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.]

Chapter 4: The Tragic Story of Rel Cadwalader

"Get me the station chief," Croft said irritably, staring into the small comm unit.

"The Chief is busy at the moment," said the operative at the other end. "Can I take a message, Mr..... er,"

"Croft. Clifford Croft. Level One agent," Croft.

"You're one of the Eight?" said the operative. "I'm sorry, sir, just a moment."

"Bureaucrats," Croft snorted. He had been trying for the past 20 minutes to get through to someone in a position of authority at the Column branch on the planet Whenfor. Tane had done a little research and discovered surprisingly little about the death of Rel Cadwalader, but she had managed to find out that he had been killed on the planet Whenfor.

The station chief appeared on the comm. Croft identified himself and repeated his request. "And I need this done ASAP."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Croft, but we're a little shorthanded at the moment-"

Croft peered around the image of the station chief to see the people in the background. "Is that Preston? Get me Preston."

"Mr. Preston is preparing for-"

"Now," said Croft, in a low voice.

Preston shortly appeared on the screen. "Hey, Croftie, what's happening?"

"Preston, I need some information quickly," said Croft. "I need you to find out everything you can about the death of one Rel Cadwalader."

"Cliff, I'm on a stakeout that starts tomorrow-"

"Which fits perfectly with my needs because I need results by tomorrow," said Croft. "This is important, Preston."

Preston sighed, then nodded.

"Good. I'm downloading a holo and some other information which might be useful," said Croft, pressing a button. "Can you also do some digging through the Grafton database network as well?"

Preston shook his head. "I certainly won't have time for that. Why don't you ask the Database Espionage division?"

"Because by the time I get all the proper approvals-" Croft caught himself in mid-sentence. "Wait a minute, I have an idea. Croft out." He terminated the contact, and started another.

The irritated face of Levi Esherkol appeared on the screen. In the background could be seen bright sunshine, and a grill. Levi wore his white chef's hat.

"Who bothering me now-" he started to say, but then his growl turned into a smile. "Croft! How did accelerant work?"

"Much as I'm delighted to be your first human test subject, Levi, I haven't had the opportunity to try it yet," said Croft. "I'll try not to test it near the edge of any rooftops," he added, remembering what had happened to that errant chimp.

"Um," said Levi, turning to flip some burgers on his grill.

"Hard at work, I see," said Croft.

"I work hard, I deserve break," said Levi philosophically.

"Well, it's good that I'm catching you when you're just coming off a break, because I need a favor," said Croft.

"Did you get those Grafton meat recipes I ask for?"

"I'll have them right after you do a little digging into the Graftonite network," said Croft.

"I a chemist, not a-"

"Computer expert, electronics experts, physics expert, mechanical engineering expert," said Croft. "I'll keep the list short because we're both busy. You know as well as I that you're a genius in every kind of science. You're so smart that you complete a full day of work for the Column in a matter of minutes, which is why you have so much time to putter about with your food. The only thing that puzzles me is why a brilliant mind like yours is obsessed with cooking."

"Cooking, good cooking, hardest thing of all," said Levi, applying a pinch of unidentified seasoning to the burgers. "I have to work on the mutated mashed potatoes soon, can get to point?"

"I need you to tap into the Grafton network and find out everything you can about the late Rel Cadwalader."

"Late? You kill?"

"No, I didn't get there in time to do the honors," said Croft. "He died a particularly suspicious death."

"What am looking for?"

"Anything suspicious."

"Um," said Levi, turning again to apply the seasoning. A fire leapt up out of the grill, forcing him to move some of the burgers to the edge of the grill. Obviously, Croft had bumped up against the limits of the cook's attention span.

"Levi?"

No response.

"Levi!"

"Yes?" said the cook

"Did I mention I need this by tomorrow?" said Croft.

"Uh...."

"Thank you, Levi," said Croft, disconnecting.

He turned to find Tane standing patiently in the background. "Now, who can honestly say the Column is dysfunctional?" said Croft.

"We're supposed to be checking with local opinion leaders," said Tane.

"And so we shall," said Croft. "Have you set up that appointment with that Anderson fellow?"

"Yes, he's agreed to meet us," said Tane.

"How nice," said Croft.

