Trigun Fan Fiction ❯ Children of the Pebble ❯ Deal with the Devil ( Chapter 11 )

Children of the Pebble

By “Clinesterton Beademung”, with all of love.

 

Disclaimer: “Trigun” © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

 

Comments and criticism welcome.

 

Chapter Eleven - Deal with the Devil

---

On February 12th, 133 F.A., an unidentified object fell from the sky above May City.

At approximately three o'clock that afternoon, the city constabulary received a call from the owner of a hog farm and slaughterhouse in the northeast quarter. The object in question had landed in his largest pigsty, killing three pigs and scattering porcine excrement over a wide area. The constables at the scene did not attempt to retrieve the artifact.

Through appropriate channels, the matter was made known to the May City council, who alerted the Plant engineering staff. They began a search of the entire area, followed by a careful extraction of the artifact. A bill for six pairs of ruined work boots and eight coveralls was sent to the city council upon completion.

Three days later, after extensive metallurgical and hydromechanical analysis (see Appendix A) the May City engineers concluded that the artifact was exactly what it appeared to be: an ordinary commode, made entirely of steel, with heating elements, controlled by a solid-state thermostat, built into the seat. Patent negotiations are pending.

Subsequent examination of the city Plants' logs showed a small but significant power diversion to the maintenance subroutines of Plant E-5, consistent with the time of the hog farmer's call. Over the objections of the city council, the chief engineer ordered an emergency shutdown of the Plant and contacted the Marius Breskin Kantackle Technical Industrial Union.

At the command console of Inepril City's last functioning Plant, Elizabeth set the report aside and waited, as she had for the last seven hours, wondering what else was going to hit the fan.

That the Inepril city council had not been glad to see her was no surprise. She could hardly blame them, but if there were any suspicion on their part for her role in the near disaster two years ago it hadn't shown. No, this was childish caught-with-hand-in-cookie jar resentment. Did the chairman and his toadies really think they could hide this project from the Union?

Eighty-seven years ago the new Federal government, in an effort to raise money, offered to sell the rights of certain Plants to the municipalities that formed around them. The first chairman of Inepril had taken the offer, and the city had reaped the rewards of untaxed Plant output while leaving the government free of its erstwhile responsibilities for the cost of maintenance and upkeep. As with every raw deal, it seemed good at the time. After decades of comfortable profits Inepril was left with one failing Plant, a devastated economy and a maintenance bill they'd never be able to pay.

Morons. Contrary to the chairman's fears the Union never asked for payment up front and would never have allowed the Inepril Plant to fail had it known. The Union's whole interest was in keeping the Plants functioning, nothing more and nothing less. Money was no barrier at all compared to a city chairman's wounded pride.

Wounded? she thought. More like crushed. Upon her arrival this morning Elizabeth had threatened the chairman with a dozen Union and Federal sanctions and fines unless she was allowed to meet their project leader, a Mr. Ericks Stryfe, personally. This morning the chairman had informed her he was on his way.

Elizabeth settled back in the chair. Condensation dripped from an auxiliary heat exchanger deep in the Plant's workings. She drew a shawl around her shoulders. At least this renegade engineer had sense enough to keep his computers at the proper temperature.

She made a fist and hit the control panel. Writing the self-destruct program for the Plant had taken her three months. Vash, the focus of all her plans, had counteracted her efforts without touching a single control. Somehow—somehow!—he'd escaped from the emitter chamber and stopped the Plant from going into terminal catalepsis.

Right. Just another day's work for a destroyer of cities. Then he'd held her and let her cry like a little girl. Why couldn't the monster look like a monster? Why did he have to be so gentle? Why did the image of his tear-filled eyes fill her thoughts in unguarded moments? Such eyes…

“Hello, Elizabeth. It's been a long time.”

She looked up at the sound of his voice. How the years since July had left him untouched by age was a question she'd tried, and had given up trying, to answer. His hair was darker and longer; his clothes, ordinary. The wire spectacles perched on his nose lent him a scholarly air. If Vash truly were dead, the man before her had killed him.

