Part VII – Wallace

This is Part VII of the serial space western The Ghosts of Blackmoon Rift. It is also available for download in RTF format here. Or click here for a complete listing of episodes.

“You’re crazy, Wallace!” the redheaded man said loudly. It was a bright, windy day on Blackmoon Ranch hillside. At the top of the hill was the Wallace family ranch house. The redheaded man and his three friends stood between Wallace and the ranch house. They had just disembarked from the spacecraft parked twenty meters away and were surrounded by the luggage that proved it.

“You’ve got serious problems, my man,” said the redhead. “I’m here to take my fiancé somewhere safe, so wipe that stupid smirk off your face. Why are you smiling like that?“

 

 

Part VII – Wallace

Previously: Young archaeologist Egan Torr is trying to get to the small world of Blackmoon to search for a lost starship. A devil-may-care pilot named Crash is the only one who will take him there, but they hit a snag when Crash’s ship is impounded. They break it out only to find themselves targeted by the town’s defense systems. Meanwhile we join Wallace, the rancher who owns most of Blackmoon and who is currently wanted by the law for shooting a federal agent.

Wallace smiled at all the wrong times: when he was talking to someone he didn’t like, or when he was confused, or angry. It tended to disconcert people. And his fierce, canine smile, which showed gritted teeth and the whites of his eyes, did not inspire mirth. In his current state, with a tattered overcoat, dark locks matted across his forehead and an angry bruise rising above his left eye, he looked downright terrifying.

Wallace took a step forward. Three of the men took a step back.

“Easy boys,” said the fourth, a dapper fellow with a golden mustache. “Sure, he looks scary. But there’s only one of him. And, well, there’s four of us!”

“My sister ain’t no fiancé of yours, Flanagan,” growled Wallace. “Now get off my land.”

“She is so!” said the redhead, and then realized that this sounded rather whiny. “You don’t know our feelings for each other!” he added defiantly.

“If you’re engaged then why ain’t she wearing your ring?” asked Wallace.

“I was saving up for it!” Flanagan’s young, freckled face flushed red to match his hair. He fished awkwardly in his pocket and pulled out a shiny gold band. “See, I’ve got it now!”

“That’s real pretty. You can give it to one of your boyfriends here. Now excuse me.”

“Don’t you walk away when I’m talking to you!” shouted Flanagan.

“That’s right,” said the man with the mustache. “My man Flan here means business.” There were murmurs of assent from the other two members of the party.

Buoyed by this show of support, Flanagan drew himself up, looked Wallace almost straight in the eye, and proclaimed, “I have clearly defined goals!” Wallace stared at him. “I will assert my wishes to you and we will discuss them in a rational manner,” he continued.

“Uh, that’s a good plan, Flan,” said the mustache man. “Why don’t you tell Mr. Wallace what it is you want.”

“His sister!” said Flanagan. Wallace bristled.

“Nice choice of words there, Flan,” muttered the mustache.

“I mean, I want to take his – your – sister away from here to some place where she can get treatment for her illness,” amended Flanagan. “I will keep her safe and respect, ah, her honor.” Wallace grinned at him silently. Flanagan forged ahead, a slight tremor in his voice. “You believe we are enemies, but in fact we both want what is best for her.”

Wallace glanced around behind himself as if expecting to see someone else. But there was nothing but a stray ball of razor weed bouncing down the hill. Wallace turned and strode forward until he stood inches away from Flanagan, who trembled slightly. Wallace raised a hand. Flanagan flinched.

“WHO IN THUNDER ARE YOU TALKING TO?” Wallace exploded. “I’m right here! Stop talking to me like I’m – I’m – someone else! I’m a Wallace of Blackmoon! This is my ranch, on my world, under my sky! And I can take care of my own sister!”

“I, ah – Murphy?” Flanagan backed away and turned pleading to the mustachioed man.

“C’mon Flan, tell Mr. Wallace what you told me earlier,” the man called Murphy said encouragingly.

“Oh yeah!” said Flanagan, brightening. He turned to Wallace. “I said you were crazy as a two-moon wolf!” He giggled nervously. “You run around by yourself in the wilderness for days on end, you shoot at federal agents and you’ve got your sister on ice in the basement! You call that taking care of her? Hah!” It took Flanagan a moment to notice that his friends weren’t sharing his laughter.

