by John Bowers
That didn’t deter the news media. Every hour on the hour, the shooting story was repeated over holo V with footage from the crime scene and regular updates on the status of casualties (by the weekend, thirty-nine were dead, two dozen had been treated and released, and eleven remained critical). The news was peppered with interviews of witnesses and victims’ relatives.
Neck and neck with all of that was another story, which got almost equal play and captivated the public’s attention; dubbed “The Hero of 4/24”, it was about the lone lawman who had confronted the shooter at the elevators and killed him. Nick’s name wasn’t released but people had seen him, and since his manner of dress distinguished him from other U.F. Marshals, it didn’t take long for reporters to track him down.
The shooting had happened on Monday, and by Wednesday Nick found himself staring into half a dozen holo-cams with four eager young reporters in his face. He managed to deflect them for the time being, insisting that the incident was still under investigation and he couldn’t talk about it, but that didn’t stop them from beaming his face across the Federation or from digging just a little deeper to discover that he was being investigated for his use of deadly force.
When asked about the court proceedings, Nick had nothing to say.
But what they couldn’t get from Nick, they got from Brian Godney. The diminutive prosecutor was hardly shy about his views or his case.
“Obviously, I can’t disclose the facts of the case at this time,” he told a battery of holo-cams outside the courtroom, “but I can tell you that we are looking at some incidents that, on the surface, raise extremely serious questions about Marshal Walker’s conduct as a peace officer.”
“Mr. Godney, are you talking about police brutality?”
“Again, I can’t discuss specific details, but the evidence will show that Marshal Walker’s record of using lethal force is approximately ten times higher than that of other marshals who wear the same badge.”
“When you say ‘lethal force’, you are talking about the number of people Marshal Walker has killed?”
“Of course I am. What do you think ‘lethal’ means?”
“How many people are we talking about? How many has he killed?”
Godney hesitated, as if reluctant to say any more. Finally he shrugged.
“If you follow the case, I guess you’ll find out anyway, so I may as well tell you. We are talking about at least twenty confirmed kills, possibly more.”
“Mr. Godney, are you saying these killings were not justified?”
“I’m not saying that yet. The purpose of the hearing is to dig into these cases and determine if they are justified or not.”
“And if they’re not?”
“Criminal charges will follow.”
“Has Marshal Walker committed other forms of police brutality?”
Godney raised a hand.
“I’m not going to say any more than I already have. The bottom line is that all citizens enjoy the presumption of innocence until proven guilty. When arrested or suspected of a crime, they have the right to representation and due process. We can’t have U.F. Marshals running around the galaxy killing, torturing, intimidating, or otherwise brutalizing people based on nothing but a suspicion of wrong-doing.”
To spice up the story, street-level interviews were conducted with members of the public, asking their opinion of Marshal Nick Walker.
“Sounds like a bad egg to me,” one elderly man growled. “They need to get rid of him.”
“I think he’s a hero!” declared a pert UAC freshman. “I feel safer just knowing he’s in town!”
“He ain’t so tough,” said a construction foreman. “Take that gun out of his hand and any one of my boys could take him.”
“He needs to be in prison,” responded a middle-aged housewife. “My son got knocked around by the cops last year and he hadn’t done nothing wrong.”
***
Nick had planned to return to Trimmer Springs Friday afternoon, but received a call from Marshal Bridge that his presence was requested at another U.F. Marshal conference Saturday morning. He’d only brought a single change of clothing with him, so Friday night he did a little laundry at his hotel so he would be fresh and well groomed in the morning.
The Federation Building wasn’t nearly as crowded on the weekend, but security hadn’t relented an inch. Nick still had to show ID to get through the door with his guns.
Most of the same men and women were present that he’d seen earlier in the week. Several of them cycled around to kid him about his sudden fame. He could do nothing but laugh it off with them.
Marshal Bridge called the conference to order and waited for them to get comfortable. With a neutral expression, he thanked them for coming and got right down to business.
“I have good news,” he said. “And…not so good news.”
He flicked the controller and a picture flashed up on the holo-screen behind him. It was a man in his mid-thirties. He wore a pleasant expression and appeared to be well dressed. Nick stared at the digital with a frown, wondering who the hell this guy was.
Bridge answered that question immediately.
“Meet the Chairman,” he said. “ACBI, in concert with the FBI and TBI on Terra, has been working overtime to identify this guy. They ran down a number of leads and finally got an ID on him, though we still don’t know where he is.
“His name is Kenneth Saracen, and he’s originally from North America…” Bridge consulted a paper in his hand. “…the New England area. Ironically, while he spouts the evils of capitalism, he was born into a very wealthy family. The double irony is that his father is the owner and editor of the North American Times news network.”
The picture changed to display another man, remarkably similar to the first, but thirty years older.
“The elder Saracen is worth about a hundred billion terros, and his kid grew up with everything handed to him in a crystal goblet. Unfortunately, there was trouble in paradise—the kid was the heir apparent of NAT and expected to take over when he graduated from college, but his old man had the revolutionary idea that maybe he should get his feet wet first by actually working for the network. Kenny-boy didn’t like that very much and things escalated pretty fast after that.
