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

by John Bowers

  “About a mile.”

  Nick was already backpedalling. “Thank you, Parthena! I’ll see you later.”

  He broke into a run to reach the car. King was there ahead of him.

  “Call Luther!” he said as he fired up the turbine. “And see if the chief can spare a couple of men. We may need backup!”

  * * *

  The quarry hadn’t been used in a generation. Clearly it had been worked, the stone dug out to a depth of seventy or eighty feet, leaving ragged rock walls on three sides, but the machinery was rusted and useless. In the very center, at the lowest point, rainwater had collected into a stagnant pool a hundred feet across. The water was black and brackish, leading some of the more imaginative children to call it the Devil’s Swimming Hole.

  Nearly four hundred people stood in a semicircle around the pond—the procession from the church had gained bodies as those unable to get inside joined the march to the quarry. Many had driven their cars, but others walked, and now they waited quietly as Father Groening stood before them, facing the condemned girl who stood alone at the edge of the water, facing her congregation.

  Maggie Downing looked like a wet dog. Tears, sweat, and snot stained her once-sexy dress; her shoulders slumped, and her glorious red hair was damp and tangled from those who had spit on her during the death march. Tears still stained her cheeks but she no longer wept, no longer pleaded. Her fate was sealed and there would be no redemption, no reprieve. She stared at her accusers, her executioners, her eyes slowly roving the crowd as if hoping to find one friendly face, one pair of sympathetic eyes. Except for her mother, grandmother, and sisters, she saw none.

  Spaced around her, at intervals of fifty feet, were piles of stone, just large enough for a man to grip and throw. They had been placed the day before, collected and piled in anticipation of the event. Maggie realized at that moment that she had never had a chance; from the moment Father Groening had placed her in his car to take her back to the village, she had already been condemned. Everything after that was only formality, a ceremony to salve the conscience of her killers, to give the appearance of God’s stamp of approval.

  Her heart pounded. She had never been more terrified in her life. But everything that could be said had been said, and none of it made any difference. As much as she wanted to scream and beg for mercy, what was the point? It would only titillate them, give them details to talk about, supply gossip for fireside gatherings for years to come.

  Maggie Downing, sixteen, facing certain death and filled with a cold dread, would not give them the satisfaction of continuing to beg for her life.

  Father Groening turned to face the crowd. He cleared his throat officiously and waved at the deacons.

  “Bring the young people forward. Make sure they can see what is about to occur here.”

  Forty or fifty kids were already in the front row, their eyes wide with wonder, some looking a little scared. The crowd parted as more children were ushered to the front, some as young as six or seven.

  “Is that everyone?” Groening nodded in satisfaction. “Good. As horrible as this day is, it is also necessary, not only to cleanse the congregation of the devil’s influence, but as an object lesson. You teenagers, you children—it is imperative that you witness this event and do not ever forget it. This is the result of sin. What you are about to see is the most graphic possible reminder of how important it is to root evil out of your life, to flee the very appearance of evil.

  “What you are about to see will be painful to watch, but do not close your eyes! God is giving you this chance to learn from the mistakes of this tragic girl. Do not let her death go to waste! Remember it! Apply this lesson in your own lives, and avoid the temptation that has already destroyed her.”

  Groening swept the crowd with his eyes again, to make sure the youth were taking him seriously. Apparently satisfied, he turned and walked a few feet toward the water’s edge, stopping beside a pile of stones.

  “Magdalene Downing, you have been judged and condemned. Before the judgment of God is carried out, do you have any final words?”

  Maggie Downing stared at him as if he were mad. What did he expect her to say? She had already pleaded her case. She had already apologized. They were going to kill her anyway. Her lips twisted in bitter irony—had she ever looked up to this wretched old man? Had she ever admired him? Had she ever truly thought he was a prophet sent by God?

  Yes. She had done all those things. And now she saw him for the miserable creature he truly was, a caricature of the benevolent leader, a twisted, perverted old shell packed with more hatred than the devil himself.

