Attac of the Bounty Hunters

[This is not a "sex story". It is a story about a society whose people have superfast reflexes... and guns.]

Forward: Who are the Graftonites?

They were the most fearsome gunmen in the galaxy. Everyone knew what they were capable of. People trembled in their presence. All it took was the mere mention of their name.

The Graftonites.

It was a curious world, Grafton II, at first an uninhabited, lush planet. It was several years before the first settlers started to notice something different about themselves. Their reflexes started to speed up. They could move and dodge more quickly, and of course, shoot more quickly as well. At first, that skill was largely used for hunting.

But as time passed and their new found abilities matured, word spread about what the Graftonites were capable of doing. Graftonites suddenly found that their abilities were in demand on other planets. Suddenly, the life of a hard working pioneer had little allure for these settlers, compared to the life of adventure and excitement (and not to mention enrichment) that the galaxy had to offer.

Fifty years later, the four most common professions on Grafton were pretty much set for centuries to come. In order of popularity:

Bounty hunter.

Gunman.

Mercenary.

Killer.

Graftonites became feared throughout the civilized galaxy for their exceedingly quick reflexes. But as individuals they were only a threat to those they had been hired to capture or kill. A capable Graftonite gunman could take on three or four other soldiers, outdraw them, and kill them all before any could fire a shot.

But what would it take to stop an army of Graftonites? They would be almost unbeatable.

It was fortunate that the Graftonites, fiercely independent by nature, had never organized. Each one did his or her own thing.

At least, until Mo Quandry came along.

Mo Quandry was a traditional Graftonite assassin. He had started his professional life as a gunman. He enjoyed it and had an unusual talent for it, even by Graftonite standards. He then became a mercenary, which was even more lucrative than being a gunman. At first Quandry enjoyed the work, but over time he found that the excitement faded. Something was lacking.

And then he became a professional hitman. Hunting targets. Eliminating them. And then Quandry knew what had been missing as a mercenary. The thrill of the chase. The excitement of the kill. The feeling of power when he squeezed the trigger. It was that feeling of power that drove him into politics, even though Grafton II didn't have much by way of a political structure. Which was something that Mo Quandry intended to change.

At this moment Quandry stood in his personal stadium on his expansive estate. Graftonite estates tended to be roomy, but Quandry's was larger than most, big enough to accommodate a small army. That wasn't by chance.

Quandry took to the stage, reveling in the roar of cheers from hundreds of Graftonite gunmen in the bleachers. Quandry was a tall, dark haired man, with a single scar running down the side of his face. He had a certain hardness in his brown eyes, a hardness uncommon even for a Graftonite. He wore the blue denim that was the popular dress of all Graftonites, with a blaster holstered to one side, and a traditional Graftonite weapon, the slicer, holstered to the other.

"My friends," he said, standing before the gathering of assembled Graftonites. "Our time has come! No longer will we be content working for the sheep, living off the pocket change they pay us for running their errands while they get fat and rich. Why settle for a handful of credits when it can all be ours!"

The crowd roared.

Quandry started pacing. He seemed to be looking through the crowd, picking out individual faces. "The sheep have nothing but scorn for us. But even more than that, they fear us!"

The crowd roared again.

Quandry suddenly stopped moving. "As proof, see the spy they have placed in our midst!"

He snapped his fingers, and two Graftonites were instantly at his side. Quandry pointed, and a very surprised looking spectator in the audience found himself surrounded by Quandry's men.

"Bring him up here!" said Quandry. Quandry could feel the thrill running through him, the feeling of getting close to his prey, the waves of adulation from the crowd. It made him feel more alive than he had ever been before.

The spectator was brought to the stage. One of the guards handed Quandry the spectator's blaster.

"Who sent you to spy on us?" Quandry boomed.

The man looked frightened, but said, "I... I am no spy."

Quandry stood for a moment, as if considering that answer. Then he looked at the man's blaster. "Not a bad weapon."

Almost quicker than the eye could see, Quandry fired off a series of shots with the man's blaster. They exploded all around him, only inches from the man's hands and legs.

Quandry aimed the blaster at the man. "Now, who do you work for?"

"The L-league," said the man.

