Grace Under Fire
Lezli Robyn
“I swear, on the light of the Sun’s Twins, that our whisky—”
“Tastes like horse’s piss.” The deputy sheriff slammed the glass down on the bar. “Don’t you try to convince me that this, this. . . swill is not watered down!” He slid the drink across the polished wood, amber liquid sloshing out of the glass onto the walnut counter as it came to rest in front of the barman.
As if in protest, a horse tied outside the Hawk ’n’ Dove Saloon neighed. The barman bristled, leaning forward on thickly roped arms. “You dare accuse me of such an offence the first week I work in this establishment?”
A saloon girl with fiery curls and a crimson corset so tight her assets were all but spilling out of it, sidled up to the barman, draping her arm around him. He ignored the woman and the glass, and picked up the bottle, taking a swig before grimacing. “Curse it—you’re right.”
The deputy was mollified by the honesty. “’Tis not typical of Grace’s fare. Not typical at all.”
“That’s because that particular dram wasn’t meant for you.”
Everyone turned to see the proprietor of the Hawk ’n’ Dove Saloon enter from the private, curtained-off entrance in the dark recess of the bar. Tall and lean, with a strong jawline, Grace had her thick, silver-streaked black hair—unlike the saloon girls’ loose tresses—twisted up into a proper topknot bun. Wearing the black of mourning, she cut a striking figure, with a cybernetic implant visible along one brow line—and that was before you noticed the baton strapped around her corseted waist, or the regiment-grade boots she always wore under her voluminous skirts.
Grace made her way to the counter with an instinctive ease that reflected her name. When she reached out her hand to the barman, expectant, he hesitated a fraction of a second before placing the offending bottle into her firm grasp. Without preamble, she raised it to her nose and inhaled its muted aroma, then smiled. “As I suspected. This’s the whiskey we prepare for Simple Simon.”
“Simple who?” the barman questioned, while the rest of the establishment’s patrons let out their collective breaths to chuckle or nod knowingly.
The deputy let out a loud guffaw, slapping his thigh! “That’s right! I should have realized.”
The barman, still none-the-wiser, shrugged off the attentions of the saloon girl trying to placate him, not sure if he had just become the butt of a joke. “Who’s calling who simple?”
Grace turned her head in the direction of his voice. “I should have mentioned it earlier, Frank. Simon is Barber John’s brother. He had a traumatic brain injury about five years ago, following a fall off a horse. The doc did everything he could, but ever since then—”
“Well, he’s just not all there, you see,” the deputy interjected, raising his hand to tap his fingers on the side of his head. “He lost just enough of his marbles to not know he’s lost ’em, if you gets my drift.”
“That doesn’t explain the whiskey,” the barman pointed out.
“Actually, it does.” Grace’s eyes shadowed. “This bottle is only for Simon’s consumption.” She moved behind the counter, and without even looking pulled out an almost identical bottle of whiskey, placing it beside the other. “This bottle is for the rest of the patrons.”
“You see, Simon copes best with his impairments if he’s not confronted with the knowledge of how diminished he is now,” the deputy added.
Grace nodded curtly. “Like everyone else, after a hard day’s work, he just wants a drink or two to wash away the toils of the day. Unlike everyone else, however, he no longer has the impulse control to know when to stop. His brain don’t quite work right. So instead of continuing to serve him drinks that would put a healthy man under the table, or deny him, which he wouldn’t understand—”
“You dilute a bottle of his favorite drink so that he’s given the illusion of choice,” the barman concluded, the tension finally leaving his broad shoulders.
“Of normalcy,” Grace corrected, returning both bottles to their correct positions under the counter. Her voice quietened, directed more to the barman than anyone else. “Left is for Simon, right is for everyone else. I am remiss for not having told you this upon hiring, Frank. Apologies. I knew you’d only just moved to this town and were not to know.” She straightened up, brushing her skirts down, as if to shake off her mistake. “Ruby?”
The saloon girl dropped the barman’s arm and stepped closer, all business, her musk perfume teasing the senses of the nearest patrons. “Ma’am?”
Grace turned in her direction and leant forward to talk in hushed tones. “Have the girls be on lookout, when not. . . occupied. When Simon comes in next, have one of them point him out to Frank, here, so he can get his likeness and know which bottle to use.”
Ruby said, “Will do.”
The barman inclined his head. “Much obliged.”
“Now what does a guy have to do to get a proper whiskey in this joint?” the deputy officer asked, his anger dissipated. “An intelligence test?”
The barman laughed, and tipped out the inferior contents of his glass, reaching to refill it from the correct bottle before carefully placing it back in the right spot. He handed the drink over. “It’s on the house.”
“It bloody well better be!”
Grace didn’t stay for the male-bonding session, but instead made her way to the staircase leading up to the balcony overhanging the saloon’s main floor. Knowing her establishment’s “soiled doves” tended to recline provocatively against the railing banisters in various degrees of undress when not weaving around the main floor to climb into the laps of willing prospects, Grace walked up on the walled side of the staircase, pausing first to inquire after Ebony’s health, and then to remind Chastity that her shift had ended a half an hour ago.
She made her way past the occupied service rooms, through the hallway that housed her doves’ private quarters, until she reached her private suite at the far end of a second, more isolated passageway.
She wasn’t past the threshold more than a few steps before a young woman threw herself in her arms, her lily-of-the-valley hair soap soothing the older woman’s senses.
“What took you so long?” Hope exclaimed, pulling back to dance around the lushly decorated suite.
Grace’s stern gaze softened with a warmth her saloon patrons never witnessed. She unbuttoned and pulled off the black brocade gloves that no one but Hope ever saw her without, exposing the metallic gleam of her cybernetic right hand—a replacement earnt in her previous career, after years of bounty hunting had taken its toll. . . and nearly her life.