  Maggie lifted her chin, her bare shoulders rising and falling with each breath. She took a deep breath and let it out.

  “Before you kill me,” she said in a clear voice, “I would like to say that I hate you, Father Groening. I hate all of you. I hate this religion. I hate this congregation. I hate this way of life. I hate all the rules and all the regulations and all the judging and the self righteousness. And if all this is truly the judgment of God, then…I hate God, too.”

  Someone wailed, someone else shouted, and two women fainted.

  “That’s the devil speaking!” a man bellowed. “She has the devil in her!”

  But Groening raised a hand and the crowd fell silent. He nodded for Maggie to continue.

  “I don’t believe God had anything to do with this decision,” she continued, her clear young voice carrying across the bottom of the quarry. “Why would God give a girl feelings and then expect her to deny them? Why would God make a girl want to look pretty and then force her to wear feed sacks? Why would God give people the ability to create beautiful music and then force them to ignore it?

  “None of this makes any sense, and I don’t think God did that. You did that, Father! You and the monsters you have ordained to do your killing for you. It wasn’t that marshal who murdered my father, it was you! You were the one who started the war! You were trying to force your religion on the whole planet, and the Star Marines only came here to protect them from you. The only reason my father died is that he trusted you…and he fought on the wrong side.”

  “Silence!”

  Groening’s eyes blazed in righteous rage. He pointed his finger at her face, his arm rigid as a board.

  “If there was ever any question that Satan has taken over your mind, your words dispel all doubt! You are completely possessed! The child Magdalene Downing is no longer in there. You are a devil, and you must be destroyed!”

  He turned to the crowd and began waving people forward.

  “Let’s get this over with! All the men form into lines behind the stones. Every man will cast one stone, and then the women will follow. Let’s go, line up!”

  The crowd moved to obey, forming six lines. Men came forward, some reluctant, others eager, and each picked up a rock. Maggie Downing watched them with mounting terror, her breasts rising and falling faster as adrenaline pumped into her blood. Her tears flowed again and she clasped both hands over her mouth.

  “Mama! I’m sorry!”

  The men were ready. Groening gave a somber nod, and the first six men hauled back their arms. Heavy rocks flew, a cascade of granite missiles, and Maggie Downing ducked. The first throws were wild—four rocks sailed over her head and splashed in the pool, another bounced at her feet and rebounded into her stomach, and she dodged sideways to avoid the sixth.

  Six more men stepped forward.

  “STOP!!!”

  A woman tore herself loose from the crowd and stumbled forward as quickly as her long skirts would allow. Drusilla Downing stopped a few yards in front of the rock throwers and turned, her face flushed. She glared defiantly at Father Groening.

  “Stop this!” she shouted. “Stop it at once!”

  Groening glowered at her. “What are you doing, Drusilla!”

  “Antiochus, this is madness, and you know it!”

  “This is the judgment of Almighty G—”

  “I will not
permit you to kill this girl! If you have to stone anyone, stone me!”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying. Deacons! Move her out of the way!”

  Two men started forward, but Drusilla picked up a rock and pointed at them.

  “You stay where you are! I’m talking to Father Groening, and you will not interfere!”

  They stopped, looking at their leader in confusion. Drusilla didn’t give them time to ask questions.

  “If you’re going to stone Maggie,” she said again, looking at Groening, “you’ll have to stone me, too.”

  “Get out of the way, Drusilla! You’re not thinking straight. Don’t let the devil take you, too. That girl has given herself over to Satan! She has become a harlot!”

  “Then I am a harlot too! Stone me, if you dare!”

  Groening blinked, hesitated, and huffed.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get out of the way.”

  “You know full well what I’m talking about. It was forty-five years ago, but I was there…and so were you!”

  Groening recoiled as if slapped. He began to tremble.

  “Drusilla! Shut your mouth!”

