Rebel Guns of Alpha Centauri (Nick Walker, U.F. Marshal Book 3)

by John Bowers

  To Nick’s surprise, nearly two hundred people came to their feet cheering and shouting, whooping, whistling, clapping. He stood up, a little dazed by their reaction, and walked toward the podium. Nelson grinned at him, laid a hand on his arm, and leaned in close.

  “They must’ve seen the statue,” he whispered, then winked and returned to his chair. Nick realized with a sinking feeling that Nelson was right. He stood in front of the podium with a red face and embarrassed grin, waiting for them to sit down. But they didn’t sit down—they continued their ovation for over a minute, until he held up a hand.

  Not surprisingly, none of the cult people were cheering. As soon as the room had quieted, before Nick had said a word, one of them came to his feet at the rear of the room.

  “Murderer!” he shouted.

  Another man stood and repeated the phrase, then a woman joined him.

  “Murderer!” she shrilled.

  Half a dozen others joined in, standing, some shaking their fists.

  “Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!”

  Nick stared at them, slightly shaken, not quite sure what to do. Mayor Robinette was on his feet and came forward, grabbed the mini-mike, and tried to calm them down.

  “There’s no need for that!” he bellowed. “Please, let’s have order! Let’s have order, please!”

  Some in the audience who had cheered Nick were now also on their feet, shouting back at the angry cultists. Chairs scuffed and a couple turned over. Nick realized he was looking at the beginnings of a riot. He quickly grabbed the mini-mike from Mayor Robinette.

  “Stop!” he yelled, pointing at his defenders with his left hand. They stopped and stared back at him in surprise. The cult people continued to chant.

  “You folks,” Nick said over the uproar, “thank you for the warm welcome. You had your say and I appreciate it, but now let’s hear what they—” He pointed at the chanters. “—have to say.”

  The “regular” folks, still unsettled by the commotion, sat down uncertainly and cast disapproving looks back at the protestors. Nick stepped from behind the podium and moved to one side; he stood there for a full minute while the chant continued.

  “Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!”

  Again some of the “regular” folks began to respond, but Nick held up a hand and they fell silent once more. After two or three minutes the chant began to fade, and the cult people sank back into their chairs, flushed and out of breath.

  “Thank you,” Nick said. “It’s good to know where you stand. But before we let things get out of control again, can you let one or two people do the talking? So I can find out what your objection is?”

  The man who had started it all stood once more. He was a rawboned man with greying red hair and a red beard, his face also flushed red. He spoke in a bullhorn voice that needed no amplification.

  “Our objection,” he said clearly, “is that we don’t want a U.F. Marshal at all, and especially not you. You, sir, are a hired killer!”

  “Fuck you, you son of a bitch!” someone yelled from the partisan crowd.

  “Sir!” Nick pointed at his supporter and got his attention. “Sir, thank you for your support, but please sit down. I want to hear what this gentleman has to say.”

  “He ain’t no gentleman, Marshal! That’s Antiochus Groening! He’s head of that crazy mob!”

  “Thank you. Now will you please sit down!”

  Nick glared at him until he took his seat, then turned to the red-bearded man again.

  “You think I’m a hired killer? I would ask you to explain that, please.”

  Groening smiled bitterly and began to walk forward down the center aisle. As he spoke, several of his followers nodded agreement.

  “I think you know what I’m referring to, Marshal,” Groening said, his voice rising. “It was you up in the idol tower that day! Everyone here knows it! These godless heathens—” He swept his hand toward the modern crowd. “—even erected a graven image in your name! As you can clearly see, they worship you, as if you were some sort of false god. They worship idols, and you are their god!”

  A noisy shout of agreement rose from the black-hat cultists, but Groening wasn’t finished. Now he had reached the front of the room, staring up at Nick from ten feet away, arms raised as if beseeching Heaven for a bolt of lightning.

