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

by John Bowers

  Suzanne met him at the bar, a bemused grin on her face.

  “Look who’s alive,” she teased. “I thought you might sleep all day.”

  “What time is it?”

  “A little after seven. The day’s half over.”

  Nick settled onto a hover stool and stretched his back. Suzanne placed a coffee mug in front of him, and called into the kitchen for his usual breakfast.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  He met her eyes bashfully and shrugged.

  “Better than I have any right to feel, considering the hole in my arm. You’re a pretty good therapist.”

  “You were a pretty good patient.”

  He glanced at a couple of cowboys at the end of the bar and didn’t say any more about the night before. He glanced out the window and saw dust swirling down the street, pushed by near cyclonic winds.

  “One of the suns go down?” he asked.

  “Yep. B is down, A is up. The wind should die in another hour. Then B will be up again and it’s going to be really hot.” Suzanne moved down the bar and filled coffee cups, then came back. “What are you planning for today?”

  “Well, we left two cars out there that belong to the Greens, so I should help retrieve them. That will eat up three or four hours. After that I need to contact Terra and get some direction on what to do with those Texiana women.”

  “Do you have to send them back?”

  “Probably. They have families, after all. But what bothers me is that they’ll just get picked up again.”

  She nodded grimly. “There’s nothing you can do about that,” she said.

  “I know, but I don’t have to like it.” He sipped his coffee. “Has Mr. Kline been in yet?”

  “He was here about an hour ago. Said to tell you he hasn’t located Joel yet, but he’s still looking.”

  “Probably hiding out in a serf village somewhere. It’ll take an army to find him.”

  “He might hide out near a serf village, but if he tries to hide in one he may have a problem. By now the word is probably out that he’s a fugitive, and what he’s wanted for. The men in those villages won’t take very kindly to him.”

  Nick stared at her thoughtfully.

  “His best move would be to get up to Texiana. What he did isn’t a crime up there, and there’s no extradition.”

  “If that’s the case,” Suzanne said, “then you’ll never find him.”

  Nick shrugged. “If he gets away, he gets away. At least the girls around here will be safe from him. And if he does come back, I’ll nail his ass.”

  Kristina came out of the kitchen with his breakfast and set it before him. As she did so, her eyes drifted over his shoulder and she froze. Suzanne was also looking out the front window, and Nick was arrested by her expression. He turned.

  A fancy, late model hovercar had parked in front of the Vega. Two men in business suits got out of the front, Roy Blake crawled out of the back. Ducking their heads against the wind and sand, they hurried for the door and pushed their way inside. The strangers’ business suits looked light years out of place. Nick felt his gut twist with apprehension as they looked around, spotted him, and walked toward the bar. Blake trailed behind them, trying to look nonchalant, but unable to hide the anxiety on his face.

  “Nick Walker?” one of the men said. “Are you Marshal Nick Walker?”

  Nick nodded. “I am. Who are you?”

  The one talking to Nick looked about thirty. He was shorter than average, but muscular; his hair looked wet and was combed straight back. He reeked of male cologne, as if he had bathed in it. The other man was an inch taller, not as wide, and slightly balding. He wore wire-frame glasses, a style Nick hadn’t seen in years, since eyeglasses were virtually unknown on Terra. Both men were immaculate in expensive three-piece suits, their matching ties a mixture of red and blue; both wore black lapel pins, with a single lightning bolt slashing downward.

  Neither man was smiling. Neither appeared capable of smiling.

  The shorter man reached into his coat and withdrew an envelope. He extended it to Nick, who only glanced at it.

  “This is for you, Marshal.”

  “You haven’t told me who you are yet.”

  Roy Blake cleared his throat. “Marshal, these gentlemen are from the—”

  “Texiana State Police,” the short one said, cutting Blake off.

  “The police in Texiana hire men with no names?” Nick asked pointedly.

  Neither man blinked, their faces as impassive as zombies.

