Kilraney's Angel

Kilraney's Angel

         I'd stepped no more than five feet from my ship, across the orange soil of the planet shown on my charts as Gifila, when the three guys attacked me.

         They ran grunting from the dense shadows of a forest of yellow-leafed trees, of monumental height and girth. The trees weren't small either.

         The runt of the litter must have been close to eight feet tall and three-hundred pounds. They were identically dressed in brown, leather-looking shorts, vests and tight skullcaps.

         I was comforted somewhat, just before Runt crashed into me, laying me out on my back, to see that they were carrying only broad knives. One such blade was swinging in a wide arc at the end of the giant's paw, aimed at my weathered face.

         I jacked my head to the left and rolled, avoiding the blade by centimeters. I kept rolling until I was several feet away from Runt. The other two reacted, shifting position, spreading out around me. I regained my feet to find myself caught in the center of their deadly circle.

         Warily, I tried to keep an eye on each of them as they closed in. "What do you want?" I asked the three brown-furred, Earth-bear-looking creatures.

         One of them spoke -- in a rapid string of clacks and snorts accompanied by lots of dripping saliva. "Sorry, fur-ball, English is my first language . . . and this is my second," I said, reaching for my hand-tooled leather holster and the ivory handle of my .45 revolver.

         Sure the gun's a museum piece, and I have to make my own bullets, but I have yet to find a weapon with the satisfying kick, the ear-splitting report and the sheer messy stopping power of the centuries old Colt.

         The runt charged, his knife held out toward me.

         Not fast enough.

         I cleared leather and slung a hollow-point slug whistling toward his fuzzy forehead. A surprised look spread across Runt's face before he snapped straight, said something that sounded like "Ooooeeee!", then cratered where he stood.

         One of the others threw his knife. Good throw. I dropped, avoiding a direct hit, but the blade left a stinging slice in my left shoulder and spun me around. As I fell, I squeezed off two rounds. Both found their mark in the creature's chest. His three-hundred plus pounds slammed the dirt as hard as some of my bad landings, kicking up a choking cloud of orange dust.

         The last creature attacked from behind. His enormous arm slammed down on my wrist and my gun went flying. He brought his solid, tree-sized knee up, into my solar-plexus. Every cubic centimeter of oxygen "whoofed" out of my lungs and I sailed backward five feet, ending up in a crumpled clot at the base of my ship. The back of my head "whanged" against the hull.

         The "whoofing" and "whanging" was too much for me. Through barely slitted eyes I saw the shadow of my attacker loom large in front of me. He raised his three-foot long knife over his right shoulder, gripped tightly in both paws, as if he were going to slice my head right off my long neck.

         I saw the blade descend; heard the whistle as the metal cut the air. Steeled myself for the killing blow.

         It didn't come.

         I peeked up and saw my attacker falling away from me, a stupefied expression on his furry face. At my right shoulder, the grating, chalk-on-blackboard, voice of my guardian angel, appeared. "Nearly lost you that time, Kilraney," he screeched.

         "What did you do to him?" I asked, wobbling to my feet and brushing myself off.

         "Killed him," Angel said matter-of-factly, though he had no obvious weapon.

         I collected my gun and holstered it. Angel floated in the air beside me. Now, don't misunderstand -- Angel isn't an angel of the Bible variety, before it was declared the greatest work of fiction ever written. There's nothing religious, or even particularly good about him except when it comes to saving my hide. He's about ten-inches tall, thick built, has a bald, bullet-head, big ears, levitates, but has no wings, and wears no clothing to cover his pale body. "What's it been, Angel . . . six months?"

         "Seven months, seventeen days. You must be getting old. Not keeping me as busy as you once did."

         See, several years ago I was involved in a little fracas on Angel's home planet, Urchay. Space miners mistakenly thought they had discovered a new, rich source of the mineral xavite, the main power source in everything from personal vibrators to spacecraft. Similar to uranium, but with no radioactivity, it's worth its weight in -- well, there's nothing else worth that much.

         Anyhow, the miners were mistaken, but they nearly wiped out Angel's species during their zealous near-takeover. I happened to be in the neighborhood and stopped by to take a look. The little guys, though possessed of some potent powers, were getting the crap kicked out of them by the heartless miners.

         I pitched my hat -- ten-gallon, western-blocked Stetson -- in with the Urchayans'.

         Got them organized.

