ASC 923.7.14]

  193 cycles since the Xolarii Purge.

  Xaryk retrieved his revolver, surveying the carnage. Bullet holes allowed in streaks of light that illuminated the wafting smoke—lingering remnants of his obscurus orbs.

  He raised his gloved hand, running gold-tipped talons over the intricate digits etched into his palm. An instant later, the renegade orbs zipped back to him, followed closely by his blade.

  Only the revolver had been spared such mag-tech, too heavy to bear the necessary enchantments, so he stooped to grab it.

  Xaryk grabbed the scruff of the manacled ostean and began dragging him across the blood-stained floor.

  The xolus was panting heavily as he stepped into the harsh light of Takal’s dual suns.

  Placing two fingers to his lips, he let out a shrill whistle. Moments later, his loaned quadral trotted happily over. Mayweather pranced in place, bumping Xaryk gently with her wide snout.

  “Good girl,” Xaryk cooed, stroking her feathered mane. “Sorry about this,” he added, heaving Breakbones onto her back. Despite being only slightly larger, Mayweather bore the ostean’s weight with barely a whine—a trait he and the quadral shared.

  While standing over six feet tall, Xaryk was muscular but waifishly lean. A blessing of his xolus heritage—he was deceptively strong.

  He took a moment to secure Breakbones before venturing to the gang-house stables. A modest affair, housing a dozen quadrals—all malnourished and neglected.

  It didn’t take long to coax them into fleeing their cramped confines, stampeding into the wild and—hopefully—a better life.

  A colder man wouldn’t have bothered. Xaryk would have been tossing and turning all night.

  The ride back to town took longer than the initial two hours—burdened as they were by the gargantuan ostean.

  Despite the wind in his face, Xaryk was sweating heavily beneath the oppressive heat by the time Longshadow emerged on the horizon. A ramshackle town of roughly three hundred, its buildings were serviceable, avoiding the ostentatious like dysentery.

  Xaryk tried to steer clear of such places when he could—where everyone knew each other by name, disposition, and deed. In small towns like these, rumours flew faster than bullets.

  He slowed Mayweather to a trot as they arrived.

  He felt dozens of eyes on him instantly—spying from porches, high windows, and back alleys. He nodded to the few who met his gaze. Most replied with wary silence.

  Friendly bunch, he thought, guiding Mayweather toward the sheriff’s office by the fastest route.

  The sheriff’s office was a squat affair, situated at the far end of the long road that bisected Longshadow. It sat overlooking the stretch from entrance to exit like a fat frog on a lily pad, watching its dormant swamp. Very little ever happened—but it was always waiting for the next crop of flies to stir the water.

  Xaryk hitched Mayweather to the post out front and left her greedily guzzling from an old iron water trough.

  The wooden doors creaked, announcing his arrival as he swung them open.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be back,” a stern voice called from his left.

  Situated behind a large wooden desk sat the sheriff, his face obscured by a copy of the local paper. His worn boots were crossed over the desk as he pushed back in a rickety chair. It groaned as he put down the paper and stood.

  Sheriff Repo bore the grey skin and ridged brow of a takalan, yet his whiteless eyes were a rare lilac in hue. He had several small tendrils running from cheek to chin: a growth, Xaryk was told, that came with age. The harsh dual suns of Takal played havoc on the eyes; the takalan tendrils allowed them to feel vibrations in the air, heightening their senses as their sight faded from over-exposure—a good tip to know should he ever have to tail one.

  The sheriff smoothed down his white uniform—stained slightly red from the relentless Takal dust—and pumped Xaryk’s arm firmly.

  “Well done, son,” he said with a nod.

  “Don’t call me son,” Xaryk returned with a smile that said, ‘meaning no offense.’

  “Fair enough. Sit down, have a drink,” Repo said, pulling a bottle of whiskey from beneath his desk and two serviceable glasses.

  In towns such as these, libation was always within arms reach. Must be the boredom, Xaryk thought.

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  “And him?” Xaryk asked, indicating the unconscious ostean tied to Mayweather.

  “Maybe the suns’ll burn some sense into him,” Repo shrugged. “I’m more interested in what brings a xolus—Xaryk Foe no less—to this shithole of a planet on the far edges of The Fringe.”

  “Just seeing the sights,” Xaryk replied, taking the offered drink. He scowled as it hit his lips—even by bottom-shelf standards in the Core, it was wretched. Still, he downed it, welcoming the burn if not the taste.

  “Come now, s—Foe. Ain’t nothing but dust and blood out here. A xolus rolls into town, and you expect me not to ask any questions?” He asked, finishing his drink and placing the glass down with a thud. The cork popped, followed by more amber liquid that Xaryk took with begrudging appreciation.

  “Asking is your liberty,” Xaryk drawled. “Not answering is mine.”

  Repo answered him with a pleading, yet unyielding stare.

  Xaryk sighed. “Takal wasn’t on my radar. I was headed elsewhere and encountered a bit of trouble: a sun storm. I got through alright but burnt through my magwells like log stores on a cold night.”

  “Which brought you here, collecting bounties to refuel your starskipper,” Repo said, visibly deflating at the mundane answer.

  “If I were a gameshow, you’d have won a prize,” Xaryk replied, draining the second glass. He blinked back tears, then grinned at the sheriff’s disappointed look.

