by John Bowers
“Do the girls like Ken?”
“Usually, yeah. By the time they meet him they’ve already been educated in the cause, and they’re ready to get involved.”
“What happens if they believe in the cause, but balk when the time comes to start killing people?”
“We had a couple like that. Ken had to take care of them.”
“‘Take care’ of them? How?”
Cowan’s features wrinkled as if with a bad memory. His eyes glimmered and he frowned.
“Ken has a space yacht, capable of interstellar flight. He took them out a few light hours from Terra, dropped out of warp, and…” He wiped his eyes and let out his breath. “He airlocked them.”
Nick frowned, his hatred for Ken Saracen mounting.
“Were you involved in that?”
“No! No, I swear! I liked those girls. Even if they didn’t want to go any further for the cause, I would never have hurt them.”
Nick chewed his lip.
“But you stayed with Saracen.”
Cowan nodded.
“Why?”
“I believe in the cause.”
“Two days ago you told me the communist theory hadn’t been tried by the ‘right people’, but that Saracen would do it right. After what you’ve just told me he did to those girls, do you really believe that?”
“Yes. I have to believe it.”
“Why?”
“Because capitalists are killing people—”
“And so are the ARMOs. How does killing innocent people improve on whatever you think the capitalists are doing to them?”
Cowan shook his head. “You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t. I look at what you’re doing, I hear your excuse for doing it, and all I hear is insanity.”
Nick stood up and walked to the window, breathing deeply; he waited a moment for his pulse to settle, then returned to the chair.
“Okay, never mind that. You said most of the killing is done by the girls. Why did Saracen send Tommy Sandoval to shoot up the Federation Building? Why didn’t he send a girl?”
“Nadine was there, as backup, but she wasn’t needed.”
“Were you there?”
“Yes. But I was on a different floor.”
“Why did Saracen send a boy?”
“Ken was pretty sure it would be a suicide mission; Tommy was an asshole and he wanted to get rid of him.”
“And Tommy was okay with a suicide mission?”
“He didn’t know. Ken promised him he would get out alive if he just followed the plan.”
“Is Tommy’s dad a member of ARMO?”
“No. He was an asshole, too, but he was never one of us. He hated Ken.”
“You speak of him in the past tense. Is he dead?”
Cowan nodded. “He didn’t want Tommy to be a part of the group, so he confronted Ken and threatened to blow the whistle if he didn’t let Tommy walk away. But Tommy didn’t want to walk away—he wanted to be the number two man.”
“What happened to his father?”
“Ken killed him.”
“Did Tommy know that?”
“No. Ken told him his old man had tried to blackmail him, so he paid him off. Then Ken sent Tommy on the mission and he was killed, too.”
Nick rubbed his face. It was getting pretty depressing. He only had one or two more questions, and he had to frame them carefully to avoid alerting Cowan that he’d been bluffing the whole time.
“When was the last time you saw Ken?”
“The day before Tommy was killed.”
“Was that in Camarrell?”
“Yeah. The safe house.”
“How many safe houses are there?”
Cowan looked up.
“You mean you don’t know?”
“We know of one, but we suspect there are more. Ken doesn’t want to tell us, but if you expect any break from the prosecution, you’re going to.”
Cowan stared at the table again.
“I’ve only been to two safe houses, but I know there’s another one.”
Nick reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a paper pad. He laid it in front of Cowan, along with a pencil.
“Write down the addresses. If they check out, you just saved yourself five or six years.”
Camarrell – Alpha Centauri 2
Six hours later, led by U.F. Marshal Harry Chiang, three teams of U.F. Marshals, in concert with elements of ACBI and the Camarrell Police Tactical Division, raided three addresses in Camarrell. Over a hundred armed officers encircled the properties, then decoys posing as collectors for charity rang the doorbells. No one was home.
All three safe houses had been abandoned. Forensics teams went to work, but found nothing of import. No weapons were found, no explosives, nothing to suggest criminal activity of any kind. Fingerprints had been left behind, as well as random DNA and breath trace, all of which were collected; when processed, it was hoped these would lead to the identities of at least some of the terrorists.
But that was for the future. For now, Kenneth Saracen and his terror crew had eluded capture.
He was still out there.
Chapter 10
Sunday, May 14, 0445 (CC)
Maglev Station — Trimmer Springs, Alpha Centauri 2
Nick stood beside the train platform in Trimmer Springs with his space bag at his feet. The last train of the day was scheduled to arrive in a few minutes and he wasn’t sure when he’d be back. Suzanne stood beside him with an arm around his neck and her left breast pressing against his ribs. Her lush lips found his ear and she teased him with her breath. Nathan Green stood a few feet away.
“Are you sure I can’t come with you? I would love to watch the action. I’ve never been in a courtroom before.”
Nick shook his head. “They wouldn’t even let you inside. You’re on the witness list, and witnesses are excluded until it’s their turn to testify.”
“Well, that’s silly.”
“Actually it isn’t. That way no witness can alter his or her testimony based on what they’ve already heard other witnesses say.”
“When do I testify?”
“I’m not sure you will. My attorney will let you know.”
