by John Bowers
He was about to return down the rear steps when he heard a click behind him.
He spun. To his dismay, someone had opened the restroom door at the front of the car. He drew his .44 as a figure stepped out. She was dark and slender, and had her back to him. She was dressed in tight jeans and a pullover top. She held a .45 automatic in her right hand.
Nick dropped into a combat crouch, the .44 steady on the center of her spine.
“Freeze! Drop your weapon!”
The woman spun to face him with an audible gasp, her mouth popping open. She raised her hands and stood back against the latrine door, panting in fear. The .45 fell heavily to the deck.
“Don’t shoot! Please, don’t shoot!”
Nick moved quickly toward her, grabbed her by the wrist, and spun her around, shoving her roughly against the door, his gun pressed against her skull.
“Who the hell are you? I cleared this car an hour ago! Where were you?”
“I-I was…”
He twisted her arm behind her back and forced her cheek into the door until her lips bulged.
“Answer me, goddammit!” He jammed the .44 harder against her skull.
She closed her eyes in terror.
“Please! Listen to me!”
“I’m not hearing anything!”
“S-Sandra Sanchez…U.F. M-Marshal.”
“What?”
“Look—in my back pocket.”
Skeptical but confused, Nick took a step back and spotted an ID case in her rear pants pocket. Keeping his gun against her head, he pulled it free and popped it open. His eyes narrowed as he stared at an official ID card almost exactly like his own. A flat photo of Sandra Sanchez smiled out at him as he checked her badge number, Academy graduation date, and other information. He stuck the case back in her pocket and stood there a moment, uncertain what to do next.
He took another step back, but kept the gun trained on her. She glanced over her shoulder with wide eyes, her mouth still open, then slowly turned to face him, her hands still raised.
“What office are you from?”
“Lucaston. I boarded the train just before you did.”
“How come I never heard of you?”
“Do you know all the Marshals on the planet?”
“Answer the goddamn question!”
She stood breathing heavily to bring her fear under control.
“I wasn’t in any of the high-level meetings, but I’ve been keeping up.”
“Did Marshal Bridge send you?”
“No. He doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Then why the hell are you here?”
“I came to back you up. The last I heard, you were planning to do this alone. I didn’t know you were bringing a partner.”
Nick lowered his weapon but didn’t holster it.
“I checked that latrine earlier, but it was empty. Where were you?”
“I…hid in the stairwell. When you took everyone down you used the one at the back. After you left, I hid in the toilet.”
“Why didn’t you reveal yourself when I cleared the car?”
“Like I said, I came to back you up, but I didn’t have authorization. I figured if you needed help I would be here, but if you didn’t, there was no point in exposing myself. I could get fired for being here without permission.”
“You’re probably right about that.”
She stared at him uncertainly.
“Can I put my hands down now?”
He nodded, then indicated the .45 lying on the deck.
“Is that all the hardware you brought?”
“Yes, it’s the only weapon I have.”
“Have you ever used it?”
“Just on the range.”
“Well, if you’re looking for experience, this isn’t the mission I would have advised. Do you even work in the field?”
“No, but I want to. Maybe it’s stupid, but—”
“Yeah, it is stupid. Really, really damn stupid. What the hell am I supposed to do with you?”
Her eyes lit with hope.
“Let me back you up! You can always use another gun. Maybe you can put in a word for me with Marshal Bridge—”
“I don’t think so. If I do, I’ll probably recommend termination.”
“Oh, look—Marshal Walker, you’re the best! I’ve dreamed of working with you…”
“You dreamed? You mean you had nightmares. You have no idea what you’re saying.”
“Yes I do, really. Let me back you up—if you don’t need me, then okay, but if you do, what’s wrong with having an extra gun on your team?”
Nick shook his head, picked up her .45, and popped the clip. He pulled the slide to eject the chambered round, then handed the empty pistol back to her.
“Stick this in your pocket and go back into the latrine. Stay there until this is over.”
He started for the stairwell.
“But I want to help!”
He turned to face her, his eyes hard as diamonds.
“I don’t need a rookie on this one. You’re more likely to kill me than the bad guys. Stay the fuck here and maybe—maybe—I won’t say anything to Marshal Bridge.”
“Okay, but—give my clip back. If they get past you, you can’t leave me unarmed. They’ll kill me!”
Nick hesitated. Every instinct in his body said to ignore her plea, but too many people had already died today…and he was pretty sure the dying wasn’t over. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and pulled the clip out of his pocket.
He tossed it to her.
“There. Now I don’t want to see you again until we get to the end of the line. ¿Lo tienes?”
Sandra Sanchez nodded.
Nick went down the steps and returned to where Nathan waited.
Mile Marker 1,111, 11:44 am
Nick stared through the forward window on the upper deck of Car 3; the upper deck of Car 2 was only six feet away, and he could still see heads in the seats, but they were indistinct. He didn’t see the redhead anymore, but she could still be there, hunkered down between the seats.
Or she might be downstairs.
Nick had no way of knowing how many of those he could see were ARMO members. Maybe all of them, maybe none. In the absence of evidence one way or the other, he had to assume they all were. But where was Saracen…or was the coward even on board?
