MergePunk: An Ooorah & WattpadPunkFiction Anthology

Reckoned - @Holly_Gonzalez - StonePunk + Space Western

Reckoned

A StonePunk + Space Western story by Holly_Gonzalez

Damn it all. I settled out here to this god-forsaken rock to get away from people. Whoever it is keeps messin' with my livestock--when I catch them, they'll get what's comin'. I don't get along with nobody, human or otherwise. And I deal with 'em all the same. Justice at the hot point of a plazblaster.

Who would dare? My reputation alone done scares visitors away. Isn't another settlement for a hundred kilos in any direction, the most remote corner of this most remote planetoid called 719. So remote that it doesn't even have a name, just a number. I like it this way.

Buf somehow, somebody's out here. Sneakin' around my homestead, disturbing my peace. Even with my surveillance systems, linked right into my wetware, they're gettin' through. Won't do, no sirree.

Well, they're gonna learn the hard way. Lexie Montacket doesn't play games. Got blood on my hands, vengeance in my heart, and plenty o' cybernetic death toys wired up in this ol' meat. I didn't earn the name Lightnin' Lexie for nothin'. Fastest left-hand draw in the outer quadrants, and I've left a trail of graves across the known worlds to prove it.

Night fallin', and I'm ready for a scrap. My bio-systems sync to the surveillance and the perimeter defenses with a clear signal. Those hooligans come back tonight, and they'll regret ever setting foot near my claim.

I clip a fresh cell into my plazblasters and buckle the holster snug around my waist. I've lost a few inches 'round the middle out here, lean and mean, my hands rough as old leather and scarred, two meat fingers missin' after a blade thug done shafted me out on the Vespra system fifteen year ago. No matter, I've still got eight synthetic digits functional and itchin' to pull these triggers.

My boots and coveralls need patchin' for sure. I don't care much. I live alone, not here to impress. Dame Death wears a tattered robe and a smug, toothy grin. I've got those a'plenty.

I tip my hat low as I step out the door of my cabin, tie my bandana around my face, secure my night visor around my eyes and connect it to my neural face plate. It's showdown time, buckaroo, whoever you are. And I've got a bandolier of seeker bolts with your name on 'em, just waiting to carve a hole into your dirty, trespassin' skull.

Greater Moon hangs low on the horizon, the two dwarf moons mere pinpricks of white light hangin' above a band of fading gold. At least 719 has a breathable atmosphere. Partially terraformed, but abandoned when the syndicates found out ain't much out here but garselope and volcanic residue from a long time ago. Not so good for farmin. Hydroponics works for me alright.

We humans can walk about 719 without oxygen gear most of the year. 'Cept the storm season, when the geyser plains down south o' here erupt en masse. Then you gotta wear a tank and mask outdoors. Only the garselope wander the regolith during that Hell season. Them varmints can breathe through anything. Pesky brutes, useful as they are to me out here. Their wool can be shorn and spun into a fiber strong as some o' the fancy nano-stuffs they manufacture on the outer reaches.

Can smell 'em meters away. Bit like an Earth rat mixed with a musk ox. Got my flock corralled out by the silos. Six females and one male. Hopin' to breed em, ain't had no luck yet. Finicky things, little understood by humans. Shy 'n hard to domesticate. I roped all these in myself, determined to find a good way to tame 'em.

So far, all they like to do is eat me out of grain and shit piles deep enough to wade through. Easy to see why most settlers gave up on raising 'em. I'm not the quittin' type. Someday, I'm gonna be the first to make a fortune on 'em.