Hope continued to waltz around the room, Grace listening to her petticoats swishing under her floral day dress as she moved around on light feet. “The tutor received this letter on the mail train today: I got one of the coveted invitations to apply to the best universities the domes have to offer. It’s our ticket out of here!”
Grace heard the rustle of the official document, her relief profound. While she hadn’t doubted the girl’s dedication to her studies, or talent, only students scoring in the top two percent received an invitation to immigrate to another colony for university. To get one of those coveted invitations. . .
She reached for her ward, who again leapt into her arms as she was scooped up into a spinning hug. “I’m so proud of you,” she said gruffly. “Your mom would have been, too. You’re a credit to your name.”
Years earlier, long before she acquired the Hawk ’n’ Dove Saloon, Grace had never believed she’d ever become a parent. Especially not as a bounty hunter. She’d just been passing through town to root out one of the planet’s most notorious criminals, who’d illegally crossed borders to hide out in a less technically advanced dome colony to attempt to escape attention.
She’d tried to blend in, but her cybernetics gave her away, as did her almond-shaped eyes and non-Western ways. Whispers of her arrival were soon spreading through town, so in order to avoid giving her target an opportunity to flee, she’d made the decision to confront the arms dealer in the saloon the very night of her arrival. She knew his alcohol consumption made him more vulnerable, and imminently more dangerous, but it had taken months to track him down; she couldn’t risk him getting away again.
In his last calculated effort to escape being shackled and dragged back to the Prison Dome, the arms dealer demanded a duel to the death. Being a man who’d earned his crimes through the handling of weapons, he figured he’d have significantly better odds winning.
Since the right to defend your own honor was written into the colony’s charter, Grace had agreed without hesitation, trusting her skill with even the most primitive of revolvers. But with her quick affirmation she’d made the mistake of showing her pride and revealing her hand.
When the criminal heard the confidence in her voice, and realized he’d effectively just signed his own death warrant, he did the only thing left to him; he grabbed the nearest saloon gal and held his gun to her head, demanding free passage into the neighboring dome. Unfortunately, neither he nor Grace had factored in how inebriated patrons infatuated with the petrified beauty would react. A quick, messy scuffle broke out, resulting in a lot of broken glasses and sprayed alcohol in an attempt to bring the man down. Grace had tried to intervene, but the altercation led to the death of the criminal. . . and the soiled dove who’d left behind her only hope for a brighter future.
A newborn child.
Grace couldn’t help but feel guilt—both for what had led to Lily’s death, and for being so thankful that it had granted her the greatest gift she’d ever received: her true bounty.
Hope.
Grace spent the late afternoon discussing university options with the excited girl, unable to fully grasp they were about to see the fruition of a decade of planning. “Do you have a preference?” she asked, finally, as she felt for the pamphlets strewn all over the patchwork quilt and gathered them into a folder.
“Oh—yes!” Hope exclaimed. “Too many preferences. And I can only list my top three on the application!”
Grace had anticipated that restriction. When the first of three habitable planets discovered in the Gliese 667C system had initially been colonized, a century earlier, it had taken the combined efforts of a consortium of very different human communities to raise enough capital to afford the generational colony ship that took them to the planet. Each community held very distinct expectations and requirements of what their dream colony would look like. Since the planet couldn’t be colonized without the creation of extensive atmospheric domes, separating the habitable surface of the planet into predetermined spherical segments, a charter had been drawn up granting every community in the consortium one dome each, to govern as they saw fit, but with agreed upon joint policing of global matters.
“Pick wisely,” Grace encouraged Hope, in an effort to ground her charge and gently remind her of the larger implications of this decision. “Remember, you can only immigrate once when you choose your university—and only because of your special invite. Your decision will change the course of your entire life.” And mine, she thought.
“I know, I know—you don’t need to tell me again. Each dome has to maintain a certain number of colonists to thrive, so opportunities to immigrate like this are few and far between.” Hope sobered quickly. “You will be coming with me, won’t you?” There was a quaver in her voice, and in that moment she was a child again, needing reassurance.
Grace’s heart warmed. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
Travel between the domes were restricted to merchants given special dispensation to trade goods for the sustainability of the colonies, and to select law enforcement officials chosen to administer the consortium charter laws or protect the boundaries of the various colonies. As a registered bounty hunter, Grace fell under that second category.
The only other legal way to move to another dome was to be in the top two percent of student prodigies who—after a decade of tiring study and grueling intelligence tests—have proven they have skills indispensable to other colonies. A science nerd and computational genius such as Hope would be wasted in the technology-adverse Western dome she grew up in, where women do not even have the right to vote for their own future. The original settlement charter recognized that immigration in such cases was to the benefit of all domes, as it ensured brightest of every generation was being utilized for the vital improvement or advancement of the colonies’ technological infrastructure and understanding of the new star system they lived in.
Unfortunately, Hope’s border pass only granted her access to one other dome—the one her university belonged to, and the colony she’d be immigrating to—but that change in address was enough to rewrite her entire future.
“Make sure you don’t just consider the pros and cons of the universities you can apply for,” Grace cautioned, “but also the job opportunities, economic stability, and projected viability of the colonies they belong to.”
“I’m still amazed by how little the school taught about the domes versus the charter-registered tutor you hired.” Hope’s voice sounded weary, a little indignant. “If the teacher here had it her way, the other domes might as well not exist!”