“The full story is in your hand-outs, so I won’t go into detail, but by the time he was twenty-five the kid and his father were estranged. The kid had gone rabidly left-wing, conjuring up communist rhetoric from several centuries ago, so his old man disowned him. Completely. Cut him out of the will, no further contact with the family. That’s when the kid went ballistic and began building his terror organization.”
Bridge flicked the controller again. Three panels appeared depicting buildings damaged by high explosives.
“The first attacks were high-profile, but not very effective. Bombs were set off at the North American Stock Exchange, the Tokyo Stock Exchange, and the Interstellar Bank of Brasilia, all of them symbols of capitalism. None of the buildings was seriously damaged, but innocent people were killed, and ‘the Chairman’ claimed the credit. Over the next few years, the pattern shifted. More bombs were set off, but the targets became softer. Instead of financial institutions, they targeted a variety of locations where more people would be vulnerable. Amusement parks, airports, shopping malls…and a couple of schools.
“Before law enforcement could get a lead on them, they skipped the planet; their next target was Bradbury City on Mars, and then Sagan City. And just last year, something happened aboard Star of Islam, an interstellar passenger liner outbound to Altair. Over a thousand Muslim emigrants were on board, hoping for a new life on Altair, but the ship decompressed just as it came out of hyperspace and everyone was killed. Investigation determined that someone had tampered with life support functions, and once again, the Chairman claimed the credit.”
A hand went up.
“Yes?”
“Do we know for sure this ‘Chairman’ is actually responsible for that disaster? I
mean, he could claim credit for anything, couldn’t he? Tsunamis, volcanoes, tornadoes…”
“That was considered. You can’t always trust these types to tell the truth, but in the video that was delivered to Baghdad after the disaster, the Chairman revealed details that investigators had not released to the public. The only way he could know those details was if he was responsible. So, yes, we believe he did have a hand in it.”
Bridge popped Saracen’s picture back onto the screen.
“This photo was taken two or three years ago, so he’s probably a little greyer now, a little thinner on top.
“Altogether, this guy is responsible for killing nearly three thousand people on three planets, and that doesn’t count Alpha Centauri. He seems to have a keen sense of when law enforcement is closing in, and he gets out of Dodge just ahead of them, moving to another world where he can start killing all over again. If we don’t get him here, he’ll probably move on to Vega 3 or Sirius.”
Nick spoke up for the first time.
“I hope he does go to Sirius,” he said. “Those people will fuck him up.”
Bridge joined in the general laughter that followed.
“I hear what you’re saying—and you’re probably right—but we need to get this guy. We still don’t know how big his organization is, but if we can cut off the head, maybe the serpent will die. It would be better, of course, to get everyone who had a hand in all these killings.
“Incidentally, I forgot to mention that the shooting in this building on Monday is a departure from the normal mode of attack. It’s the first time the ARMOs have exposed themselves to the danger of capture. We’re not sure what it means yet, but it could be significant.”
Bridge paused, his expression turning grim. He let out a reluctant sigh.
“Now. I told you I have some bad news as well. I’ll let you see it for yourself, then we’ll talk about it some more. This video came in last night.”
He thumbed the remote again and the picture changed. Now a video came up, the Chairman in all his hooded glory. The same red flag hung behind him and his face was completely hidden from view. He spoke in a strong, steady, determined voice.
“Greetings, Capitalist pigs. This is the Chairman again, with a warning of dire consequences. It’s bad enough that you exploit the poor for financial gain, that you let children starve so you can continue to enrich the wealthiest one percent; it’s bad enough that you devastate the ecologies of Terra, Mars, and Alpha Centauri in order to steal the resources for your capitalist monoliths—you will pay the price for all of that, as you are beginning to learn. But now you’ve crossed another line as well.
“The ARMO Brotherhood has been defending the poor, the weak, and the downtrodden these past few years, and every Brother is a hero. But now you have taken one of them from us. You killed one of our brothers, one of our heroes, and you will pay the price.
“By now you’ve probably identified him, so I give nothing away by calling him by name. His name was Tommy, and he was a good boy. His family came to Alpha 2 fourteen years ago when he was barely two years old, and his father worked at hard labor for pennies. Pennies! His father did all the hard work, labored and sweated and struggled to feed his family, while the capitalist pig he worked for pocketed the fruits of his labor and spent it on lavish homes, hovercars, women, and fine wine.
“When Tommy’s father asked for a raise he was fired, ejected from the hovel over his family’s head, and forced to live on the street. Tommy’s mother was forced to beg on the streets in order to feed her son, and when his father tried to find other work he found he had been blacklisted and no one would hire him.
“It wasn’t long after that when the Rebel Coalition launched its righteous offensive against the oppressive forces of capitalism, and Tommy’s father joined the fight—not so much because he believed in the cause, but because he needed the pay. He wasn’t actually a soldier, though; rather, he worked in a rear area as a laborer, and for a year or so was able to send money home to his family. But when his position was overrun by the Star Marines, Tommy’s father was murdered in cold blood along with fifty or sixty other non-combatants.”
