Threshold Shift (3 page)
The
barman left the way he came, leaving the two men alone. Jacob wasn’t
foolish enough to believe Hassan was helpless. He imagined there were
a few buttons on the desk which could activate some formidable
security. But he wasn’t here to hustle. He would need more than
one batch of Jopo before the month was out.
“What
can I do for you, Marshal?” Hassan asked.
Jacob
knew the dance. “A dozen doses of Jopo H derivative, Hassan,
the same price as before. But don’t give me any duds this
time.”
Hassan
scratched the back of his neck, his face displaying a practised
pained expression that indicated a problem.
“I’m
afraid Marshal that I’m all sold out today, If you would like
to come back next week, I’m sure I can accommodate you.”
Jacob
smiled, trying to remain calm. Beneath him he could feel the ground
beginning to sway again. He could not keep going without Jopo.
“I
don’t believe you Hassan,” he said.
Hassan
chortled. “Well, it doesn’t matter if you believe me or
not. Jopo H derivative is illegal and you are the Marshal. Selling to
you would be tantamount to breaking the law. Tell me, how can you
enforce the law if you are in fact breaking it?”
“I’m
not in the mood, Hassan,” Jacob said, his hand closed around
his gun. “Don’t make me use force.”
Hassan
continued to smile too widely, highlighting wrinkles that successive
youth treatments had failed to erase. Jacob realised the man’s
hair was too black, a lacquered black. His mind was wandering, the
ground seemed to be moving, and he shifted his balance to compensate.
“You’re
not in any position to coerce me Marshal,” Hassan said. “Look
at you. You can barely stand. Pathetic! To think the people of this
colony used to look up to you.”
Jacob
pulled out his gun, his hands trembling as he aimed it unsteadily at
the little man behind the desk.
“I’m
not going to ask again, Hassan” he intoned. “Give me the
Jopo.”
Hassan
smiled. “All right, Marshal, you’ve beaten me.” He
unlocked the top draw of his desk and produced a small vial. “This
is all the Jopo I have.”
Jacob
judged the vial would barely last him two days. “What are you
trying to pull, Hassan?”
“My
supply has run dry, Marshal,” he explained. “You should
know, it’s very hard to come by nowadays.”
“Not
for you,” Jacob said.
“You
flatter me Marshal,” Hassan replied. “Here, catch.”
The little man pitched the vial at Jacob’s head, and as he
ducked, his trigger finger squeezed involuntary, the resultant blast
tearing a hole in the ceiling above Hassan’s desk.
The
rat faced man laughed and clapped. “Very impressive, Marshal.”
Jacob
turned to examine the shattered vial, the purple liquid a small
puddle on the floor running ever so slowly into a drainage vent.
“You!”
he raised his gun only to be met by the sight of a much more modern
pistol held in Hassan’s more than steady hand.
“Do
you like my toy, Marshal?” Hassan asked, waving the gun from
side to side. “It’s the latest, practically aims itself.
“
Jacob
snarled. “I could just shoot you here and now.”
“Maybe
you could,” Hassan replied. “But you aren’t so good
on your feet Marshal. Jopo withdrawal will do that to a man. Frankly
I’m surprised you’ve lasted as long as you have.”
“Hassan,
so help me!”
“Get
out, Marshal,” Hassan said, all playfulness gone. “You
won’t get any Jopo out of me.”
Jacob
opened his mouth to speak, just as Hassan’s gun fired itself,
the concussion bolt destroying Jacob’s gun and tearing away his
trigger finger. Jacob dropped to his knees, his eyes wide, cradling
his ruined right hand.
“You’ve
made a mess, Marshal,” Hassan said. “I’ll have to
send a bill. Ah, here’s my man now.”
Jacob
grimaced, blinking tears out of his eyes as heavy steps rocked the
plexifibre floor beneath him. A reptilian hand dug into his shoulder.
He screamed and looked up into two thin blood red pupils.
“See
the Marshal out please, Paul,” Hassan ordered.
Jacob
gritted his teeth as he was hauled to his feet and held in a grip
that no human had any hope of breaking.
“Come
along, Marshal Klein,” the creature’s vocoder intoned.
“Out
the back please, Paul,” Hassan said. “The Marshal has
lost his right to use the front door.”
Jacob
struggled without any effect, his hand and shoulder bleeding as the
Jopo withdrawal rose within him, the pain becoming distant and hazy.