Grace grimaced. “Unfortunately, narrow-mindedness becomes short-sightedness, which then becomes willful ignorance. The future success of every colony is dependent on consistent population and infrastructure growth within the first few generations. It won’t be until the second generational ship arrives, in another century or so, that terraforming machines will arrive and be used to make the world more viable for humans to live outside the domes.” She paced the room as she considered her next words carefully. “While still in the initial struggle to attain viability, some colonies retreat into themselves, amplifying more restrictive charter policies under the guise of self-preservation which can end up oppressing their citizens. It’s important for you to pick a dome that is already giving indications of becoming self-sustaining within the next generation or so. The society they are forming will be more open to, and can afford, individual expression. When some of the colonies start to falter—and some will fail—the other colonies either need to have built up supplies or bolstered their life-support systems enough to be able to take in refugees—or defend their borders.”
“Is that why we can’t even visit the other domes while the colonies are establishing themselves?” Hope wondered. “Why tourism is just a concept in my tutor’s history books, not a reality on this planet?”
The bounty hunter smiled, proud of her charge. “I shouldn’t be surprised by your intuitiveness, now. As you can imagine, the demands on every dome’s life-support systems are already significant. If that demand fluctuated daily, due to humans continuously moving in and out of the artificial environments, then the constant adjustments to account for the changing oxygen requirements and carbon dioxide levels could overwork components that are already stretched too thin.”
“And you have always told me that there are not enough staff to man—or woman—an already taxed system.”
“Exactly. They’re yet to be born. Maybe, in another century, the travel restrictions would be removed, but not likely in our lifetimes.”
Hope was silent for quite a long time as she considered the import of what she’d been told. Eventually, she said, “I am thinking of applying for a Bachelor in Astronomy at the Space and Exploration Academy in Atarashī Bijon.” Her eyes brightened, sparkling with excitement. “I would kill to be on the survey teams sent to study the other planets in this system that could support life. And, it seems important now, after this conversation, to belong to a colony that is able to design and create technology that can take humans outside of the dome walls—if only for exploration, at first.”
Now you’re thinking with that bright noggin of yours, Grace thought, relaxing. She knew her ward would pick wisely.
Hope walked to the window to gaze out at the main street of Silverton. While the primary sun had set for the day, the much smaller twin stars of this three-star system still flirted with the horizon, their significantly softer glow adding a beautiful amber hue to rustic buildings lining the long dirt road filled with the tracks of horses and wagon wheels. “Anything to get out of this hellhole.”
While Grace had no urge to defend this colony, having grown up in the cleaner, higher-tech colony of Shuāngzǐ Tàiyáng, there was something to be appreciated about living a much more stripped-down life. If it weren’t for the draconian laws in this place, she might have appreciated the frontier existence more. There was an appeal to eking a living directly from the very land you toil. If only Native Americans had existed in this Western re-creation, she could have learnt from them and how they worked the land. All the colonists could have. Instead, they had decided to start a new colony far away from the privileged, white invaders of their past.
“You will miss your aunts,” she pointed out gently to her ward.
Hope voice quavered. “I know—you’re right. I wish we could take them with us. What woman would choose this existence when there were so many more. . . modern alternatives?”
“You’d be surprised. Many of the original women of this colony chose the frontier life willingly—although, admittedly not the life of a soiled dove, but that of a frontier wife and mother. And I find no fault in that dream; it’s what is right for them. Unfortunately, working in a saloon is the only recourse left to women who fall on hard times here.” Grace made her way over to her ward, sliding her hand into hers and squeezing it. “As you know, the members of this colony—your ancestors—hail from an original Earth country called the United States. Apparently, the people there were not so united as it seemed. There was a political divide for centuries. While there were good people on both sides—reasonable people, who had intersecting values, but different political opinions—it’s often the radicals who believe they should determine the fate of others. . . ”
“I remember this from my history lessons,” Hope said. “A subset of Americans tried to force their view on an entire country, trying to get one, then several more, presidents elected that would return the country to laws that existed when it was first colonized, and when their efforts failed, they applied to leave on the generational ship as one of the first colonies to settle here,” Hope finished.
“And they thought in starting out again, they should reinstate the original laws and values of the ‘Wild West’ era in United States history,” Grace added. “The records of how Americans explored that frontier now dictate how they explore this world’s new frontier.”
Hope grimaced. “It seems very. . . limited.”
“Indeed.” Grace felt Hope turn towards her. “Your mom dreamed of a better life for you than the one that was scripted for her—the one that she lived.”
“So now I have the opportunity to change my stars.”
The two women—one remade by parenthood, the other still in the making—stood by the window until the Sun’s Twins sunk below the horizon.
* * *
Hope was accepted into the Space and Exploration Academy in Atarashī Bijon, but not for her first degree choice, a Bachelor in Astronomy, but for her second preference, a Bachelor in Astrobiology, with a minor in computational biology. The next month was filled with Hope finalizing all her entrance paperwork, and filing for her travel permit, which allowed for an immediate family member to immigrate with her.
Grace also took steps to put her affairs in order. To prepare for her absence, Ruby was chosen to take over management of the saloon—for who better to look out for the soiled doves than one of their own?
“You’re going to have a bit of an uphill battle, getting men to respect you, at first,” Grace cautioned Ruby, as the seamstress modified the second of three dresses Grace had gifted her, so she could present a less “sullied” appearance to society.
Ruby nodded, her attention distracted by the dressmaker, who was pinning in a new panel of fabric to cover up the dove’s ample bosom more modestly. “I know—I suspected that. But in a way, that’s nothing new.” She gestured to her figure. “To them, the only thing changed is the levels of layers I’ll be wearing.”
In truth, Ruby hadn’t been servicing patrons for several years, spending her work hours assisting Grace in the running of the saloon. Once the townsfolk realized that, it should make the transition easier.