But his eyes…his eyes were still the same.

“Hello, Vash,” she said.

---

“Do you still want me dead?” Vash said.

Elizabeth idly brushed imaginary dust from the control panel.

“You gave me a free chance to take my revenge and I didn't accept it,” she said. Vash approached, stopped at a workstation two chairs over. She watched him search the readouts and appraise the information they offered. The man knew what was most important.

“Is that a no?” he said.

“That's a no.”

“Whew,” Vash said, and wiped his forehead with an exaggerated motion. “That makes me feel better. Say, did you happen to see the night-shift engineer when you came in? She's one of my students.”

Elizabeth crossed her arms. “Do I look like a babysitter to you, Mister Stryfe?”

“No, I guess not. Probably taking a break.” Vash settled into the chair next to hers. He rested his arms on his knees, let his hands hang loose. “So why did you call me here?”

Elizabeth handed Vash the reports on the September and May anomalies. As he read, his boyish face turned serious.

“This could be bad,” he said.

“Indeed,” Elizabeth said. “I find myself in an odd position, Mister Stryfe. When questions arise regarding unusual Plant behavior I am the one consulted. Professional journals are filled with my papers, each a thorough and universally accepted description of a problem and its solution. My reputation as an authority on Plant operation is second to none. But these—these are quite beyond my knowledge.” She tossed the reports onto the control panel. “I don't know what sorcery you used two years ago, but no engineer alive could do with a Plant what you did that day.”

The erstwhile Humanoid Typhoon waved his hands. “It's all in the wrists.”

“Teach me. I want to learn.”

“Come to think of it, it's more like riding a bicycle.”

“Mr. Stryfe, could you set aside your penchant for flippancy for a moment and be serious? You agree this might be a systemic problem, a design flaw our ancestors overlooked.”

Vash nodded. “I'm not sure what I do can be taught, Elizabeth,” he said. “I can fill some gaps in your knowledge, but beyond that, I don't know.”

“Do you suppose you could—”

“Are you sure you didn't see the night engineer anywhere?” Vash peered over his glasses, scanned the control room as one might search for a stray mouse. “She's supposed to be on watch for another two hours—”

“Mister Stryfe,” Elizabeth said, “As I was saying, do you suppose you can give it a try, given the obvious qualities of your potential student?”

“Qualities?” Vash said, grinning. “Yeah, they're obvious, all right.”

Elizabeth followed the direction of his stare, grabbed her parasol and thrust its point into the former outlaw's left shin. Vash howled and jumped about as if he were barefoot and the metal floor had turned red-hot. If Elmore were here she'd let him beat the tar out of this legendary miscreant, but Elmore was on a job in September, and his schedule would not coincide with hers for at least two months.

“Could we get down to business, please?” she said.

“I think that's a great idea,” said someone behind her. Instinct, she supposed, or worldly experience, told her to stand still when she heard a revolver cocked behind her head. “We could start with some unfinished business, eh, lady? Show me your hands. Now stand up.” She obeyed, and her assailant slipped an arm around hers, grabbing the other and holding her tightly against him. “You too, mister. Hands where I can see them.”

Vash raised his hands. “Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.”

“Keep your mouth shut, mister, and you might leave here alive. All I want is the woman.”

Vash shrugged. “I'm sure this is all just a big misunderstanding. Can't we talk about this?”

Elizabeth tried to shake her captor's grip, but his fingers closed like a pneumatic conduit wrench on her arm. She gasped in pain.

“Yeah, that's all this is,” he said. “One great big sad misunderstanding, isn't it, lady?”

“Who the hell are you?” Elizabeth said.

“Someone else you tried to kill, I'm afraid,” Vash said.

“That's right, lady. You rigged the Plant to explode, and when I got in the way you were going to let me die, too. Is it all coming back now, you heartless bitch?”

