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

by John Bowers

  “Hi, there,” Nick said, giving her a friendly smile. “What’s your name?”

  He halfway expected her not to answer, but she walked right up to his window and peered inside.

  “Parthena,” she said.

  “Parthena! That’s a pretty name. I’ve never heard it before.”

  “It’s Greek,” she told him.

  “Really? What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked straight into his eyes. “Are you the devil?”

  Nick laughed in surprise. “The devil! I don’t think so. What do you think?”

  “You don’t look like the devil.”

  “Well, I hope not. What does the devil look like?”

  She wrinkled her nose in thought. “I think he has horns.”

  Nick removed his hat and tilted his head forward. “Do you see any horns?”

  She stared at his head a moment, then patted down his hair with both hands, covering his entire skull.

  “Nope.” She leaned toward him and sniffed the air. “I don’t smell any smoke,” she added.

  “Neither do I.”

  “If you were the devil, you should smell like smoke,” she said. “Because of all the fires you have to keep burning.”

  “Well, that’s a good point. I guess you’re right. What made you ask me if I was the devil?”

  “My mama says I shouldn’t talk to town people because town is where the devil lives.”

  Nick raised his eyebrows. “Well, you know what? I live in town and I’ve never seen him hanging around. If he was there, I think I would know it.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she peered at him. “Do you think my mama was lying?”

  “Not at all. I think she just made a mistake.”

  “Hm. Well, if you’re not the devil, then who are you?”

  “My name is Nick. I’m a United Federation Marshal.”

  “Is that why you have a gun?”

  “That’s right. And this badge, too.” He tapped his shirt. “Do you live around here?”

  She turned and pointed to a farm a half mile in the distance.

  “I live there.”

  “What are you doing all the way down here? Does your mama know where you are?”

  “Yeah, she knows. She can see me from the window.”

  Nick narrowed his eyes and zeroed in on the farmhouse, but could barely make out the windows. If her mother was indeed watching, he thought, she must be having conniption fits to see her child talking to a stranger in a hovercar.

  “If she can see you, then she’s going to be pretty upset, isn’t she?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re talking to someone from town.”

  Parthena thought about that for a moment, then nodded.

  “Yep, I bet you’re right. You better go.” She took a step back from the car.

  “Okay, I will. But first, can you tell me where to find Father Groening?”

  She pointed again. “He lives in the village. It’s about four miles.”

  “Do you know where in the village he lives?”

  “Right on the street. The house with the flagpole.”

  Nick tipped his hat and began to spin up his lifters.

  “Thank you, Parthena. Take care of yourself.”

  She took another step back as the car began to rise. Nick added forward thrust and continued on down the road, leaving the little girl staring after him.

  Millennium Village – Alpha Centauri 2

  The village was right where Parthena said it would be, just four miles up the road. It wasn’t nearly as big as Petra, just two cross streets and a few dozen houses. Nick saw a single general purpose store and that was the extent of the business district. A church sat on a street corner but didn’t look big enough to seat more than a couple of hundred people. Surely there must be other church buildings, but they were probably scattered across the countryside.

  Nick saw the house with the flagpole. It was larger than the rest, a wooden frame house with two stories and a wide front porch. The flag fluttered weakly and looked like something out of a history chip—red background with a white Christian cross in the center. Nick felt his blood chill a little at the sight…he’d seen that flag before.

  He set the hovercar down and stepped out. As before, he locked it. A small picket fence surrounded the front of the house and a plain gravel walk led up to the front porch. Nick pushed open the gate and closed it carefully behind him, then strode up the walk. A red-haired boy of about fourteen sat on the edge of the porch, eyes narrowed as he watched Nick approach. He was wearing the same uniform as everyone else, including the flat black hat. A piece of straw extended from his mouth and he seemed to be chewing it slowly.

  He was also wearing a gun.

  Nick reached the porch and rested one boot on the top step.

  “Afternoon.”

  The boy didn’t move. One eye was nearly closed as he peered up at Nick.

  “My name is Nick Walker. What’s yours?”

  The boy wrinkled his nose and spat out the straw stem.

  “What do you want here?” he demanded in a croaking, adolescent voice.

  “I’d like to see Father Groening.”

  “He don’t wanna see you.”

  “How do you know? You haven’t even told him I’m here.”

  “He already knows.”

  Nick pushed his hat back on his head and leaned against the porch railing.

  “Really? Is he omniscient?”

  The kid frowned. “Om what?”

  “Omniscient. Does he know everything that’s going on, everywhere, all the time?”

  The kid thought about that for a moment, then nodded.

  “Yeah. Sort of like that.”

  “So…he could see me approaching even when I was still ten miles out?”

  The kid fidgeted. “I reckon.”

  “You have radios here?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Radios are the work of the devil.”

  “You have telecoms?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Somebody saw me coming and phoned ahead. Is that it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Aren’t telecoms the work of the devil, too?”

  The kid tilted his head. “You makin’ fun of me, Mister?”

  “Nope, not a bit. Just trying to figure out how things work around here. For instance, someone told me that your people don’t use hovercars.”