A more scantily clad Ebony walked into the room, her signature floral perfume making its own entrance.
Grace smiled. “What do you think, Ebbs?”
The dark beauty walked around Ruby, her expression impish. “I hardly recognize her!” She reached forward and tugged one loose red ringlet. “You’re going to have a harder time of it containing that red mane of yours, Beautiful, than your luscious curves.”
Ruby laughed. “Don’t I know it!”
Hope waltzed into the room and exclaimed almost immediately, “You look wonderful, Aunt Ruby!”
The woman beamed. “Thanks, love! I’m practicing being all decent like.”
Ebony snorted. “The only day we’d be considered decent is on our burial day. It’s the only time the womenfolk will know we’re not sharing our bed with one of their husbands.”
“Ebony!” Grace chastised. She heard the dressmaker chortle. “There’s an innocent in this room.”
Hope laughed as much as the rest of them. “I’d have to be blind not to know what was going on in the saloon, Mom.” Then she looked horrified. “Oh. . . I didn’t mean. . . ”
Grace shook her head, raising a placating hand. “Not to worry. I know what you meant.”
Ruby reached forward to give the girl a hug, then pulled back when the dressmaker tut-tutted, reaching to rub the girl’s arm instead. “I’m going to miss you, my little hatchling.”
Everyone’s mood sobered, just in time for Chastity to enter Grace’s suites, her sensuous appearance belying her name. “You would think someone died,” the brunette exclaimed, as she looked about the room. She sauntered over to Hope and cupped her face. “I’m so proud of you, chickie—even if that means you are ditching us to soar to greater heights.”
Hope pulled her into a hug. “I wish I could take you all with me!”
This time the dressmaker didn’t tut at all when Ruby joined the other doves in embracing their young ward.
“She grew up and done you proud,” the older seamstress told Grace quietly.
“That she has,” Grace replied. It’s time for my girl to spread her wings and fly.
* * *
Grace left to complete some errands around town, returning to the Hawk ’n’ Dove in the midafternoon to get it ready for the evening rush. Although the new barman seemed to be working out just fine, she still had her reservations about Frank, wishing she didn’t have to leave the saloon so soon after he’d been hired. While her doves had not reported any impropriety on his behalf—in fact, a couple had wished the handsome bachelor would be improper with them—Grace didn’t trust any man until time had proven his good intentions. Her first impressions told her he was holding something back, and while secrets were not necessarily bad—she had some of her own—it did mean she was cautious until he proved his worth. Even if he did come with impeccable references.
Maybe too impeccable.
She frowned, and pushed through the double-swing doors, only to be immediately halted by one of her doves as she entered the saloon. Then she heard it—the swish-slosh of one of the local orphans mopping, which meant all the chairs would be piled up on the tables and the floorboards slick. She’d just narrowly avoided an almost certain faceplant.
Grace squeezed Ebony’s arms in thanks, her heady floral perfume in stark contrast to the earthy stench of the blacksmith’s she’d just passed, and she made her way carefully to the bar. She knew Frank would be using this time to take inventory of the bottles needed to be pulled up from the cellar, and she wanted to have some words with him.
She nodded in the direction of the bar’s lone patron, Raymond, who had paused his harmonica rendition of “Amazing Grace” to say hello.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked solicitously, wondering where Frank was.
“No, ma’am,” the elderly man replied. “I’m still nursing my first drink, which Ebony was so kind enough to pour for me a little while back.”
Grace’s consternation deepened. “Have you seen Frank anywhere?”
He shrugged. “Not since I turned up.”
“And when was that?” She tried to sound casual.
“Oh, I would say—abouts an hour ago? I had to put flowers on my Mavis’s grave, first.”
Grace muttered the appropriate response, but inside her alarm bells were ringing.
On instinct, she made her way up the stairs, heading for her suites. She entered to find the seamstress in stitches.
“Oh, say it isn’t so!” the dressmaker exclaimed to Ruby, who was getting her third dress fitted.
“I tell you no lie!” the redhead conspired, winking as she laughed.
Grace didn’t hear her ward’s girlish giggle join the more sultry guffaw of her aunt. She frowned, her bounty hunter instincts triggered. She’d come up here to ask Ruby about Frank, but something told her she had a more pressing concern. “Have you seen Hope?”
Both women paused, instantly aware of the urgency in Grace’s tone.
“Not for a while,” Ruby supplied. “Not since she. . . ” She paused, then swore.
“What, Ruby?” Grace implored. “Not since she what?”
“Since Frank knocked and informed us that Sally had dropped by to say goodbye to Hope. She never returned.”
“Frank is missing, too.” Fuck. “When exactly was this, Ruby?”
The dove grew flustered, prompting the seamstress to speak up. “About ten past the hour, ma’am. Forty-five minutes ago.”
Grace swore profusely, repeating every curse she’d ever heard, making her way over to the chest at the end of her bed. “Didn’t that sound at all suspicious to you?” she asked, incredulous.
“Sally would want to say goodbye to Hope,” Ruby ventured, not too certain any longer.
“Ruby—you know better than that. Since when have any of her school friends ever been allowed to come to the saloon to talk to Hope? Not one of their mothers would allow it, due to the risk to their reputation. The girls would say goodbye to her at school.” She started pulling weapons and clothing out of her carved wooden chest, stacking them in piles on her bed quilt. She knew she had to move quickly, but she couldn’t afford to lose her mind and start a search completely unprepared or unprovisioned.
Ruby’s face fell. “Oh my god—I didn’t think. I’m so sorry, Grace.”
“Don’t be sorry—just help me find her.”
Ruby ran out of the room to gather the doves, and the seamstress told Grace that she would alert the town so a search party could be rallied.
