Westwood
By PanPiper
Tank trudged painfully across the landscape, trying to not wince with every step. He had a deep, bleeding burn across the right side of his waist from where the plasma beam had grazed him. His left arm was broken from the ensuing explosion of the gun turret and probably a few ribs as well from him hitting the bulkhead really hard. Somehow he had stayed conscious enough to make it to the escape pod just before the gunship’s reactor blew.
He had no idea where he was, but he had to keep moving, hoping to stumble into civilization. He wasn’t going to make it without medical attention. The arid landscape didn’t offer up any clues, pretty as it was. He hoped he would find something soon, or at least a water source, as the few packets of bagged water in the pod’s survival kit wouldn’t last more than a day, and that’s rationed.
Luck was with him however, and within a few hours saw a bit of smoke on the horizon. He moved in that direction to find what appeared to be a small ranch, the smoke from its chimney. He approached with his hands up, painful as it was, to be greeted from afar with a levelled rifle and a command to stop.
“I don’t know you!” Cried a slightly shrill male voice. “Get away from my land!”
Tank stopped and cried back. “I am injured and in need of medical attention!”
“You’ll get no medicine here! Be off with you!”
“Could you at least tell me what direction I should go, Sir?”
“Turn left and head between the two hills there. Hours walk should bring you to Westwood.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Tank called out as his farewell and proceeded to move in that direction. He could make it another hour.
Turned out that Westwood was a bit of an oasis with a large forested copse of trees, a logical place for a town in this arid place. It wasn’t a huge town, couldn’t be more than five hundred living there. But that’s enough to support some sort of doctor. He hoped their doctor, or what passed for one, would be feeling charitable, as he had but a small handful of silver on him. He had no idea what prices would be like here, but he figured it might be enough to keep him fed a couple of weeks if he didn’t live fancy. It was certainly not enough for the kind of medical treatment he would need.
The town was not too stretched out he noted as he reached its outskirts. The buildings were mostly individual structures, but not a whole lot of terrain between them. They were mostly stone and brick with shingled roofs, no doubt for lack of wood. Their small forest was likely reserved for harvesting firewood.
The townsfolk of course noticed him as he walked down the street, as he was a most unusual hulk of a figure, and obviously, a stranger come to visit. None greeted him, which was understandable. He headed in, looking for signs that might inform him as to where to go. Luck with him, one of the first signs he came upon was a shop, the sign reading, “Leaner’s Barber and Surgery”. Great, a barber is what the town uses for medicine. His chances just dropped, a lot.
The establishment appeared however to be locked up. Tank looked about. There was an old man on a rocking chair watching him from the other side of the street. Tank called out to him.
“Excuse me, Sir, would you know where I could find the barber?”
The old man laughed. “You want the barber? Heh. Yah, this time of day, he’s likely in the saloon. Head thataways down the street a few buildings.” He said pointing.
“Thank you, Sir.” Replied Tank as he headed in that direction. His surgeon in a bar did not bode well.
His entry into the saloon attracted little attention because all eyes were on a commotion at the bar. A belligerent drunk was cursing loudly in an angry faceoff with a young woman who was standing quietly and calmly.
“Excuse me.” He said to a patron seated near the door, who started at the sight of Tank. “Would you know who here might be Leaner, the doctor?”
“Jim Leaner?” Responded the patron incredulously.” He motioned with his head by way of pointing to the commotion. “You’re looking at him. But he ain’t no doctor.”
Another shouldered past Tank, entering the saloon, an older gentleman who saw the commotion and started moving to one side. Leaner’s hand hovered near the pistol at his side. The young woman however did not seem at all nervous. Quite the contrary, she had a bit of a wry grin.
“You gonna draw on me Leaner?” She grinned, her hands also hovering over a pair of impressive blasters holstered either side.
The blood visibly drained from Leaner’s previously red face. His hand slowly moved away from his gun. The older gentleman had circled to approach him from the rear while his attention was elsewhere. With one extremely efficient and deft move, the older man, face planted the drunk utterly immobilized onto the floor and proceeded to put him in irons.
That done he hauled the drunk Leaner to his feet. The older man nodded with a sad smile to the woman. “Deputy,” he said.
“Sheriff” she replied with a nod, as he headed out the door. The Sheriff giving Tank a twice over as he did.