"You see!" said Quandry. The crowd roared.

"We will no longer do your bidding while you skulk in the shadows, like a coward!" said Quandry. The crowd roared again.

"If you want to confront us, you must do it face to face!" said Quandry. He tossed the man his blaster, and took several steps backwards. "Draw."

The man sweated, but didn't raise his blaster.

"Are you afraid?" said Quandry.

"I don't want to fight," said the man, now trembling.

"Nevertheless, by trespassing on my property, and spying, you've picked a fight," Quandry roared. "Look how cowardly the sheep is!"

The crowd roared again. They were his; they were all his. This was his power, and Quandry reveled in it.

"Now draw," said Quandry, staring the trembling man down.

"You can outdraw me. You have faster reflexes, I wouldn't stand a chance," said the man.

"All right," said Quandry. He slowly drew his own blaster, and laid it down on the ground. Then he drew his slicer, a long, thin foil. He thumbed a contact on it, and the foil glowed as a thin energy field enveloped the length of it.

"Now you have no more excuses," said Quandry. "Draw."

Still trembling, the man didn't raise the blaster. He took a step backwards.

"You have exactly three seconds before I come after you," said Quandry. "One... two..."

The man raised his blaster, and fired. But he might as well have been moving in slow motion, for Quandry dodged out of the way of the blast, raised the slicer, and gave a quick, horizontal slice with his blade.

The man didn't even have time to scream. He fell to the ground, in two distinct and separate thuds.

Quandry raised his glowing slicer into the air. He gave an unforced smile and felt a tingling excitement throughout his body. There it was, that feeling again, the one he so desperately craved.

Quandry faced the crowd.

His

crowd. "This will be the fate of all sheep who oppose us! Let us take from them what is rightfully ours!" he yelled. "Together, we will rule the galaxy!"

"Victory!" he shouted.

"Victory!" the crowd shouted back.

They shouted it over, again and again, as Quandry continued to excite the crowd. With their super reflexes and gunfighting abilities, who would be able to stop them?

Chapter 1: The Column Gets Involved

The League of United Planets was the most powerful coalition of colonized planets in the galaxy. It was administered by an elected government on the planet August and stood for human rights and democratic representation. A very large bureaucracy administered its programs and a slightly less large military defended it. In addition, the League had a number of external intelligence agencies working for it.

Stellar Intelligence was the largest, most well known, and most respected agency--and also the least competent.

At the other extreme, the most capable intelligence agency was one without the staff or the resources or even the public relations of Stellar Intelligence. What it did have was superb operatives. This agency was simply known as the Column.

And in the Column, the most capable agents were known as Level One Agents. There were traditionally only eight of those, who were known, for a very obvious reason, as "The Eight." And of those eight most capable agents, perhaps the very most capable agent in all the League was at that moment performing vital work... in an insane asylum.

For the first time in a very long time, superspy Clifford Croft was almost at a loss for words.

"...just because," Croft finally said. "Do I really have to explain why it's a bad thing to light someone's clothes on fire?"

Croft was speaking to one of the Column's gamma operatives, a fire starter named Red Sally who could literally start fires with her mind. They were deep underground, in a secure sub basement in Column HQ on August codenamed "The Institute".

Sally glared at Croft, her blonde hair turning a hint of red as the room temperature around her rose slightly. "It's not like I actually hurt someone."

"I don't think the Deputy Secretary appreciated the first degree burn on her right arm," Croft said.

"First degree? That's nothing," said Sally dismissively.

"She's an important government official, and important government officials don't appreciate being lit on fire," Croft said, as if he were explaining an obvious fact of life to a child. He looked her in the eye, saw the madness, and tried to ignore it.

"It was an accident," said Sally. She looked away, wringing her hands.

"Was it?" Croft said. "Or was it just coincidental that her jacket burst into flame when she asked if you were emotionally stable?"

"I am emotionally stable!" Sally shouted, wisps of steam coming out of her blonde hair, which was starting to look more and more red. "And I only lit her jacket on fire. If she had only taken it off promptly, she wouldn't have gotten a scratch!"

"The point is that the Deputy Secretary should never have needed a fire safety course in order to visit here," Croft said. "And you need to learn that."

