Part XX – Break Point

This is Part XX 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.

Sunlight streamed horizontally across the horizon, racing the lone figure riding a plume of dust across the obsidian desert. Already, much of the wilderness of Blackmoon was buried in shadow. Crash was pushing the hoversled hard, maybe harder than any rider had ever pushed it before. Certainly none of its previous riders had been overconfident scout pilots.

Crouched low over the green terrain-map on the console, Crash devoured every unfolding contour of the land. Strapped prone to the rear of the hoversled was a redheaded figure, inert except for the occasional moan that escaped from its lips. One did so now.

“Aw, put a sock in it, Flanagan,” Crash called back over his shoulder. “It’s just a couple of broken ribs. You’re probably too crazy to feel that, anyway. Bet it feels like eating ice-cream to you. Must be nice, being crazy. Of course, I guess if you weren’t I wouldn’t have had to run you over.”

 

Part XX – Break Point

 

Previously: On an archaeological expedition to look for a lost starship on the world of Blackmoon, Dr. Egan Torr, Miss Kitty, and their pilot Crash are unwittingly pursued by government agents who are searching for Wallace, a wealthy Blackmoon rancher gone rogue. Our three heroes are separated shortly after their arrival on the desert moon. While Torr and Miss Kitty explore the mysterious Engineer underground, Crash is charged with taking a wounded man to the Wallace Ranch for help. But neither Wallace nor his evil alter-ego Fetch have been seen for some time.

He shrugged and faced forward once more. Something big reared out of the shadows. Crash swore and hauled the handlebars to the right. The hovercraft swerved, over-corrected, skidded along at a precarious angle, then straightened up and resumed a stable course. Crash let out a whistle between his teeth. “I gotta level with you Red, it’s getting pretty dark for this pace on this machine. This thing was built for hauling feed, not breaking the sound barrier. I’m getting a tad concerned that there’s gonna be some hole in the ground or bump in the road that don’t give me enough advance notice to deal with it.”

Crash touched the nav display and it switched to a satellite map. “We ain’t far from the ranch, but at this rate I doubt we’ll make it before sundown.” He sighed. “Better stop and make camp, I suppose.” Flanagan moaned again. “Sorry, man,” said Crash, “but you are way too creepy to share my tent.”

. . .

Crash found a place just as true darkness fell, a little sheltered canyon in the hills. He parked the hoversled, then quickly unstrapped his gear and got a packet of freeze-dried food warming over a tin of Portable Fire. It was not until he had settled down and was munching his sausage-flavored meat product philosophically that he began to notice how still everything was. Without the hum of the hoversled’s engine and the rush of the wind, a Blackmoon night was curiously quiet. Whatever insect life had been genetically adapted to this world was remarkably subdued. It was just Crash and the Portable Fire and a nebula full of flaming balls of gas staring down on them. The man still strapped to the back of the hoversled didn’t count.

Crash slept fitfully. In his dreams, Flanagan had somehow gotten loose from the hoversled and disappeared into the dark. He kept returning with crowds of strange, accusing faces. They chased Crash through the alien hills of Blackmoon, crying “Trespasser!” At last, desperate and tired, Crash attempted to escape across a slender bridge of rock. As he dashed across the bridge, his foot caught a rock, and he fell and went sliding into the abyss.

Crash came awake with a jerk. It was very dark. Clouds had moved in and blotted out the nebula overhead. In the darkness, he couldn’t make out whether his redheaded charge was still secured to the hoversled. He sat up and listened. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but his dream had left him feeling unsettled. He slid out of his sleeping bag and stumbled over to the hoversled.

Crash put out his hand in the dark and – there. Flanagan was just as he had left him, having slipped into the deeper unconsciousness of sleep. Crash sighed, reassured. He turned to make his way back to his sleeping bag, and stopped. Someone was standing in front of him, smiling. Crash could tell because his teeth gleamed in the darkness.

“You can give Sleeping Beauty there his good night kiss later,” said the man. “You make one move right now, and I’ll put a hole in your chest.”

“You must be Wallace,” said Crash. “Or is it Fetch now? I can’t keep up.”

“Oh, my friends just call me ‘that guy holding the shotgun.’ Now get down on your knees, real slow-like, and put your hands behind your back.” Crash did so, and then his hands were bound with swift, sure movements. The intruder kicked him over on his side. “Take a nap,” he growled. “Don’t try anything funny.”

