by John Bowers
He reached for a cup of cold coffee and sipped it.
“For that matter, so do we. If we arrested every wanted man in the Belt, the mines would shut down.”
Nick frowned. “Is that even a consideration? I mean, enforcing the law is our job. The consequences are not our responsibility.”
Milligan eyed him with interest. “Do you believe in second chances?”
“Well…sure. But I also believe in the law. If someone commits a crime, and pays his debt, then I’m all for second chances. But not at the cost of evading responsibility.”
Milligan grunted.
“Very idealistic. But consider this for a moment—say a man commits a crime on Mars or Terra and somehow eludes capture long enough to make it out here. What does he do? He gets work in the mines, slaving long hours in a deadly environment, separated from his friends and family back home. He gets paid well enough, but he can never go home, so what good does it do him? But…he’s producing something for the system economy.
“Now take that same individual, and say he gets arrested after committing his crime, gets convicted, and goes to prison for life. He doesn’t produce anything. He eats three squares a day at taxpayer expense, enjoys free medical care, and gets to see his family on visitors’ day—maybe even conjugal visits. Which scenario is more beneficial to the public?”
Nick clenched his jaw, but didn’t answer.
“Look, I know what they taught you. You got the textbook stuff, and it’s all very noble and righteous in theory. But the real universe can be very different.”
“A lot of what they taught me came from you. One of my classes consisted entirely of your video lectures.”
Milligan waved a dismissive hand. “I taught there for a couple of years, thought my experience might be worth passing on to a new generation. Didn’t work out so well. Too many Academy instructors have never worked in the field, and I was outnumbered. So I said screw it and went back to what I do best.”
Nick shrugged. “For what it’s worth, sir, I got more out of your lectures than any of the other courses.”
The old man grinned humorlessly. “Kissing my ass isn’t going to gain you any points.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. I just don’t want to repeat mistakes you’ve already made.”
Milligan tilted his head, conceding Nick’s point. Nick returned to the original conversation.
“So we just leave the fugitives alone?”
“I didn’t say that. When a man with a past causes trouble out here and draws attention to himself, we take a look. If he has a warrant and it’s serious enough to justify the expense of transport, we send him back. But a lot of these guys are petty criminals, and others are just deadbeats hiding from alimony and child support payments. When we run across those, we attach their wages and make sure those payments get deposited back home.
“It’s no picnic out here, Walker. The men who work here, honest or otherwise, don’t have much to look forward to. A hot bath, a microwaved meal, a few drinks, a place to sleep, and maybe a hooker now and then. That’s pretty much all they can hope for. Nobody gets rich.”
“Are there any honest men out here?”
“Sure, here and there.”
“Why would they even come here?”
“Who knows. Some people just thrive on danger, or a sense of adventure. Whatever it is, they keep on coming. Enough show up every year to replace those who were killed.
“You want some coffee?” Milligan pointed to an automatic brewer on top of a file cabinet.
“Sure.” Nick stood, poured himself a cup into a foam container, and sat down again. Milligan unwrapped another cigar, searched his desktop for a lighter, and soon filled the room with a haze of blue smoke. He leaned back in his chair.
“Questions?”
Nick’s head spun—he had so many.
“What’s our primary duty here? You said we’re the only law enforcement.”
“We’re the only official law enforcement. The mining companies have their own security, and they do a lot of the work that would normally fall to us. They detain people for theft, assault, drugs—stuff like that. We usually handle the heavy stuff, like murder and rape, human rights violations…
“There are four major mining corporations in the Belt. The biggest is Farrington Industries, which pretty much dominates the entire mining community around here.”
“How many Marshals do we have?”
Milligan peered at him. “Now that you’re here? Four.”
Nick’s mouth dropped open an inch. “Four! To police how many people?”
“Oh, maybe seventy-five, eighty thousand on Ceres, another twenty or thirty thousand on the outlying rocks. We’re talking a few billion miles of space, mining outposts strung all the way around the sun. The asteroids are endless.”
“How much of that is our jurisdiction?”
“All of it. The U.F. Marshal has jurisdiction in all Federation territory across the galaxy.”
“That sounds like an impossible job.”
“More or less.” Milligan sucked at his cigar and squinted through the smoke. “We have seventeen marshals altogether, most of them posted elsewhere. This is the biggest population center, but the others are located strategically around the belt. If they were all in one place we could never respond to anything.
“Each mining company has its own jail system, and we turn our prisoners over to them for safekeeping when we make an arrest. The Federation pays them for their trouble, and they cooperate to some degree. Felons convicted of major crimes are sent to Terra or Mars to serve their sentences.”
“How much juice do the company cops have? I assume they’re subject to U.F. Marshal authority?”
Milligan nodded. “Glorified security guards, nothing more. But with the shortage of law enforcement out here, they wield a lot of power. They serve the same function as city cops back home. But if they try to bully you—and they will—put a stop to that shit right away.”
“Anyone in particular I should watch out for?”
“I’ll let you decide that for yourself. Don’t want to project my own prejudice onto you.”
“I saw something on the SolarNet about a judge?”