  “Law enforcement in Texiana is a serious business,” the short man said. “Personalities are irrelevant. We don’t generally disclose our identities.”

  Though his mind was screaming questions, Nick had been conditioned by his training. He made a show of leaning back against the bar and crossing his arms—as much as his sling would allow.

  “I see,” he said slowly. “Well, the problem is, you know my name already. Maybe my personality is irrelevant, too. Did you ever think about that?”

  The short man reacted for the first time, a wrinkle of confusion forming on his brow.

  “I don’t understand the question. Was that a question?”

  “No, it was a statement. Basically, unless you tell me your names, you can go to hell, because I’m not going to talk to you.”

  The Texiana Two exchanged glances, then looked at Nick again.

  “We came here with instructions to deliver this summons,” the short one tried again.

  Nick raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “Go to hell.”

  “Marshal Walker—”

  Nick leaned forward suddenly, and the little man stepped back in spite of himself.

  “I’m not taking your summons,” Nick said. “You have no authority here. If you want me to cooperate with you, then you have to show me an offer of good faith. And what I want is both of your names. In fact—” He stood up. “—I want to see some identification.”

  They both stepped back, alarm in their eyes. People at the tables by the window had stopped eating and sat watching, like a silent crowd at a sporting event, soaking up every word to be repeated later. Roy Blake stood twisting his hat in his hands, not certain what, if anything, he should do. Suzanne and Kristina watched with gleaming eyes, loving every minute of the show.

  The little man tried again. He cleared his throat.

  “Marshal Walker—”

  “All right, that’s it.” Nick drew his sidearm and stood pointing it at the floor. “Sheriff, show these men to their car and escort them out of town. They say they’re policemen, but they refuse to show identification. I have to assume they are part of the organized mob that’s been smuggling gooseberry through these parts, and I want them out of my jurisdiction.”

  “Nick, they’re just—”

  “Right now, Sheriff!”

  Hopelessly confused, Blake hesitated, then reached for the shorter man’s arm. The little man jerked his elbow angrily and took a step to the side, his face flushed with rage. He reached into another pocket and drew out an ID case. He flung it into Nick’s chest.

  “There’s my ID, asshole!” he shouted. “Now put the fucking gun away!”

  Nick stared at him for ten seconds. The ID case lay at his feet.

  “Pick it up and hand it to me like an adult,” he said quietly. “I won’t tell you again.”

  The little man stood rigid, heaving for air, his face contorted with fury. The taller one remained calm, but slipped his hand into his coat pocket. Before he could withdraw it Nick’s laser pistol was pointed at his face.

  “Very slowly, sir. What have you got there?”

  The man’s face paled two full shades, and he gently withdrew his ID case and handed it to Nick. Nick took it and lowered his weapon. He turned back to the little angry guy.

  “Did you pick up the case already?” he asked. “I’m sure you did, because I told you I wouldn’t ask again.”

  Panting, the furious little man bent and retrieved
the case, then handed it to Nick with a shaking hand. Nick held both cases in his left hand, and turned to Roy Blake.

  “Sheriff, pull out two chairs and place them facing me. I think these gentlemen would like to sit down.”

  Blake still looked confused, but seemed to have decided that Nick was in charge, and he should follow his lead. He spun two chairs around and set them side by side, ten feet from where Nick stood. Nick nodded at each man in turn.

  “Gentlemen, please take a seat. I don’t want to keep you standing while I check your identification.”

  The tall man glanced at the little one, but the little one didn’t move. The tall one looked at Nick again, and Nick gestured to the chair with his pistol. The taller man sat down, nervously adjusting his glasses. The little one stood speechless for another moment, but Nick stared at him, unmoving, until he sat down. The two Texiana cops—if that’s who they really were—looked like chastened schoolboys sitting in the middle of the room, the sheriff standing behind them.

  “Kristina,” Nick said quietly. “Please get these gentlemen some coffee.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Be sure it’s the good stuff, from Brazil. We don’t want them drinking that Texiana shit.” He looked at his two visitors and smiled. “Cream and sugar?”