  “That’s right, we don’t.”

  “But you use ground cars.”

  “Some do. Most can’t afford ‘em.”

  “Hovercars are the work of the devil?”

  “Yep.”

  “I saw gasoline tractors in the fields on the way here. What’s the difference between a hovercar and a gasoline tractor?”

  “Tractors don’t fly.”

  “What’s wrong with flying?”

  “The Bible says the devil is the Prince of the power of the air. Flying is the devil’s work.”

  Nick tried to maintain a straight face. The kid seemed sincere and he didn’t want to insult him.

  “Technology is technology,” he said, “whether it flies or just rolls along the ground. Isn’t it?”

  The kid stared at him a moment, then leaned over and spat on the ground.

  “Father told me about people like you,” he said.

  “People like me?”

  “Yeah. People who try to confuse you with fancy words. It’s real simple, Mister—if it wasn’t around in Jesus’ time, we don’t use it.”

  Nick’s mouth dropped open a full inch. He was absolutely floored.

  “You think they had gasoline tractors in Jesus’ day?”

  “They sure didn’t have hovercars!”

  Nick pushed back from the pillar and straightened up. The conversation was pointless, and if he pushed it he would only widen the gulf between them.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Darius.” />
  “Darius. That’s a cool name. I’ve never met anyone named Darius.”

  “It’s a Bible name.”

  Nick nodded. He was no biblical expert, but he had gone to church as a kid and was pretty sure that Darius was a Persian king who had been an enemy of the ancient Hebrews.

  “Well, Darius, is Father Groening in?”

  “Yeah, but I told you, he won’t talk to you.”

  Nick smiled. “Let’s find out.”

  He stepped up onto the porch and approached the front door, but the kid sprang to his feet. Nick froze, staring at him. For some reason the kid’s face was flushed, as if he were suddenly angry; his eyes burned like black holes.

  “I told you, Mister—he don’t want to talk to you!”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed—the kid’s right hand hung clear of his body, fingers splayed, just inches from the handle of his revolver.

  “Aren’t you a little young to be wearing a gunbelt?”

  “No.”

  “I think you’re a little young to be wearing a gunbelt. Why do you need to carry a gun in the first place?” Nick turned slowly to face him, his own hand sliding toward the handle of his .44.

  “I kin take you,” Darius said in a steady voice.

  “You might,” Nick admitted, “but I’d sure hate for you to test that theory. Cause then I’d have to kill you.”

  “Not if I kill you first.”

  “Why do you need to ‘take me’?”

  “I know who you are. I know what you done.” The kid’s eyes scanned him up and down, measuring him. Nick was amazed at his calmness.

  “You know what I done, huh? And what was that?”

  “You know what you done. Everybody knows.”

  “So…your entire army couldn’t kill me, but you think you can. Is that it?”

  “If I have to.”

  Nick hesitated a moment, wondering if the kid was stupid enough to actually try it. If he did, Nick had two choices—gun the boy down or try to tackle him before he could open fire. Neither option was very appealing.

  “You don’t have to, kid. The war’s over.”

  But Darius shook his head, his dark eyes burning. “Not as long as you’re alive, it ain’t.”

  “You think you have a score to settle?”

  “Yeah, I do.” Darius grinned slightly; the anticipation excited him.

  “Did you kill my deputy?”

  “Huh?” Confusion.

  “Someone shot my deputy this morning. Was it you?”

  “No!”

  “Maybe you had a score to settle with him, too?”

  “It wasn’t me! I wasn’t even in town this morning!”

  “Who said it happened in town? I didn’t say it happened in town. How did you know it happened in town?”

  Darius glared at him in consternation, his grin gone. He pointed an angry finger at Nick.

  “You can’t pin that on me! I’ve been right here all d—”

  Nick took two quick steps across the porch and grabbed Darius by the throat, slamming him against the wall; with his other hand he removed the pistol from the boy’s holster.

  “You stupid little shit! Do you have any idea what a .44 Magnum can do to you? There wouldn’t be enough left to feed to a dog! If you hate me because I killed so many of your people then go right ahead, but one thing you should have learned from that story is that I never miss!”

  The kid’s eyes were wide with fear; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Just as Nick released him and took a step back the front door popped open and a man stepped out. He was stocky, about forty, and broad in the shoulder; he had red hair and a thick red beard, and also wore a holstered pistol. He glared at Nick with fire in his eyes.

  “What’s the meaning of this!” he demanded.

  Nick took a deep breath and stepped away from the boy. He handed the pistol to the big man, butt first.

  “I was having a discussion with Darius on firearms safety. I hope this belongs to you.”

  The big man took the gun and glared at the boy, then faced Nick again.

  “You are not welcome here, Marshal. Get back in your heathen contraption and be gone!”

  “Who are you?”

  “If it’s any of your business, I am Titus Groening.”

  Nick nodded slowly. “So you’re Father’s son.” He glanced at Darius. “And he must be Father’s grandson.”

  “As I said, if it’s any of your business.”