“Yep. We even have a courthouse of sorts, though it doesn’t look much like one. One judge, two prosecutors, half a dozen defense attorneys. You should probably look them up and get acquainted, at least the good guys. Make sure they know you’re on their team.”
“Good guys?”
“The judge and prosecutors. The rest of that crowd doesn’t impress me much. I was never a fan of lawyers anyway, and any defense lawyer that voluntarily practices in this place has to have skeletons hidden away somewhere.”
Nick sipped his coffee.
“You said we have four men. Where are the others?”
“Out and around. You’ll meet them eventually.”
“How do you want me to proceed? Any open cases I should be working on?”
“Oh, we have a few of those. But I think the best thing for you right now is to move around and get a feel for the layout. You have a pocket ‘puter?”
“Yes, sir. Academy standard issue.”
“Good. Log on to the SolarNet and download a map of Ceres. Use it to get familiarized. Explore the rock, meet people, let them know you’re in town.” Milligan reached into his desk and withdrew a key card. He tossed it to Nick. “You have a permanent room at the Centerville Hotel, fourth floor. Stow your gear and pin on your badge. What kind of hardware did you bring?”
Nick reached into his space bag and pulled out his laser pistol. He laid it on the desk, and Milligan picked it up.
“I also brought this.”
Nick handed him his other weapon and Milligan’s eyes widened as he hefted the heavy revolver with the six-inch barrel.
“Ru-Hawk .44! Christ, I haven’t seen one of these in ages!” He glanced at Nick. “That’s pretty heavy artillery for this environment. You could blow a hole right through an airl
ock.”
Nick shrugged. “I probably won’t ever use it, but it’s my favorite weapon, so I packed it. Maybe for my next assignment, if I get posted on a planet somewhere. By the way, is there some kind of uniform that goes with the job?”
“What do you want, a goddamn cowboy hat? This ain’t the Ancient West, son. What you’re wearing is just fine.”
Milligan handed the guns back, then took a deep breath.
“Okay. Your desk is right over there…” He pointed. “…but you’ll probably be out of the office most of the time. I’m here if you need me, but I want to be clear on a couple of things. First, you report to me, but you work for the people of the Federation, and nobody else. I’m here to guide you and help you stay out of trouble. I may hand you an assignment now and then, but otherwise you’re on your own. Don’t be afraid to ask questions, but make your own decisions—you don’t have accept my opinion on everything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know how to drive an E-car?”
Nick looked blank. “Umm…”
“Easiest goddamn thing in the galaxy. We have a couple parked on the street—they’ll take you anywhere you need to go as long as you stay on Ceres. If you need to travel off the rock, you’ll have to rent a jalopy. But clear that with me first.”
“Yes, sir. Do we have radios?”
“We do, but we never use them. The signals don’t carry very well through solid rock, so use your porta-phone if you need to contact the office. The phone signals connect to a circuit system that always gets through.”
“Got it.”
“Another thing…that badge will be a red flag to certain people. You’re a new face in town, so you can expect to be challenged. Watch your back.”
Chapter 3
Centerville - Ceres
The hotel room was small, but Nick was used to tight quarters. In the Star Marines he’d lived in barracks on Terra with forty other men, and in much tighter spaces when on Luna or in space. His dorm room at the Academy had also been small, and during the trip out to the Belt his cabin had been only slightly larger than a coffin. The vast, wide-open vistas of his native San Joaquin Valley were but a childhood memory.
At least this room had a view.
The hotel was located in Centerville, barely a mile from the U.F. Marshal’s office. Everything on Ceres was underground; Ceres was the largest asteroid in the Solar System, but it was an asteroid, surrounded by millions of other asteroids, and the danger of astral impact was always high. According to the map Nick downloaded from the SolarNet, the settlement consisted of a series of habitats carved out of the rock, some as much as half a mile across, each with self-contained life support. Each habitat was a sort of biosphere—or more correctly, a biohemisphere—sealed with a double-airlock system that prevented decompression in one area from affecting other areas. The habitats were connected by monorail and road tubes, and each had at least two exits in case of catastrophe.
Centerville was the largest habitat on Ceres; more than twenty thousand people lived there.
From his fourth-floor hotel window Nick looked down on a small park. In the distance he saw other buildings, lots of them, and beyond them a wall of solid rock. Small electric vehicles moved along a network of streets. Artificial sunshine made everything gleam, but did nothing to detract from the claustrophobic sense that one was living just up the street from Hell.
Nick stowed his clothing and gear and stripped down for a shower. To his great delight, the shower actually boasted hot water, which he hadn’t expected; his only other non-terrestrial home with such a luxury had been Luna when he was in the Star Marines…and Alpha Centauri during the war. As a general rule, military starships, freighters, and even some passenger liners offered sonic showers as the only option. He donned a fresh set of clothing, stuck his laser pistol into a shoulder holster, and pinned his badge to the front of his shirt. After checking himself in the mirror, he locked his room and took the stairs down to the hotel lobby.
Government Annex - Ceres
The courthouse was a joke. Located in the Government Annex habitat just three blocks from the U.F. Marshal’s office, much of the building was taken up by office space housing the judge, prosecutors, and defense attorneys. The actual courtroom was located on the third floor, and it was tiny—Nick had actually seen bigger cargo containers.