"Well, you know how people here feel about off-worlders. It's amazing that anybody's willing to meet us," said Tane. "Still, as the publisher of one of Grafton's largest news services, perhaps he's a forward-thinking journalist."

"We can only hope," said Croft, his tone betraying his distinct lack of interest. "Shall we collect our baggage and go?"

"Baggage?" said Tane.

Croft opened the bedroom door, and the Clapper, a big smile on his face, rushed out, clapping vigorously.

They were able to take the groundcar to their destination, the home of the Cargon Press Syndicate. Burundi knew the way there so he drove, but Croft kept a wary eye on him.

When they arrived, Croft was surprised by the strong layer of security they had to pass through--the whole building was fenced off, there were not one but four guards at the front gate, and an ugly turret, presumably for air defense, protruded from the roof. However, much to Croft's surprise, neither he nor Burundi were disarmed. Croft guessed that on Grafton, politeness was more important than security.

Before they entered the building, Croft nodded to the Clapper. The Clapper gave a wide, idiotic, ingratiating smile.

********

Several hours earlier, Croft had come into the Clapper's bedroom. He had been smart enough to get separate bedrooms for each of them; it was well worth the added expense to get a solid night's sleep away from the nearly constant clapping.

"I need your help," said Croft.

"Help?" said the Clapper, looking puzzled.

"Have you wondered why I brought you on this mission?" Croft asked.

"Why you brought me?" said the Clapper, like a parrot.

"It wasn't just for your conversational skills," said Croft.

"You like talking to me?" said the Clapper, breaking out into a great grin as he clapped again.

"Yes, it's great fun, especially with all the applause," said Croft. "But what I really need is an edge over these Graftonites, if I'm forced to fight one."

"You have the Grafton man for that (clap clap)," said the Clapper.

"No, Grafton man isn't going to (clap clap) help," said Croft, imitating the Clapper as a way of peacefully venting his frustration. "But you are going to help."

"I am?" said the Clapper, as if the very concept was alien to him.

"You are a telekinetic," said Croft.

"Te-le-k-"

"No, don't try to pronounce it again, just leave the multisyllabic words and other heavy lifting to me," said Croft. "But it's occurred to me that if you can move objects, that you can also move people."

The Clapper considered. Then he nodded.

"If a Graftonite attacks me, or is about to attack me, I want you to move him."

"Move him?"

"Push him to the ground. Knock him off balance," said Croft.

The Clapper looked puzzled.

"Anything to give me an edge. I can never be as fast as they are, but if you knock them off-balance at a crucial time, that could give me the edge I need. Do you understand?"

The Clapper gave a broad smile.

"I hope you understand, and you're not just giving an idiotic smile," said Croft. "Because if an assassin gets me, can you guess who he's going to go after next?"

The Clapper considered this one... "Uh... the talking lady?"

"Before the talking lady."

"Other Grafton?"

"Before the other Grafton."

The Clappers grin faded. "Me?"

Croft clapped twice.

********

They entered the building housing the Cargon Press Syndicate. There was an armed guard at nearly every turn in the corridor. Croft again wondered why there was a need for such heavy security. This was a press organization, not a bank.

He was still puzzling over this as they were led into Tolbar Anderson's office. He was a tall, bearded man with thinning hair. Like every other Graftonite, he wore a blaster, of course.

"Mr. Toft, sit down," said Anderson. "It's so nice to meet an off-worlder."

Tane, in setting up the interview, had used their "diplomatic envoy" persona.

"I'm surprised to hear you say that," said Croft. "I didn't think off-worlders were especially welcome right about now."

"Well, some people may feel that way, but one thing you learn on Grafton is that there's no unanimity of opinion," said Anderson. "We're too individualistic to agree on anything in very large numbers."

"That's part of the reason I'm here," said Croft. "I'm trying to gauge the level of support that Mo Quandry has."

"It's hard to tell, we don't usually take opinion polls," said Anderson. "They're too dangerous."

"Dangerous?" said Croft.

"People don't like being annoyed with pesky questions around here, Mr. Toft," said Anderson. "I imagine you have holo marketers on your planet?"

"Well, those of us with listed contact numbers do," said Croft. He didn't have enough down-time at home to experience it personally; nor was his number listed. But he knew the practice of unsolicited holo marketing existed; banks of holomarketers worked 25 hours a day, calling to sell their piles of worthless junk. Holomarketing was very irritating, and numerous laws were passed against it; but that didn't slow the industry one bit.