“Thanks,” said Crash. “This rock under my kidney is cozy. So, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but the only thing I got worth having is a hoversled that belongs to you already.”

The intruder said nothing. Instead he ignited the portable fire with a click, then unsealed a tin of rations and dumped them into a bowl. He was wolfing the finished product down almost before it was done cooking. Crash noted how thin and gaunt he was, his frayed coat and tangled mane of hair: a man who had seen too many days under an open sky. “Say,” said Crash after a moment, “you don’t have a shotgun at all do you?” The man glanced at him and kept chewing.

Crash squirmed around on the hard ground. His bound hands encountered several loose stones, but none that seemed to have an edge that would help him escape. He craned his neck surreptitiously. The hoversled, with its sleek metal planes and sharp corners, looked like it might do.

“Say, Fetch,” said Crash. “I look at you and I see someone overflowing with the milk of human kindness. Do me a favor and let me at least prop myself up here, huh?”

The big man looked at him for a moment, then shrugged and walked over. Gripping Crash by the lapels, he hauled him upright.

“Why thanks, friend, that was -” Without warning the man shoved Crash against the side of the hoversled, hard enough that his head snapped back against the unyielding metal.

When the stars had cleared from his eyes, the other man’s disquieting smile was inches away. “Listen up, flyboy. I been watching the three of you the past few days, and I learned some things. One thing is that you ain’t got enough sense to make a phone call, so you listen up sharp. You decide to go running off into these hills in the dead of night and you will break your fool neck. That’s God’s honest. I highly recommend that if you plan to try anything stupid, you at least wait until morning. And the name is Wallace. Savvy?” Crash nodded vigorously. Wallace released his lapels and he slumped against the hoversled. “Now I suppose if you work those restraints off you can make yourself comfortable,” said Wallace. “But I get the bedroll.”

“Okay,” said Crash, “but tomorrow I’m making my daring escape. And I’m taking this poor fellow to get help.”

“Well that’s big-hearted of you. Which hospital will you be taking him too?”

“Ah, I was thinking… well, that is, we were headed to your ranch, before -”

“Well ain’t that something! I’m headed that way myself. Maybe we should all go!”

“See, I worry that it’s gonna be a little crowded on that sled, what with me, Flanagan, you and your evil split personality Fetch. Plus, you know, which of you gets to drive? You start arguing with yourself about which exit to take and things could get hairy real quick.”

Wallace gave Crash a look that would have cooled a reactor. “Why don’t you go to sleep,” he spat, and kicked out the fire.

At dawn, Crash made a break for it.

. . .

The sound of the hoversled’s engine firing up reverberated throughout the canyon. Wallace peered out of the sleeping bag just in time to see Crash roaring away on the machine, Flanagan still strapped to the back. Wallace’s shut his eyes and rolled over. He lay still for a few moments, then groaned, threw back the cover, and exclaimed, “Idiot!”

It took Wallace only a few moments to pull his boots on, grab his jacket, and cram his hat down on his bedraggled crown. Then he took off running in the direction which Crash had taken.

. . .

“Okay, it says to bear right here, but there definitely is no right.” Crash was frowning intently at the nav display. His initial burst of speed spent, he was now moving along at a more cautious pace, trying to find some passage through the unyielding hills. “This canyon curves back toward the east! Was I suppose to take that crevasse back there?”

“Bear right,” advised a calm, computerized voice.

“There is no right!”

“Recomputing route.”

Crash swore, and spun the handlebars around. “We’re going back to that crevasse,” he said. As he slowed for the turn, there was just enough time for Wallace to drop onto him from the rocky outcrop above.

The ensuing struggle was short and decisive. Wallace had the advantage of weight and the element of surprise. Crash was quickly relegated to the rear seat.

“Thought you might be having some navigational difficulties,” said Wallace.

“How thoughtful of you,” sneered Crash. “I can’t help it if your nav is out of date.”

“It’s a satellite map,” said Wallace.

“Whatever.”

About twenty minutes later they burst into open sunlight. The rocky hills fell away and a wide expanse rose up before them to a distant plateau. Perched on the plateau was a ranch house.

“Home sweet home,” said Wallace.

“Look, somebody’s coming to meet us on another hoversled.”

Wallace frowned. “The old caretakers don’t drive hoversleds,” he said. “Something must be -” He did not complete his sentence, because at that moment someone put a rail gun round through his hat.

To Be Continued…