Asteroid Outpost (Nick Walker, U.F. Marshal Book 1)

by John Bowers

  Turd’s eyes widened dramatically; his mouth dropped open, and he sucked a sharp breath. The challenge was clear, and no one in the room could miss it. In defiance of all the odds, Nick was calling him out, and if he didn’t accept the challenge he would be labeled a coward. It took Turd two or three seconds to process all that, and then he swelled like a toad and drew back a massive fist.

  “Why, you scrawny little motherf—”

  He never finished. The second his fingers balled into a fist Nick’s right hand snatched the .44 out of its shoulder holster and slammed it across Turd’s skull, splitting his scalp and exposing white bone. Blood squirted in thirteen directions, spattering onlookers who jerked in shock, and the big man crashed heavily to the floor like a broken skytower. It happened so quickly that no one moved, all eyes on the fallen giant.

  Nick stood over him a moment to make sure he was out cold, then bent over and ripped a piece of fabric off the man’s shirt. He used the fabric to wipe the blood off the .44, then shoved the gun back under his left arm. He picked up his badge, accepted the gun belt which the bar patron returned to him, and turned in a slow circle while he reattached the badge and belt.

  “If anyone here has a problem with what just happened,” he said sharply, “then now is the time to speak up. You don’t threaten a U.F. Marshal and walk away clean, and that’s what this man tried to do.

  “Anybody?” He scanned every face within view, male and female. They all looked back at him with stricken expressions.

  “Nobody? All right. When this asshole wakes up, tell him his reign of terror is over. Throw his ass out and don’t let him back in. Ever.”

  Nick swept them with his eyes once more, then turned and walked out of the bar.

  Centerville Hotel - Ceres

  Since arriving on Ceres, Nick hadn’t spent a single night in his hotel room. When he located Monica Maynard’s suite, he was surprised to discover it was across the hall from his own—she was in 419, he was in 420. But he had a very small room, and Monica actually had a real suite. A comfortable living room gave way to a bedroom on one side and a kitchen on the other. Her place was exquisitely decorated with paintings and ceramic artwork, two holovid screens, a hexaural sound system, and a holographic fireplace. She even had flowers.

  He barely had the presence of mind to pick up a bottle of wine before ringing her bell, and when she let him in he was pleasantly shocked to see her wearing a thin, filmy…something…that barely concealed the curvy nude body beneath it. Her hair had been brushed out and spread across her shoulders, shiny black and gleaming, and she smelled heavenly of some perfume he had never encountered before, something exotic, erotic, and heady.

  “Nick!” she breathed happily when she opened the door. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” He was stunned at the sight of the room, his eyes wide with wonder. Was he still on Ceres?

  She smiled seductively as she locked the door. “Oh, you know—lawmen are always being called out at all hours.”

  Not tonight, I hope.

  Nick handed her the bottle of wine; she took it with a smile and set it on a nearby table. The next thing he knew her arms were around his neck and she was pressing a pair of full, warm breasts against him. Her lush lips found his mouth and locked on like magnets; she moaned with pleasure as she sucked at his mouth, and without a second thought he wrapped his arms around her, returning the kiss with interest. He hadn’t been this close to a woman in at least a year, and every male instinct he had went on red alert.

  “Oh, god!” she sighed as she broke the kiss and pressed her cheek against his chest. “You have no idea how badly I’ve been wanting to do that. It feels so good to have a real man in my arms again.”

  He pressed his face into her thick hair and kissed his way down her temple, past her ear, and buried his lips in her neck.

  “It’s been a long time for me, too,” he murmured.

  “Are you hungry? I mean…are you starving?”

  “I could eat,” he admitted, “but it doesn’t have to be right now.”

  She smiled and kissed him again.

  “I was hoping you’d say that. I have a roast in the oven, but it won’t be ready for at least an hour.”

  He gazed into her sexy dark eyes with feigned innocence.

  “A whole hour? Gosh, what in the world will we do until then?”

  Monica laughed, seized his hand, and led him toward the bedroom. When they came out again, the roast was very, very well done.

  The roast was slightly charred but only on the outside. The potato and vegetables had been cooked ahead of time and kept in a warmer, and Monica served him fresh sourdough bread with real butter. It was the best meal he’d eaten in years and even the wine was good. Monica chattered happily throughout the meal, laughing at his jokes even when they were lame. Nick enjoyed her company even though she was a dozen years older; he was certainly no virgin, but while at the Academy he’d had little social life, and before that had been the Star Marines, which was pretty much an all male experience. For a couple of hours, at least, he felt almost like a husband—or at least a lover—and it was a pleasant diversion.

  After dinner he wasn’t terribly surprised when she turned on the fireplace and pulled him into a love seat to cuddle while they finished the wine. Their conversation was aimless and silly, and when the wine was gone they were all over each other, kissing and groping like honeymooners. Quickly enough they were back in the bedroom; Nick had never been with such a passionate woman, and when she finally finished with him he was as wasted as if he’d just finished a ten-mile run, uphill, with full combat pack. She drew him into her arms and held him as if he were a child, kissing him repeatedly with sighs of contentment…

  …and the next thing he knew, it was morning.