  “Oh, thank you kindly for loaning me Mayweather, by-the-bye,” he said. “She’s a bit odd,” he mumbled, watching her through the window as she dunked her entire head into the water trough. Mayweather stayed there long enough that he began to rise from his seat, worried she’d drowned. Finally, the beast reemerged with a howl before promptly repeating the process. “But a good mount,” he finished, his tone affable as he sank back into his seat.

  “My pleasure. Hell, keep her while you’re here,” Repo said with a slur creeping in. He lifted the bottle again, paused, then nodded and poured another round. The bottle returned to its home beneath the desk. Xaryk was grateful.

  “Shouldn’t be necessary,” Xaryk said, struggling to keep his voice sharp. “I’m headed to the gunsmith to refuel my equipment and ship, at which point I’ll be gone at first light.”

  The sheriff chuckled and downed his drink. He inhaled, wincing as if in pain.

  “Yeah we’ll see,” he said on the exhale. “Look, if you need a bounty with some meat on the bones, I have something for you. Breakbones out there,” Repo said, nodding to the prone figure outside. Mayweather was sucking up water and craning her neck backward, shooting spouts of water at her unwanted passenger.

  “He’s the runt of the litter. His uncle, Axel Redmark, is the real force in these parts. An absolute monster. Would have taken him down years ago but the man is a marksman out of myth. Could shoot a bullet through the eye of a needle and sew your funeral suit with it.”

  “Sounds like quite the legend,” Xaryk contemplated, looking into the spinning amber contents of his glass as he swirled it thoughtfully. He downed the contents of his glass. “On a dust-ball of a planet on the fringe of The Fringe. Sure hope someone exterminates him for you, Sheriff. Now,” he said, standing. “You can take the sorry heap out there, and I’ll be taking my bounty.”

  Xaryk grinned as the sheriff begrudgingly handed over his tariffs. “Thank you kindly.”

  “What do you mean it’ll only cover half?” Xaryk exclaimed. “On Arcanon, this’d be enough to refuel my Starchaser twice over.”

  “That’s the problem!” the gunsmith snapped back, wiping grimy hands on his rough leather apron. “This ain’t the Core, friend. Takal don’t brim with Magus like you softcores.”

  “Brimming with Magus or not, the regulation price on mag-charges isn’t half this steep,” he said, letting a dangerous edge creep into his voice.

  Hey now! Don’t shoot the messenger,” the smith pleaded, all the derision gone. “Takal ain’t regulation-monitored. We live on supply and demand—same as your Core Worlds. If I sell you all my charges and some gunslinger with less charm and a sour disposition struts in, I’m likely to eat a slug.

  A growl slipped between Xaryk’s teeth—impotently dangerous. He wasn’t about to gun down a man over price-gouging, ridiculous as it was.

  “Fine,” he muttered. “What’ll my generous donation fetch me, then?”

  “Well,” the smith scratched his jaw, eyeing the load, “between the obscurus orbs, the illusion puck, and those three magwell refuels… I can maybe get you a few hours in the air.”

  “Barely enough to get a few clicks past orbit,” Xaryk scoffed, casting a look of disdain toward the portly human smith.

  “My hands are tied.” He held up grubby fingers. “Well—not literally. Tried that once. Didn’t end well.”

  “Double, you say?” Xaryk sighed.

  A nod.

  “Guess I have a legend to kill…” he muttered. “Say, an astute entrepreneur such as yourself would be mindful of the comings and goings of your clientele—along with their preference for iron.”

  “Of course,” the smith preened, stroking soot-stained whiskers.

  “And Axel Redmark?” Xaryk enquired innocently. “Such a marksman would need a skilled smith he can trust. What kind of iron does he sling?”

  “Ain’t noone else for miles that could maintain the piece he carries,” the smith boasted. “Absolute beauty. Hard to tell from a glance how much blood she’s spilled. Magus-class, like yours—but double-barrelled.”

  He inserted Xaryk’s revolver magwells into a large iron container shimmering with golden liquid.

  The mechanism whirled, the level draining slightly as the magwells greedily fed on the arcane energy within.

  “Infamy, he calls her—and boy, does she earn it,” he whistled, adjusting the container opening. It cranked and clicked open wide enough to fit the illusion puck.

  “Heard he used it to take down King Cassidy. Now, the King of Hearts—he was a real gunslinger. I guess even the best trigger fingers slow down with age, though.”

  “Expectedly insightful. I expect an outlaw of Redmark’s calibre runs with a crew?” Xaryk prompted.

  “The Deadshots. Rowdy bunch. They blow into town now and then, raise a little hell. Redmark always reins ’em in ‘fore they go too far. They wouldn’t lift a finger without his say.”

  “And what are they strapped with? Surely it’s no small feat to get such armaments all the way out to… where’d you say they’re holed up again?” Xaryk asked, casual.

  “Oh, they’re up in— wait a damn minute!” The smith snapped. “I ain’t no informant mister bounty hunter, and I ain’t getting killed so you can earn a few tariffs! Bother someone else with your questions,” he said, slamming down the magwells and recharged tech.

  The smith held out an expectant hand, which Xaryk filled with tariffs.

  The xolus met his glare with a shrug and a crooked smile. Can’t blame a man for trying.

  “Well, I’ll be sure to bring them your regards, and you my condolences when I return with the bounty,” the doorbell rang as he swaggered through. “Save me a refill."