A few
moments later he was thrown down the fire escape into the bins behind
The Colonial Captain’s kitchen. A foot on his back prevented
him from rising.
“This
day has been a long time coming, Marshal,” Paul said. “I
would hate to deprive my brethren of this sight.”
As
Jacob was hauled to his feet, he desperately launched an elbow into
the Threshian’s scaled hide. The Threshian said nothing. It
simply carried him to the end of the alley and pitched him into Main
Street.
“Human
inhabitants of Threshold,” the Threshian announced. “Behold
your saviour.”
Jacob
was lifted to his feet by the collar of his uniform as the people he
had nodded to minutes earlier stared at him in rapt silence. He
stared back, knowing that aid was unlikely. He had always fought
their battles for them, but that did not work both ways.
“Look
at him,” Paul shouted. “Just look at him, nothing but a
dirty Jopo addict. He couldn’t even outgun Hassan!”
The
group of Threshians emerged from their canopy into the street. Jake
could smell the pheromones they were releasing into the air, their
excitement and anticipation for the kill. He would not survive this.
For years he had kept the Threshians in their place. He had made
examples, demonstrating again and again the strength and will to beat
them. They had feared him, and that fear had protected him, but in
this dirty, bloody state, unarmed, and with no trigger finger, he was
no longer a man to be feared. He had proven his own weakness.
Unconsciousness beckoned, and he realised that finally it would be
over. He wouldn’t have to suffer being alone for much longer.
He would never have to suffer again.
“Let
him go,” a lone voice demanded. Lucas! It was Lucas, his old
deputy, Lucas, who had settled down and bought a farm far from town.
Did Lucas even carry a weapon anymore? Oh Lucas.
“The
Marshal has a friend,” Paul said and dropped Jacob to the
ground. The five other Threshians had grouped together behind Paul’s
flank.
Jacob
glimpsed his old friend, now a farmer in dirty overalls carrying a
heavy sack. Of the sharp young deputy he had known ten years ago only
that clear resolve remained. Jacob stared into Lucas’s eyes and
shook his head. The man had a wife and child.
“Leave
him alone,” Lucas ordered, releasing the sack, his right hand
unconsciously searching for a sidearm that was conspicuous by its
absence.
The
Threshian called Paul consorted with the gathering behind him and was
handed a pistol which he lazily pointed at Lucas.
“I
could tear you apart with my bare hands,” Paul said. “But,
oh well...” He shot Lucas in the chest, the bolt flaring
briefly into flame upon the farmer’s overalls.
“Lucas,”
Jacob mouthed faintly.
He
looked up at the pistol and took a desperate lunge at it with his
good hand, sending it flying from the Threshian's grip.
An
absent minded swipe knocked him down again.
“Don’t
worry, Marshal,” Paul said, raising his hand again. “You,
I will tear apart with my bare hands.”
A
patch of ground exploded by Paul’s feet, and the Threshian
paused, his clawed hand in mid-lunge. Jacob twisted around to see a
tall young man dressed in white and blue, holding the gun Paul had
dropped with a confidence that came from years of practise.
“You’re
under arrest, Threshian,” Jon Klein announced. “For
murder.”
One
of the other Threshians roared, drawing his pistol. He was shot
before he could even aim it, the side of his neck exploding in a mess
of thick green blood.
“Anyone
else?” Jon asked.
The
remaining Threshians behind Paul took a step back, suddenly
uncertain.
Paul
himself snorted in disgust and began to walk towards the front door
of The Colonial Captain.
“Stop,”
Jon said, another explosion of dirt emphasising his point.
Paul
hissed, his vocoder translating at maximum volume. “You’re
not the law.”
“Yes
I am,” Jon said, his black hair fluttering before his eyes.
“Dad, can you stand?”
Jacob
struggled to his feet, and nodded, clutching his ruined hand.
“Get
over here,” Jon said. Jacob stumbled over to his son, pausing
only to look at Lucas’s still body.
“You
too, Paul,” Jon added.
The
Threshian moved slowly, muscles tensed and Jacob was suddenly aware
how vulnerable he felt without his gun. He looked over at Jon. His
son’s expression grim, determined, the pistol unwavering in his
hand.
“Where
are we going?” Paul asked, raising his arms above his head.