"Just as we have no polling, we don't have unsolicited marketing on Grafton," said Anderson. "Most people will simply ignore an unsolicited contact, but then you've got your deadly 10% to worry about."

"The deadly 10%?"

"Not a precise figure," said Anderson. "But it represents the fraction of the population who will feel strongly enough to shoot the solicitor."

"Even holosolicitors?" said Croft. "What do they do, shoot the offending hologram?"

Anderson took a deep breath. "No, they trace the offending call, go down to the offices, and execute one or more of the salespeople. It's really put a crimp on the unsolicited marketing business."

"I can imagine," said Croft. "So you have the same problem with polling?"

"To a lesser degree. Polling doesn't irritate people as much as unsolicited sales pitches, but every so often you run across an angry Grafton, and, well-"

"What about solicitations from beggars?" said Croft suddenly.

"Beggers?"

"Your poor?"

"There are no poor people on Grafton, Mr. Toft," said Anderson. "If someone's poor-"

"They shouldn't come to Grafton, yes, I think I've heard that before," said Croft. "But what if someone happens to be a poor Graftonite who is already on Grafton?"

"A poor Graftonite?" said Anderson. "What do you mean?"

"Poor. No credits," said Croft. Didn't Anderson know the meaning of the word?

"Oh, that kind of poor," said Anderson, brightening. "I thought you were referring to marksmanship. No, we don't have that kind of poor on Grafton."

"You mean because you have a social safety net, welfare payments-"

Anderson gave a short laugh. "Mr. Toft, we have virtually no government, so we certainly have no payments as you describe. No, if a Graftonite is poor, he gets a job. Usually, if he's a good shot, he gets a job in our traditional export industries--bounty hunting, repossessing important objects, people removal, etcetera etcetera."

"What if he's not a good shot?" said Croft.

"Then he might get a job in our small business community," said Anderson. "Not all of us are gunmen by trade, you know."

"What if he can't get a job in your small business community? I'm surprised your lack of a social welfare system hasn't caused people to turn to crime."

"No, Mr. Croft, we don't even need police for that, the poor don't turn to crime," said Anderson.

"Why not?"

"If a Graftonite is a good shot, he can easily get a job in one of our traditional lines of work. If he's a bad shot and tries to steal from one of his fellow citizens, he'll quickly be killed," said Anderson. "The good marksmen can make more money working off-planet, and they know it. The bad marksmen won't live very long if they try to steal from the good marksmen, and they know it. It's a perfect system that leaves our society almost crime free."

"So what happens to the poor, bad marksmen?" Croft wanted to know.

Anderson gave a cold smile. "They often attempt to do something beyond their means."

There was an awkward pause for a moment. Then Croft tactfully changed the subject. "So your journalists must be from that other category, people who have turned to business and who aren't, as, ah-" he was unsure how to phrase it without causing offense.

But Anderson, understanding his meaning immediately, gave a big laugh. "You needn't worry, Mr. Toft, I don't get offended easily. But you're totally wrong; our journalists aren't gunmen who can't cut it; quite the opposite, we only employ journalists from the top ranks of our marksmen community."

"Why? Why would you need to?" Croft asked.

"Because-," Anderson stopped. "I keep forgetting. You have, I believe they are called, libel laws on your League planets, correct?"

Croft nodded.

"So if the press publishes something objectionable, a person may sue in court to seek recompense, correct?"

"Something like that."

"Well, we don't have any courts on Grafton."

"No courts?" said Croft, surprised. "Oh--you have no government, so I guess that follows."

"Correct. So since we have no way of pursuing legal remedies against reckless journalists-"

"You kill them," said Croft, immediately understanding. "The writers. That's why you have such tight security here."

Anderson nodded. "You never know when someone will get ticked off by an article. One time many years ago someone came in here, guns blazing, demanding to know who did the weather. Didn't like our forecasts."

"What did you do?"

"I shot him," said Anderson. "But only in the leg. He was obviously mentally deranged. His family had him shipped off-planet to an asylum, I believe." Anderson paused. "But as you see we have to be very careful of what we write about."

"So sensitive topics have to be covered by your best gunmen?" Croft asked.