Yet another crime to atone for, she thought. “I never meant for that to happen.”

“And I've spent the last year and a half thinking about your good intentions.” The assassin's lips brushed her ears. “They'll find your body in another year and a half, maybe.”

“Let her go, friend,” Vash said. “You're making a mistake.”

“Trying to stop me would be a mistake. My quarrel's with the lady. Don't force me to kill you.”

“You're not going to use a bomb, are you?” Vash said. “At least you had the sense to bring a gun to a gunfight this time.”

“Mister, in a second you're gonna get more gunfight than you can—wait, do I know you?”

Vash stepped closer. “I should be offended that you didn't recognize me. Not much for pretty faces, are you?”

“You,” the assassin breathed. “It's really you. I heard you were dead.”

“As far as the world's concerned, I am. Now let her go.”

“Not a chance. I've been waiting to settle this particular score for too long. If anything you should be on my side!”

“I am on your side. No one needs to die here.”

Elizabeth kept her eyes focused on Vash's face, astonished to be in this position. Why didn't he do something? He winked at her. Typical—no, he was blinking his eyes. Once.

“This is it, lady,” the assassin said. I've been waiting for this.” Vash blinked again, hard. Twice. “Don't try to follow me.”

Three times. Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut. Her eyelids flashed bright red, as if the Plant were a giant flash bulb going off. The next moment, her assailant's grip loosened and he was on the floor, covering his face and screaming.

Vash kicked the gun away and ended her would-be abductor's screams with a swift right jab. Vash caught her as her knees buckled.

“Are you all right?” Vash said. She nodded. “Good. You call the sheriff.” Elizabeth looked for a telephone while Vash searched for his night engineer. He found her, bound and gagged in a utility closet but otherwise unhurt. He helped the girl, more sheepish than frightened, back to her duty station. These kids look so young anymore, Elizabeth thought.

After the sheriff came and took her would-be killer away, Elizabeth collected her things and prepared to leave.

“Wait,” Vash said, and touched her arm.

---

Hours later, watching the moonwashed wasteland outside her darkened cabin's porthole, Elizabeth fiddled with a loose thread on her nightgown. It shouldn't matter, she thought. Spend enough time with someone and you'll find at least one habit or tic that annoys you. After the September job Elmore had escorted her to dinner, and afterward they'd shared a seat in the steamer's observation lounge. It had taken him an hour to find the courage to put his arm around her shoulders, and when he did she'd let her head rest on his chest, content to do nothing more for the next few hours than enjoy this man's company, prepared to surrender to a short nap—perhaps more, if mood and circumstance allowed. But she'd been yanked back from the brink of sleep by a sound she could only describe as a bucket of ball bearings poured onto a wooden floor. Elmore was fast asleep, his head thrown back, the horrible noise blaring from his wide open mouth.

It shouldn't matter, Elizabeth thought, pulling the string, leaving an ich-long slit in the pink sandworm silk of her gown. If love was blind to the faults and idiosyncrasies of the beloved, nothing should come between her and what, or whom, she desired.

Therefore, she reasoned, it shouldn't matter at all that, before the Plant facility exploded with light, she'd seen an eye open in Vash's left palm.

“I'll teach you what I can,” he'd said, after she explained in full the gravity of the problem. That, and a gentle reminder that there was still a price on his head.

She caressed her arm, where Vash had touched her, as if his hand were still there.

Such lovely green eyes…

---

Two thousand iles south of Inepril, in a little known and seldom visited town two hundred iles northeast of LR, the marshal of Cornelia Territory leaned in the doorway of her empty jail and stifled a jaw-cracking yawn.

After the sale of the first delivery of water from the town's revived well, applications for use of the largesse poured into city hall faster than the staff could process them. An elementary school rose on the ruins of a wind-wasted thomas barn. A new hotel, the Pure Paradise, sprouted on the town's north edge. The burst of construction meant plenty of work for everyone. The town grew, business boomed, and the people contented themselves with working, eating, and making new citizens behind the closed doors and windows of their proliferating homes.

