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

by John Bowers

  “But the devil is wily. The devil is always planning; the devil is always plotting. The devil knows how we think, knows what we feel, and he is constantly looking for our weakness. And…from time to time…he finds it.

  “You see, embedded in the sweet beauty of the life we live is a weakness, a trap of sorts, one we aren’t even aware of. It lies hidden beneath the bounty we enjoy, the plenty that sustains us. It is a trap that waits for the unwary, and every once in a while—every few years—one or another unsuspecting soul blunders into it. And that, brothers and sisters, brings me great sorrow.

  “Because it has happened again.”

  Groening lowered his shaggy head for a moment, visibly battling his emotions, and when he resumed his throat was clogged for a moment until he cleared it.

  “The trap I speak of is the trap of complacency. When one has everything they need, when hunger and cold have been eliminated, sometimes we are tempted to let down our guard. The Lord is with us, we think. We are doing okay, we think. Satan is left behind in our dust, we think.

  “But the devil never sleeps! The devil never gets tired! The devil never lets down! He is always out there, a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour! And he works on us. He sneaks around behind us. The devil is subtle. And he worms his way in. We aren’t even aware of it. We don’t see it coming. We think we’re doing all right, that everything is fine. And then, before we know it, we are ensnared in his web!

  “The devil entices us in many ways. It might be something as simple as envy, or lust, or covetousness. But usually it isn’t quite that obvious, because those are commandments, and most of us are very careful about the commandments. No, the devil is likely to be much more subtle than that. He comes after our young people, our future fathers and mothers. He is a patient devil, because he can never die, and he has all the time in the universe. We don’t, but he does! If he can’t get to the older people, those who have already been through the fire, he will strike at the weak ones, the young ones, those whose emotions still run wild. If he can seduce the future adults, then, over a period of time, he can undermine our entire congregation and destroy us from within.

  “And that, brothers and sisters, is what he is doing now.”

  Groening stopped, wiped his eyes with dramatic flair, cleared his throat yet again, and resumed his sermon.

  “There is one among us, I am saddened to say, who has fallen under the devil’s spell. I have known this young person since the day she was born. I have been close to her family for years before that. I knew her father, before he was murdered in the war. I knew her grandfather. I love her as if she were my own child. And yet…”

  He broke down with a sob, quickly regained control, and managed, painfully, to continue.

  “And yet this child has fallen into the devil’s trap. The devil has her in his clutches. She is so completely deceived that she refuses even to acknowledge her own sin. She has been warned, repeatedly. Her mother has worked with her, repeatedly. She has been given every opportunity, every chance, but all to no avail. Yesterday, with a heavy heart, I was finally forced to bring her to the attention of the Council of Elders. They met and reviewed the evidence, and judgment has been passed.”

  Groening turned toward a side door and nodded. A moment later the door opened and two men came in, leading a terrified teenage girl with red hair. Each of them held her by an arm; they walked her around the front of the pulpit and stood her in front of the congregation. The girl was trembling, fighting back sobs of despair, and tears stained her cheeks. At the first sight of her, several women gasped in horror. She wasn’t wearing traditional attire, but a tight, seductive shift hugged her young curves, and her shoulders were bare. Her long, thick red hair cascaded richly down her back, making the men pop to attention.

  In the front pew, just feet from where she stood, the girl’s mother began to sob. Her grandmother gripped a handkerchief tightly, dabbing her own cheeks as silent tears continued to flow. And the girl’s cousin, Nicodemus, sat rigid as stone, his eyes burning like coals.

  Groening looked down at the girl, austere, severe, righteousness oozing from every pore.

  “Magdalene Downing!” he said in a clear voice, “the Council of Elders has reviewed your case and you have been judged…incorrigible!”

  The congregation buzzed like a courtroom after a guilty verdict. Antiochus Groening had no gavel to bang them back to order, so he let them go. For nearly a full minute the conversation flew, comments and cries and expressions of sorrow and outrage. Groening held up his hands and the noise began to subside. He waited until it was quiet, except for the broken sobs of Maggie Downing, who stood alone between the two deacons escorting her.

