The Last Goatherd of Mars
Part 1
Randall awoke to the incessant beeping of his HUD from where it lay on the crate next to his bed. Bleary eyed, he swept his arm around looking for it. Cups, plates, and parts of the small hover lift motor he was rebuilding clattered to the floor. Finding the headset, he held the screen up to his eye to read the alert: one of the cameras on the south range was out.
"Tauris Corp bastards," he spat, sitting up in bed.
Randall was the owner of ten thousand acres of the finest rangeland on Mars. But on Mars, fine was a relative term. Randall had seen the old terraforming propaganda posters. They made him laugh. Yes, Mars had been made habitable. No, it was not a lush paradise. Technically, the process was still ongoing, but the land that Randall worked looked pretty much the same as it had when his great grandfather claimed it as part of the protein production program and established his goat herd. He brought over ten does, in stasis, as well as several hundred embryos. The goats were a rare Himalayan breed; well adapted to thin air and cold temperatures. The ranch did well. For several decades, goats were the largest livestock on the planet. But during the tenure of Randall's father, Big Randy, the Tauris Cattle Corporation had cracked whatever issue it was that had prevented cattle from being viable on the planet. Ever since then, they had been buying up grazing land all over, and one by one, all of the goat ranchers had sold out. Randall was the only one left.
Randall put on his HUD properly and checked his messages. There were three. He watched them as he got dressed.
The first was from his ex wife, Trish. Trish fell in love with the idea of being a rancher's wife. She watched a lot of video. However, the reality of living in isolation in the windswept wastes ruined the romance. She lasted six months before turning tail back to Grimesopolis. Trish liked to send Randall videos when she was getting in late from a night on the town. She was usually a little drunk.
"Randy," she slurred, "don't be late with my money this month. My grav boots are in the shop."
Randall shook his head. She still looked good.
Next was a voice message from his neighbor, Blackjack. The old rancher was retired ten years. He sold most of his land to Tauris Corp, but kept the house and spent most of the proceeds on one of the few horses on Mars.
"Morning, kid. Keep an eye on that forecast today. I can feel a storm coming. Gonna be a big one."
Blackjack and Big Randy had gone way back. They got drafted and served together during the Lunar Rebellion. Blackjack was like an uncle to Randall, and the only friend he had left on the hemisphere. The message continued.
"Molly wants you over for dinner one of these days. It's been too long."
The final message was from Creed, the Tauris Corp rep. Creed was relentless. Randall figured that working on him was Creed's full-time job. He sent Randall several messages each day, sometimes friendly, more often nasty. Early this morning he sent a voice message on top of an image of Randall's credit balance. It was low: the tactic and the balance.
"Randy, time to take another look at our offer. Looks like you could use the cash. I've got a call with the Governor General later this week. We're hoping he can do something for us. Tick tock."
Randall sighed and put on his military surplus suit. While not necessary for most ranching work, the suit had a power-assisted exoskeleton that did wonders for Randall's bad knee. And if Blackjack said a storm was incoming, a helmet would come in handy.
He loaded the rover with his usual gear, as well as a spare camera in case the broken one couldn't be repaired in the field. He belted on his great grandfather's antique pistol: a Colt 1911. That chunk of steel had cost a fortune in freight when great grandpa made the passage, but it was near priceless on Mars. Randall had never had to use it, but the stories he'd heard at his grandmother's knee had always stuck with him. Little green men, the old Earthers had called them. They were always blamed for mischief around the ranch, and grandma's sister claimed to have seen one when she was a little girl. A spindly creature, sprinting on all fours, silhouetted on the crest of a hill. It had probably just been a goat.
Randall drew the pistol from the holster and checked the chamber. He knew it was silly to always carry it with him, but he found the weight on his hip comforting. He replaced the gun and then checked the rover's fuel cells.
"Should last the day," he said.
Randall mounted up and started the drive out to the south range. The house, barn, and outbuildings had all seen better days. The water collection tank leaked, making a home for a patch of reeds, and a large red dune pressed up against the barn, bowing the composite wall inward. About a hundred yards down the road, he passed the remnants of the original homestead: a cluster of skeletal geodesic domes. Torn plastic sheeting flapped in the wind. Randall thought about what it must have been like to live there in the old days. Water recyclers, oxygen capture, the ever-present threat of rapid decompression hanging over your head. Never feeling the warmth of sunshine on your bare face. The old timers were a different breed.
Randall rode on for several miles, his rover kicking up a cloud of red dust. The goats would be grazing on the plain just over the rise.
An alert flashed on Randall's HUD.
"Play," he said.