Murphy’s mustache twitched. “Um, Flanny…” he said.

“I’m going to pull your friend’s hat down over his knees,” said Wallace. Then he he turned to the man on Flanagan’s left and did just that, grabbing his hat by the brim and yanking it. The man yelped as his head and then shoulders popped through the crown. When the hat reached his knees, he fell over. Wallace gave him a good kick and he went rolling down the hill.

Flanagan and the other man hastily retreated out of arm’s reach. Only the man called Murphy stood his ground, standing by the group’s pile of luggage, twirling his mustache.

“You gonna make me wear my hat for a belt too?” he drawled.

“Nope,” said Wallace, and kicked a piece of luggage over. Murphy blinked – and was suddenly reduced to two feet in height.

“Ooh, shrinkage,” he exclaimed. He looked up to see Wallace towering over him. “Well this is awkward.”

“You’re a hologram,” said Wallace.

“Got it in one,” said Murphy.

Wallace looked at Flanagan and his friend, who were edging backwards towards their spaceship.

“Tell you what,” he said to Murphy. “I got some business to take care of here. Why don’t you put yourself in screensaver mode for a couple of minutes?”

“You’re the boss,” said Murphy, and disappeared.

. . .

“You know what you’re like?” said Flanagan petulantly. He and his remaining companion were sitting on the ground in their underwear while Wallace tied their ankles together. Downhill, Flanagan’s third companion was trying to get his hat down over his feet. “You’re like the meat-headed older brother in those old movies who beats up his sister’s sensitive boyfriend. I mean, c’mon. Do you really want to be that guy?”

Wallace hauled the two of them to their feet and pointed downhill. “March,” he said. The two complied immediately, hopping awkwardly forward for a few feet on three legs. Then they tripped and went sprawling down the hillside. Wallace watched them for a moment and then turned to their luggage.

Rifling through the bags, he quickly found a small silver device which he fastened to his belt. Murphy blinked into existence in the air beside him, looked around, and then saw what was clipped to his belt.

“Oh wonderful,” he said, “You’ve acquired my projection module. Why should I be surprised? You certainly look like someone who woke up this morning and said to themselves, ‘You know what I need in my life? A wacky sidekick.’”

Wallace spat and asked, “Who are you?”

“Me? I’m a high-res simulation of bestselling author Dr. K.A. Anderson Murphy. My job is to take the malleable clay of boys and mold them into Men. Ah, some clay being softer than others,” he added, glancing down the hill at the struggling figures.

“You’re a self-help guru.”

“No! No no no. I’m an Expert Mentoring Program called What Would Murphy Do. I coach, I advise, I collaborate. Whether you need a smooth approach for a young lady or just the right thing to say to when you get pulled over with a spaceship full of whiskey, I’m your man. Well, I was your man, until you kicked over my power-extender pack. Now I’m down to about a third of a man. I can’t project at full resolution without it, you know.”

“Too bad. I don’t need a mentor,” said Wallace. He began walking briskly up the hill towards the ranch house that sprawled along the crown.

“No? Have you looked in a mirror lately? Pretty shabby, man. What in the worlds were you doing last night?”

Wallace frowned. “I don’t remember,” he said.

. . .

When they arrived at the front door Wallace strode right in without bothering to knock. An elderly couple, slight and tanned and weather-beaten, scurried into the front room to see what the fuss was.

“Oh, Mr. Wallace,” said the little old man, “You’re back already!”

“Been gone long enough,” said Wallace. “How’s my sister? How’s Casey?”

The little old man blinked in confusion, and the little old woman piped up, “Well Mr. Wallace, we were hoping you could tell us!”

“Ain’t you been monitoring the cryo-chamber like I taught you?” demanded Wallace.

“But Mr. Wallace, we can’t monitor the chamber when it ain’t here!” protested the old man.

“What?” roared Wallace. “What do you mean ‘ain’t here’? Where’s my sister?”

“She’s been gone two days,” said the little old lady.

“It was that boy Flanagan, wasn’t it!” said Wallace. “I’ll tan his hide. I’ll tear his shiny ship apart!”

The old man shook his head solemnly. “But it weren’t Flanagan, Mr. Wallace,” he said. “You took her.”

To Be Continued…

(Part VIII is here.)