Grace’s heart fell. She knew they didn’t have much time. Before the dressmaker left, Grace asked her if she could quickly help her out of her morning gown and petticoats, ignoring the woman’s gasp when she saw her cybernetic arm and leg.
As quickly as she had undressed, Grace had redressed herself in her former bounty hunter gear, which was a form of fitted vegan leather. She restrapped her baton to her waist and began assembling her other weapons. Her throwing knives were already in her boots.
Ruby raced back into the room, just as the dressmaker left it, to let Grace know the other doves were checking all the stores in the main street for information, only to be taken aback for a second to see Grace so transformed. Then she was all business again, moving to the bookcase to pull out a copy of The Complete Drowned Horse Chronicle, opening it up to reveal a small digital device nestled inside.
Handing it to Grace, she started stripping the pins out of Grace’s delicate hair bun so that her long thick tresses fell free, and then immediately started braiding it, the white streak in her hair a striking contrast to the rest of her raven mass being woven into a tight plait down one shoulder until it hung by her waistline.
Grace turned on the satellite phone, calling Peter Chang, her mentor—the bounty hunter who had trained her for the service—but there was no immediate reply. She left him a message.
Officially, Chang owned the saloon—women not being allowed to own property in this dome. They’d used the significant bounty Grace had collected from Lily’s killer to pay off the original proprietor, when Chang had agreed to her proposal that the watering hole would make a great spy outpost for the Bounty Guild. She’d then “officially” retired as a bounty hunter, taken Hope in as her ward—for no one else in the town wanted to raise “the dirty little squab.” Peter had stayed for a month or so to help set up their new base, returning for a few days every year, to “check in on his affairs” after which he had left his “sister” to run his business for him.
Within two years, Grace had set up one of the most intricate networks of informants, training her soiled doves to gather intel from drunk patrons under the guise of pillow talk, making her spy network one of the best on the planet. With lawbreakers inventing new ways to circumvent border restrictions, bribing their way through the strictest of dome entry points, a bounty hunter was never short of work—even one retired from active service.
And now she was not going to allow herself to panic, or despair, but take a deep breath and try to use all she had built to find her girl.
* * *
“They rode off on a mare that had been tied to the blacksmith’s corral to get reshod, not two hours past,” the sheriff said, as he handed his deputy a canteen of water.
Grace swore when she realized how much time had passed while the town had searched all the buildings for her girl, and she’d prepared for the most important bounty hunt she’d ever have to perform. Barber John and the deputy sheriff were already saddled up, ready to ride with her, the blacksmith lending her his speediest quarter horse.
The smith, Perry, walked out, handing a horseshoe to Grace. “The mare Frank took has one missing shoe—the one I was working on. It should make his tracks easier to find.”
Grace felt the workmanship that had been built it into its form, her fingers tracing the metal curve. Maybe it would give me some luck, she thought, as she tucked it into the top of her leather bodice.
She left the men to finalize supplies on the horses and ducked back into the saloon, which had been closed to patrons while everyone focused on the search. With a shaking hand, she reached up to the cybernetic implant gracing her brow and activated it.
For the first time in over a dozen years, sight flooded into her corneal implants, turning her irises purple. She gasped as she looked around the room, not seeing the world on the same color spectrum as other humans, but with digitally created heat signatures and depth sensors. Visible measurements were continuously calculated to indicate the distance, vector and approximate density of an object or person, with a brief description appearing above them when she focused on something specific to analyze.
Grace grimaced. There was a reason why she preferred not to use the device. The information it reported, how the artificial mechanism saw the world for her was so. . . sanitized, sterile. While it helped her navigate—and had been invaluable when she’d become a bounty hunter after she’d lost most of her sight—the world it showed her felt wrong to her other senses.
She’d realized, long ago, that in trying to continuously evaluate what she was seeing, her other senses had become muted; distancing herself from experiencing the richness of the world and the real bounty offered to her by all her natural senses.
Still, for Hope, she would utilize every damn tool available to get her fledgling back.
If the others noticed anything different about how she interacted with her environment when she walked back out a minute later, no one said anything. Instead, they watched her stride straight up to her horse and mount it with ease. She knew that because she still saw some blur and indistinct shapes, even with her implants off, that she appeared more able-sighted than she actually was, but she’d also set up her life to best mask her vulnerability. Her saloon girls knew to wear their signature perfumes, so she could tell them apart instantly, and her doves were equally particular about where everything was positioned in her establishment so that she could reach for anything she needed and know it would be where she placed her hand.
“Where did Caitlin see them depart from?” Grace asked, all determination.
The deputy sheriff gestured toward one side of the corral. “Caitlin couldn’t see much from the vantage point of her porch rocking chair, but she did see they turned left, heading behind the blacksmith’s shop.” He hesitated, as if debating adding something, then continued. “She noted that Hope didn’t appear to be in any distress at all. You sure she just didn’t run off? Decide she was just gonna shack up with the barman?”
Grace bristled but didn’t let it show. She needed help, not divided ranks. “You wouldn’t even be asking that, if you knew her well enough. Which. No. Man. Does,” she added, to emphasize her chastity.
The deputy nodded. Point made.
She directed her horse out to the start of the tracks and gave her implant a moment to trace the shapes of the four hoofprints, waiting until it registered the mare’s unique track pattern. When that was locked in, Grace looked in the direction the horse was reported to have headed, her eyes recalibrating until bright blue digital outlines appeared around similar indentations in the dirt, moving east.
Grace indicated their heading, and the others fell into her wake without question. She’d expected some form of protest at a woman taking lead, but these men knew her and, she believed, even respected her. She also knew the men were likely still shocked to see her in official bounty-hunting garb, which inherently suggested to them that she was the expert at tracking anyone. If she hadn’t been so worried about Hope, she might have been amused by the fact that while she was blind, she’d always had their measure, and yet this was probably the first time any of them had truly seen her.