  Chapter 15

  Thursday, August 8, 0440 (CC) — Government Annex - Ceres

  “Morning, Walker.”

  Marshal Milligan glanced up as Nick came in the door. He still looked dusty and rumpled, as if he hadn’t moved since Nick left him. The cigar tray was overflowing with butts and ash.

  “Morning, Marshal,” Nick said cheerily as he headed for the coffee pot.

  “You’re awfully chipper this morning,” the old man observed.

  “I had a really good night’s sleep. I feel ten pounds lighter.”

  Milligan smirked. “Ten gallons is more likely. You get laid last night?”

  Nick almost poured coffee on his hand. He turned toward the old marshal with innocent eyes.

  “Marshal, what kind of question is that! A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

  “I got a feeling you did more than kiss,” Milligan grunted. “Well, hell, good for you. Get it while you’re young, before you figure out that the whole thing is overrated.”

  Nick stared at him in surprise.

  “What’s overrated?”

  “Love. Sex. Marriage—all of it.”

  Nick laughed incredulously. “You think sex is overrated?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Nick took a chair facing him, his coffee cup forgotten.

  “How do you figure that?”

  Milligan cleared his throat, as if about to begin a video lecture.

  “I been studying the phenomenon since well before you were born, Walker, and I’ve come to the conclusive conclusion—” His eyes twinkled. “—that ninety-nine percent of the hysteria over sex is the result of advertising.”

  “Advertising!”

  “That’s right. Now I ain’t saying sex isn’t necessary—else the human race would die out—and I ain’t saying it isn’t pleasant—else the whorehouses would be out of business, thereby severely crippling our economy—but it’s still overrated.”

  Nick’s eyes glazed slightly as he tried to follow the logic, if one could call it that, and determine if Milligan was toying with him.

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “Of course you don’t. At your age it seems th
e most important thing in the ‘verse, but when you get right down to it—when you weigh the need for sex against the need for food, water, shelter, and air…it comes in a dismal dead last.”

  He raised his eyebrows in challenge.

  “Right?”

  “Uh…I guess so.”

  “Of course it does. When you were stuck in that pressure room at Caribou Lake, for example, and the air was escaping, and you were starting to ice up, were you thinking about sex?” He shook his head. “Absolutely not. You had a beautiful girl right there in front of you, but screwing her never entered your mind. Even if she hadn’t already been raped, thereby rendering her an object of pity rather than an object of lust, you still had no interest in her loins. Did you?”

  “Well…no.”

  “No, you did not.” Milligan lifted his coffee cup and swigged the cold dark liquid down.

  “But that’s not—”

  “I’m not finished!”

  Milligan set the cup down and turned his eyes on Nick again.

  “Sexual desire, by its very nature, is the result of pent-up physiological pressure, at least in the male. Have you ever noticed, for example, that immediately after having intercourse you are able to gaze upon the female form without the slightest biological interest? And, by contrast, when you haven’t experienced a release of pressure in a while, you become increasingly enticed by the most unattractive of females? That the longer you go in between, the more attractive they all are?”

  Nick blinked at him, still not sure if he was being jerked around.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about sex being overrated. It’s all in the advertising.”

  “But you just said it’s physiological.”

  “And so it is, but not the hype, not the hysteria. For young men such as yourself, it’s more about the ego than the actual need. Any boy or man, no matter how unattractive, can find a female to mate with, if biology is the only issue. But are you satisfied with that? Not usually. You want to bed the most beautiful, the most desirable, the most exotic female you can find. Why? Is the sex any better with the beauty than the beast? Of course not—everyone has the same equipment. You can have just as much fun with an ugly girl as with a holo queen, but you want to be able to brag to your friends that you were able to attract the cream of the crop, as it were.

  “Now why would you care what your friends think? Because you and all of your buddies have been seduced by the advertising. All the titillation, no pun intended, about sex is about the hottest, sexiest, slinkiest, prettiest, gorgeousest of the gorgeous. You all think your lives will end in utter disaster if you can’t attract and inseminate the finest of the fine, when a plain fat girl can do the job just as well.”

  Milligan leaned back and glared at him.

  “Overrated.”

  Nick sat staring at him for fifteen seconds.

  “Okay…maybe you’re right. But you said love and marriage, too. What about that?”

  Milligan shrugged. “Love is primarily a selfish emotion. Oh, I know the preachers tell you it’s defined as ‘outgoing concern’, but when was a preacher ever right about anything? The only reason you fall in love with someone is because you want that person for yourself. That doesn’t mean you don’t care for them—you do, or you wouldn’t want them for yourself—but your primary goal is to secure for yourself that person’s love in return, along with whatever services they might have that you want.”

  “You’re talking about sex again?”

  Milligan’s eyebrows lowered, as if Nick were simple. “How many people fall in love without sexual expectations? Of course I’m talking about sex!”

  “Okay…”

  “The only true examples of love are when you do something for someone without any expectations in return. Helping someone who is hurt, giving money to the needy, taking in an orphan, something like that. That’s true love. Erotic love is entirely selfish, and therefore doesn’t qualify as love at all.