"No, the degree of sensitivity is not the most important factor," said Anderson. "The most important thing is who we're going to write about. If we're writing about someone who doesn't have a reputation, we'll assign that to one of our junior journalists. But if we're writing about, say, one of our Olympic marksmen, we'll only give that to a senior columnist, or perhaps even our managing editor, if the subject of the article is a silver medalist or above."

"I see," said Croft. "I guess that aggressive journalism isn't exactly the order of the day."

"Not at all! People wouldn't subscribe to our database if we weren't aggressive," said Anderson. "But we pick our fights."

"Meaning you only cover those who aren't the most deadly gunmen."

"I wouldn't put it as blatantly as that, but there is something to what you say," Anderson admitted.

"So, how did you cover the death of Rel Cadwalader?" Croft asked.

Anderson grimaced. "Is that what you're really here to talk about? How did you know?" He looked from Croft's face to Tane, to the Clapper, to Burundi, and back to Croft again.

"Know what?" said Croft, looking puzzled.

"Then you don't know," said Anderson. "If so, it's just a funny coincidence you came here to talk to us. Though I heard that some of the other press syndicates had the same problem."

"What problem?"

"The family said they didn't mind us writing about what had happened to their son. But when we started digging for details, we got the word."

"The word?"

"Don't," said Anderson.

"So the family told you not to investigate?" said Croft. "Does Cadwalader come from a family of marksmen?"

"The request didn't come from the family," said Anderson uneasily.

"Anything you say here is strictly confidential," Croft assured him.

"Well, it doesn't really matter if you know, as long as it doesn't get around that it came from me," said Anderson.

"You have my assurance it won't," said Croft earnestly, easily falling into liespeak

"It was Mo Quandry," said Anderson immediately. "You already seem to have heard of him."

"I've heard the name, somewhere," said Croft. "Why did Quandry care what you wrote about Cadwalader?" said Croft. "Did Cadwalader work for him?"

"No. There was no direct connection between the two. That was one of the things we wanted to look into. Understand, Mr. Croft, that off-planet deaths at the hands of sh-, begging your pardon, one of your kind, is pretty rare. That piqued our curiosity enough to investigate the matter. But Quandry shut us down. Said if we looked into it any more he'd send one of his Olympic marksmen after us. He has gold medalists working for him. We took him seriously."

"Huh," said Croft. "What do you think he's really up to?"

Anderson shrugged. "There's obviously something about the death he wants to keep quiet. Maybe there's some details about it that would prove embarrassing to him."

"Such as?"

"I don't know," said Anderson, shrugging. "Right now we're too busy working on other articles to investigate further. We're working on a great human interest piece right now about a former silver medalist who's fallen past his prime and lost his marksmanship."

"Coincidentally, the target of that article won't be someone who can shoot back at you very effectively."

"Not very effectively at all," Anderson grinned. "And now, my time is quite limited. I wish you well, I really do." He stood up suggestively to signify that the interview was over.

Croft thanked him and got up to go.

"Mr. Toft?"

Croft turned around.

"One last parting piece of advice. Do you plan to live a long life?"

Croft considered. "That's the plan."

"Would you like some advice for staying alive?"

"If it's good advice."

"If you want to live, get off Grafton."

Croft raised an eyebrow.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not threatening you," said Anderson. "It's Quandry. He's stirring people up. There's no telling what will happen to off-worlders when things explode."

Croft touched his blue denim. "But I'm traveling incognito."

Anderson laughed and showed him to the door.

As they drove back to their lodging, Croft said, "All right, what did we learn?"

The Clapper clapped.

"Ok, you learned a new rhythm," said Croft. "Sylvia?"

Tane said, "I don't think we learned anything about Quandry's level of support."

"But we did learn that he's hiding something about the death of Cadwalader."

"That's off-profile for our mission," said Tane. "We should be focusing on who we will interview next."

"Good! While you're doing that, I'll check in with Preston and Levi."

Croft called them the following morning. He spoke to Preston first.

"Well?"

"There's no police report," said Preston.

"No police report?" Croft frowned.

"We located the alley where the incident happened, based on the holo you sent. No one in the area claimed to witness the incident or even hear the sound of blaster fire."

"They could be lying, they probably don't want to get involved," said Croft.

"Possibly," said Preston. "But I also did a quick forensics sweep of the crime scene. There was no sign of blaster fire."