That’s when the deputy noticed Tank, clearly not just a stranger, but a potentially dangerous one. She did what a good deputy would do, and came to check him out.
“And who might you be stranger?” She asked.
“My name is Tank.” Tank replied.
He got a quiet snort of a laugh from her. “That’s an appropriate name.” She looked him up and down, noting the gauss pistol on his hip, his combat armour, his obvious wound.
“How is it that we have the honour of your company Tank?” She motioned to have him step outside so their conversation might be less public.
He stepped outside and moved a bit away from the entrance, the deputy following. “My ship suffered a misfortune, and I was forced to abandon in an escape pod. I came down a few hours walk and managed to find my way here. I’ve no idea where ‘here’ is though.”
“This is Westwood.” The deputy replied, “But you didn’t get that wound from some ‘mishap’,” she said gesturing. “That looks like a plasma burn to me.”
Tank wasn’t sure just what he could reveal. If this place was aligned to the Imperials, or even just sympathetic, telling anything close to the truth would be suicide. He gave her a long look, trying to get a feel for her. She stood calmly, patiently waiting for his response. She did not seem the slightest bit intimidated by him, which said a lot about her level of competence. She was comely, but clearly no lass.
Tank decided to risk it. He needed that medical attention and he wasn’t going to get it here without the town’s trust. Clearly, that had to start with the deputy. “My ship was destroyed by an Imperial warship.”
Her eyebrow went up. Tank continued, “Suffice to say there is no love lost between myself and the Imperials.”
She smiled, apparently satisfied. “We are technically non-aligned here, but between you and me, I don’t hold the Imperials with much regard myself.”
“I don’t suppose you have another doctor in town, eh?” Asked Tank, with a wince as his waist wound reminded him of its gravity.”
“‘Another’ doctor?” The deputy replied. With a laugh, “Leaner is no doctor, though in a pinch he can stitch someone up, and sometimes remove a bullet without killing a patient. No, leaner was put out of business when Doc Macdonald came to town. Macdonald is a Real doctor.” Tank notes a degree of affection in her voice when she talks of the doctor.
Tank smiles with a degree of relief. “I don’t suppose he takes charity cases or is willing to extend credit? I’ve little coin.”
“He’s been known to, but I’d advise being on your best behaviour. Come, I’ll show you the way.” She gestures the direction, clearly instinctively not letting Tank be in her rear.
As she does she points out some of the landmarks. “That across the street,” pointing to a rather nice building, “Is Madame De Gracie’s brothel, if that’s your cup of tea. Be on your best behaviour around her and her girls, and you should be fine. Be warned though, she owns half the town and acts like it’s all hers.”
Pointing to a building nearby. “That is what passes for a hotel in this town. The food’s not too bad if you’ve got a strong stomach, and it’s cheap. The rooms are ok. The proprietor, Bart Whooser, actually changes the sheets every week or so. If you’re really broke, he’ll let you sleep in the basement for a couple of coppers. It’s got rats, but it beats the night outdoors. It can get cold here at night.”
Pointing to the right as they passed the hotel she goes on, “That is the blacksmith. He’s good at fixing carts and shoeing horses, unfortunately not much else though. Fortunately for him, there are a lot of horses and carts hereabouts.”
The way ahead is obstructed by a much larger building forcing them to move around it. “This is the backside to the general store. The proprietor, Jim-bo, is a square dealer. No charity from him but he won’t cheat you. If he doesn’t have what you are looking for, he can get it, though it might take some time, and it’ll cost ya.”
As they passed the general store, she indicated the building to the left, that is the diner, and it’s pretty good eating if you’ve got the coin for it. Breakfast is at eight and the diner is not open till then, lunch at 1 PM and Supper at 6. The place closes at 8 PM. If you want to eat off meal hours, you can have the previous meal’s leftovers, if there are any. Otherwise, you wait.”
She stops at the corner. “That ahead is Doc Macdonald’s clinic. We like to call it our hospital.” She points down the street to the right, Opposite the general store we have our radio/tv station. Unfortunately, the TV station isn’t working these days, and we’ve nobody around who knows how to fix it.”
At that Tank lights up. “I could probably fix it. I can fix pretty much anything, with the right tools and parts.”