  Emboldened, Drusilla Downing took a step forward. She untied her bonnet and ripped it off her head, casting it aside. She spoke again, this time to the crowd assembled behind their leader.

  “Forty-five years ago,” she said, “I was a young bride, just seventeen years old! I married Luke Downing as his fourth wife. I didn’t love him, and he didn’t love me, but he married me anyway, because I was pregnant!”

  Several people gasped, but no one said a word. Those holding stones lowered them and waited, riveted by this revelation. Antiochus Groening quivered in rage and took a step forward. But Drusilla was on a roll.

  “I gave birth to a son six months later. He was my first-born, and Luke accepted him as his own. That boy was Maggie’s father. Most of you knew him—his name was Ezekiel Downing. He’s dead now, killed by that murdering marshal in the bell tower. You all know about that, too. But what you didn’t know…”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks and her voice caught, but she forced herself to continue.

  “…was that my beloved son never knew the identify of his real father. You see, my darling Ezekiel was a bastard!”

  More gasps, and a cry of anguish.

  “It wasn’t his fault, of course. It was mine. Because I committed fornication before marriage. I sinned before Almighty God. So, if you stone Maggie, then you must stone me as well.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd. Many were shaking their heads, unable to believe or accept this turn of events. Groening stared at her a moment, looking less threatening, almost relieved.

  “That was a long time ago, Drusilla,” he said. “You made one mistake, but you repented and God forgave you. Your life since then has been an example to us all.” He walked forward and held out his hand. “Now move out of the way, please.”

  The crowd had seen more drama this morning than they were used to seeing in a dozen years, but it wasn’t over yet. They gasped in horror as Drusilla slapped the old man with all the strength she could muster. He drew back in pain and confusion, his expression giving way to rage.

  “How dare you—”

  “You hypocrite!” she shouted. “You sneaky, conniving old hypocrite! How dare you stand there and offer me forgiveness when you are just as guilty as I am. You were Ezekiel’s father! You are the one I committed fornication with!”

  She turned and pointed at the condemned girl by the dirty pond

  “Antiochus, how can you stand there and let that girl be stoned? Maggie is your granddaughter!”

  Chapter 22

  Nick set the hovercar down twenty yards from the edge of the quarry, blocking the road in and out. Twenty or thirty wheeled vehicles were parked nearby, and as he exited the car he could hear loud voices from inside the quarry, amplified by the rocky sides of the hole. With a significant glance at Carrie King, he drew his laser pistol and held it down at his side, just in case. The two of them trotted up the incline to the mouth of the quarry and stopped, peering over the top.

  They could see the crowd fifty yards below, scattered in a loose gaggle facing the pond in the center. Nick saw the red-haired girl at once, and was relieved to see she was still standing. Something had apparently interrupted the execution, because the girl was just standing there, waiting. But the voices were louder, and it was clear that some kind of confrontation was in progress.

  Nick dropped into a combat crouch and nodded to King. She followed suit, and they crept closer to the rocks, then began to descend the uneven ground into the quarry.

  * * *

  “This is preposterous!” Antiochus Groening roared. “You are already possessed, Drusilla! The devil has taken over your mind! How dare you speak such lies about the Prophet of God!”

  Drusilla Downing hefted the rock in her hand and drew it back threateningly.

  “I am not lying! I begged you to marry me! I begged you to take responsibility! But you refused. You said everyone would know the child was a bastard because I was already three months along. You were ambitious! You wanted to take over the congregation as Prophet; you had dreams of ruling the entire planet, and you knew the Elders would never elect you if you fathered a bastard child. So you turned me out. You let another man raise your own son.”

  “More lies! The devil seems to be working overtime! First your granddaughter, and now you! Curb your tongue, Drusilla, before you say something you can’t repent of.”

  “I’ve already repented. I’ve repented of ever believing anything you said. You are a liar, Antiochus! A liar and an infidel!”

  “ENOUGH!!! Someone shut her up!”