  “We don’t want your fucking coffee!” the little man snarled.

  Nick heaved a sigh, and shook his head in disapproval.

  “You know, where I come from it just isn’t polite to use language like that when folks are trying to treat you nice. I don’t know what they teach you up there in Texiana, but I think I’m going to write a letter to the governor and suggest they start with some simple manners. They didn’t teach you any manners, did they?”

  Kristina arrived with a tray holding two coffees. She offered them to the men and the taller man took one. The other declined with a shake of the head, but held his tongue. He glared at Nick with undisguised hatred, still trembling with rage. Kristina withdrew with the tray and Nick regarded his visitors again.

  “By the way,” he said to the taller man, “if you should get a notion to toss that hot coffee my way, let me advise you that my laser pistol will reach you before the coffee reaches me. Is that clear enough? And make no mistake—if you try it, I will not hesitate to prove that hypothesis.”

  He grinned at them, letting his tongue play with his lower lip.

  “Okay, where was I? Oh, yeah, the IDs.”

  Nick opened the first ID case and looked at it, matching the flat photo to the face of the little man. After making a show of verifying the photo, he read aloud.

  “Inspector Nicholas Peloni, Texiana State Police, Division of Racial Affairs. Hm.” Nick stared at the ID another moment, then looked at the little man—Nicholas Peloni—with a frown.

  “Nicholas Peloni,” he mused. “Where have I heard that name before? It really sounds familiar. Nicholas Peloni…” Nick snapped his fingers. “Oh, I know! Nicholas! That’s my name! I’ll bet your mother calls you ‘Nick’, doesn’t she!”

  Peloni’s jaws were clenched so tight his lips bulged. He breathed rapidly and noisily through his nose, but finally had the good sense to keep his mouth shut—at least for the moment.

  Nick opened the second ID case. Again he made a show of matching face to photo, but didn’t elaborate as much. The tall man wasn’t quite the asshole his partner was, so didn’t need to be as thoroughly humiliated.

  “Inspector Daniel Tatum, Texiana State Police, Division of…now this is interesting—Division of Revenue and Taxation. Now why would Revenue and Taxation be sent out on a mission with Racial Affairs? Not exactly a conflict of interest, but certainly not an intra-racial marriage, either. Can you explain this to me?”

  Tatum, with the glasses, shook his head.

  “That really is none of your concern.” He almost gulped as he spoke, as if he had difficulty getting the words past a lump in his throat.

  But Nick shook his head.

  “You know, under normal circumstances, I might agree with you. But considering that the two of you came all the way down here to Kline Corners…to see me…then I think I do deserve an explanation.”

  He tossed the ID cases back to the two men, settled back onto his hover stool, and rested his elbows on the bar. He kept the laser pistol in his right hand.

  “So, gentlemen, what is this all about? And never mind the summons crap. Tell me in your own words why you are here.”

  “It’s all laid out in the summons,” Tatum said. “If you would just look at it.”

  Nick shook his head. “If I touch that thing, you’ll probably pull some obscure statute out of the air that will try to force me to travel into your jurisdiction. So you summarize it for me. Hell, read it to me.” He glanced at Peloni. “You do know how to read, don’t you, Nick?”

  Peloni was too livid to speak. Tatum was much calmer, and took the lead.

  “Basically, you are requested to appear before the Texiana Parliament on Tuesday next to answer questions relating to the murder of three Texiana Police officers.”

  Nick felt adrenaline stab through him. Texiana Police officers! He kept his outward calm.

  “You said ‘requested’, didn’t you? Not ‘required’?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And who is making this request?”

  “A member of Parliament.”

  “Does this member of Parliament have a name? Or is his personality irrelevant too?”

  Tatum glanced at Peloni, then back at Nick.

  “His name is Harry Reed.”

  “And where did Harry Reed hear my name?”

  “I believe it came from a confidential informant.”