Court was in session. He stepped inside the double doors and took a seat; the gallery only had thirty chairs and when he sat down twenty-nine remained empty. The judge, an attractive black woman in her thirties, faced the courtroom from her bench against the far wall. The bench was low but wide, offering a measure of protection should an unruly defendant try anything. Two attorney tables faced the bench and a witness chair sat on the left side of the courtroom, facing a jury box on the right. The chair and the jury box were empty at the moment. A man in a striped jumpsuit was sitting at one of the attorney tables while a tall, blond prosecutor argued a point of law. The defense attorney looked even younger than Nick; like the judge, she was also black, but even prettier. Two security guards in dark uniforms flanked the room; their shoulder patches bore the words FARRINGTON SECURITY.
Nick settled in to watch. He had no idea what the case was about or who any of the players were, but wanted to get a sense of justice on Ceres. He quickly realized this was not a trial but an arraignment—the defendant had already entered a Not Guilty plea and the prosecutor was arguing against bail. Nick couldn’t see the defendant’s face, but could tell he was an older man, probably in his early fifties. He was pasty white, short and heavy-set; most of his head was bare scalp, with just a few strands of brown hair stringing down over his ears. He sat silently while the prosecutor talked, his hands chained to his belt. The judge stared in stony silence, her face unreadable.
“—has a history of alcoholism, your Honor, and is therefore a danger to himself and others. He operates a very dangerous piece of equipment, and allowing him to return to work while awaiting trial is only inviting another tragedy. One dead man is enough.”
The prosecutor sat down; the judge glanced at the defense attorney.
“Miss Allen?”
The young beauty stood quickly.
“Your Honor, this is Mr. Rowan’s first offense of any kind. Since coming to Ceres four years ago he has never been in trouble with the law and no evidence has been presented that he was drinking when the accident occurred. The defense requests he be released on his own recognizance until trial.”
The judge compressed her lips.
“You say Mr. Rowan has a clean record on Ceres, but you overlook the reason he came to Ceres in the first place. I checked Mr. Rowan’s record and discovered that he is a fugitive from justice in Dublin, Ireland. The Irish are sitting on a manslaughter warrant following a drunk-driving incident in which two people were killed…and that was not his first offense!”
“Your Honor, Mr. Rowan is not a flight risk. Ceres is an isolated rock—he has no place to go. As for Mr. Tarpington’s concern about another accident, you can order him to accept unpaid leave until this case is settled, and he won’t be operating any dangerous equipment.”
The gavel banged like a gunshot in the courtroom.
“Defendant is remanded to the Farrington Facility until trial. We are adjourned.”
The defendant stood shakily, looking around in bewilderment. The Farrington Security guards moved in like vultures, one grabbing each elbow.
“You said I wouldn’t have to be locked up!” Rowan complained to his attorney. “You said I’d be out on bail!”
The pretty young lawyer stared at him with guilty eyes. “I’m sorry. I tried my best—”
“You lied to me!”
“Shut up, asshole!” One of the guards gave Rowan a shove; Rowan’s heel caught on the table leg and he lost his balance, stumbling backward two steps where he plowed into the prosecutor, whose back was turned as he stuffed papers into his briefcase. The prosecutor, Tarpington, spun in surprise, alarm on his face.
He pushed Rowan away reflexively.
The guards closed in again, but Rowan’s eyes were wide.
“I need to talk to my lawyer! I’m not finished talking to my lawyer!”
“Yes you are!” The same guard who had shoved him now elbowed him in the chin, then grabbed the front of his jumpsuit.
“Get your hands off me!” Rowan bellowed in panic. “I need to t—”
The guard drove a fist into his face and Rowan hit the floor, blood spurting from his nose. Nick, seated ten feet away, was over the railing an instant later. He seized the security man’s arm and spun him around.
“That was uncalled for! The man is shackled! He’s no threat to you.”
“Who the fuck’re you!” The guard drew his fist back again. Nick drove a short jab into his belly with his left fist and grabbed his head with the other, slamming it into the defense table. The second guard hit Nick with a nightstick from behind, but it was a glancing blow. Nick spun quickly and kneed him in the groin, then flung him over the railing into the empty spectator chairs.
It was all over in three seconds.
“Order in the court!”
The gavel was banging loudly. The judge, who had been about to leave the courtroom, stood glaring at the commotion, her dark eyes blazing.
“Order in the court!” she repeated. “I will have order in this courtroom!” She pointed the gavel directly at Nick’s face.
“Who the hell are you?”
Nick stood still and stared back. Barely breathing hard, he pointed at himself.
“Me?”
“Yes, you! What is your name?”
“Nick Walker, your Honor. United Federation Marshal.”
Silence reigned for ten seconds. Everyone seemed to be staring at him.
“You’re a U.F. Marshal?” The judge’s tone was a little less threatening.
“That’s right, your Honor.” He tapped the badge on his shirt.
“How come I’ve never heard of you?”
“I just got in last night. I’ve only been on the job a couple of hours.”