Sirian Summer (Nick Walker, U.F. Marshal Book 2)

by John Bowers

  Night Stalking

  In the absolute darkness he could see nothing. He wished for his IR contacts, but they were in his equipment at the hotel. The only night vision gear he had was the strobe torch hanging from his gun belt. He pulled it free and held it ready, leaving it off as he drew his laser pistol with his right hand.

  Nick felt his adrenaline surge as he stepped between the buildings and walked slowly, quietly. Ten feet. The sound was louder, more intense. Twenty feet. Louder still, but now it sounded different. Instead of gasping, it sounded more like ...

  Another step, another. Now he could sense, more than see, someone standing against the building. Another step, and there were two outlines. He could hear the moaning clearly now, interspersed with small smacking sounds.

  Nick pointed the strobe torch toward the double shadow against the wall. With his laser aimed and ready, he thumbed the switch. The light flooded the narrow space like a nuclear flare, bathing the two figures in stark naked light.

  “U.F. Marshal!” Nick said forcefully, “freeze!”

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  Asteroid Outpost

  Sirian Summer

  Rebel Guns of Alpha Centauri

  JOSEPH LEXXUS (for mid-grade readers)

  Joseph Lexxus and the Drug Runners of Altair

  STARPORT SERIES

  Starport

  Guerrilla Girl

  Famine Planet*

  Prisoners of Eroak*

  * Not available as of the date of this publication. Title subject to change.

  United Federation Marshal

  Sirian Summer

  A Nick Walker novel

  by

  John Bowers

  AKW Books

  Washington

  An AKW Books eBook

  Published by Kalar/Wade Media

  Copyright © 2011 by John Bowers

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by AKW Books, an imprint of Kalar/Wade Media, LLC, Washington.

  You are granted a non-exclusive license to this work. You may make copies or reformat it for YOUR OWN USE ONLY. You may not resell, trade, nor give this work away.

  Created in the United States of America

  First Printing: March 2011

  Second Printing: August 2013

  Cover design & composition: Howard Milligan

  Cover enhancement: Dan Saunders

  Contributing artists:

  javarman3, thepalmer, sporting

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters are a product of the imagination of the author and any resemblance to any real person, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Dedicated to the men and women of law enforcement everywhere who stand up for what’s right even in the face of overwhelming opposition.

  Special dedication to the victims of March 11, 2011 in Japan. You are a resilient nation—you will rise above this.

  Acknowledgement

  Thanks to Howard and Amber for the fantastic book covers they designed for me. They are truly works of art.

  Chapter 1

  “It isn’t uncommon for recent graduates to be posted to a frontier world where civilization is more of a concept than a reality. View this as an opportunity to gain experience in a place where mistakes are more easily forgivable. Such a posting can form the underpinnings of a long and distinguished career—if you survive it.”

  —Professor Milligan, U.F. Marshal Academy

  Thursday, July 16, 0442 (Colonial Calendar) – Kline Corners, Sirius 1

  Some planets were just more trouble than they were worth.

  He supposed it could have been worse—it wasn’t Titan or Europa.

  Or Ceres, his last posting.

  As he peered through the view screen at the planet below, Nick Walker conceded that at least it had an atmosphere. And it had civilization. Sirius 1 had been settled more than two hundred years ago, and was now a thriving Federation outpost. Still a frontier world—and a political hotbed—but thriving.

  Nick heaved his steamer trunk off the bunk and stood it against the cabin door, then turned to his space bag and double-checked the contents. Everything was as it should be, especially his guns. He’d brought two of them, a laser pistol and a more classical weapon. Laser pistols were all the rage these days, and Nick was expert with them, but he really loved his Ru-Hawk .44 Magnum revolver. Lots of things could go wrong with a laser weapon, but the .44 worked every time, and very little could withstand its persuasion.

  Of course, you didn’t dare use one on a starship; lasers were much safer for certain kinds of work.

  Nick checked his watch and frowned. The ship had docked with the orbital station and it was time to debark. From the station, his next stop would be the shuttle, which would take him to Kline Corners, somewhere on the southern end of that continent he could see through the view screen. He picked up the bag, hoisted the steamer, and left his cabin.

  He passed through the airlock into the station with a nod at the smiling cabin attendant, who wished him well and thanked him for flying Sirian Starlines. From the station lounge he could see the binaries, both looking surprisingly close. Sirius A was half again the size of Sol, and Sirius B, though a white dwarf, penetrated the tinted Solarglas with a blinding glare. Nick had heard stories about Sirian Summer, which occurred when the planet, which orbited Sirius B, rotated between the two stars. People who had experienced it said the heat made summer in Baghdad feel like autumn in Alaska.

  He stared at the two suns for a moment, then went to find his shuttle. He hoped it wasn’t Sirian Summer now.

  Kline Corners was so small it was damn near invisible. Nick was watching from the porthole as the shuttle swept over it, but missed it completely. Seconds later, the shuttle touched down on the runway six miles from the settlement and he was shoved forward against his restraining harness by braking thrust. Passengers looked around in confusion as the spacecraft bounced on the uneven surface, rattling teeth and carry-on luggage. Then the shuttle shuddered to a halt and began turning into position for takeoff.

