Under Fire Copyright ©2002 by Peter W. Prellwitz  All Rights Reserved.

In the wild days of the Martian Iron Rush, there were countless ways to make a fortune. Mining. Business. Gambling. Murder. Riches were available to all, as was death. Laws were decreed by the wealthy, enforced by the strong, and sentences were meted out swiftly and without mercy by the ruthless, according to those who held sway. Many innocent people died.

Into this chaos rode the Martian Territorial Rangers. Known with fear and respect throughout the frontier as the Red Marshals, these brave men and women pinned on the red iron badge and sided with the innocent. Justice prevailed and evil retreated to the shadows.

And of all the courageous deeds performed by these selfless officers, one Marshal most exemplified their thankless service. He was a man who’s pure heart, swift hand and unerring judgment inscribed him forever into the tomes of Martian lore. He was a man who tamed what couldn’t be tamed and brought to a raw, savage frontier the seeds of justice and order. He was a man few knew, a man few loved, and a man who’s name the evil most feared. He was a man who helped decide the future of all Mars.

He was a man named Roids Cavanaugh.

Martian Territorial Ranger Log: 11 June, 12 MD

Under Fire

by H.K. Devonshire

Author’s Note: "Des": slang for desiccate. Used to describe being killed, normally in a violent fashion. _var. "des my hide"

Maybe Three-Eye Stevens _would_ get him this time. He’d certainly had the opportunity, Roids thought as he pressed his torn suit against a convenient boulder. He pulled out another suit patch - his fifth - and pulled away from the rock. The bullet-sized hole hissed angrily, but stopped abruptly when he slapped a patch on it. Last hole. He sighed gratefully, leaned against the rock, and drew his Doombringer Colt.

"You coming out, Marshal?" came a taunting voice over the comlink.

"Why? You in a hurry to die, Three-Eye?" Roids replied, his strong, even voice belying his desperate situation. Five holes in the suit, four in him, all caused by three bullets, Three-Eye’s trademark. Two went clean through him, causing the four wounds, and the last tagged his suit but missed his body.

"Nope. I’m not even in a hurry to kill you. In fact, I kinda like taking my time. It’s not every day a man kills Roids Cavanaugh."

"And it won’t be today and it won’t be you, Three-Eye. You took your best shot and I’m still gonna plant you under red rock."

The old outlaw chuckled. "I reckon not, Marshal. Somebody’ll des my hide one day, but you’ll be in hell first to greet me and kiss my ass.

"But you talk it up, Marshal. Use up what air you got left. You’re not going anywhere I ain’t sending you."

Not going anywhere, Roids repeated in his head. That’s an understatement he thought dryly. Two hundred meters away, his hov bike, Shitfer, was a twisted, smoldering wreck, the victim of technology. Three-Eye - called that because it was impossible to sneak up on the wily outlaw - had hit Roids’ prototype energy rifle, mounted in the hov scabbard. If that had been the first bullet, Roids would be dead. Caught in the explosion, his atmosphere suit would have ripped to shreds.

But it had been the third slug, and Roids was already falling off his bike from his wounds, and missed the resulting shrapnel. If anything, Shitfer saved his life, for the force of the blast had thrown Roids into the rocks, preventing Three-eyes from getting a finishing shot. He grabbed at his broken rib. Shitfer didn’t have to throw him quite that hard, though.

(continued)

Appearing in Short Story Form on

DOUBLE DRAGON PUBLISHING and FICTIONWISE in 2006

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