabra.” Rad said.

“Yeah.” Her eyes lifted to the room. “All these people, Rad, looking for a way out and I’ve taken their opportunity away from them.”

“No, Lieutenant, you saved them from a painful, unjustified death. From being murdered.”

She tugged the blade out and held the cross in her hands. “Such a blasphemy.” She murmured.

“Captain Rodgers wants you back at the station, Sabra.” Rad reported and she handed the cross to a forensic technician.

“As soon as I get cleaned up.”

“Acknowledged.”

Sabra walked out of the crypt, stopped by the medic van, then headed back to the office. “Just another day.”

© Jaye Patrick 2006