  Nick released his seat harness and stumbled to his feet, reaching for the space bag he’d stowed in the overhead compartment. He wobbled in the narrow aisle as he made his way forward, smiling weakly at the flight attendant whose eyes suggested that only a fool would want to debark in this god-forsaken desert.

  “Thank you for flying Sirian Starlines,” she uttered unconvincingly as the hatch swung open to admit a blast of scorching heat.

  Nick nodded and stood in the opening, waiting for the gravity lift to extend, then stepped onto it and rode it to the ground. Dust swirled into his eyes as he walked clear of the shuttle; he turned to see the hatch sealing itself and the shuttle begin to roll. For one awful moment he realized the rest of his luggage was still on board, but the shuttle was already moving. He turned his face away as the jets roared to full thrust and deafened him in a boiling cloud of sand and dust; moments later the little ship left the ground and gained altitude.

  Damn it!

  He coughed and wiped dust off his face, then looked around. His antique steamer trunk was sitting beside the runway, twenty yards from where he stood. Relieved, he walked toward it, glancing at the sky where the shuttle, now barely visible, banked toward its primary port of call a thousand miles to the nor
th. He hefted the steamer and set it on end, then looked around to see where he was.

  This wasn’t a shuttleport. It wasn’t even an airport. No hangers, no maintenance sheds, no fuel pumps—nothing. Just a desolate, poorly maintained runway flanked by desert scrub and sand. He scanned the horizon and saw more of the same. No buildings anywhere, not even a tree. He sighed and glanced at his watch, his heart thumping just a little. Kline Corners was around here somewhere, but how far was it? And which direction? He was slightly disoriented, and if he set out the wrong way he might fry in this heat before finding nothing at all.

  A sonic boom cracked across the desert as the shuttle broke Mach 1 on its way north. The sound reminded Nick that he was alone here and had better make a decision. He hefted the steamer onto his shoulder and began trudging down the runway. There was probably a road down there that led…somewhere. He just needed to find it.

  He wiped his forehead with a sleeve, panting in the heat. It must be 115 at least—this must be Sirian Summer. Why in god’s name would anybody choose to live on a planet like this?

  Nick had walked half the length of the two-mile runway when he noticed a dust storm approaching. At least it looked like a dust storm, except it was moving rapidly along the ground, hidden by desert scrub. Nick slowed his pace, eyes narrowed, as the boiling dust cloud burst into view, chasing a low-slung hovercar that suddenly appeared at the far end of the runway and turned in his direction. Nick un-shouldered the steamer and stood beside it, waiting. Seconds later the hovercar fired braking thrusters and shuddered to a stop ten feet away. A clamshell door spiraled open.

  “You need a ride, mister?”

  The pilot looked about sixteen, a dusty-looking boy wearing what, on Terra, would be considered Western clothing. A faded logo on the pilot’s door proclaimed TAXI.

  Nick looked at the kid and shook his head. “Not really. But since you’re here…”

  The kid laughed.

  Nick hoisted his trunk and space bag into the open door and clambered in beside the pilot. The clamshell closed and Nick sighed as refrigerated air washed over him. The hovercar accelerated and swung around to return the way it had come.

  “Where you from?” the kid asked.

  Nick wondered if every taxi pilot in the galaxy had gone to the same school.

  “Off planet.”

  “No shit!” The kid laughed again. “You came in on the orbital, so that’s a no-brainer. I meant where off-planet are you from?”

  Nick glanced at him in amusement. “Terra. Originally, anyway. What’s your name?”

  “Nathan Green.” The kid extended his hand, and Nick shook it.

  “Nick Walker.”

  The taxi reached the end of the runway and turned abruptly down a dirt road, racing along three feet above the surface, rising and falling gently, a cyclone of dust in its wake.

  “You the official taxi pilot for Kline Corners?” Nick asked.

  “Not really. Not much call for a taxi around here. But when a shuttle comes in people usually need a ride. You’re my first fare in a couple of months.”

  “How did you know I was coming?”

  “Are you kidding? When that shuttle passes over it rattles the whole town. That’s always my cue to head for the landing strip.”

  “How much is the fare?”

  “How much you got?”

  “I’ll wash your car for you.”

  “Won’t do any good. You can’t keep anything clean in this place. What brings you to Sirius?”

  “Business.”

  “Business? In Kline Corners, the armpit of the galaxy?”

  Nick’s eyebrow lifted. “The armpit of the galaxy?”

  Nathan nodded emphatically. “Yeah. Nowheresville. I’ve been here all my life, can’t wait to leave it.”

  “So what’s keeping you?’

  Nathan sighed. “You have no idea.”

  Nick gazed out the window at the blurring passage of yellow scrub. Was there any small-town kid in the universe who didn’t long to escape to more exciting vistas?