The horses set out at a consistent clip, their riders knowing they’d have to make up the two hours of lead time Frank had on them. They already had one thing on their side: his mare wouldn’t be able to move quite as quickly with two people riding it and, thus, would tire faster. The search party could afford to push their mounts a little harder to make up some time because they were carrying less weight.
“I can’t understand why he’d be heading this way—there’s no other town for miles,” Barber John wondered, his gaze scanning the unrelentingly dirty dustbowl of a land that comprised of most of the colony.
“Maybe he’s trying to just throw us off, and he’ll backtrack when it’s dark—head in another direction?” the deputy mused.
Grace’s suspicions weren’t confirmed until her satellite phone called several hours later, around dusk. “Peter—thank the Sun’s Twins! What have you got for me?”
He didn’t mince words. “He’s headed for the border.”
“Wh-what?” Grace’s mind spun. “He’s attempting to leave the dome?”
The deputy swore, and Barber John was equally shocked. “Well, I’ll be!”
“What possible reason could he have for taking Hope with him?” She frowned, trying to remember if he’d ever expressed sexual interest in anyone, let alone her ward. She just couldn’t see it.
“It’s tricky enough trying to bribe the border guards to let one illegal though,” the deputy said, “let alone an extra unwilling travel partner. What’s he on about?”
And then it hit Grace. Hope’s permit to immigrate—it’d had just been approved. “Peter, is he trying to use her immigration papers, somehow? Is that even possible?”
“It’s plausible. Some folks heard him complaining one night about being stuck in such a backass town.” His voice sounded somber, deadly. “And the thing is, if she’s caught aiding his attempt over the border, by passing him off as a family member to use her plus-one pass—or her partner—it could get her university permit revoked.”
“But she was kidnapped!” Grace ground out between clenched teeth. “He likely threatened her.” His actions could sabotage her entire future.
“I sent in a drone as soon as I heard your message. Footage shows she isn’t actively fighting him,” Peter said, subdued. “So that’s something at least. Give me a second—an informant is contacting me.”
Grace’s hope surged, impatient. They continued to follow Frank’s tracks, believing they had made up significant time, but knowing the border was only fifty minutes from their location, at their current speed. She had to calculate if it was worth the risk to push the horses faster to shorten the gap, because if any of them foundered. . . Hope would reach the border before help could reach her.
“Grace—you still there?” Peter asked.
“Where else would I bloody be?” she replied, impatient. “Oh, I’m sorry, Peter—it’s just that—”
“Never mind that!” Peter interrupted, sounding excited. “She was just spotted no more than thirty minutes ahead of your position!”
The deputy sheriff whistled. “We made up more time than I thought!”
“Not quite. Apparently, the horse is going lame on one foot, so it’s slowing.”
“The missing horseshoe!” Grace exclaimed, reaching to touch it where it lay nestled above her heart. “With the weight of one person, the mare likely would have been fine. But with two—”
“Two people are a burden, especially at the pace they were likely traveling,” the deputy concluded, slapping his thigh in joy. “Let’s do this!”
Grace didn’t have to order increased speed. The bounty hunter leaned forward to rub the neck of her quarter horse—“Just a little longer, my beauty.”—and tightened her grip on the reins as they all picked up their pace, switching from a canter into a full gallop.
She knew they were cutting it fine, and that they could only gallop for minutes at a time before slowing down again for a spell, but they could all do the math: they were still thirty minutes behind, yet Frank and Hope were only twenty minutes from the border.
Still, if Frank’s horse was foundering, the time it took them to reach the border would have lengthened. Maybe, just maybe. . .
“There is something else,” Peter chimed in again, this time amusement evident in his voice. “Apparently when they passed a traveler on the road, Hope was singing. Wanna guess her song of choice, Grace?”
Barber John answered for her, his voice sounding a little rough from being jostled at speed. “Peter, we’re a little strapped for time here, mate—is it something we need to know right now?”
Grace’s mentor was undeterred, his remarkably good singing voice crackling a bit on the satellite phone. “Amazing grace—how sweet the sound— That saved a wretch like meeee! I once was lost, but now am found; Was blind, but now I seeeeee.”
Grace’s eyes filled with tears. That brilliant girl of mine! “She knows I’m coming after her!”
“No wonder she’s so calm,” Peter pointed out, laughing. “She’s just biding her time.”
* * *
Grace’s artificial gaze detected the shimmer of the translucent dome wall, curving up into the sky, long before she spotted the lame horse, and the two humans walking alongside it, the man all but propelling the girl towards the border gate, still several hundred yards distant.
Barber John’s horse had gone lame, and the deputy’s mount had tired quicker than Grace’s, prompting her to make the decision to leave them behind ten minutes earlier, so she had to rely on herself to perform the rescue.
Grace leant forward on her horse as she encouraged him to make one last heroic burst of speed, surging forward. The sound of thudding hoofs filled her ears as they arrowed in on her precious bounty.
Frank whirled when he heard the horse, her implants registering his sudden awareness that she was closing in. His heat signature changed as he manhandled Hope more forcibly, now all but dragging her to the border in his desperation.
It was in that moment that Hope started to resist, to fight back. Grace wished she could just use her horse to plow Frank into the ground, but not while he was grappling with Hope. When she was almost upon them, she reined sharply to one side, hurling herself off the horse in a tight summersault, maneuvering so that the impact of her landing was born by her cybernetic leg.
Frank spun around as she stood up, drawing a long knife out from his belt scabbard, which Grace’s implants highlighted in red as a warning.