After today's sale of the second delivery, the mayor had declared a holiday. Most of the town would be in the saloon, celebrating.

Maryanne blinked dry eyes, lifted her watch from its pocket, read it in the light pouring from the windows of the Last Chance Saloon across the street. The party was just getting started.

About time something around here did, she thought. If this law and order crap kept up she'd lose her expense account and have to fight for it again when the need arose. Maybe she could justify a couple of deputies, if only to have someone to talk shop with. She shook her head. Inflict this horrible, lingering career death on some other poor slob? Not a chance.

A century after the establishment of the Marshal's Service the law enforcement profession, especially at the Federal level, was still a man's world. Not a problem. All a girl had to do was be a better cop than any two men put together. Here, in this sleepy little town where nothing much happened beyond an occasional drunken brawl, Maryanne would have few chances to earn the townspeople's respect. Until she did, her badge would be nothing more than a pretty brooch a high society lady might wear.

Tonight might be her chance, she thought.

On her first official day of work, Maryanne had searched and sorted through the late sheriff's records. No regular offenders, no unsolved cases. Nothing to suggest this little pinprick of a town had any reputation for corruption or conspiracy. The sheriff's official documents bore the expected yellow tint and brittle texture of age, and there were no suspicious gaps in the files' dates. The sheriff had signed each himself, in ink, with a swift and elegant hand.

Attempts to interview the townspeople met with limited success. When Maryanne's questions weren't met by apologies, excuses, blank looks or averted eyes, all she learned was that the sheriff had made no enemies and was well liked and deeply respected by all who knew him. That, and that the mayor had found the sheriff's body at the base of the ridge west of town. His Honor had fidgeted and perspired under her close questions, but he'd never asked for a lawyer and he'd never incriminated himself. “He died in the line of duty” was all the mayor would say.

Maryanne pressed her investigation until the blank looks and averted eyes became sullen glances and hostile stares. The mayor himself had threatened to send a formal complaint to the Chief Marshal in December City. Whatever it was the town was hiding, she was close.

Another glance at her watch. Showtime.

---

“And in conclusion, ladies and gentlemen,” the mayor said, raising his glass, “I'd like to thank again the hardworking well diggers who made our town's newfound wealth possi—”

Maryanne parted the swinging doors. Her footsteps thumped on the dusty wood floor like distant explosions.

“What'll it be, marshal?” said the bartender when she reached the bar.

“Glass of beer, please,” she said. “Excuse me, Your Honor, I didn't mean to interrupt. Please, continue.”

“Yes,” the mayor said. “Yes, marshal, thank you. As I was saying, I'd like to thank the hardworking well diggers who made our town's newfound wealth possible.” The mayor finished his drink in a gulp and left his glass on the bar. “Now, if you'll excuse me—”

“Leaving so soon, Mister Mayor?” Maryanne said. “It's only nine o'clock. The party's just getting started.”

“Yes, marshal, well, that is, I have some pressing business I must attend to—”

“Of course, Your Honor, I understand. But I was hoping you would do me the honor of raising your glass with me once before you go.”

“Yes, marshal,” the mayor said, and swept his hand through his slick and shining hair. “I would be honored, naturally.”

“Thank you.” The bartender filled the mayor's glass. “Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to offer a toast of my own.” Maryanne raised her beer. “To my predecessor, your late sheriff. May he rest in peace.”

Maryanne took a drink, licked foam from her upper lip. The burly bartender leaned on the bar, hands empty, eyes shrouded by thick black brows. He stared straight at her, his face calm and impassive. The mayor's glass wobbled on the bar where he'd dropped it. His face reddened.

“Mister Mayor,” Maryanne said, “you didn't drink with me.”

“Marshal, that was in very poor taste.”