  “You stood in the pagan tower that day, with your high powered rifle! You rained death down on the children of God, like the Angel of Death upon Ancient Egypt! You butchered thirty-seven faithful followers of the Living God! You defied the will of Almighty God to take control of this sinful town! You, Nick Walker, are a sinner and a murderer!”

  Nick gazed down into the man’s burning black eyes and felt his skin crawl, his heart skip. He had faced enraged opponents a number of times in his career, had looked into the eyes of pure hatred, but had never glimpsed anything like this. The sheer depth of Groening’s hatred was frightening, and his power to persuade was clear. The Groaners in the crowd, those with guns on their belts, were practically swooning in the wake of his oratory.

  Nick stared at him a moment longer, then shook himself mentally.

  “Thank you for explaining it,” he said quietly. “Now if you will take your seat—”

  “You will answer the charges!” Groening bellowed. “I will not sit down until you respond!”

  Nick swept the crowd with his eyes, then nodded slowly.

  “Okay,” he said. “Fair enough. The first thing you should know, Reverend—”

  “Do not call me Reverend!” the man bellowed again. “Only God is called Reverend! Psalms 111 verse 9—‘Holy and Reverend is His name’!’”

  “Okay…what do you want me to call you? Mister Groening?”

  “My children call me Father!” Groening declared, lifting his eyes up to the ceiling.

  “Father.” Nick glanced at the modern crowd, who sat mesmerized. He looked back at his accuser. “Isn’t ‘Father’ also one of God’s names?”

  “DO NOT MOCK THE ALMIGHTY!!!” Groening roared, and his congregants squirmed in distress.

  “Father Groening,” Nick said, before the man had time to incite the mob any further. “The first thing you should know is that I never wanted to be in that church tower that day. I was just one man in a company of Star Marines that was sent here to defend the town—”

  “You had no business being here at all!” Groening bellowed. “This was not your fight! This is our planet! This is our land! This was our fight, not yours!”

  Again the black hats were nodding, and not just the Groaners, but the Homerites as well. Groening raised his arms to continue, but Nick cut him off.

  “FATHER GROENING!” he yelled, “you have had your say and now I will have mine. So please, sit down and shut up!”

  Groening’s mouth fell open, as if Nick had cursed God to His face. His followers gasped in shock and several women fanned themselves. Nick pointed to the red-bearded leader and drove his point home.

  “If you interrupt me again, I will have you arrested and E-cuffed until I am finished. Now take a seat, right there, and listen.”

  Groening took a step back, trembling with righteous fury, and dropped into an open chair. Nick made a point of ignoring him while he addressed the room at large.

  “I’m sorry that so many of you lost loved ones in the war,” he said. “I’m sorry so many were killed in that one battle. But you aren’t the only ones who suffered loss. I came here with a hundred and twelve other men that day, and when it was all over only thirty-nine of us were still alive.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out, to calm his own emotions.

  “The only reason I was in the tower that day is that I was the only man still alive who was qualified with that rifle. We had been under artillery fire all day; those of you who lived here then will remember the bombardment.”

  Heads nodded among the modern folks, and several women wiped their eyes.

  “This was a civil war. It was out of control. The Star Marines
were sent here to put down the rebellion and restore peace, and that’s what we did. None of us wanted to be here. None of us wanted to kill anyone. But it was a war and we did what we had to do. I personally regret every life that was lost during those two days, on both sides, and especially those that were taken by me.

  “As for that statue in the park, I wish the damn thing had never been built. I am not a hero. I was just trying to stay alive, and keep as many others alive as possible. I got shot full of holes in that tower, and I did not enjoy any of it.”

  He turned and walked slowly across the stage, looking down at those who had cheered him.

  “It was eight years ago,” he said quietly. “The shooting stopped soon after that, and thank god. It’s over, it’s done, and we can’t change any of it. That was then, this is now. I’m not here as a Star Marine this time. I’m not here as a mercenary. I’m not a hired killer. I am a United Federation Marshal and my job is to protect you—” He turned his eyes on the cult members. “—all of you—from harm. And to keep the peace.