Grace instantly feared he would grab Hope and use the knife as leverage, hold it against her neck to threaten her life. . .
But, instead, he pushed Hope away from him, behind him, and then moved into a fighting stance.
Grace couldn’t use her gun—she’d risk the bullet going through Frank and hitting Hope. But she had to do something. No man was ever going to get between her and her child.
She reached up, and switched off her implants, preferring to trust her human skills, rather than the machine part of her. If Frank’s expression registered surprise when he saw the purple in her irises turn off, Grace wouldn’t know. All she knew was that he was standing too precariously close to her daughter—her life—and she had to neutralize him. Quick.
She reached for her own knife and in one smooth motion, lunged for him.
“Mom—stop! Don’t kill him.”
Fuck! Grace was already midswing when she heard Hope’s desperate plea, the momentum propelling her forward. She did the only thing she could do: she dropped the weapon in midair, and hoped it wouldn’t land anywhere painful as her body slammed into his.
They collided forcibly. Grace reflexively twisted slightly, to throw her weight into her cybernetic side, knowing it would knock the hell out of him while keeping her from exposing herself.
She heard one of Frank’s ribs crack as they went down in a tumble of limbs. Without the weapon in her hand, her lunge was no longer deadly, but he instinctively fought back. Being larger, he had more reach, while she clearly had more skill.
She soon realized that even though she’d instinctively dropped her weapon at her daughter’s screamed plea, he had not.
In their tousle, his knife pierced the leather over her heart, as her daughter screamed for them to “Stop!” again.
Frank halted immediately, and when he saw where his knife was, he panicked. “Oh no, no no no nooo!” He immediately pulled it out and scrambled back away from Grace, horrified at his actions.
If there was anything that would pull her out of her “going for the kill” mode, hearing someone in genuine, mortified distress would do it. She rolled away from him, over to her daughter, who helped her stand with shaking hands. They embraced quickly, and wiped away tears, before Grace pulled back to clutch at her chest, which was oozing blood.
Frank was on his butt, arms clenched around his knees, rocking back and forth. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to. . . I didn’t want anything like this to happen.”
Grace unzipped the top of her leather bodice and reached in to feel the warmth of her sticky blood on the horseshoe she’d tucked in there for luck. The very horseshoe that had halted the knife’s deadly plunge.
“M-mom?” Hope’s voice sounded scared.
“I’m okay, love.” She pulled out the horseshoe, and Hope gasped. “It’s only a shallow wound. This took the impact first, before the knife slid a little, off the edge of the metal, nicking me just enough to draw blood.”
Frank stared up at them, then at the horseshoe, his eyes wide. He scrambled to his feet, reflexively clenching the knife as he backed away from them.
Grace didn’t have to use her implants to know he still held a weapon. She immediately went into a defensive fighter stance, stepping in front of her daughter.
Who put her hand placatingly on her mom’s shoulder. “He’s not dangerous,” she told her, voice gentle. “He’s just scared, Mom.”
“That’s what makes him so dangerous,” she rejoindered, but she listened to her daughter and made them both step back—an obvious retreat—to give Frank the time and space to consider his next actions.
He lowered the knife slowly, gingerly, then dropped it to the ground all together.
Relief surged through Grace as she heard it clutter on the rocky earth. Her daughter was safe.
Grace asked the trembling man to kick the knife away, which he did immediately while rubbing his hand back and forth on his pants reflexively, as if he was trying to get rid of the remembered taint of the weapon.
“Why did you do this?” she demanded, as she tucked the horseshoe back into her bodice, above the heart it had protected so well.
If anything, the question seemed to scare him more than their scuffle did. Interesting. None of this was making any sense.
Grace turned to Hope, asking her daughter to explain.
“It’s not my story to tell,” she responded quietly, compassion in her voice.
Grace sighed and focused her attention back on Frank. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t tell the deputy to put you in shackles the minute he and Barber John catch up to us.”
“I wasn’t wanting to capture your daughter. I just needed to borrow her. I was trying to escape.”
Grace frowned. “Do you have a warrant out for your arrest and were you using my daughter to leave the jurisdiction?”
He hesitated. “No, I was running to try and protect my truth.” He turned to Hope, flashing her a wry but sad smile. “I-I don’t even know how your lass worked it out.”
“Worked what out?” Grace tried not to get impatient. She could tell the man was in genuine distress, even though she’d been the one who’d been stabbed. If anything, her daughter even seemed to be protective of him. Something just wasn’t right about this entire scenario. She repeated the question, this time making an effort to soften her tone.
Again, he floundered, and Grace got the impression he looked to Hope for help. “I don’t know how to say it.”
Hope was silent for a long moment. “With your permission”—he nodded—“I will tell Mom enough for her to understand your situation.” She spent a moment running her hand through her knotted hair, considering her next words carefully. “When he first grabbed me, he kept trying to calm me by saying he wouldn’t hurt me—you know, in that way. That he just needed me to do one thing—help him cross the border—then he’d let me go.” She turned and addressed her next words to Frank directly. “Your actions clearly weighed on you more as the day went on. You were. . . distressed. Your ‘Don’t worry—I won’t touch you,’ turned into, ‘You have nothing to fear from me. I couldn’t touch any woman that way.’ I don’t think you even realized the double entendre of your words while just trying to reassure me.”
Then the import of what Hope had said hit Grace.
Frank is gay!
No wonder he’d been petrified. With the draconian Wild West laws in their colony, “fornicating” with anyone of the same gender was a hangable offence.
“To be this way, ma’am—to be true to me,” the young man started, quietly, “it’s punishable by death. I just couldn’t breathe here any longer. And I also couldn’t live. Love.”