         Made them mean.

         After fifteen days of nose-to-nose fighting the miners fled. It was then I learned of the "Custom". Anyone who helped the Urchayans' was assigned their own Urchayan as a sort of bodyguard. Mine had fifteen syllables in his name -- that's why I called him Angel. The catch was this: Angel would only appear and render aid when I was completely unable to help myself.

         Over the years Angel had allowed me to be beaten to a bloody pulp before finally stepping to the rescue. He let me fall from a third story balcony (I didn't know her husband was coming home early), breaking my leg in three places, but able to hobble away under my own steam. He might help me with a backed up toilet, but let me disarm a ticking bomb on my own. He would not interfere until he was absolutely certain I could do no more to help myself --like today.

         "What are you doing on this ugly little chunk of space flotsam?" Angel asked, looking around at the puke-colored landscape while absentmindedly healing the cut in my shoulder with no effort whatsoever.

         "Ship was acting up. I set down to check it out and got jumped on by these Papa bears."

         "Hmm. Did you get the ship fixed?"

         "Not yet. Why?"

         Angel turned in the air, looking off toward the forest. "Because there are about sixty more of your furry friends beating a path through the woods in this direction."

         Knowing better than to doubt, I boarded my compact, four-passenger ship, and tossed open the control panel. I checked wires, switches, fuses and xavite level. Everything seemed okay. I ran to my pilot's chair and started her up. She spat fire, rumbled -- then wheezed and died.

         I caught motion through my viewport.

         Less than twenty yards away the predicted army of bear-things came rushing toward my ship, long blades glinting in the sunlight! Back at the control panel, I rechecked everything and found nothing. The ship tilted suddenly and I fell, sliding across the floor. I crawled, grabbing for handholds on anything I could reach, to the starboard viewport.

         The natives were all around my ship, shoving it back and forth. It was only a matter of time before they turned it over and managed to break in. I felt it tip again -- too far. Over it went, tossing me hard against the wall. Nothing more I could do. Then Angel popped out of nowhere again, flew into the control panel whistling the theme song from "High Noon," and came out seconds later wearing a 20th century blue and white striped train engineer's hat and wiping his hands on an oily red cloth. "All right . . . start her up, pal."

         I climbed to my chair and went through the takeoff procedure again. This time she purred like a milk-fat kitty, slid along the orange ground on her side for a few yards, then sprang upward, away from that unfriendly place. I called my thanks to Angel, but he was already gone.

         I charted my course for my planet of residence, Celadon, an Earth-like orb with a large population, good air, and clean water. I'd been away three months on my latest venture, hunting down, finding and returning to her grateful father, a school-marmish daughter who had run off with a Brundellian.

         Some women have no taste.

         In her favor, however, she was ready to leave when I found her, having discovered some of the Brundellian sex customs to be disgusting, painful and, in some instances, physically impossible for her human body to achieve. Her daddy paid me handsomely.

         This is my profession -- to find people or objects which have been lost or stolen; to scout new territory before the brain men are sent in, to insure their safety, and to clean up towns taken over by roving bands of miscreants -- much as my earthly fore-father, Matthew Kilraney, had done as a Texas Ranger back on 19th Century Earth. I stayed busy.

         I dropped my ship off at the body shop to have the dents hammered out and to have it checked out mechanically. Sometimes Angel's remarkable repairs were only temporary.

         I hailed a skimmer cab and let it whisk me home on a cushion of air, paying for the trip by pressing my thumb against the credit screen. My account would be debited.

         My front door opened when I told it to, but two steps into the house I knew something wasn't kosher. Perfume -- some fruity scent -- burned my nostrils. The .45 magically appeared in my right fist. Cautiously, I inched along the plastic-fibered, indestructible blue carpet, through my sunken living room. As I passed the kitchen I ducked my head in rapidly, ready to shoot. Empty. Further down the hallway I saw that my bedroom door was closed. "Open," I whispered, and stood aside as the door recognized my voice. The latch slipped and the door slid open.

         The girl was spread across my bed on her stomach. Even from across the room, in partial darkness, I could tell she was naked. Her buttocks were high, rounded mounds, reminding me of the twin moons of Gillipur. Hubba-hubba as we say in the 23rd century.