  “Magdalene, it is customary that you be given opportunity to speak before final judgment is passed. If you have anything to say, this is the time. Confess your sins, that God may have mercy upon your soul.”

  The room was still once more, all eyes riveted to the pitiful girl in the satanic dress. Maggie Downing looked up at Father Groening with watery eyes, her face puffy, her nose dripping. She shook her head slowly from side to side.

  “I’m sorry!” she wailed. “I’m sorry!”

  “You weren’t sorry when you were flaunting yourself in town!” Groening responded. “You weren’t sorry when you were throwing yourself at that murderer!”

  “I’m not a bad person!” she cried. “I’m not evil! I just made a mistake!”

  “You made many mistakes!” Groening countered. “Many, many, many mistakes! You transformed yourself from a chaste virgin into a harlot!”

  “No! I didn’t! I’m still a virgin!”

  “Magdalene, did you not admit to me that you lusted after that U.F. Marshal? The same man who murdered your father!”

  Gasps of shock rang through the congregation. Several women looked faint.

  “I didn’t lust after him! I wanted to marry him! He’s a good man!”

  “HE MURDERED YOUR FATHER!”

  “That wasn’t his fault! It was a war! He was just defending himself!”

  “He murdered thirty-seven members of this congregation, and God knows how many of the Homers! He’s an instrument of the devil! He’s a murderer! And you want to bear his children?”

  Maggie collapsed to her knees, hands over her face, shoulders shaking. Every eye in the room was on her, and few held any sympathy.

  “Last chance, Magdalene!” Groening’s sadness had evaporated. Now he fairly trembled with rage. “Confess your sins, if you have any decency remaining!”

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

  “Is that all? Don’t you have anything else to say?”

  She looked up, raised her hands toward heaven.

  “Please!” she begged. “Please don’t kill me!”

  Father Groening’s shoulders slumped. He had done all he could. He had given the sinner every opportunity, but the grip of the devil was just too strong. All she could do was excuse herself, deny her guilt. With a sad shake of his head, he was left with no further options.

  “Magdalene Downing, the Council of Elders has judged you incorrigible. Your performance here today, in God’s own house, is proof of that. You look like a harlot, you dress like a harlot, you have acted the harlot. You are an abomination before the Lord, a stench in the nostrils of Almighty God. According to Holy Scripture, I have no choice but to condemn you to—”

  “FATHER!”

  The sudden shout jolted the congregation, and Groening stopped in midsentence as Nicodemus Downing leaped to his feet. The boy strode forward to stand in front of Maggie, staring up at the pulpit. Groening scowled in anger and disbelief.

  “Father,” Nicodemus repeated. “I know who it is!”

  Groening scowled. “You know who what is?”

  Nicodemus took a deep, shaky breath, and drew himself up. He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated briefly, then plunged ahead.

  “I know who did it,” he said. “I know who killed the deputy U.F. Marshal!”

&
nbsp; Once again, but for Maggie’s weeping, the church house was silent as a tomb. Antiochus Groening stared in astonishment at the teenager before him, the boy he had ordered to find out who murdered Hugh Povar. Groening was desperately hoping the killer wasn’t one of his, because he didn’t need the attention it would bring, but this was hardly the moment for the boy to report his findings.

  Groening closed his mouth and nodded.

  “Very well, then. Come to my house this afternoon and we’ll discuss it.”

  But Nicodemus was shaking his head.

  “I’m sorry, Father, but you have to let Maggie go.”

  “What!”

  “I’ll tell you who did it, Father, but only if you give Maggie another chance.”

  Pews creaked as people twisted around to exchange glances of disbelief. Groening’s face fused red as blood, and his heart began to palpitate.

  “Are you out of your mind, boy? You can’t bargain with Almighty God!”