“Then why can’t I attend the hearing?”
“Because you’re still on the witness list.”
“Well, that’s hardly fair!”
“It’s not my call.” He twisted his head around and kissed her. “My attorney will call you a day in advance. Until then, just keep running your shop.” Suzanne was co-owner of a Vegan fashions boutique in Trimmer Springs.
“The nights will be sooo lonely!”
“Sh! Nathan might hear you.”
“I think Nathan already knows. You should hear him and Kristina in the middle of the night.”
“Hey!” Nathan was blushing. “I did hear that.”
“Then please keep it down at three a.m.”
“Tell your daughter, she’s the noisy one.”
Suzanne laughed gaily and gave Nick a squeeze. “You see what I have to put up with when you’re gone?”
“It’s okay, he won’t be here much past July.”
In the distance, the maglev appeared with a flash of sunlight as it rounded a mountain curve and slid into view. Forty seconds later its air horn bleated as it decelerated toward the station with a rush of hissing air. Suddenly it was there, slick and gleaming and aerodynamic, silent as death but for a magnetic throb and a vibration of track.
“Okay, here we go.” Nick pulled Suzanne into a hug and kissed her for effect, then grabbed Nathan’s hand and shook it. “Keep an eye on the bad guys for me,” he said. “I’ll get back as soon as I can.”
“Piece of cake.” Nathan grinned. “As long as you’re gone I get my very own U.F. Marshal’s office.”
“Just don’t kill anybody, or they may be coming after you next.”
Nick turned to Suzanne. “Love you.”
She kissed him quickly. “I love you
more.”
He picked up his bag and stepped onto the train, then disappeared inside. As the train began to return the way it had come, he caught sight of Nathan and Suzanne through a window and waved, then they were gone. He found a seat halfway down the car and dropped into it with a sigh. This whole exercise was a waste of time, but even though the judge had said he didn’t have to be in the courtroom, he didn’t see how he could stay away. His job was on the line, and possibly his freedom.
As the maglev picked up speed and began to float on a cushion of air, propelled by magnetic levitation, Nick leaned back and lowered his hat over his eyes. Lucaston was ninety minutes away, so he might as well catch a nap.
Six rows behind him on the opposite side of the aisle, another passenger also appeared to be asleep, but was actually watching through nearly-closed eyelids as the hated U.F. Marshal settled in for the ride. This passenger had taken the train from Lucaston to Trimmer Springs specifically to locate Nick Walker and keep an eye on him. She gave Nick five minutes to doze off, then placed a covert call on her pocket phone.
“Target located,” she murmured with her hand over her mouth.
“Excellent. Keep him in sight.”
“He’s sleeping. I can take him now.”
“Your instructions are to locate and surveil. What part of that do you not understand?”
“None of it. I-I just—he’s here now, I can take him. That’s all.”
“Look, Tracy, I know you mean well and you’re dedicated to the cause, but I gave you this mission because you follow instructions and I trust you. Now if you stop following instructions, I can no longer trust you; if I can no longer trust you, then I don’t need you. Do you understand?”
“Yes…yes, of course.”
“Don’t be stupid. You know how I hate stupid.”
“I-I’m sorry.”
“Walker is going to die, and if I can, I’ll give you the first shot at him. But it has to be at the right place and the right time, you understand? It has to be spectacular. If you try to take him now, you might succeed, but you’ll never get away. I can’t afford to lose you, so just be patient and follow the plan.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Gordon’s Creek – Alpha Centauri 2
Seventy-four miles southeast of Lucaston, another maglev train pulled out of the station at Gordon’s Creek and headed south toward Camarrell at two hundred knots. On board were three teenaged girls, one of them rather chubby, the other two anorexic. All three wore costumes from an earlier century—loose clothing that hung on them like circus tents, necklaces made of bead strings, wild and unkempt hair, and moccasins. The trio was loud, boisterous, and obnoxious. When one or two passengers scowled in their direction, the girls flipped them off and laughed hysterically at their reaction.
The girls had boarded the train just minutes before it departed; they had been on the other side of town and were obliged to steal a surface car to reach the station in time. So far the theft hadn’t been detected, but thirty minutes after the train departed, the residents of Gordon’s Creek had more to think about than merely a stolen car.
Darkness had settled over the region. It was a quiet Sunday night. The city center was all but deserted. Two police officers were on patrol in surface cars, two more manned the station next door to the courthouse. Inside the courthouse, a judge and two attorneys were using the law library as they prepared for the coming week. They were the only three in the building.
No warning was given. No burglar alarm, no CCTV alerts, no witness reports. At nine minutes after eight in the evening, the courthouse simply vanished in a tremendous explosion that rattled the entire town. Those who saw the flash later reported that it looked like plasma, but the blast effects and type of damage ruled out plasma. More likely it was PlastOMite, a powerful explosive designed for use in construction and military applications.
The courthouse and attached police station were completely pulverized. The blast radiated outward, unseating roofing and shattering windows for blocks in every direction. Several trees were uprooted, and what remained was a pile of rubble that burned fiercely for hours afterwards. Five people were killed, but everyone knew it could have been much worse.
