Duststorms were typical on Veros. The boy had been born and raised on the planet, one of the first children born of the young settlement that had been chartered before the conflicts of war began to envelop the galaxy. His parents had died of rustlung only a year into his birth, but luckily it was the old Marshal, his grandfather, that had stepped in to raise the boy. Duncan, or Dun for short, stared out the thick window to the outside, while his grandfather sat at his desk, rifling through a stack of papers.
Marshal Gale Elrin was not a gentle man. His skin resembled coarse leather, his hair was greasy and unkempt, and the man’s face had not seen a razor blade in years. He’d been chosen by the settlement during the chartering as their choice of Marshal due to his experience in the Border World conflicts as a well regarded Colonel, and his years as a well-regarded marshal in the inner ring systems. He’d been the man who brought in Beltrix Gespard alive, after all, after the Truvelian had killed ten other marshals between Tervix and Brousal. For the Marshal, Veros was a chance to retire in quiet solitude and peace away from the hustle and bustle of the inner system. He’d grow fat and old and die in his sleep. He didn’t expect that the planet’s constant dust storms to be extremely hostile to humans; and in the first three years settling the town of Burgess Claim, over half the settlers had died of disease.
“Grandpa,” the boy said, walking over to his grandfather’s desk, “when’s the storm gonna pass?”
“Probably won’t pass til tomorrow morning,” the old man replied, “Go read a holostory for now.”
“I’ve read all the holos in the house,” the boy whined. “When are you going to teach me to shoot like you?”
The Marshal raised a thick eyebrow, eying the scrawny boy up. He’d just turned thirteen, and some of the colony boys had started learning to use a rifle even earlier. They’d had to, with so many of the original settlers buried in the ground.
“Come with me,” he grunted, walking leading the boy downstairs. With the environment so dangerous, the Marshal had set up his own shooting gallery across from the holding cells; which besides the weekend drunk, had remained unused for most of the season. On the far wall, the Marshal had set up several targets. He stood the boy at a taped mark on the floor, and fumbled in his jacket, before producing his sidearm: a heavy Rigel-V Duster. The models were heavy, unwieldy, and hit heavy for a kinetic firearm. The Marshal handed the boy the revolver and stood behind him.
“Now, you want to hold it like so-” the old man helped the boy wrap his fingers around the grip. His small hands barely fit. “You’ll grow into a gun like this,” he remarked and helped the young boy line up the sights. “Now, don’t yank the trigger. You want to squeeze it. Kinetic guns like this-”
The boy squeezed the trigger-
The Duster erupted in an explosion of sound. Standing fifteen yards away, the large Grix smuggler who’d only seconds earlier had been holding a small holdout pistol pointed at Fiona Miles, the local merchant’s daughter, crumbled onto the ground, gasping for air. The man stood over the smuggler as the girl quickly pulled away from the large hairy alien, half-in shock from momentarily being a hostage and half in shock that the young Marshal had the goddamn gall to shoot the smuggler while he still had her at gunpoint!
“Of all the stupid, lowdown, worthless lawmen I have ever had the misfortune of meeting-” she spat venom at the man, as he simply sauntered over to the Grix, the red-haired alien’s barrel chest heaving up and down.
“Enough of the drama,” the young man said, kicking the alien in the side. “I hit you with a concussive shot. ‘Nuffin that’d kill your sorry hide.”
Duncan Elrin stood above the Grix, his shadow covering the alien’s torso. He’d grown tall and broad, with strong shoulders and sharp eyes, both traits hammered into his body by his grandfather’s lessons. On his hip sat the ragged leather holster that Gale Elrin had worn for thirty years. Dun had made sure to put the old iron to good use during his time as the settlement’s Marshal.
The Grix was only able to force out another pained moan, as the Marshal pulled the alien up. In the two years since his grandfather had passed, Dun had taken up Gale’s position as the town Marshal. As Burgess Claim slowly grew in size, it had become an important trader in ore and red sand, enough that the local port was constantly abuzz with merchant ships.
And with trade came crime. The Marshal’s office was constantly filled with smugglers, thieves, dealers, and other surly types. The fact that Dun was constantly flashing his iron at anyone that smelled rotten was bad enough that the constant threats on his job had finally come to fruition on that day. As he carried the Grix into his office, he stopped, dumbfounded by the three men waiting for him.
The mayor was the one he recognized. Hillock Burgess was the namesake of Burgess Claim, after all. He’d survived the years to become a well-connected man for the rim-side colonies, and with his stake in many of the local mining organizations, he’d become wealthy quickly. The two men standing at Burgess’ wings were not locals. One was older, dressed like many of the Rim-side settlers. The younger man was dressed nicer and had a shiny leather jacket covering a pressed-blue shirt. Both men wore Marshal badges.
“Mr. Elrin,” Burgess began, wiping his silver spectacles with a handkerchief, “we at the colony appreciate the years of service your grandfather gave to the town. And we are in your debt for carrying on his legacy after his sudden demise. But-”
Dun’s face flushed deep crimson. “You weedy sumbitch-” he growled, moving towards the mayor before the two Marshal’s quickly grabbed him, pulling him back.
“As I was saying,” the man continued, “you are not a licensed Marshal. You’ve been acting under the Deputy Statue of the Marshal’s code, acting as interim Marshal, but as of today you are relieved of your duty.”
“Where the hell am I supposed to go!?” Dun snarled.
“It’s not my problem, Mr. Elrin.” The mayor sighed. “Your effects have been boxed up for you. I’ve taken the liberty to pay you a handsome sum for your family’s stake in the colony. Out of kindness, of course.” He handed him a small sum of credits. Handsome indeed. “It’s enough to charter passage to wherever you’d like to go. A chance to start a new life.”
Those words were the executioner’s fatal swing against any hopes Dun had. His weekly brawls and shootouts had made him few friends in the settlement, but he was doing as his grandfather had tasked him: he was protecting the colony. Of course, others saw it as painting the colony in a darker color; a hothead like Dun walking around, ready to draw iron at anyone who toed the line, was not healthy for business; and it was business that was keeping Burgess Claim alive now.
Dun pictured countless words and actions against the mayor. Shoving his iron down the old man’s throat, punching the spectacles off his fat little nose, or just saying something with enough bile and vitriol to start a brawl with the two hired tin stars. But there was no fight in his heart with the understanding that this was no longer his home.
Chartering a flight didn’t take too long, and a night sleeping on the bench of the port wasn’t the worst sleep he’d had. The morning before his departure, he trekked down the dusty paths to the local graveyard, kneeling down at the Elrin plot. Three dust-weathered gravestones sat there: Bren Elrin, Jess Elrin, and Gale Elrin’s names marked their resting place. Dun took the wethered old Marshal Star from his pack, placed it on the red dirt of the graves, and covered it with a handful of the rest dust.
He gathered his things and left the past behind.
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