Compassion poured into Grace, echoing her daughters. Now her doves’ inability to coax him into their beds made sense—they weren’t his type. No wonder he wanted out of the dome. She could understand that impulse, working decades to get her child out of the same hellhole to escape gender inequality.
Unfortunately, the deputy chose that very moment to catch up to them, before Grace could even respond. He took one look at the blood streaking Grace’s chest—“That fucker!”—and dismounted, moving instantly to shackle the Frank, who didn’t even protest.
It appeared all the fight—life—had gone out of him.
Grace’s mind scrambled. How was she going to explain this one? “Deputy,” Grace called, “let him go.”
The man looked incredulous. “What do you mean, ‘let him go’? You’re literally dripping blood from your chest, woman.”
“We’re not going to arrest him.”
“Why the bloody hell not?!”
“I’ve been informed of some. . . mitigating circumstances.”
“What mitigating circumstances? The guy kidnapped Hope—end of story.”
“It was only a little minor. . . nap,” Hope interjected. “He drank too much wine—he wasn’t thinking.”
The deputy loomed over the terrified man, sniffing. “Smells as sober as a newborn baby to me. Just sweatier.”
“Don’t make me pull rank, Deputy,” Grace informed him, reminding him that on a policing level, while he had jurisdiction within town borders, she had authority everywhere else as a bounty hunter.
He kept muttering expletives as he unshackled the man. “Bloody women—always so emotional. Showing sympathy to a bloody kidnapper. What next? A knitting circle with murderers?”
Grace bit back a laugh, realizing she was fond of the grumpy man. “Can you please let Barber John know we’re fine? Maybe find water for the horses, too. I’ll update you later.” When I have time to think of some kind of lie to pass off as an explanation.
The deputy reached for Frank’s flask, uncapping it and taking a whiff. “He could have at least had the decency to have stolen some decent grog from you. Even Simple Simon’s dreck was better than this tepid shite.” He swilled the water, wandering back to his horse, muttering all the while. “Glad you’re safe, lassie,” he said as he passed Hope.
“Thanks!”
Frank walked over to Grace, tremulous, his hands shaking as he took one of hers in his own, squeezing it tight. “I can’t thank you enough,” he said drawing himself up to his full, significant height. It was as if being defended—understood—had helped him find his strength.
“I’m still not happy with you, young man, but I understand being different. The fight against the binds that constrain.”
“We both do,” Hope said.
Grace dialed Peter up on the satellite phone, filling him in quickly, then asking for his advice.
“You can’t really think he is worth your help, surely,” he said. “He threatened my niece and that doesn’t sit well with—”
“You were not here,” Grace interjected, electing to not tell him about the knife to the heart, not just yet. “He could have forced our hand, putting Hope’s life at risk to save his own skin once I caught up to him, but he chose not to.” She considered their options. “Can we send him to you on some trumped-up charge? Get him out of this dome through an extradition order?”
Peter snorted. “Not unless you want him to be actually charged with something. And it would have to be something big, to justify the extradition. Then we would need a judge’s approval to legally wave the charges, so I would have no control over the outcome. Too risky.”
Grace grimaced, feeling deflated.
Frank said, “It was worth a try—I appreciate it.”
“I have an idea,” Hope spoke up, sounding a little coy. “Hire him.”
Grace shook her head. “Love, he already works for me. I’m pretty sure he didn’t kidnap you and drag you all the way to the border because he loves being a barman so damn much and wants to stay.”
“I’m so sorry.” Frank sounded wretched with guilt. “I really didn’t—”
Grace waved him off. “I was illustrating a point. I get that I sound snarky as hell, but I can’t help but still feel a little pissed off. It’s reflexive. It will wear off, given time.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Hope teased, and Grace could hear a little triumph in her voice.
Grace was about to ask her to explain when Peter started laughing on the other end of the phone. “That’s brilliant, Hope.” Then he was all business. “Pass the phone to Frank.”
Grace did so, curious, giving the man’s shoulder a sympathetic squeeze as she did so.
They could hear paperwork rustling through the phone, then the man himself asked, “You there, Frank?”
Frank hesitated at first, then answered. “Yes, sir?”
“How would you like to join the Bounty Guild?”
Frank spluttered, shocked. “Come again?”
This time it was Grace who laughed, as the implications of his offer hit her. “Oh, Peter—that’s brilliant.”
“Thank your brilliant daughter.”
Grace’s heart swelled in pride, as the barman-turned-kidnapper-turned-possible-recruit turned to her, and she didn’t have to see him to know how overwhelmed he was. “Bounty hunters, by nature, are required to chase criminals. She paused for emphasis. “Which. Takes. Them. Across. The. Border.”
Frank gasped. “You mean, I could leave this colony? I could. . . ” His voice broke, emotions overwhelming him.
“It means that after your training,” Peter informed him, “we could permanently assign you to a base in any number of domes. . . ”
“That wouldn’t be this one,” Grace finished.
“You would finally be safe,” Hope added, in a much more delighted tone.
Grace considered her daughter, proud. Only a girl with the sweetest soul, and a heart that was always filled with her birth mom’s hope for a brighter future, would not only forgive her kidnapper, but have the sensitivity to realize his situation was much more dire than her own.
“Come to the border gate, since you’re so conveniently close to it anyway,” Peter told Frank, his voice droll. “I wish your bloody colony had not banned all forms of technology. So bloody inconvenient. It might take an hour or so, but I’ll have one of our people drop off some paperwork for you to fill out, to start the process.”
Frank made amends with Hope, and turned to Grace, one last time, to say some parting words. “I once was lost, but now I’m found. . . ”
Grace smiled. “Was blind, but now I see.”