  “I’ll tell you what is my business, Mr. Groening—someone murdered my deputy this morning. What do you know about that?”

  “Are you accusing me of that?” The man seemed to swell and his face turned red with anger.

  “I’m asking what you know about it. I’m not accusing anyone yet, but the shooter was dressed like one of your people, and since the Homerites aren’t known for carrying guns, I suspect he came from this direction.”

  Titus Groening was unimpressed. “I didn’t know your deputy was killed,” he said bluntly, “and I don’t know who killed him. But whoever it was, I’d say he hit the wrong target.”

  Nick felt his heartbeat fluctuate as he gazed into the man’s dark, uncompromising eyes. Once again, he felt he was staring into a depth of hatred he’d never experienced before.

  “I would like to speak to Father Groening,” he said.

  “What business do you have with him?”

  “I told him last night at the town meeting that I would be willing to sit down with him and iron out any differences we might have. I meant what I said.”

  “He has no interest in sitting down with you,” Titus Groening said. “Not today, not ever.”

  “I’d like to hear that from him, if you don’t mind.”

  “You just did. I speak as his agent. Get back in your heathen car and leave this village. You are not welcome here.”

  Nick stood there a moment longer. Anger burned in his gut, but there was nothing he could do about it. Without evidence of wrongdoing, he had no authority to invade Groening’s privacy, and when told to go away he had little choice. He was, true enough, standing on private property.

  “Thank you for your time, Titus,” he said, and took a step back. He glanced at the boy on the porch. “Have a nice day, Darius.”

  Reluctantly, he turned and walked back to the street, wondering if Titus Groening might shoot him in the back.

  * * *

  From behind a slatted window, Antiochus Groening watched the U.F. Marshal climb into his car and lift off. The devilish machine stirred up a blast of dirt when it hovered, and it took several minutes for the cloud to disperse after the car was gone. Groening lowered the slat and turned back to his desk, resentment throbbing in his chest. The office door opened and Titus stepped inside.

  “What did he want?” Groening demanded.

  “He insisted on talking to you.”

  “I have nothing to say to him.”

  “That’s what I told him. He said that someone murdered his deputy this morning. He thinks it was one of our people.”

  Groening’s dark eyes flashed. “He’s accusing us! Right away, it’s our fault?”

  “Apparently so. He said the Homers don’t carry guns and we do, so it’s one of ours.”

  “Did you know anything about this?”

  “Nothing, Pop. I hadn’t heard about it until he showed up.”

  Father Groening sat breathing angrily for a moment, then allowed his anger to cool. He glanced at his son thoughtfully.

  “Find out who did this. If it was one of our people, we need to know it. I don’t want that marshal blindsiding me somehow.”

  “Right away.”

  “And have our people in town keep an eye on the marshal. I want to know what he does and where he is every minute.”

  Titus Groening nodded. “Will do.”

  Father Groening rested his elbows on his desk, clasped his hands together, and stared at the wall with a worried frown.

  “If it’s one of our people, this will ruin us all
.”

  The office door swung slowly open as Darius stepped inside. The men were arrested by the look of pure rage on his face.

  “What’s wrong, Darius?” Titus demanded.

  “That marshal insulted me,” the boy said, his voice trembling.

  “He insulted all of us,” Father Groening replied. “He’s an infidel. It’s his way.”

  “What did he say to you?” Titus looked concerned.

  “He was making fun of me, like I’m some ignorant fool, and then he slapped me around. I want him dead. You hear me, Pop? I want him dead!”

  Chapter 10

  Trimmer Springs – Alpha Centauri 2

  Luther Nelson looked up when Nick walked into the office. It was late afternoon.

  “I’ve been wounded,” Nick said.

  Nelson leaped to his feet. “What!”

  “My pride.” Nick grinned. “I couldn’t get that old bastard to talk to me.”

  Nelson relaxed. “So the trip was a bust?”

  “No, not at all. I picked up all kinds of tidbits. Every little thing helps.”

  “Did you find out who killed Hugh?”

  Nick dropped into his chair and plopped his hat on the desk. Running his fingers through his hair, he shook his head.

  “No. But I’m ninety-nine percent sure it wasn’t one of the Homerites. Jeb Wiest may have some odd beliefs, but he struck me as honest and sincere.”

  Nelson nodded, reaching for the coffee pot. “That was always my impression.” He settled back behind his desk. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. The Hebrews had gasoline-powered farm equipment during the time of Christ.”

  Nelson’s eyes flared and he laughed incredulously. “Are you shitting me?”

  Nick shook his head. “God’s truth. Heard it from Father Groening’s grandson.”

  Nelson sipped his coffee and set it down.

  “How do you deal with ignorance like that?” he said. “It’s hard to take those people seriously.”

  “Oh, I take them seriously. But what amazes me is the contradiction in their beliefs. On the one hand, modern technology is evil, yet they don’t hesitate to use older technology. Radios are the devil’s work, but telecoms are okay; hovercars are evil, but they use gasoline vehicles. And they didn’t seem to have any problem using modern artillery against us in the war.”