  “If you believe in God—and I know that most of you do—then I hope you will pray that I am able to do that. There’s been enough division here. It’s time to let go of the past and let yourselves heal.”

  He walked back to the other end of the stage and looked at “Father” Groening again.

  “Father, I will be happy to sit down with you anytime, anywhere, and talk things over. I will do whatever I reasonably can to make things right. But be aware of one thing, and do not ever forget it—this planet is still under Federation law, and I will enforce that law to the best of my ability. With fairness and justice for all.”

  Nick scanned the crowd one last time. They sat silent, all of them, almost breathless. He nodded and took a step back.

  “Thank you all for coming.”

  Chapter 4

  “That was a hell of a speech,” Nelson told him as they walked back to the office after the meeting. “I just about shit myself when they started that chant. Half those Groaners were armed, and I knew we didn’t have the manpower to stop them if they decided to get violent. You handled it like a pro.”

  Nick stared at the sidewalk, feeling subdued.

  “I’m not so sure,” he said quietly. “I humiliated Groening in public. I don’t think he’s going to take that lying down.”

  “Maybe not, but at least nobody got killed tonight. That situation could have turned ugly.”

  Nick glanced from left to right; vehicles moved up and down the street, but the sidewalks were still crowded. Knots of cultists were still on the street, talking in small groups. Some looked in his direction as he walked, and the looks weren’t very friendly.

  “Does Groening live in town?” he asked Nelson.

  “No. His people are scattered all over the Plain, but they have a headquarters village a few miles down the valley. Groening lives there.”

  “You said the Homerites and the Groaners don’t like each other.”

  “Not really. They look alike on the outside, but they have very different personalities. If it were just the Homerites, I don’t think there would be any trouble, but put the two together and it’s a pretty volatile mix.”

  “But the Homerites also hate the Federation?”

  Nelson nodded. “Yeah, but it’s more intellectual with them. They’ll fight when provoked, but all by themselves I don’t think they would ever start anything.”

  “Who’s their top dog?”

  “Guy named Jeb Wiest. It was his great-grandfather, Homer Wiest, who started the cult, or at least brought it out here.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Wiest? He’s friendly enough, but stubborn as an old stump. When it comes to matters of belief he’s totally inflexible, especially with his own people. But he doesn’t strike me as dangerous.”

  They reached the office and Nelson unlocked the door.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked as they settled down at their desks.

  Nick dropped his cowboy hat on the desk and rubbed his face.

  “I had no idea the sentiment was running this high,” he said.

  “Neither did I. It’s been pretty quiet since I’ve been here.”

  Nick nodded. “And then I show up. They know me by name. That goddamn statue has them all stirred up, and the sight of me seems to have turned up the heat.”

  “I have to admit, I never expected any of this. What’re you gonna do?”

  Nick grimaced. “Not sure yet. How long are you going to be here?”

  “Another week. I figured to stick around until you’re settled, then I’m taking the next train out.”

  “After what happened tonight, what are the odds of it turning into something big?”

  Nelson was thoughtful a moment.

  “Hard to say,” he said. “I know the Federation is concerned that the Coalition might rearm, and if it does it will probably be Groening’s doing. He still has enough people to field a sizeable army, and if the Homerites join him again it could be a disaster. I think the only thing they lack at the moment is weapons.”

  “Jesus! The last thing we need is my presence starting the whole damn revolution all over again.”

  “It never really ended, Nick. Unless or until Alpha Two sets up a permanent government, the danger will always be there. Even then, when the planet finally gains independence, I’m afraid it won’t be over. None of this is your fault; it’s just unfortunate that you were sent to this particular office.”

  “Maybe I should request a transfer elsewhere.”

  Nelson shook his head. “That won’t do your career any good.”

  Nick laughed. “Neither will starting another war.”

  “I think you should give it a chance. This might blow over. But—” Nelson pointed to Nick’s cowboy hat. “—you might want to stop wearing that.”

  Nick looked up in surprise. “You don’t like my cowboy hat?”