  “Marriage, in light of all that, is also overrated. The only advantage of marriage is if you want to raise children in a stable home. But once you take that step, you can kiss your sex life good-bye. The best sex you’ll ever have will probably be with a complete stranger, a one- or two-night stand in which neither party expects anything of the other. The best sex is spontaneous, and married sex is never spontaneous. Again, it all boils down to advertising, the vanity of the young…the desire to prove to the ‘verse that you can attract and capture the most desirable partner possible.

  “But once you’ve done that, you’ve locked yourself in a cage. Women, by their very nature, are illogical, irrational, overemotional, and impossible to get along with. If you lock yourself in a cage with one for the rest of your life, you’ll never have any peace of mind, because she will pick at you, and pick, and pick, and nag, and erode your confidence. You’ll never be good enough, rich enough, clean enough, smart enough, and she’ll never let you forget it. I ain’t saying they aren’t necessary—without them the human race would die out—but they exact a terrible price.

  “Women are just like alcohol—they should only be taken in small doses and never more than once a week. Overrated.”

  Nick sat silent, with no idea what to say.

  “I don’t believe that,” he said finally.

  “That’s because you’ve never been married. Your liaisons have been part of a mating ritual, in which each side continually tries to impress the other. If you aren’t married, or at least in a committed relationship, she has no power over you…and she knows it. She will keep her claws sheathed until she nails you down, but once that happens, you’ll discover that I’m right.”

  Milligan reached for a fresh cigar. “Now—what the hell did you do to Turd Murdoch?”

  * * *

  Shirley Chin was a slight woman, barely five feet tall, who might have weighed a hundred pounds on Terra but considerably less on Ceres. Nick guessed that she was around forty, petite and slender, with a twelve year-old body and short, shiny black hair which she wore in a cute flip that curled inward at chin level. When Nick introduced himself her already tentative smile froze a little and her almond-shaped eyes widened. She led him into her basement office beneath the hospital and offered him a chair. He sat down and gazed around briefly at the overstuffed room—anatomical charts decorated the walls and her desk was stacked with folders and forensics reports. She skipped the amenities and sat stiffly, her fingers interlocked beneath her chin, waiting for him to begin.

  “How long have you been the M.E. here?” he asked.

  “A little over seven years.”

  He nodded slowly. Her body language suggested resistance, so he tried for a charming smile.

  “Lots of autopsies?”

  “Yes. There is a lot of violent death here.” Her expression remained guarded.

  “I guess you’ve seen just about everything.”

  She nodded impatiently. “How can I help you, Marshal?”

  Nick gave up on the charm—it wasn’t going to work and he wasn’t very good at it anyway. He leaned forward and placed a file folder on her desk.

  “What can you tell me about these?”

  She opened the folder and gazed at the contents. One by one, she began turning each document face down as she looked at the next.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “They came to my attention during the course of an investigation.”

  “What kind of investigation?”

  “These are death certificates issued on twelve inmates at Farrington Security, accompanied by medical reports of injuries sustained prior to death.”

  “I can see what they are.” She looked at him with a flat stare. “What would you like to know about them?”

  Nick held her gaze until she looked away.

  “These death certificates all bear your signature.”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “I’d like to know how you arrived at the cause of d
eath in these cases.”

  She stacked the documents again and closed the folder.

  “Are you investigating me?”

  “Would you like to answer the question?”

  “I don’t think I appreciate your tone, Marshal.” She shoved the folder across the desk toward him.

  Nick leaned forward and dropped a second folder onto her desk. She only stared at it, without touching it.

  “The people in that first folder were all men,” he said evenly. “This one contains death certificates and medical reports for fifteen females. Once again, the cause of death doesn’t seem to be supported by the other documentation. Would you care to take a look and perhaps explain them to me?”

  Shirley Chin swallowed involuntarily. “I’m really very busy, Marshal. Perhaps we can do this another time?” She stood abruptly.

  “I have a better idea. Let’s do it now.”

  She sat down again, agitation in her eyes. Her breathing seemed suddenly labored, and Nick could practically see the goose bumps on her arms.

  “I don’t appreciate you questioning my integrity,” she said, forcing calm into her voice.

  “I haven’t done that, at least not yet. Maybe, if you can answer my questions, I won’t have to.”

  She closed her eyes briefly, as if summoning a prayer. When she opened them she looked directly at him.

  “What would you like to know?”

  Nick had studied the reports and recited from memory.

  “Jasmine Jefferson, age nineteen, inmate at Farrington Security. She was brought in D.O.A. The physical examination reported a broken jaw, ligature strangulation marks, and severe vaginal and anal bruising consistent with forcible penetration. Her cause of death, signed by you, was heart failure.”

  “Inmates can be very cruel to each other,” Shirley Chin said.

  “Yes they can, but this girl was in a women’s lockup, yet she was raped and sodomized.”

  “Rape with a foreign object is not uncommon in female detention. Obviously the girl had been badly traumatized and her heart just couldn’t take it.” She clasped her hands together, as if that settled it. “Heart failure.”