"All right, I'm sorry," said Sally. She raised her right hand. "I promise never to ignite anyone again."

"You've said that before," Croft said. "The doctors think you need some practical training."

"I don't care what the doctors think!" Sally snapped. And there it was again, in her eyes, the obvious insanity.

Croft snapped his fingers and took a few steps back from Sally. Attendants in metal fire resistance suits and visors came running forward, on cue, carrying large old fashioned print books. They stood between Sally and Croft, and held the books up, all around Croft.

"What's this all about?" said Sally. "What are you doing with my books of poetry?"

Red Sally was well known in the institute for writing feverish poems, mostly involving fire. A sentimentalist, she printed out editions of every volume and cherished them as if they were her own children.

"Oh, you mean these books?" Croft said. "Consider this an object lesson in controlling your powers." He smiled. Sally had the power. Normally, she was the one to be feared. But now, for a brief moment, Croft had control, and he relished it.

"What do you mean?"

"I have some blunt things to say to you," Croft said. "And I have some concern as to how you will take it."

"I can take some constructive criticism, I suppose," said Sally guardedly.

"Good," Croft said. "Because remember that your books are surrounding me." He gave the slightest of gestures, and the orderlies in the fire protection suits held up the books.

"First let's start with your temper," Croft said.

"Who says I have a temper?" Sally yelled.

"Everyone," Croft said. "And I'm not only talking about the people you've injured. People are afraid to be around you, Sally. They think if they say the wrong thing, they'll burst into flames."

"Lies!" said Sally, her hair half-red, and positively steaming now. Croft thought he could even see the beginnings of flames in her eyes, which was a little more than disconcerting. Still, he willed himself to remain calm. In control.

"So nothing I could say could cause you to start a fire, then?" Croft said.

"No!" said Sally.

"Well then, Sally, let us talk about your poetry," Croft said. "Have I told you that I have actually read some of it?" This was the dangerous part. Provoking Sally was not Croft's first choice, but he had been forced to do it.

Sally's expression turned grim.

"I can't say I think much of it," Croft said, in a carefully modulated tone that was just the slightest bit derisive.

Her hair was all red now.

"Your poetry has no rhythm."

A curtain of steam rose from her.

"And all you do is write about fires. That gets dull, real quick," Croft observed, acting as if he didn't notice Sally's physiological reactions. That was the key to his control, pretending that nothing she could do would intimidate or harm him.

Sally glared at Croft.

Croft continued, careful to maintain eye contact. "And for another, your spelling and grammar are awful. What educated person spells conflagration with a u?"

The air in the room became sweltering hot. Croft could feel a sheet of heat blow over him. Any sensible person would have fled. Croft willed himself to continue. He could see that things were reaching a boiling point, perhaps literally. It was time for the final push. "I read some of your poems to the guys upstairs, and they actually laughed at the amateurish-"

Sally screamed, and a jet of flames shot out from her hands. The orderlies cringed, even in their fire protective suits, as did Croft. But the flames shot backwards, not forwards, engulfing an unoccupied table and a set of chairs in flames. The flames shot out again, and again and again, as Sally glared at Croft, perspiration running off her brow, but always in a safe direction.

Finally, Sally started gasping, and the flames stopped. Orderlies rushed forward with fire extinguishers.

Sally wiped some of the perspiration off of her face. "You see?" she said. "I never touched you. I can control it."

Croft looked at her, at the glee and excitement in her eyes, and realized Gamma Operatives were truly two edged swords.

********

Croft was drenched with sweat, and had to shower and change clothes. He was still reflecting on how much he hated this assignment over lunch at the Column HQ cafeteria. One of his few friends, a fellow operative named Preston, joined him several minutes into Croft's lunch. They were serving simulated fish today. Croft hated simulated fish.

"How did it go?" Preston asked him.

Croft shrugged. "The usual."

"Why did you get picked for this assignment?" Preston asked, vocalizing a thought that had been on Croft's mind.

"The Chief volunteered me," Croft said. "I told her one of the doctors should do it. I'm not a psychiatrist."

"What did the Chief say?" Preston asked.