The bartender's eyes flicked right. Maryanne followed his glance. The customer heading for the door was a person of interest who, after a few pointed questions one afternoon last week, had graced Maryanne with a look full of both hate and remorse.

“Good evening, Cyril,” she said. “Buy you a drink?”

Cyril stopped. “No thanks, marshal,” he said. “Gotta get home.”

“Of course, of course,” she said, keeping her right arm extended down her side. “You won't mind if I call on you tomorrow, will you?”

Cyril bunched his fists. “I've done nothing wrong, marshal. None of us has. I don't know why you keep—”

“Anybody else?” Maryanne said. “I'm feeling generous tonight.” Around a round table, the players of a poker game held their cards like fans, still, as if frozen in time. Under the balcony, a barmaid's leg hung naked and exposed on the thigh of the Circle J shopkeeper's husband, who was holding the barmaid in one hand and a mug of beer in the other.

“So, no one here wants to drink with me, trade a tall tale or two? Fine. I'll do the talking.” Maryanne finished her beer. This is it, she thought, and leaned on the bar as casually as she could manage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your sheriff is dead,” she said. “Someone in this town knows who killed him.”

“Marshal, please,” the mayor said, “I never said anyone killed him.”

“True. You were also the one who found his body. The only one.”

“Madame, I do not think I like what you're implying.”

Maryanne leaned forward, looked down into his eyes. “Mister Mayor, I'm not implying anything. Someone in this town is a cop killer.” She lowered her hand to her sidearm. The rumble of chairs scraping and bodies moving was the only sound in the saloon. “If you know who it is, or have any suspects in mind, you'd better tell me.”

The mayor looked like a well-dressed red balloon, ready to burst and send flesh and bone flying into the rafters.

“I know what you're trying to do,” he whispered. “I won't let you, I won't let him be slandered like this…”

“Mister Mayor, I'm just trying to get at the truth—”

“Damn you, you know the truth!” The mayor threw his glass. The bartender caught it before it hit the mirror.

“Maybe I do,” she said. “There's more, isn't there?”

The mayor seemed to deflate. He stared at the floor.

“Who killed him, Mister Mayor?”

“If you'll just give me a chance—”

“Who?”

“He did, marshal,” the mayor said. “The sheriff killed himself.” A sob escaped him. “And I couldn't stop him, the damn fool, I couldn't stop him…”

Almost there, Maryanne thought.

“Len and Lucretia were my dearest friends,” said the mayor. “He changed, our sheriff did, when she and the baby died. Turned inward, went cold, I—I hardly spoke to him for years. Then…and then…I just didn't want Len remembered that way, is all.” The mayor put his hands to his head, rent his perfect shiny coiffure into thin greasy threads. “I'm sorry, marshal. I'm so sorry, everyone. He changed, and we took advantage of him—”

“And you can stop right there, Mister Mayor,” the bartender said. He held the biggest pump-action shotgun Maryanne had ever seen.

“Mister Burnnock,” the mayor said, “what's the meaning of this?”

“The meaning, Your Honor,” said the bartender, “is that if there's any confessing to be done, we'll all do it together.”

“Damn it, Fatty, we had a deal,” said a man in the crowd. Others murmured agreement.

“And I say the deal's off. We got ourselves a water strike. We've got us a marshal. In a few months we'll have us a vote in the House of Citizens. We've got nothing to lose now. It's over.”

“I say it isn't,” Cyril said. “I say we keep quiet—”

“And I say,” Burnnock said, pointing his shotgun, “you of all people have no business saying anything. Damn it, man, you could've killed that girl—”

“It was her fault!” Cyril said. “Her fault for getting in the way!”

“Didn't see you sticking your neck out, Fatty,” said someone in the crowd.

“That's right, I was a part of it, and I'm not half as ashamed as I ought to be. I'm putting an end to this, tonight.”

“Should've kept your mouth shut, Fatty,” said another—and ducked.

BOOM.

