Chapter 2

Back at The Center, I was relaxing in my apartment with another agent from down the hall. "Bev, how long have you been in this business?"

"That's a hard question to answer. I think that I have been at it for over 300 subjective years, but I was first contacted in 2032 after a horrible airplane accident. So that may mean that I have not even started yet. You figure it out." She laughed at that.

Beverly is a blond when she is in her normal form, but she has been in many shapes over the years, even as a man, on occasion. She is 5'-4" tall without shoes and weighs from 50 to 400 pounds, depending on the setting of her anti-gravity device, but she usually holds it at around 115 pounds of really beautiful woman. I hate to look at skinny women who are practically anorexic, and Bev is just perfectly proportioned to be very attractive to me.

We have spent many an evening together when our schedules have permitted, and we are quite compatible. We have talked of moving in together, but it hasn't happened yet. I'm having trouble convincing her that it does not bother me for her to fuck other men when she is out on assignment. She is as sexed up as I am, and it would be stupid for me to complain about meaningless sex that is just done for physical relief. Oh, well, we have hundreds of years to settle this, so there is no need to be in a great hurry.

By the way, Beverly's cyborg body cannot become pregnant, she was so thoroughly messed up by that plane crash and the following fire. I think that she is bothered by that, though she won't talk about it beyond telling me about it the first time we fucked. I have wondered on occasion if the reason that she can't become pregnant is mental, rather than physical. It's really none of my business at this stage, so I have not pushed for an answer.

I have been home from my caveman test run for about three weeks, and Honeybunch says that I should expect another assignment pretty soon. She was right, I got the call a few minutes ago. There is a planet so nearly like Earth of the 1880s that it is scary. Anyway, there is a problem with what looks like some outside entity trying to move in on the equivalent of Texas to try to get it to secede again, but this time to go it alone, without the Confederacy.

The Texans involved were a mixture of locals and former Carpetbaggers. Supposedly, they had been promised help, including combat troops to be delivered as soon as the locals had gotten an organization set up. The locals were some big cattle ranchers with the Carpetbaggers financing them. The little bit of intel we had on the outsiders was their name, The Octopoid. Nobody had any idea who they were or where they came from, other than they were not from Texas, indeed, probably not even from the planet.

I was being sent to gather what additional information that I could. The Center was especially interested in the identity of The Octopoid and where their base of operations could be found. The ranchers seemed to be concentrated in an area between Abilene and San Antonio. When I added them all up, I found that they already controlled an area about the size of Rhode Island. Shit, how much more could they want?

I was dropped just outside San Antonio with all of the accouterments of a wandering gunslinger, with some extras. My forefinger on my right hand was fitted out to be a flame thrower and my middle finger was a .44 caliber machine gun. Please don't ask me how that was possible. All I know is what I was told: there is some sort of replicator stored in my abdomen that is controlled by Honeybunch. All I have to do to use either weapon is to point the appropriate finger at a target and think of shooting. Honeybunch will take care of the rest.

My weapons consist of a .44-40 Colt revolver look-alike, but its cylinder is also a replicator for cartridges. It shoots by mental command under the control of Honeybunch, but an observer sees the hammer come back and the cylinder rotate. If somebody asks, I am told to say that it has been modified to be a double action revolver. I have a Winchester look-alike, also in .44-40 caliber that works pretty much the same way as the revolver. I also carry a bowie knife, so I look the part of one tough hombre.

My horse is a black beauty. He would look at home anywhere from a show ring to working cattle, though he might be a little large to be considered by the ignorant to be a good cow-pony. He was equipped with his own AI, and was a cyborg. Yes, he had originally been a full blown war horse belonging to some knight in the Middle Ages. The horse had some long, complicated French name that I am sure neither he nor I could remember, so I started calling him Charley. The horse didn't mind and his AI thought that it was funny, so the name stuck.

I am not much of a horseman, I just never liked horses that much. I much preferred a Humvee, thank you. The result was that I found riding Charley a literal pain, so I had the saddle softened to the consistency of a nice cushion and had Honeybunch reduce my weight to 50 pounds, which was enough to make it easy for me to stay aboard Charley, but not to put much stress on either him or me. When I dismounted, Honeybunch increased my weight to my nominal 183 pounds. A horse can tell when he has an inexperienced or poor rider, so Charley's AI reported that the horse appreciated the reduced weight.

We left the vicinity of San Antonio and headed north in the general direction of Abilene. I never expected to go that far, but it was in the right direction and there was a good trail. I spent that night at a little town. I stayed in the hotel and left Charley in a livery stable. The town had only two saloons, so I easily covered both of them in one night. The only information I could get was that there were big goings-on up north a little bit, and the Circle G was looking for riders, though they seemed to be taking on mostly gunslingers.

The Circle G was owned by Mathew Gunner, and it was on the list of potential rebels. That looked like a good place to start, so I headed straight there. It was a three-day trip, and I pulled into the ranch just before supper. I found the foreman and asked for a job.

The foreman, Jeb Hoskins, looked at my gun and asked what I could do with the pistol. I said I would show him if he would point out what he wanted shot. With Honeybunch to help me aim and my rock steady cyborg body, I always hit whatever I aimed at, provided it was a reasonable target and within range.

Jeb glanced around and pointed to a jackrabbit hopping across the field about 30 yards away. Now, that is at the extreme range for an accurate pistol shot, but I figured to give it a try. I drew and fired. Of course, the bullet hit the jackrabbit in the body, and the last reflexive contraction of the hare's muscles flipped it into the air. While it was airborne, I fired two more times and obviously hit it two more times. I then somewhat ostentatiously made a show of reloading my pistol.

The foreman was impressed, as he should be. Hell, I was impressed! I was hired on the spot, and a man was called over to show me where to bunk. Once I got my stuff in place, I was shown to the mess hall. That's not what they called it, but that's what it was. We had a damned nice meal, more than the usual beef and beans. Mr. Gunner took good care of the hired help. He also payed well; he was paying me $60 a month and found (room and board).

After supper, I smoked a cigar with the boys and got to know some of them. A couple were down right antisocial, so nobody messed with them. I asked the man sitting next to me, "Archy, what do we do that calls fer payin' us so much?"

"I don't rightly know, Ham. So far, except fer a few minor chores, we jus' sits around on our fat asses an' bullshits or plays poker. How is yer poker, by the way? There's a game most every night, ifen ya're interested. Jake, over there, runs it."

Jake was one of the antisocial ones, so I was surprised to hear that he was a leader at the poker table. Maybe this was something I should check out. Honeybunch could not be beaten at any honest card came except by the rules of chance, if I can be permitted that oxymoron. Therefore, I figured that it was safe for me to join in, especially since my stock of money could be restored in only a few seconds with a call by Honeybunch to The Center.