  Nicodemus swallowed hard, but refused to budge.

  “Those are my terms, Father. Maggie isn’t a bad girl. She’s just young and a little confused. You said it yourself—that marshal murdered her father. He murdered both of our fathers, hers and mine, and without her father she didn’t have the guidance she needed.”

  “Except for your impertinence, you seem to have turned out all right.”

  “It’s not the same thing, Father! I’m a boy; I didn’t face the same temptations she did! Maggie was lured by that stupid girl next door, the one who was killed by the park. It was her that led Maggie astray, with her fancy hair and her sexy clothes. She was the guilty one, not Maggie…and she got what she deserved! She was Satan’s agent, and if you punish Maggie then you’re letting the devil win!”

  Antiochus Groening stared at the boy in disbelief, shocked beyond comprehension. Such impertinence! Such disrespect! Such effrontery!

  “Nicodemus! Sit down! You are in the house of Almighty God! How dare you speak to me in such a manner! I will deal with you later, but you cannot bargain with the laws of God. This judgment comes from the Throne of God Himself, and is not negotiable!” He turned to one of the deacons. “Remove him!”

  Nicodemus struggled. It took two of them to wrestle him out the door, and the congregation panted with the drama. When the side door finally closed all eyes turned to the front again, where the girl, her last hope dashed, now sat quietly on her knees, head down, a cascade of red hair draping her face. Antiochus Groening cleared his throat noisily and got back to the business at hand.

  He opened a Bible on his podium and paged through it. When he spoke, his voice was suddenly hushed. All ears strained to hear him.

  “This is from Deuteronomy 21, verses 18 through 21.

  If a man have a stubborn and rebellious son, which will not obey the voice of his father, or the voice of his mother, and that, when they have chastened him, will not hearken unto them:

  Then shall his father and his mother lay hold on him, and bring him out unto the elders of his city, and unto the gate of his place;

  And they shall say unto the elders of his city, This our son is stubborn and rebellious, he will not obey our voice; he is a glutton, and a drunkard.

  And all the men of his city shall stone him with stones, that he die: so shalt thou put evil away from among you; and all Israel shall hear, and fear.”

  Groening closed the book with a snap and gazed at the teenager before him. The congregation held its collective breath, except for Dorcas Downing, who sobbed loudly.

  “These are God’s own words,” Groening intoned slowly. “This is the punishment mandated by scripture for an incorrigible son, and by implication, incorrigible daughters as well.

  “Magdalene Downing, you have been judged incorrigible by the elders of the Congregation of God. You have received ample opportunity to repent and refused to do so. Therefore, it is the judgment of the living God that you be taken from this room, down to the quarry, and be stoned until you are dead.

  “May God have mercy on your soul.”

  Chapter 21

  Nick and King arrived at Millennium Village at about a quarter to twelve. Nick reduced speed and dropped to street level to avoid throwing too much dust—the street wasn’t configured for the wash of heavy lifters—and pulled to a stop at the corner church. He set the car down and shut off the turbine; he and Carrie King climbed out.

  Nick tilted his hat back and peered at the church with narrowed eyes. He’d expected to see the parking lot filled with cars, but it was barely a quarter full. The front and side doors of the building stood open, a handful of people milling about. This didn’t look like a church service in progress—had they arrived too late?

  He started across the lawn, King at his side. He only saw about twenty people and most of those were small children. Two or three young adults were watching the kids, and Nick made his way toward one of them, a young woman in her late teens. She wore the traditional long skirt and bonnet. In spite of her youth she looked a little washed out, her skin too dry as if she spent a lot of time in the sun and wind. She was pretty in a natural way, but a few cosmetics might have transformed her into a real looker. As he stopped in front of her, Nick noticed she was wearing a wedding ring.

  “Excuse me,” Nick said, tipping his hat. “I’m looking for Father Groening. Is he still around?”

  The young cult woman peered at him with suspicious eyes, her mouth a hard line. Instead of answering, she glanced over her shoulder to where two men were talking.