The Chairman shifted his cheap automatic weapon to one hand and reached off camera to pick something up.
“The Rebel Coalition failed, as we all know, and the revolution was crushed. Capitalism seized the planet in its awful grip and crushed the life out of the poor and helpless as it always has. Tommy and his mother moved from town to town, earning a living any way they could, until Tommy’s mother died of hunger on a cold winter night when he was just fifteen. It was shortly after that when we, the ARMO Brotherhood, rescued Tommy from his state of slavery and freed him from the grip of capitalism. Tommy embraced the cause, became a true believer, and vowed to strike back at the enemy of freedom.
“He struck that blow of freedom—his first and only one—at the Federation Building on Monday, but you killed him. You took him from us. It wasn’t bad enough that you murdered his father, starved his mother, and crushed the spirit out of his soul, but now you took his very life!
“And you will pay. Oh, how you will pay!”
The Chairman held up what was in his hand for the camera to see. A gasp shot through the room—it was a flat photo of a man wearing a badge.
“United Federation Marshal Nick Walker, the man who took Tommy’s life, has been tried in absentia and convicted of murder, terrorism, and crimes against humanity. Judgment has been rendered and sentence has been passed. Nick Walker has been sentenced to death, sentence to be carried out in the near future.”
The Chairman put the photo down and gripped his weapon again. He raised his right hand in a closed fist.
“Power to the People!”
Bridge shut it off and stood facing the marshals. Not a man or woman spoke for several seconds. Nick still stared at the blank screen as the blood pounded in his ears. It wasn’t so much that he had been threatened, it was the cold-blooded manner in which it was delivered, the totally irrational justification for it. The Chairman was clearly a fanatic—or deluded—or both. How did you fight an enemy like that?
Bridge cleared his throat.
“Tommy Sandoval was sixteen years old when he died on Monday. We’re still not sure how he got his weapons into the building, because even though security wasn’t as tight as it is today, weapons scans were in use. He gunned down about seventy-five people altogether, and as you know, over half of them have died.
“Tommy’s father was Delfino Sandoval, from Terra. Before he moved his family to Alpha 2 he was involved in some radical labor movements in North America, and had served time for civil disobedience. He had no record of violence, but had a reputation as a troublemaker, so it’s probably not surprising that he couldn’t hold a job. The part about him joining the Rebel Coalition is unconfirmed, so we have no idea how he died or even if he died. He dropped off the radar around the time of the rebellion, so he may still be running around Alpha Centauri, for all we know. He may even have joined the ARMOs.”
On the other side of the room, one of the marshals raised his hand
“Is this Chairman guy doing all this just because he hates his father?”
Bridge shrugged. “Who can say? I’m not a shrink, so I don’t know. There is no doubt that he’s serious as hell, and has the body count to prove it. As far as we know, he doesn’t make empty threats.”
“How come a rich kid hates rich people so much?” another marshal asked.
“That’s a good question, and again, I don’t know the answer. Self-loathing, maybe? Or maybe it’s just a front, an excuse for his terrorism, to convince himself that he is the good guy and not the bad guy. If we can take him alive, he would make a great specimen for psychologists to study.
“In some of his videos he goes on at great length about the virtues of wealth redistribution—sort of a Robin Hood fantasy about stealing from the rich and giving to the poor—but even though his father cut him out of the family fortune, Kenny-bo
y is already worth half a billion terros all by himself. The day he turned twenty-one, his trust fund came under his control, and he moved it off planet to keep the Federation from freezing it. When he babbles about the evils of being rich—unless he plans to share his own wealth with his comrades, which I doubt—he’s a complete hypocrite.”
“Do we know if this guy is on Alpha 2?” Nick asked.
“We think so. The speed with which the videos arrive suggest he’s on the planet, but we don’t know where.”
“Can we lure him out?”
Bridge smiled. “How? If you have an idea, I’m all ears.”
“Use me as bait. He said he’s going to kill me, so let’s make it easy for him. I’ll meet him somewhere, unarmed, and maybe you can take him down.”
Bridge frowned for a moment, then shook his head.
“I don’t think he’s that stupid. He’d smell a trap. In any case, if you exposed yourself that way he would send someone else to make the kill, and it wouldn’t be face to face. These people are cowards.”
“Then let’s put out some disinformation to throw them off balance.”
“Like what?”
“Tell them we have leads on some of their local members, that we’re just days away from making arrests.”
“What will that gain us?”
“I’m thinking they’ve probably infiltrated the government offices by now. They probably have people working inside this building. Secretaries, maybe, or file clerks, or janitors. Someone got weapons into the building, so it had to be an inside job. The last thing they want is for us to catch their moles and interrogate them, so they may panic and pull them out. Watch the daily attendance and check out anyone who doesn’t show up for work the day after you make the announcement. Odds are, you might nail two or three moles.”