Maryanne and the other bar patrons copied his motion, holding their hands to their ears. When the smoke cleared, all that remained of the swinging doors were the hinges and a few smoldering splinters. Metal clashed on metal as the bartender ejected the spent round and jacked another into the chamber.

“No one threatens me in my own place,” Burnnock said. “And the next one of you, man or woman, who goes for the door gets one in the back. Understand?”

No one moved, except to set toppled chairs upright and sit down.

“I'm tired of listening to all of you,” Burnnock said. “I'm tired of you reprobates whining about how you were just going along with everyone else, how those dashing silver-tongued truck-driving devils talked you into tying that poor fella to a bumper and dragging him all over hell's half hectacre. Tired of you killing your guilt and your nightmares with booze while your wives and children suffer for it. Now what we're going to do is sit here and hash this out—with our new marshal's kind permission.”

Maryanne stuck her pinky in her ear. No bleeding, thank goodness. Her eardrums were intact.

“I wish you'd told me earlier,” she said. “I strongly suggest everyone take Mister Burnnock's advice.” She reached into her pocket, set five twenty double-dollar bills on the bar. “First round's on me.”

“I'm not telling you shit,” Cyril said. “I haven't done anything—”

The bartender jabbed a finger at a barstool. “Cyril, you will sit right here and you will drink your fill by our good marshal's courtesy and you will spill your guts to the lady—or I'll spill `em for you. What's it gonna be? Come on, man. Haven't you heard confession is good for the soul?”

Cyril came to the bar, gave Maryanne a sullen look.

“Whiskey,” he said, and the rest of the patrons followed suit. Maryanne remained at the bar, laying out cash from her discretionary fund, following the conversation as best she could.

“—largest water strike in the world, now—”

“—dug the well by herself, almost. Hope those girls are okay—”

“—warn't him, no one's tetched `nuff t' take a bullet fer—”

“—government'll pay triple for natural water end of next year—”

“—know, you old coot, just have another drink—”

“—glad the Feds sent us a marshal, keep things—”

“—feel better just talking about it—”

“—not asking her. Besides, Your Honor, you're married—”

“—leaving?  Come on, marshal, just one more round—”

---

Home at last, Maryanne retrieved her housewarming present and an empty cup from the cupboard. She carried them to her kitchen table and sat down.

Those Bernardelli agents sure get around, Maryanne thought as she uncorked the bottle. Better than being stuck in a one-thomas town in the middle of nowhere. Then again, it wasn't going to be a one-thomas town for long. She'd be looking for deputies after all.

Maryanne poured two fingers worth of whiskey, then made it three. Now that the boil on the town's conscience had been lanced, the people would be more free to trust her, and she them. Mutual trust was important. Almost as important as good judgment.

She drained her cup and poured another three fingers. The bottle chattered on the rim of the cup. Big bad marshal, taking on an entire town full of angry people all by herself. That's good judgment, isn't it. If that bartender (“Faustus M. Burnnock, at your service, ma'am”) hadn't stepped in with that street howitzer of his…a lot of people might be dead at her hands, and she at the hands of whoever was left standing.

Poor judgment, Maryanne thought. That's what her last performance review said. Poor judgment, overconfidence, post-traumatic stress, recommended six months desk duty. Two deputies dead and God knew how many kids—

Maryanne wondered at her empty hand and aching arm. Had she thrown something? The coffee cup lay in jagged fragments under the window in the opposite wall.

The marshal of Cornelia Territory drew a bath, and washed away the smell of smoke and whiskey. After toweling herself dry she dressed in her nightshirt. Her service automatic was under her pillow where she'd left it.

In her dreams she approaches a well. The rope in her hand strains under the weight of the bucket. She tips it, and blood, cold and coagulated, spills onto the ground.

---

Author's Afterword

Next: Meryl's father accepts an invitation from a Ship's doctor. Vash comes home with a gift. And Meryl has no clue what it all might mean. See you soon!