  “Hell, I like it just fine. Makes you look like Yancy goddamn West. Trouble is, it also makes you a clear target. Nobody else around here dresses the way you do.”

  Nick smiled ruefully. His last posting had been to Kline Corners on Sirius 1, where everyone dressed as if they lived on the North American frontier in ancient times. Nick had been horrified when someone suggested he dress the same way, but later became very comfortable in western clothing. Not only did he wear a cowboy hat, he also wore cowboy boots, a vest, and twin gunbelts, making him look every inch the video Western hero. The only thing he lacked was chewing tobacco.

  “Well. At least if they target me they won’t hit some innocent bystander. I think I’ll go see Mr. Wiest and sound him out. If I can get on his good side, maybe he won’t be tempted to join in if Groening decides to rekindle the flames.”

  Nelson nodded. “Can’t hurt. At least I think he’ll take the time to listen. I can’t say I really like the man, but he’s never caused me any problems.”

  Nelson glanced at his watch.

  “It’s almost ten o’clock. You better get home to that little lady before she decides to head back to Sirius.”

  Nick grinned and clambered to his feet.

  “Good idea. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Nick walked the six blocks from the Marshal’s office to the bungalow where he had installed Suzanne a few hours earlier. In spite of the hour, the night sky was amazingly bright. He found Suzanne standing on the front porch admiring it.

  “Binary stars again,” she smiled as he came through the gate.

  “Yeah, but no Sirian Summer. Look at that, will you?”

  He waved his hand at the sky. Alpha Centauri B, the smaller of the binaries, had risen just behind the mountain and couldn’t be seen, but its glow diffused the evening with light. The sky was a deep blue, but light enough that one could almost read a databook.

  “It’s beautiful!” Suzanne breathed.

  Nick stepped up on the porch and took her in his arms, pulling her against him in a hug. Her huge breasts pressed
against him like pliable melons. He followed the hug with a kiss.

  “Miss me?”

  “Yes.” Her smile turned mischievous. “A twilight like this puts me in the mood.”

  “In the mood for love?”

  She shook her head. “In the mood for screwing.”

  Nick lifted his head and sighed. “Music to my ears.”

  She glanced at the sky again. “So are the nights always like this?”

  “No. As the binaries come into conjunction the nights get darker, but then they start to get lighter again. Takes a little over seven months to go from dark to light, and another seven to go back again. It’s a fifteen month cycle.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and stood kissing him for a moment, then her eyes narrowed.

  “How did the town meeting go?”

  He shrugged. “It was okay.”

  “Are you sure? You look a little tense.”

  He grinned and shook his head. “It was okay.”

  8 years ago

  Wednesday, 19 November, 0436 - Trimmer Springs, Alpha Centauri 2

  The air was alive with lead as Nick Walker struggled up the wooden staircase inside the bell tower. Stray bullets had punched holes through the wooden siding, leaving sunbeams shining like lasers through the gloom. Nick panted with exertion as he made the turn at each landing, continuing the painful climb while the shrapnel cuts in his back stretched and stung; blood leaked from under his vest and soaked his underwear.

  The belfry was square, eight or ten feet across, surrounded by a wooden skirt that came up to his stomach; a heavy railing capped the skirt, offering a solid firing platform. The brass bell hanging from the apex probably weighed a ton, and took up so much space that he had to duck under it to get into position. He settled behind the skirt and took a moment to catch his breath while he peered out over the town. It was a magnificent vantage point—the tower was the tallest structure in town and offered an unobstructed view in every direction.

  The breeze was in his face as he looked east. The rattle of small-arms was louder than ever from here, and he quickly began to pick out Star Marine positions as he opened the backpack and started pulling out magazines. He arranged them on the floor next to him for easy access, and slipped one into the rifle. A bullet whined overhead but he ignored it—after one had been in combat for a while such things became routine. Nick checked the rifle’s mechanism, hefted it to get a feel for the weight, and rested it on the railing as he prepared to adjust the scope. His heart pumped in a steady rhythm, but he wasn’t unduly afraid.