  A large rock sailed by Drusilla’s head, missing her by an inch. She fell back with a cry of fear, but another came from another direction, and another. The third rock hit her on the shoulder, snapping her collarbone and spinning her around. She hit the ground with a scream of pain.

  “Grammaw!” Maggie screamed.

  Two more men drew back their arms to throw, but Nicodemus Downing darted out of the crowd with a gun in his hand. It was a heavy revolver, a magnum, and he fired a round into the air. The shot echoed like a bomb inside the quarry walls, and the whole crowd jumped.

  “Don’t anybody move!” Nicodemus cried in a shaky voice. “I will shoot the next man to throw a rock, and you better believe I won’t miss!” He gestured with the pistol toward the men still holding rocks. “Drop them! Empty your hands! Get back with the others.”

  Four men quickly did as he ordered and backed away. Groening turned toward the boy, his face ashen.

  “Nicodemus, what is the meaning of this! Has the devil taken your whole family?”

  “I’m sorry, Father. But I’m not going to let you kill Maggie. She may have her problems, but she isn’t evil. She doesn’t have the devil in her and she isn’t incorrigible. She’s just young and stupid, and you should give her a little space. You’re a grown man, Father, but you’re acting like an idiot.”

  “Wha—humph-humph! You impertinent little—”

  Nicodemus swung the pistol toward him.

  “Don’t say it, Father. Maggie’s right—all of this is your fault. You started the war. You got her father killed, and mine, and lots of other fathers as well. If anyone on this whole plain is devil possessed, it’s you. You are no man of God, and you haven’t been for a long time.” Nicodemus wiped his brow with his forearm, his pistol never wavering. “Maybe you never were.”

  The crowd stood in stunned horror, watching the drama play out. Groening’s mouth moved but he was unable to get a word out. Then a new voice drifted across the quarry.

  “Put the gun down, son. Do it now.”

  Nicodemus turned, startled, and his eyes widened in disbelief as he recognized the man who had killed his father. The U.F. Marshal had a laser pistol aimed directly at him, and a woman was with him, a woman in uniform—she was also holding a weapon.


  Nicodemus swallowed hard.

  The marshal moved slowly across the intervening ground, his eyes locked on Nicodemus as if by radar, his gun hand never wavering. He spoke quietly to his companion; she holstered her weapon and trotted down the slope toward Maggie.

  “I heard what you said, son,” Nick Walker said. “And you were right. If I’m the man who killed your father, then I’m deeply sorry. But it was war, and this man started it. Your father and I were both victims of his malice, and we both did what we had to do.”

  Nick moved a few yards closer. Nicodemus swung his pistol toward Nick, blinking with uncertainty. His heart pounded with fear.

  “Drop the gun,” Nick said again. “Don’t make me shoot you, too. Too many people have died already.”

  Nicodemus’ hand began to tremble. Tears slipped out of his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. Nick kept moving closer—he was only ten feet away, his gun pointed straight at the boy’s face.

  “Put it down,” he said gently. “There’s no need for you to get hurt. We have to get Maggie out of here, and your grandmother, too. It isn’t safe for either of them here.”

  Nicodemus stood there another few seconds, then slowly began to relax. As the tension drained out of him he lowered the pistol. He stood motionless as Nick moved in and took the weapon out of his hand. Nick took him by the arm and holstered his own weapon.

  “Why did you kill the girl?” he asked. “After you shot me, why did you fire again?”

  “How do you know it was me?”

  “I recognized the sound of your pistol. Three fifty-seven, isn’t it?”

  Nicodemus nodded slowly. “She was a bad influence on Maggie. I knew Maggie was going to get herself stoned, and it was all Patsy’s fault. She was worldly, sinful. She had all the forbidden things—sexy clothes and face paint and the devil’s music. I thought if I killed her maybe Maggie would have a chance to stop sinning, but…it was too late.”

  Father Groening stared at the boy as if he were a stranger, his eyes wide with disbelief.

  “Nicodemus, it was you? You are the one who killed that girl?”