  Up ahead, he saw buildings growing out of the horizon, a pitiful scattering amid the vastness of the landscape. Kline Corners.

  Nathan cast him a sidelong glance. “You still haven’t told me why you came here,” he said. “I can’t imagine anyone from Terra having business here. I can’t imagine anyone from Terra even knowing about this place.”

  “Oh, it’s logged in a database here and there,” Nick replied. “A few people on Terra are interested in what goes on here.”

  “Yeah? Like who?”

  “People like me. For instance, I heard that a man was murdered here not too long ago. Is that true?”

  Nathan nodded. “You mean Ron Gates.”

  “I think that was the name. What happened, exactly?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I have plenty of time.”

  The boy seemed to consider the question, then tilted his head, still staring through the windscreen as the settlement approached rapidly.

  “Nobody seems to know for sure. Ron was in his office when they found him, shot in the back. It must have happened late at night, because nobody saw or heard anything. No one knew he was dead until he didn’t show up for breakfast the next morning.”

  “Any idea who did it?”

  “Lots of theories and a few rumors, but nobody knows for sure.”

  “What about you, Nathan? Do you have a theory?”

  Nathan glanced at him quickly, then returned his eyes to the road. They were approaching Kline Corners, and he began braking thrust.

  “Yeah. I have a theory, but I’d rather not say.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t prove it.”

  He turned onto the main street and pulled into a parking slot in front of a wooden prefab building that looked like a garage, lowered the car to its parking skids, and cut the turbine.

  “Here we are!” he said cheerfully. “That’ll be five sirios, Mr. Walker.”

  Nick fished in a pocket and pulled out a ten.

  “Keep the change,” he said. “I might need a favor one of these days. And call me Nick.”

  “Thanks!” Nathan grinned and stuffed the money into his shirt pocket. “If you need me again, I work here. This is the only hovercar garage in town, and my dad owns it.”

  Nick looked through the open door of the garage, saw a hovercar balanced on a vertical tractor beam. He nodded.

  “The hotel’s at the end of the next block.” Nathan pointed. “It’s the only one in town.”

  “Then I guess it will do.” Nick shook hands with the boy again. “Nice meeting you, Nathan. Thanks for the ride.”

  “You planning on staying long?”

  “Could be.” Nick released the door latch and the clamshell popped open. He stepped out onto hard-packed dirt that served as a gutter and retrieved his luggage.

  Nathan exited the other side of the car and stepped up onto the sidewalk. “Hey, Nick—was Ron Gates a friend of yours? Is that why you’re here?”

  Nick stared at him a moment before replying. Then he shook his head. “Nope. Never met him.”

  * * *

  The main street of Kline Corners was four blocks long; every business establishment in town was located there. Each cross street extended exactly two blocks in each direction and ended in dusty, sun baked brown grass. These were the residential streets, and to Nick’s eye the whole place resembled nothing so much as a North American Ancient West cow town.

  Walking down a sidewalk made of pre-stressed fiberboard, Nick felt as if he’d stepped back several centuries in time—except for the dusty, battered vehicles parked along the street. The buildings were mostly prefabs, but were all built of wood.

  Except for Nick the street was deserted, not a soul in sight. Probably the heat, he reasoned, though his imagination suggested something more sinister. He felt as if eyes were peering out at him from behind the semi-shuttered windows along the street.

 
He shook it off, deciding he had watched too many Yancy West vids as a kid.

  He stopped in front of the hotel and paused, looking around. Across the street and down one block he saw a broken holo-sign hanging above a scarred doorway with a six pointed star on it. He stared for a moment, then hoisted the trunk again and started across the street. Instinctively he looked both ways, but there was no need. The only vehicles in sight were parked.

  In the distance, he saw some kind of animal, a three-legged something, hopping clumsily across the road, but that was the only sign of life. Even Nathan Green had disappeared.

  Nick reached the door with the star above it and touched the sensor. He was almost surprised when the door slid open. He stepped through and found himself in a small office with a counter in front of him, and a door in the corner that probably led to jail cells in the back. A desk sat against the far wall; sitting at the desk with his back to the door was a man, snoring evenly in a steady rhythm.

  “Hello?” Nick raised his voice slightly to get the man’s attention, and was about to repeat the greeting when the chair swiveled slowly around to face him.

  The man looking back at him was in his early sixties, mostly bald and grizzled, with a day’s growth of grey beard. He blinked in annoyance, then slowly sat up straight and folded his arms across his chest. A tarnished star was pinned to his shirt.

  “Help you?” the man asked in a voice coated with gravel.

  “Are you Sheriff Blake?”

  Nick waited patiently for the answer, as the man looked him up and down, taking his time as if not sure he wanted to admit to his identity.

  “I might be,” the other man said finally. “Least, that’s who the sign on my desk says I am. And who might you be?”

  Nick unloaded the trunk yet one more time, standing it on its end, and set the space bag on top of it. Reaching into the bag he pulled out a leather case and opened it, holding it up for Blake to see.

  “My name is Nick Walker,” he said. “United Federation Marshal.”

  Chapter 2