Less than two hours after the blast, a video arrived at the Federation Building in Lucaston. The Chairman claimed credit and promised more to come.
Chapter 11
Monday, May 15, 0445 (CC)
71st Floor, Federation Building – Lucaston, Alpha Centauri 2
The courtroom was bigger than any Nick had ever seen. The oak-paneled ceiling was twenty feet high and studded with bright lights; the spectator gallery held about two hundred seats. The floor area was wide and spacious, with a jury box on one side; the witness box sat to the left and just below the bench. The bench was elevated three feet, giving the judge some altitude but not a lofty perch. Cool, fresh air flowed from unseen vents and the temperature was a constant seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit.
It was a showplace, an arena for high-profile cases, but it seemed almost empty. Actually, it sounded empty—except for two news cameras, only six or seven people watched from the gallery—one of them was Gary Fraites—and voices seemed to echo from the ceiling.
Nick Walker sat in a disgusted slouch at the defense table while Geraldine Gabbard, a prim, greying woman of fifty-five, adjusted her materials and prepared for battle.
Brian Godney, all five feet four of him, appeared supremely confident. As he waited for Judge Moore to arrive, he joked with the bailiff as if waiting for the opening face-off in a solarball game. He was dressed to kill in a four thousand-terro silk suit imported from Italy, and the reflected shine from his shoes would have shamed a Star Marine drill sergeant. Nick watched him through narrowed eyes and tried to find something not to hate, but came up empty.
Godney’s associate, Victoria Cross, looked sharp in a bright red business suit composed of a very tight skirt and jacket over a frilly white blouse that exposed four inches of skin between the lapels. Her hair was immaculate, short and swept back—feathered—and her makeup was impeccable.
“United Federation Court Alpha Centauri District 3 is now in session, the Honorable Carlos Moore presiding.”
Nick was amazed at the sight of the judge who would be presiding over his case. The man was enormous, a human slug. He panted audibly as he settled in at the bench and spread his materials around, then peered over half-moon reading glasses at the courtroom to see who was there and if everyone was accounted for. An open box of chocolates rested near the edge of the bench.
“Be seated. Bailiff, read the action into the record.”
The bailiff was an older man in what looked like a sheriff’s uniform, but since it was a Federation court he was actually a U.F. Marshal on specialized duty. He accepted a document from the judge and turned to face the gallery. He spouted the docket number for the record, then announced, “The Federation versus Nick Walker, United Federation Marshal; a hearing to determine whether just cause shall be found to justify criminal indictment.”
He laid the document on the bench and returned to his post against the wall. Judge Moore took over.
“Before we begin, let me be very clear that this is a hearing and not a criminal trial. Marshal Nick Walker is not under indictment and his presence in or absence from this courtroom shall not be construed as evidence of guilt in any manner or fashion. Marshal Walker is free to stay or leave as he sees fit. No jury is present, nor will a jury be seated. This action is a hearing only, the results to be determined by the Court.”
Moore peered around the room, then cleared his throat.
“Are counsel present and prepared?”
Godney shot to his feet.
“U.F. Attorney Brian Godney for the Federation, your Honor.”
“Geraldine Gabbard for the defense. Present.”
“Co-counsel?”
The blonde sitting beside Godney stood up. She had been in the courtroom si
nce before Nick arrived and hadn’t looked at him once.
“U.F. Attorney Victoria Cross, co-counsel for the Federation, your Honor.”
“Ms. Gabbard?”
“No co-counsel, your Honor.”
“Very well. Is the Federation ready to proceed?”
“Ready, your Honor.”
“Opening statement.”
Moore rested his elbow on the bench and reached for a chocolate as Godney darted around the prosecution table and faced the bench.
“Good morning, your Honor. It has come to the attention of the U.F. Attorney’s office that, over the past five years, Marshal Nick Walker has, in the pursuit of his duty, taken the lives of approximately twenty individuals by violent means. An exact count of the men he has killed is not available, due to—”
“I read the brief, Mr. Godney; I already know all that. Get on with it.”
Nick’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Everything Gabbard had said about the judge led him to expect the worst, and maybe she was right—but he was apparently willing to take shots at both sides. That was heartening.
Godney faltered, as if punched in the stomach. Nick could almost see his sails flutter as the wind was knocked out of them.
“Uh, very well, your Honor. The prosecution hopes to prove that—”
“Time out. Mr. Godney, there is no ‘prosecution’ in progress here because no charges have been filed. Think of this as a civil trial, if you want to—you are the plaintiff, not the prosecutor.”
Godney blinked.
“I’m confused, your Honor. Didn’t you appoint me as special prosecutor in this matter?”
“Yes, I did. But it’s a title, Mr. Godney, not a job description. The role of a special prosecutor is to investigate a matter and, if evidence is found, to proceed as indicated. Right now you are in the investigative stage, so let’s not get ahead of the program.”
“Er, yes, sir. As I—was about to say—” Godney cleared his throat. “The Federation hopes to prove that Marshal Walker has, at the very least, employed excessive force in the administration of his duties and, at the very worst, has committed criminal acts in so doing. We—”