  “I see.” Nick nodded thoughtfully. “And where did these alleged murders take place?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t have that information.”

  “It’s not in the summons?”

  “No, it is not.”

  “Okay, when did these alleged murders take place?”

  “I don’t believe I know that either.”

  “You don’t believe you know? Or you don’t know?”

  “Yesterday, asshole!” Peloni snapped. “You know goddamn well where and when they took place, because you gunned those men down!”

  Nick turned a steady gaze on Peloni. The little man’s face contorted as he sniffed to clear dust out of his nose. His eyes were like hot coals aimed at Nick’s face.

  “Well, now, Nick…I don’t remember killing any Texiana Police officers yesterday. I did, however, have the pleasure of gunning down three criminals who were illegally transporting a busload of human females they were planning to sell as slaves. None of them identified themselves as Texiana Police officers, and I’m sure none of them were, since legitimate police officers would never resort to such a barbaric practice as selling human beings as slaves!” He glared at the little man in the chair. “Would they, Nick? Hell, even you would never do anything like that, would you?”

  “Fuck you!”

  Nick heaved a deep breath and got to his feet again. His pistol hung straight down at his side.

  “Fuck me? No, Nick, fuck you. You’re on my turf now. Texiana has no authority in this region, and if you try to throw your weight around, it won’t be long before you find yourself dealing with the Federation Star Marines, and they’re not nearly as nice as I am. I don’t think you want that, and even if you aren’t sure about that, I’ll bet old Harry Reed wouldn’t like that very much. What do you think?”

  “What did you do with those women?” Nick Peloni sat shaking with rage.

  “What women are you referring to, Nick?”

  Tatum’s head snapped around. “Nicholas!”

  But Peloni was too angry. He leaned forward in the chair.

  “The women you stole from those men you killed! They are Texiana citizens and you’re holding them illegally! Where are they?”

  Nick Walker shook his head, frowning slightly.

  “I don’t think they’re Texiana citizens,”
he said. “They were all Spanic women—and did I mention that half of them were under eighteen? From what I’ve been told, the good people of Texiana don’t allow Spanics to hold citizenship, or vote, or anything democratic. So I don’t think you have any legal claim on them.” He shrugged. “Of course, I could be wrong. I’ll run it past the Federation lawyers back on Terra.”

  “You will release those women into my custody or I’ll—”

  “Nicholas!” Tatum bellowed. “Shut—UP!”

  Nick took a step back and let silence fill the void for a moment. He smiled pleasantly.

  “So that’s it, huh? You guys come down here pretending to be all outraged because some of your felons—er, I mean fellows—got themselves killed while violating Federation law. But you don’t really care about your felons as much as you care about your investment. Exactly how much does Member of Parliament Harry Reed stand to lose if he doesn’t get those women back?”

  Peloni seemed to realize at last that he’d overplayed his hand. Instead of answering, he stared guiltily at the floor. Tatum was still glaring at him, but it was too late. He looked up at Nick.

  “You’re in over your head, Marshal,” he said. “Swimming against the tide. You may think the Federation is the end-all, but very soon now the Sirian Confederacy will replace all that. You may think you’re doing something noble here, but you’re only pissing in the wind. Give us the women and we’ll go away. And I might suggest that you give up any notion of interfering with such enterprises in the future. It will only cause you grief.”

  Nick stared at him for a moment, and all at once it became clear.

  “You guys are KK, aren’t you? The Texiana State Police has nothing to do with this. You’re doing this on your own, which is why Revenue and Tax is traveling with Racial Affairs. You took time off from work to come down here and try to browbeat me, and Member of Parliament Harry Reed sent you. He’s KK, too, isn’t he?”

  Tatum stood up, adjusted his glasses, and set his coffee cup on the bar.

  “We’ll be going now, Marshal. Come along, Nicholas.”

  Peloni stood quickly and turned for the door without looking at Nick. Tatum followed. At the door, he looked back, his expression grim.