"She said all members of the Column, even the Eight, have to do unpleasant tasks," Croft said. "I think she's trying to break me, trying to pressure me to quit." The Chief didn't like Croft, that much was clear. Over the past few months Croft had been given petty, unpleasant assignments which were certainly not appropriate for one of the Eight. Croft had detected a pattern.

"So has she burned you yet?" Preston seemed to be almost gleeful.

"Not yet, sorry to disappoint you," said Croft. He ate some simulated corn. It had been so long since he had eaten real corn that he had forgotten what the real thing tasted like. Did simulated corn taste like real corn? Croft no longer knew. For him, simulated corn

was

real corn now.

"Cheer up, you'll get a real assignment soon," said Preston.

"How do you know that?" said Croft.

"You're one of the Eight. The Column can't afford to have one of its best minds babysitting in the basement," said Preston.

He felt an odd jolt of pride. "Ah, but now you're talking common sense," said Croft, chasing some simulated corn with his fork. Fork? That was probably simulated too. "I don't think the Chief subscribes to common sense."

"She's not all bad," said Preston.

Croft just looked at him.

"All right, she's all bad," said Preston. "But just wait and see, your luck will change. It could happen any time, at any moment."

Croft's wristcomm beeped. Startled, he looked at it; it was from the Chief's office.

He looked at Preston. "Did you know...?"

Preston shook his head.

Croft took the message. He was summoned to an unscheduled meeting in a certain conference room. Immediately.

"This could be it," said Preston.

"More likely than not she's thought of something else unpleasant that is meant to break me," said Croft. "Maybe to reindex all the files, or to polish all the blasters in the armory, or something equally trite."

"Don't think negative," said Preston.

"Or don't think at all," Croft responded.

Croft arrived at the conference room and found it crowded. There were bureaucrats there of all kinds, and senior military officers too, from the army and the navy. But Croft's attention was focused on the Chief. She greeted him with her usually warm and familiar glare. Mitty Benchly was new to the job of Director of the Column ("Director" in title, but called "Chief" in practice). But it hadn't taken her long to acquire an instinctive dislike to Croft. She had spent thirty years of her life as a line operative in Stellar Intelligence, the rival to the Column, before going into politics, eventually landing the position as Director of the Column. Her background in SI showed; she believed an intelligence agency should be about the quiet, methodical accumulation of information, to better inform policy makers.

She was far less comfortable with the idea of missions, or operations, and that was where Croft excelled. Benchly didn't believe that the proper role of an intelligence agency was to interfere in the workings of other planets. Given that this was the role that Croft specialized in, it was to no surprise that she did not hold him in high esteem.

"Mr. Croft," she said, giving him a warning glare. "The Chief of Staff is joining us at this meeting," she said, indicating a dignified, middle aged man sitting in a fine, eight piece suit, flanked by aides. His aides only wore six piece suits.

Croft grimaced. The more layers of clothing a bureaucrat wore, the more self-important they considered themselves. But what would the Chief of Staff be doing here? Normally, the Chief of Staff of the President had little or no involvement with the Column. And why were all these senior military officers present? Something important must be happening.

Croft, looking at the Chief's expression, realized he was expected to say something. What, he didn't know. Her eyes pointed to the Chief of Staff.

"Uh, so nice to meet you, sir," said Croft unconvincingly. He was always lacking in the social niceties, not because of lack of

ability

, but mostly because of lack of

interest

.

"Mr. Croft," said the Chief of Staff, giving Croft an appraising glance that could have meant anything, or nothing at all.

"Have a seat," said the Chief sharply. "Lights!"

The lights dimmed. "This briefing will be led by our second deputy chief analyst for sector intelligence, Sylvia Tane," said the Chief, indicating a young blonde woman. "You may begin, Ms. Tane."

"What is this about?" Croft whispered to the Chief.

"Be quiet and find out," the Chief advised. She raised her voice. "Ms. Tane, we're waiting."

"Ah, yes," said the young woman. She pressed a button, and a holo of a blue-green world appeared on the holoprojector. "You are all undoubtedly familiar with Grafton II. It's a planet notorious for its gunmen for hire. Until now Graftonites have operated individually for different employers, some working against our interests, some working for them, but most engaged in activities unrelated to our interests."