The Deputy raises her eyebrows and smiles at him. “Oh, well that’s good news for both you and the town. I’m sure Agnes, the lady who runs that place, would be happy to pay you to fix it. Jim-bo would certainly be able to find any needed parts if he knew what to get. In fact, if you are that kinda handy, there’s probably enough work around to keep you busy while you heal up. You’d easily make enough to stay in a room and eat at the diner and likely pocket a bit of a surplus.”
“Further down the street is a parts store, mostly for farming, ranching gear. Just down the end past the general store is the sheriff’s office where you can usually find either Bob or me. It’s also where you can find Leaner now, sleeping it off, if Doc Macdonald decides to not extend credit or charity. Never can tell with the Doc.”
“Past that is our local export industry, our food pellet plant, and the spacecraft landing field adjacent to it. The food pellets aren’t particularly tasty as they are, but they have a complete nutritional profile and they store well. They are great for high tech food processors of the sort they use on spaceships to fabricate all sorts of much tastier things.”
“Well, that’s it then. I’ll let you introduce yourself to the Doc. If you get escorted in by the deputy, it might prejudice his opinion of you. Remember to be on your best behaviour to make the best impression. And when you are done, please remain at your best behaviour. Don’t get into trouble. I think you might be too big for our jail to contain, and we might have to put you down.”
Tank takes in her deadpan expression and isn’t sure she is joking. “No Ma’am, I assure you, best behaviour only. I too don’t want any trouble.”
The deputy gives Tank a short bow of her head and walks off, “I’ll see you around.”
Tank’s eyes follow her briefly, taking in the sight. That is one pretty deputy. He shakes himself and turns to the hospital. Best behaviour and he’s pretty sure the last person he wants to mess with is that deputy.
Tank crosses the street, sees the ‘open’ sign, and walks in. He stops for a moment in the doorway, filling it completely, as he sighs in relief. This is no barbershop. The place is clean, well lit and has new gear, most of which he does not recognize. There is a kindly looking fellow tinkering away with something who looks over as Tank enters and stares at his hulking figure.
“Doc Macdonald I presume?” Tank asks.
The doctor continues to stare for a brief moment, seemingly noticing all, even from that distance. “That’s a big plasma burn, mister. How in the nine hells did you survive that?”
“I’m a Genie, a genetically engineered variant…” Tank get’s cut off.
“Yes, I know what a Genie is. You were engineered to be hard to kill would be my guess. An odd choice for engineering, there are so many other desirable traits and you can usually only push one or two.”
“I was bred for gladiatorial fights. I was a slave in the Imperium before I got free.” If the deputy already knew he was afoul of the Imperium, there was no harm in sharing that truth with the doctor.
The doctor cocks his head at that, then waves him inside. “Come, let me take a look at that.”
“I think my arm is broken, and some ribs too.”
“Bones aren’t a problem, you’ll be wearing a brace for a week or so is all. That burn is going to take some work, it looks deep, no doubt there is significant organ damage, and regeneration of organs takes time.”
“Doctor, I have to confess to you, I have very little money with which to pay you.” The doctor continues his examination with a bit of poking and prodding and some fancy handheld scanners.
He stops for a moment to look Tank in the eyes. “How is your word? Do you keep it?”
Tank is taken aback at that. No one has ever asked him that before. He reflects a moment, before responding. “Yes Sir. I keep my word.”
The Doctor looks into his eyes a little longer, then nods his head. “Ok then. Here’s the deal, I will treat you to full health, no charge. In return, you will owe me a favour. I must warn you, it could be a big favour. Do you agree to this?”
Tank does not have to think long. It’s not like he has much choice. And a doctor who saved his life is someone he would help regardless of any favours owed. “Deal.” He extends his hand to shake. The doctor takes it, his hand engulfed. Tank is very careful to not squeeze.
And so it happened, that Tank found a place among these people. Agnes was overjoyed in fact to have someone who could fix stuff. He got the television station working, and boosted the transmission signal as well for both it and the radio. It transmitted only canned programming and a few minutes of daily news narrated by Agnes, but for this backwater, that was way better than nothing.
The townsfolk quickly welcomed him because of this and found him other work. Madame De Gracie offered him work of a different sort, which he politely declined. He’s not looking to be tied down to bodyguard work, even if she did pay more than repair work. He hoped that didn’t anger her. From what he’s heard about town, that would be bad. The mayor, Thomas Foghorn, is nothing but a figurehead windbag. Madame De Gracie does run this town.
But where that might lead is another story for another day.