Nick had waited three hours. He was wound like a spring, and so was Nathan. They needed to get this done and over with. But with only two Marshals against…how many?
He needed an advantage.
But what?
For some abstract reason, his mind flashed to the fictional cowboy hero Yancy West. In the holo-vids, Yancy would probably crawl on top of the train and run along the roof, dodging shots from inside as he fired downward and took out the bad guys. It was an intriguing idea, but there was one problem—in Yancy’s day, trains reached a top speed of thirty or forty miles per hour. The Alpha Centauri Express was making two hundred knots, over two hundred thirty miles per hour. At that speed, anyone who attempted to climb to the top of the train would be swept away by tornado-force winds.
Crawling on top of the train was not an option.
But Nick had something Yancy West could never have dreamed of.
He pulled the controller from his pocket and looked at it. He trotted down the steps to where Nathan waited.
“Get ready,” he said. “You might want to hole up in one of these sleeping cabins, because chances are they’ll be coming through that door. Kill anybody who has a gun. You got it?”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to attack from the upper deck.”
“You’re going to attack? How’re you going to do that?”
Nick pulled the controller from his pocket. As Nathan watched, transfixed, he pushed the button for Car 2, then pressed the RELEASE button. Instantly they felt the shudder as the number 2 car separated from the propulsion car, and barely a second later the magnetic
brakes took hold. The car began to vibrate as it slowed, rapidly dropping from two hundred knots to zero.
Nick nodded.
“Brace yourself.”
He turned and trotted up the steps to the second level. Through the front window he could see heads coming up, looking around in confusion as the train slowed, and one or two people were standing. He unslung the machine pistol and jerked the arming lever. Aiming at an upward angle, he opened fire, sweeping the front window of Car 3; the glass shattered and, carried backward by rushing wind, cascaded across his feet. Those in Car 2 saw what he was doing and threw themselves flat. Nick swept their window next, and the rear window disintegrated.
Just that quickly, the way was open to Car 2. Nick slung the gun again and drew both pistols. He backed up ten feet, lowered his head, and sprinted forward, leaping across the six feet to land inside Car 2. As he hit, he misjudged the rate of deceleration and momentarily lost his balance, falling forward to one knee.
The error saved him. The red-haired girl sprang up from a seat at the far end of the car, an automatic weapon in her hand.
F-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T!
She swept the seats at the rear of the car with full automatic fire, bullets ripping into the seats and bouncing off metal surfaces. Nick’s fall queered her aim—she was firing too high. Before she could adjust, his .44 roared like a cannon and she spun around with a scream, her left shoulder ripped half out of its socket.
“Drop your weapon!” he shouted.
“Fuck you!”
Gritting against the pain, she swung her weapon toward him again; before she could fire, Nick did. His second round hit her dead center, exploding her heart, flinging her backward in a spray of blood and flying red hair. She hit the deck in a bloody heap and bounced, arms splayed, legs flying up and falling back again.
Nick dived into a seat on the right, expecting more gunfire.
He wasn’t disappointed.
A young man he hadn’t seen suddenly popped up from the left side of the car, laser pistol in hand. He fired once, missing by a foot, and Nick blew a hole in his chest. People on the floor screamed in panic, and Nick quickly scanned them to see if they looked threatening, but saw only middle-aged people and two small, terrified children.
Nick jumped to his feet and ran toward the front of the car, scanning both sides of the aisle with his eyes, but saw no one else. He leaped over the redhead and reached the front of the car. A quick glance through the front window showed the propulsion car nearly a mile in the distance, still speeding on its way.
He reached the stairwell leading down and stopped—immediately next to it was the upper-deck latrine. Without ceremony, he kicked it in, the door smashing inward against whoever might be in there. Someone screamed and he kicked it again, then jerked the wrecked door aside with one hand. The girl inside had the same untidy look and smell of the other ARMOs he had encountered—and her left hand gripped a gun. He grabbed her hair and jerked her out into the aisle, kicked her feet from under her, and let her fall. The pistol flew from her grip and he kicked it away, then turned back and slugged her in the face hard enough to break her jaw.
She fell unconscious and he picked up her weapon, emptied the bullets out of it, and threw it down the stairwell. Instantly, someone below opened fire and bullets slammed into the roof of the car. Nick returned fire, sending two heavy slugs into the floor below.
Now he heard shouts from below. He had no idea how many were down there, but there had to be at least two. He dropped to a crouch and worked his way down the steps halfway to the first deck. Around the curve of the stairwell he saw someone’s face peeking upward, a young man in his late teens. The face was pale, stressed, the eyes wide. When he saw Nick, the kid fired twice, wildly.
Nick fired once, and heard a body hit the deck.
“United Federation Marshal!” he shouted. “Throw down your weapons and surrender! This is the only warning you’ll get. DO IT NOW!!!”
He heard more shouts—half a dozen distinct voices—and a scramble of feet. Someone fired a burst of suppressing fire into the front of the car, followed by the sound of thundering feet as whoever was down there fled to the rear of the car.