  “Ephraim!”

  A young man not much older than the girl looked around, saw Nick, and broke into a run as he rushed forward. He stopped next to the girl and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s all right, Hagar. He won’t hurt you. He doesn’t murder women.”

  Nick scowled in annoyance and tilted his head as he stared at the man.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. What’s your name?”

  “You don’t need to know my name.”

  Nick glanced at the girl. “Her name is Hagar. She called you Ephraim. What’s the big secret?”

  The girl’s husband reddened. “I’m Ephraim Baker.”

  Nick nodded. “That’s better. I’m Nick Walker.” He extended his hand, but Ephraim Baker only looked at it. Nick let the hand drop.

  “Tell you what, Ephraim…you tell me where to find Father Groening and I’ll forget both of your names. How does that sound?”

  Ephraim stared uncertainly at him, then glanced at his wife. Her expression was one of distress.

  “I don’t think he’s available at the moment,” Ephraim said. “If you want to come back in a couple of hours—”

  “I’m here now. This is my second trip to see him and I’m not coming back. If you know where he is, you’d better tell me.”

  The young couple stood silent for ten seconds, then Ephraim straightened his shoulders.

  “He will be back in an hour or so. I don’t know where he is at the moment.”

  Nick glanced at King. Her expression told him she was on the same page he was.

  “You people are pretty big on the Ten Commandments, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, of course we are.”

  “Which commandment is it that says, ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness’?”

  Ephraim Baker’s face flushed bright red; his wife glanced up at him fearfully. But Baker stood his ground.

  “We have nothing to say to you, Marshal. Come on, Hagar.”

  He took his wife’s arm and led her away. Nick and King stood staring after them, then turned back toward the car.

  “These are Christian people?” King mused aloud. “I’ve dealt with drunks and whores that were more cooperative.”

  Nick nodded, his attention on a group of children playing on the lawn. They were mostly grammar school age, with two or three toddlers, running and laughing and chasing each other in circles. Shrieks of pleasure pierced his ears.

  And there, a few feet from the road, a sma
ll girl sat alone on the lower limb of a tree. She looked familiar, and Nick walked in her direction. When she saw him, she smiled and waved, her hand swinging fast like a child posing for a video.

  “Parthena! Why aren’t you playing with the other kids?” Nick stopped beside the tree and smiled. “Carrie, this is Parthena. I met her on the road the other day.”

  Carrie King smiled at the little girl and extended her hand. “Hi, Parthena! I’m Carrie.”

  “Hello. Are you a U.F. Marshal too?” Parthena took Carrie’s hand, gave it an exaggerated shake, and dropped it.

  “Um…well, yeah, actually I am. For today, anyway.”

  Parthena turned to Nick. “I told my mom that you’re not really the devil, but she didn’t believe me.”

  “No? Well, that’s too bad. But people have the right to believe whatever they want, even if it isn’t true.”

  Parthena nodded, as if that made a lot of sense. “I guess so. What are you doing here today? You’re too late for church.”

  “Yeah, it looks like it. What time does church let out?”

  “One o’clock, usually. But today was special.”

  “Yeah? What’s so special about today?”

  “They let out early because of the harlot.”

  Nick’s eyebrows rose; Carrie King’s mouth fell open.

  “Which harlot are we talking about?” Nick asked carefully.

  “Are you kidding? There’s only one harlot.”

  “I didn’t know that. Where is she now?”

  Parthena pointed down a side street. “Over at the quarry. All the grownups went over there to stone her.”

  “Stone her?” Nick’s blood ran cold. Carrie King gasped.

  “Sure. That’s what you have to do with harlots, because they have the devil in them. That’s what Father said, anyway.”

  Nick felt his adrenaline surge, his breath becoming short.

  “How long ago did they leave?” he asked.

  Parthena shrugged. “I dunno. I forgot to look at the clock.”

  “How far is the quarry?”