“To
the jail,” Jon answered, taking a step backwards, careful to
keep to a three metre distance as he circled behind Paul. Good, Jacob
thought, any closer and the Threshian could cover the distance before
a shot could even be fired. He was surprised Jon had remembered that
fact. He was even more surprised his son had stepped forward to save
him. The two had not talked in a long time.
“The
others,” Jacob warned, his eyes darting towards the remaining
Threshians spreading out around the body of their fallen comrade.
“Don’t
bet I won’t kill him before you can finish me off,” Jon
shouted.
Jacob
glanced at Paul, his scaled visage immobile. The Threshians continued
to move. It would all be over so quickly, unless...
“It’s not worth it,” Paul snarled, turning to the
others. “Just tell my uncle where I am.”
The
Threshians came to a standstill, gazing at each other uncertainly,
deprived of their leadership.
“That
was the right move, Paul,” Jon said. “If I had gone down,
I would have taken you with me.”
“I’m
sure you would have,” the Threshian snorted, “Marshal.”
Jon
ushered Paul into the Jailhouse with a wave of his gun, Jacob
followed, maintaining pressure on his ruined hand and wondering how
he had managed to walk away from the standoff alive. Then, as he
entered the Jailhouse, a loud scream echoed around Main Street. He
turned to see Lucas’s wife weeping beside the body of her dead
husband. When she saw him, he looked away. He could not meet her
eyes.
Jon
was leant back in his father’s reclining chair in the
Jailhouse, his legs stretched out under the desk and his eyes closed.
He had meant to catch the shuttle off-world that morning, his bags
had been packed, his credit strip transferred, and his room let out
to one of the new miners. Now, because of his father, he was stuck on
Threshold with everything he owned in three bags propped up against
the far wall. He still couldn’t work out exactly what had
happened. What had prompted him to pick up the gun and use it like he
was still running around in some adolescent Espirnet game?
It
had all happened so fast, his father paraded down Main Street, dirty
and bleeding from his hand and shoulder, Lucas’s unwise
intervention and murder, and then the gun, flying across the ground
to land next to his feet. It had been the shock, he told himself, the
shock of seeing Lucas shot down so savagely. He had known Lucas well
when the farmer had been his father’s deputy. Lucas had often
eaten breakfast or dinner at the house, had even given him his first
ride on an electrocycle. If there was anything he could say about
Lucas it was simply that he had been a good man. He shouldn’t
have died like that, he hadn’t deserved to.
Jon
recalled it had only been a few hours since he, his father, and their
prisoner had arrived at the jail. The Threshian had been swiftly
locked up in one of the basement cells, specially reinforced for his
kind. Jon had then dressed his father’s wounds as best he
could, the shoulder was not too bad, but he was worried that the hand
might become infected. He had called Doc Forbes, but Forbes had
proved reluctant to leave his surgery and come over. Word had already
travelled the length and breadth of the colony about what had
happened on Main Street. Paul worked for Hassan, which was bad
enough, but he was also Michael’s nephew. Michael had led the
uprising ten years before which had killed Jon’s mother. During
the January settlement he had negotiated a ten percent Threshian
ownership of the Larson mines and had grown in influence ever since.
With Paul’s arrest the uneasy peace Jon’s father enforced
was under threat.
A
wracking cough sounded through the ceiling from Jacob’s room
upstairs. Jon opened his eyes, swinging into a more comfortable
position on the chair. What had happened to his father? He had heard
the rumours, but he couldn’t believe the man had become a Jopo
addict. Jopo was a foodstuff, a vegetable that could only be grown on
Threshold. Jon winced at the memory of how it tasted, a bitter sweet
burning he could not abide, but it was edible. The Threshians were
heavily enamoured of it. Jopo had been their main supply of
nourishment long before human occupation. It was twenty years ago
when a chemist discovered it could be processed into a drug that
could enhance human concentration and attention span, allowing a high
level of clear, normally unattainable thought.
Jon
presumed that was why his father had turned to it, to stay on top of
his game in a world where the native species was becoming
increasingly hostile and difficult to control. But there was a heavy
price to be paid. Sustained use of the drug inevitably caused
addiction and dependence. A human could not simply stop being a Jopo
addict, withdrawal always caused death. There were no exceptions. Jon
gritted his teeth and shook his head angrily. Dad, you idiot! As if
in response, the coughing began again, this time followed by a
sustained period of retching. Jon wondered how long Jacob had gone
without a dose, and more importantly, how long he could last without
one.