Nick crept down two or three more steps and scanned the seats visible to him. The kid he had shot lay bleeding in the aisle, still breathing but no longer armed—his pistol lay several feet away. Nick risked a glance around the corner of the stairwell and saw six or eight people, both male and female, all of them armed. Five were looking in his direction, three others were trying to squeeze through the rear door. He took a couple of seconds to dump his bullets and reload from his speed loaders, then leaped into the aisle facing them. He extended both pistols in their direction.
“Freeze! Drop your weapons!”
Exposing himself like that was probably the dumbest move he’d ever made in his life. Almost as one, the five nearest him brought their weapons to bear. Without hesitation, Nick opened fire.
The return fire was wild and erratic. For ten terrible seconds, powder smoke rolled through the car as weapons blazed, deafening in the tight space.
FF-T-T-T-T-T-T!
F-T-T-T-T-T-T!
Bullets whizzed past his face, smashing the wall behind him. Glass shattered, lights flickered, seat cushions were ripped to shreds. The air swirled with fiber and cotton.
“Unh! UNGH!”
Seven rounds slammed into his body vest, another ripped across his left cheek, opening a deep gash; everything else ricocheted throughout the car.
He staggered backward, choking for air; blood sprayed from his face and his lungs felt paralyzed, but he kept firing. He emptied both weapons, twelve powerful slugs that all found their mark. One by one, the ARMOs collapsed, ripped open by .44 calibre slugs.
When the last one was down, Nick dropped to his knees and bent over, bracing against the deck with his left hand. His vision dimmed; he gagged for air as darkness loomed at the edge of his consciousness. He swayed for a moment, gagging, choking. Blood spurted up his throat from severely bruised lungs, and he might have passed out but for his iron determination to keep on fighting. In spite of the agony, in spite of the paralysis, he hammered his chest with a fist, forcing himself to suck air with a loud whoop until some of it reached his lungs.
He slumped against one of the seats, gasping, barely conscious, and with fumbling fingers began to reload his guns. He had taken down five of them in that flurry, but at least three more had made it through the door into Car 3, where Nathan was facing them alone.
Just as he got one gun loaded, he heard more shouts and then a barrage of gunfire.
***
Back in Car 5, U.F. Marshal Sandra Sanchez was fuming. It had been more than three hours since Walker found her, and she was going out of her mind. Walker had ordered her to hide in the toilet, for Christ sakes, until he came back.
She had obeyed for a while, but after an hour the humiliation became too great and she let herself out. She took a seat next to the aisle and stared out at the speeding landscape while her humiliation boiled.
It was ridiculous to be treated like this. Walker was supposed to be the best. He was the most famous U.F. Marshal in history, a living legend, and ever since she was assigned to the Lucaston office she had hoped for a chance to work with him. When this mission came up she had volunteered to help, but was turned down.
But when she saw her chance slipping away, she made a unilateral decision—she would risk her job, her very career, and do it anyway. No matter how good he was, if the mission was so dangerous, Walker would certainly need help. She would back him up. She could do it, she knew she could.
So she boarded the train and hid out, awaiting her chance.
It was only pure chance he had found her, thanks to her own carelessness. Who would have expected him to come back and check the car a second time?
Shit.
And his reaction! She had never felt smaller in her life. Where did he get off treating her that way? He
had a reputation as a square shooter, a man who could work alone or with a partner, who could work with a woman. So…what the hell?
Okay, she was young, only twenty-two, but she was certainly no rookie! She’d been on the job more than a year, and if she had never been in a gunfight, it was only due to lack of opportunity. She practiced on the range three times a week, was a crack shot (okay, eighty percent, but that was still above average), and she had a burning desire. She wasn’t afraid.
She could do this.
Goddammit, she could do this!
She sighed and swore to herself, tortured thoughts swirling through her brain. It was unfair, is what it was. Unfair and uncalled for. It would serve him right to get his arrogant ass blown away when she could have saved him.
Fuck him.
Fuck him!
If she lost her job over this—after trying to help him—well, she didn’t know what she would do, but—it just wasn’t right.
Sandra glanced at her watch. What was taking so damn long? It had been three hours, more than three hours. What was he doing up there? Was the mission real or not?
She sighed, angry and frustrated and just a little scared. After Walker’s rejection, she wasn’t at all sure he wouldn’t report her. That would be the final straw…
The train lurched and began to slow.
Her heart raced. Something was happening.
It was starting!
She stood up and peered forward through the front windows of Car 5, but couldn’t see anything.
She heard gunfire. Automatic weapons fire.
Jesus! This was it!
Sandra Sanchez, after cooling her heels for more than three hours, was in no mood to wait any longer. Without a second thought, she raced down the steps to the lower level, pushed her way into Car 4, and hurried forward.
Through the dining car, her weapon loaded, aimed, and ready. Sweeping the tables with her gun, making sure no ARMOs had slipped through. She moved steadily forward.
The gunfire was louder now, more intense. She heard automatic fire and the boom of something much bigger, like a .44 Magnum. That would be Walker. He was still in the fight, but if he was outnumbered…
