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BACKWOODS STATION

KEEPING HOUSE

By

Chris Lowry

“I thought I told you to get out of my station.”

Galactic Marshal Spurlock Jennings froze at the sound of the voice behind him. He knew who it belonged to, a man that wanted him dead.

“You weren’t kidding about that?” He held his hands away from his waist and slowly turned around.

The man who snuck up on him was roughly the same height, average weight and handsome face with make-up tattooed on his cheeks and eyes. It was a face made for television, and that’s part of what the man did.

“You’re about to find out how much I was kidding,” he made a motion with the blaster in his hand.

The blaster was a small compact model favored by the citizens in Musk, the largest domed colony on Mars, and carried by many on the streets as a form of personal protection.

Spurlock knew the range was limited, and if he could get twenty feet from the end of the barrel, it would do little more than singe his shirt.

The four and a half feet distance at the moment would punch right through him.

“You sure you want to do this?” Spurlock asked.

“I told you to leave me alone. I told you to get away from the station. I warned you this wasn’t going to end easy for you. You were just too cocky to listen.”

“Brett,” said Spurlock. “Can I call you Brett?”

Brett took a step closer and waved the pistol again.

“Brett, I know you work for some powerful people-,”

“The most powerful on the planet,” the man bragged.

“And I get that. But Brett, you killed a friend of mine.”

“He was fighting out of his league,” Brett said. “That market is mine.”

Spurlock nodded and curled his lip.

“I don’t object to the black market here. I think you know our official stance on it.”

“You think I give a shit about your official stance?”

“No, looking down the barrel of your piece makes me think you don’t give a damn about my stance.”

“You’re damned right.”

“Which brings me back to the fact of the matter. You killed a friend of mine. For smuggling food.”

“Through my channels,” Brett growled. “That’s taking money from my pocket. Your friend was stealing from me.”

“He was feeding his family,” Spurlock tried.

“He was a thief,” Brett snarled.

Spurlock sighed. The irony was lost on the Prime Minister’s assistant. And now the man was adding assassin to his list.

“I heard your warning,” said Spurlock. “Now I’m obligated to give you one of my own.”

“You’re going to warn me?” the assassin sounded cocky.

Spurlock shifted, putting all of his weight on one leg, like he was relieving a pain in his back.

“You’ve got one chance,” Spurlock warned. “You put your piece away and I won’t shoot you.”

Brett glanced down at the gun in his hand and grinned at the lanky Marshal.

“I’ve got you dead to rights,” he said. “What’s to stop me from blasting you right off your feet here in the street?”

Spurlock moved. His hand whisked the blaster from the holster strapped to his thigh, swung it straight from the waist and sent a blast of sun hot plasma through the heart of the man standing in front of him.

Brett collapsed over backwards, carried by the force of the laser. He sprawled on the street and glared at the domed forcefield high above the streets of Musk. Red dust swirled across the dome in intricate patterns that were in constant change from the ever present winds.

“That will,” said the Marshal.

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CHAPTER TWO

Spurlock Jennings folded his six foot four frame into a small chair and waited for Herman Vasquez outside of his office. It was a small space, not much larger than a walk in closet back on earth, and plain, much like the man it belonged to.

Vasquez was a gray man. He wore a gray suit that matched his gray hair, blending in with his gray complexion. His well-trimmed mustache was gray, as were his eyes, a gift from his Russian mother.

He glared at Spurlock as he marched into the office and towered over him, standing in his personal space like he was a perp locked in an interrogation room.

“There is a shitstorm coming.”

“A shitstorm, huh?”

“Big shit. A metric fuckton of shit. A hurricane of shit all aimed at this office and all coming right down on top of that fucking stupid cowboy hat you won’t take off.”

“You think my hat is stupid?”

“I think space is limited up here and nobody can bring anything up from earth without a cost,” Bart muttered through clenched teeth.

“I think it says something about a man who wastes that precious space just to bring up a hat.”

Spurlock adjusted the brim of the Stetson.

“You’re not a cowboy, you know.”

“I know that.”

“There are no cowboys in space.”

“Look Herman, you can say it as many ways as you like it you think it ain’t sinking in, but I get it.”

“No space cowboys,” Herman turned and stalked away. “There’s a hearing at my office in the morning with the Company attorney. Leave that fucking hat in your quarters.”

Spurlock watched him go. He reached up and tipped the hat back on his head, bemusement and annoyance battling for supremacy on his face.

He wanted to shout at his boss’ back but knew it would do no good. They were up against some tough odds, and he had just shot a well-known black market dealer.

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