The Dust

Fugitive

It was said that Weston was a Federal agent, and that he had been responsible for the ventilation system in old Sullivan's dormitories failing. Tarion reckoned that Sullivan had skimped on the maintenance again and looked for a scapegoat, but it was good to have an occasional reminder to the Federals that they weren't welcome in Grace.

'Course, the Federals hadn't found Grace. If they had, they would've wiped it out long ago. Paranoia was the currency of the day, though, and Tarion was willing to trade in it.

Weston cheated at cards. That Tarion had lost the money he was going to spend on Cel because Weston had a card up his sleeve sweetened the deal. When the contract came in as "Dead or Alive", Tarion had made his decision already.

The Federals didn't run a railway near Grace, so Weston had left on foot. There were a series of way stations, usually unmanned, that would provide shelter for travelers as they walked or rode.

Cycles were rare and expensive. Although the Federals had sturdy vehicles they could take through a dust storm, riding a cycle with low visibility was a death sentence, and Tarion had seen the occasional cycle abandoned by a rider in the wastes. Both hunter and quarry had their own cycles, and Tarion was able to track by the plumes.

The drone he had sent out had limited signal range, a precaution against accidentally announcing oneself to the Federals, but it was sufficient to give him a bird's eye view. A red dot appeared beneath the faint plume of dust that Weston was kicking up in the distance, and a map of the terrain projected itself into Tarion's eye.

The hunter pushed his cycle to its limit, and Weston's lead began to diminish.

The cycles had to be at the canyon. The bridge came out from underground, but the tunnels to access it had been sealed off and replaced with winding paths. It was too treacherous to ride down. A small miscalculation would send a rider careening into the depths of the canyon, crashing into the darkness beneath the orange and brown rocks.

A bird analogue called out a warning as the fugitive tried to make his escape, and Tarion held in his smile. Looking down over the edge of the cliff, he stepped off, hoping to connect with Weston at the base of the bridge.

The lift-harness had been a remnant from the war, a tool used by assault troopers trying to land in the few surface cities. Few had hit the ground in one piece, but at least they descended gently.

Weston passed onto the bridge just a few seconds before Tarion, and the man realized that he was out-classed. The traitor's gun gleamed in the harsh red sunlight, and the plasma discharge nearly burned a hole straight through Tarion. The hunter ignored the blue nimbus lingering in the air, reaching for his own revolver.

The gunslinger brought his weapon free, his cybernetic arm drawing it and steadying it in a blur of motion. Weston's folly was punished with a report that echoed off the barren walls of the chasm, punctuated with the ringing of a hypersonic ricochet. He fell, reaching for his leg, but Tarion's judgment arrived before Weston could see the damage.

The hood blocked out any signals that the fugitive could be sending to the Federals. He wondered what he might have given them in exchange for a squad to come and save him.

"Talk, worm."

"I don't know anything! All I know is that they said you were rightly furious about the game and you were coming after me. I didn't know anything about the bounty."

Tarion saw no need to interject during Weston's confession. If the Federals had indeed chosen him, he wasn't selected for his particular intelligence.

"Sullivan's maintenance crew is just awful. I didn't do it, man. Stuff like that will happen on its own when you have a louse like that. He's a total deadbeat. Hell, you ought to go after him. I'm a good man, Tarion. You know that."

It was Weston's good fortune that Tarion had already bandaged his leg. The furious laughter from the cyborg threatened to shake the bridge loose from its moorings as the two finally reached the solid ground of the canyon's edge.

"Weston, I'm going to be nice and take you to Sullivan. He's the generous, forgiving kind, you know?"

There was a rumor that Sullivan had once fed a man to his favorite dog just because he could. Sullivan did nothing to dispel this falsehood, quite appreciating the reverence he received among the rougher members of the community when his apathy about his tenants' desperate living conditions was mistaken for willful misanthropy. Tarion wondered if the fugitive considered this a fate worse than death, or if he'd just been correct about his presumption that Weston would whine and wail when threatened.

His ruminations were cut short. The rumbling of a strike craft in the distance was clear as soon as the men crested the canyon walls and there was nothing to obstruct the sound.

"You're with the Federals now? That's low."

"Wasn—"

The fugitive's complaints were cut short by the echoing reports of a railgun. Thousands of projectiles flew around them, but the gunner on the strike craft wasn't good enough to land a hit. Tarion shoved Weston onto the cycle, ignoring the ringing in his ears. The cycle hummed to life, but a display noted that a fuel cell had ruptured, and while it wasn't a danger they would have limited range.

Tarion didn't care. He gunned the cycle to its full speed. The Federals tried to adjust their aim, but Tarion was quicker, driving toward the bridge. Going into the tunnels on the cycle wasn't his first choice; they would probably be clear, unless the Federals expected it, but they all led to Irkalla, and that would mean he'd need to find someone to vouch for the bounty or find a place to stash Weston before  taking him back to Grace.

The last of the railgun shots punched holes through the tunnel entrance, sending a spray of dirt across Tarion. He almost lost balance, but remained upright. The rush of wind—of drag—reminded him that falling now would be fatal. He looked back to his passenger.

Weston had only taken one hit, a railgun round from the side that worked its way through his chest in a path that was only barely curved by the deflection of the slug and the movement of the passenger.

Tarion stopped the cycle and pushed his passenger off. Normally he wouldn't disrespect the dead, but a cheat and a crook wouldn't bring down the wrath of the saints. Three pictures were enough to serve as confirmation, and he took a blood sample in case anyone called him on it. No point in taking anything that couldn't be concealed, since the Federals would certainly be searching travelers.

He hopped back on the bike and set off for Irkalla, away from the strike craft and the inevitable patrol. The ringing in his ears lasted long enough that he knew he would have to get them replaced. The bounty would cover it, and he'd be back to Cel before she knew it.

Long ago, Cel had told him to be careful. He'd taken it seriously, of course, as the old stories were full of women's intuition going unheeded by proud warriors who would get themselves killed by an unseen threat. But he'd faced down a Federal gunship and lived; he knew the saints were on his side. All he had to do was play his cards right, and he could go places.