"Weather alert," said a woman in a soft polished voice. "A level-three windstorm is approaching your location from the southwest. You are advised to seek shelter or don a protective suit."
"Dismiss."
Randall would be fine. Blackjack was overreacting, his suit could handle a level three. No problem. But the goats would bolt up the mountain to the safety of the boulder field. He scanned around and spotted the hazy red wall far in the distance. If he hurried, he could check on the goats and get the camera fixed before the storm hit. He pressed on the throttle.
Cresting the hill, Randall clamped down on the brakes. At first, he couldn't figure out what he was looking at. The rusty plain was covered with the typical sage green tufts of grass interspersed with woody brush. But rather than seeing a flock of goats grazing among the bushes, Randall saw white and brown lumps scattered on the ground. His goats.
"Zoom," he growled.
The screen over his right eye magnified the scene. They were his goats alright; mutilated and dead. Randall had never seen anything like it. He tried to take a quick tally. About fifty carcasses that he could see.
"Where are the rest?"
He had never seen such a thing because there were no predators on Mars capable of taking a goat. No wolves, bears, lions. Not even a venomous snake. The only predator big enough to kill a goat was a man.
Randall scanned the plain looking for any movement, any sign of his surviving flock. He spotted something in the reeds near a patch of small trees in the draw on the far side of the dead goats. It was a man, wearing a blue shirt and cap. Randall gritted his teeth.
"Tauris Corp sonofabitches!"
The man walked over to a flatbed rover where another similarly attired man was covering a pile of goat carcasses with a tarp. Randall's blood boiled.
"Suit. Max power."
Randall started running. Halfway down the hill he could feel the suit taking over for his tired legs, making massive strides. Crashing through the brush he leaped over his dead goats. Randall charged toward the Tauris Corp men.
"Bastards!" he yelled.
About a hundred yards out from them, he drew his pistol from its holster. The suit compensated for his galloping movement, so he aimed as if he were standing still.
Bang!
The first shot went wide of the man moving to the rover and whistled through the reeds. Clearly unaccustomed to being shot at, the man froze and looked around.
Bang!
Randall's second shot winged the man. The man by the rover spotted Randall running at them and shouted to his comrade, urging him to hurry to the vehicle.
Bang! Bang!
The next shots missed as Randall calibrated for the moving target. Both of the Tauris Corp men made it to the rover, and the driver hit the accelerator before the doors were closed.
Bang! Bang!
Thunk. Thunk.
He hit the rover, but it was still moving. He had closed to within fifty yards, but the rover was widening the gap as it sped away at a tangent on the far side of the gully.
Bang!
Bark exploded from a tree that chance had placed between the bullet and the rover. Randall hadn't been counting his shots, but he knew he didn't have many left. One, maybe two. He skidded to a halt and gripped the pistol with both hands. His heart was pounding and his lungs burned, but his aim was steady.
Bang!
BOOM!
The shot hit the rover's oversized front right tire. It ruptured, causing the rover to careen down into the gully and crash into a stand of trees. Randall ran closer. He saw a plume of toxic gas venting from the front of the vehicle. The fuel cells had ruptured. The rover wasn't going anywhere. Randall reached the edge of the ravine and took a bounding leap down next to the wreck. He looked inside.
The driver was dead. It looked like his neck had snapped when his head slammed into the polycarbonate windshield. The other guy was in bad shape; the gunshot wound to his left arm was the least of his worries. His pantleg was soaked with blood and Randall had no doubt a broken bone or two was exposed, having torn through the flesh. The man also had fresh chemical burns to his face and chest. Randall winced seeing the blisters; they were going to get a lot worse.
With the aid of his suit, Randall pulled the survivor clear of the wreckage. The man fought weakly at first, but quickly gave up. He lay, exhausted, where Randall set him. The goat carcasses that the men had gathered had fallen from the bed of the rover and lay in a pile of crudely butchered meat. Eyes and tongues were missing. Strips of hide excised from the haunches. Randall's rage was rekindled, and he grabbed the wounded man by the collar.
"Why did you do this?" he shouted, his voice muffled by the suit's helmet. "Do you think this will get me to quit?"
The man grimaced.
"Are you crazy? We didn't do anything! They just sent us to collect samples."
The wind was picking up, blowing sand that rattled against Randall's visor.
"Don't you lie to me," said Randall. He seized the man's wounded arm and squeezed. The man screamed.
"The same thing happened to our cattle. They sent us to look for answers."
"Bullshit!"
"They saw it happen. They're always watching." The man pointed up.
Randall looked to the sky. He didn't see the man pick up a rock. Just as Randall dropped his eyes, there was a resounding CRACK. His head slammed into the side of the helmet, and everything went dark.