         I tip-toed to the bed, as well as I could in my cowboy boots, and looked down at her. Floods of red hair fell from her head and cascaded down her back, nearly to her sacrum. The left side of her face was visible. High-arched eyebrow, dainty bone structure, slightly pointed chin with half a dimple in it. I assumed the other side would look the same.

         Her legs were shapely and loonnnngggg. I gently tapped the base of her skull with the barrel of my gun.

         What a wakening.

         Moving in slow motion, the girl rolled over onto her back. Her hands clasped behind her neck and she stretched as slowly, as sensuously as any cat. Her breasts were like melons. Nah, hell, they were like breasts. Nice big ones, too, but firm enough not to go all pan-cakey from gravity's pull. Flat-bellied. Wide- hipped. Natural redhead. Ten fingers. Ten toes. When I take inventory I am nothing if not thorough.

         A small mew passed between her full, pouting lips, then she opened her eyes and looked up at me. Faith and Begorra! Emerald eyes like lasers prompted childhood memories of all things Irish. She could be my sister, I thought, then sent up a hasty prayer that she wasn't. "Hello," she breathed, just a hint of a smile touching her lips. "Are you going to shoot me?"

         I remembered the gun in my hand. Twirled it three times and slipped it precisely into my holster, showing off. "Who are you? And why are you here?" I asked, unable to keep my eyes from devouring her.

         "Erin O'Malley, Mr. Kilraney. And I'm here for your help."

         "But you're naked and in my bed."

         "Landlord let me in. I told him I was your sister." She reached out a slim, pale hand and tugged at my belt buckle until I sat beside her. "I hear, from reliable sources, that you find things for people who have lost them. Is this true?"

         I nodded. "Sometimes. What is it you've lost, Miss O'Malley?"

         A pink blush covered her chest; spread upwards. She cast her eyes away from me, obviously embarrassed. I heard, and saw, her take a deep breath. Heavenly. What a breather.

         "I've always been an affectionate girl, Mr. Kilraney. Since I was seventeen the act and art of making love has thrilled me, and was growing better with time. Then, about six months ago, I stopped . . . feeling anything. The passion would build as always, but then, like laundry forgotten on a clothesline, I would just flap in the wind, with no one to take me down."

         "You stopped having orgasms?" I ventured, never big on metaphors.

         Quivering pout. "Unh huh."

         "So you came to me because . . ."

         "Your love-making skills are legendary, Mr. Kilraney. I have been told by the doctors who couldn't help me that if I wish to reacquire my ability to feel the fire-crackers of passion, I should contact you."

         Shucks. I couldn't deny the truth.

         "Will you help me?"

         "I'll do my best, Erin. As for my fee . . ."

         She scrambled to her knees and folded her hands together between those glorious globes, as if in prayer. "Whatever you ask. Money is no object. Please . . . accept my case!"

         Taking her fragile chin in my rough hand, I kissed her, sealing our contract. I undressed and went straight to work.

         The first hour brought her some measure of relief, but not the thunder and lightning she sought. Sometime during the second interlude I fell in love with her. Wanted her to be my wife. Have my children. Pay a smaller fee. I lived up to my reputation and she exploded like a star going supernova. As I drifted into sleep I felt her kissing my chest, urging me on.

         She woke me with a lingering kiss, her tongue exploring the roof of my mouth. "Mmmmph," I said.

         She un-tongued me. A bright smile covered her face from ear-to-ear. She snuggled up, squeezing me tightly. "You are such a man," she breathed.

         "Thanks . . . I try."

         "The first time you made love to me was superb. The second time was exquisite -- and yes, I will marry you."

         I examined my fingernails. "Yeah. I know."

         "And when I begged you for a third taste of heaven, the way you teased me . . . telling me you couldn't . . ."

         "Hey, I'm only human!"

         "Oh, Kilraney, the third time, in the pitch dark, it was a religious experience! A miracle! I screamed 'Bravo, bravo!' and I applauded you. I will worship forever at the alter of your love."

         Erin would make me a good wife, I was certain, even though she seemed prone to hallucinations. I know my limitations. I couldn't possibly have serviced her a third time. I just couldn't do it. I. Just. Couldn't. Do it!

         The truth crept up on me slowly, like the redskin who had put an arrow through Ranger Kilraney, centuries ago. I was furious beyond my control.

         Cuckolded! My fiancée violated while I slept!

         My eyes darted around the room and I screamed, "Angel!"

         But he didn't answer.

The End

DM