by John Bowers
“Where’s Hugh?” she asked quietly, her voice trailing upward slightly.
No one spoke for ten seconds, then Suzanne stepped forward.
“May we come inside?” she suggested.
Mrs. Povar took a step back, then another, and made room for them to enter. Her breathing became labored as she stared at their somber expressions.
“I heard sirens a while back,” she said softly. “Something has happened, hasn’t it?”
In his three years as a U.F. Marshal, Nick had never once had to make a death notification to a parent. Now, standing in the Povar living room, he realized this was the hardest thing he had ever faced. Even being under fire was better than this.
“Mrs. Povar,” he said, his voice cracking, “…I’m terribly sorry to have to come here like this…”
She stared into his eyes, her face bleaching white. She swallowed hard and her breathing became even more labored. Suzanne took her arm as she swayed, and led her to a chair. She sat down heavily, silent tears flowing down her cheeks.
“How…how did it happen?” she whispered, clutching Suzanne’s arm.
“It was a sniper,” Nick said. “From the bell tower.”
“Oh. Ohhh, my god! I heard a shot, too!”
She put both hands over her face, but didn’t quite break down. She sat there for a moment, trembling, her world tumbling around her head. Nick knelt beside her and took her elbow, squeezing it gently.
“Do you have any family in town?” he asked gently. “Is there someone who can stay with you?”
She shook her head slowly, fighting back a sob.
“Hugh is all I have,” she said. “His father died in the war, and…now it’s just the two of us.”
A thin layer of smoke drifted in from the kitchen, and Nelson hurried through the doorway to turn off the stove—the lunch was burning. Nick sat there on one knee, holding the woman’s arm; Suzanne sat on the other side, gripping the other one. The woman struggled against her emotions for several minutes…Nick had absolutely no idea what he should do next.
“I want you to know,” he told her in a steady voice, “that I’m going to find out who did this. I’ll get him, and that’s a promise.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Why would anyone want to kill Hugh? He’s such a good boy! He never hurt anyone!”
“Yes, he is.” Nick found himself following her lead, speaking of Hugh in the present tense. It would take some time for them both to get past that. “I don’t have an answer for you yet, but I will find out.”
No need to tell her just yet that Hugh had been the wrong target.
Mrs. Povar pulled her hands free and wiped her eyes, still breathing heavily, but in control. She looked into Nick’s eyes for a long moment, then reached out and laid a soft palm against his cheek.
“Marshal Walker. Hugh is so proud to be working for you. You are his hero! You’ve been his hero ever since the war.”
Nick felt his eyes misting. He couldn’t tell her, at least not yet, that it was probably the hero worship that got Hugh killed. That damned cowboy hat!
He cleared his throat. “I’m proud to have him as a deputy,” he said. “I’ve never met anyone with a better attitude.”
“You will find out who did this?”
“Yes, Ma’am. I swear to you this won’t go unpunished.”
Mrs. Povar nodded. “Then you go. You find him. And bring him to me. I want to meet the man who killed my son.”
Nick and Nelson stayed a few more minutes, but Suzanne opted to remain behind. She was more skilled at giving comfort and urged Nick to leave.
“I’ll see you tonight,” she said, and gave him a kiss. “Just be careful.”
“You, too.”
* * *
“You sure this is a good idea?”
Nick and Nelson were standing in the alley behind the marshal’s office, loading the hovercar. Nick glanced up.
“Why wouldn’t it be? I was planning to do it anyway.”
“I still think I should go with you.”
Nick shrugged into a body vest and shook his head.
“No sense risking you, too. One dead marshal is enough.”
“If they get you it’ll be two. What kind of sense does that make?”
Nick grinned, though he hardly felt like it. “I’ve never been famous for making a lot of sense. I just go with my gut.”
“Well, this time I’d say your gut is wrong.”
Nick finished cinching the vest and checked the loads in his .44; he had extra boxes of ammo in the car and spare power packs for his laser pistol.
“I don’t want a show of force. One man isn’t much of a threat, but two looks a lot more sinister. I just want to meet these people and talk to them. If I find the killer while I’m there, that’s a bonus.” Nick slammed the lid on the cargo hold. “Anyway, I need you here when the forensics come in, so you can relay me the information.”
“Goddammit, Nick—Dwyer can do that! He knows you’re waiting for it.”
Nick stood still and gazed into Nelson’s eyes. He knew Nelson was right—it was foolish to travel into cult country alone just hours after someone out there had tried to kill him, but he preferred working alone for a number of reasons. Putting others in danger was at the top of his list.
“I’ve got the radio,” he said. “You can follow me on GPS. I’ll keep in touch, and if I need help I’ll holler.”
“You’ll be dead before anyone can get to you.” Nelson shook his head in frustration. “How the hell did you ever survive this long?”
Nick clapped him on the shoulder and got into the car.
“My winning personality, of course.”
“At least take off the damn cowboy hat!”
Nick shook his head grimly. “Not a chance.”
He fired up the turbine and lifted off, leaving Nelson glowering at him as he pulled into the street and headed east.
As Nick left Trimmer Springs behind, the road narrowed to two lanes as it snaked through a mountain pass for several miles. This pass was the bottleneck that had held back Coalition troops that day in 0436, forcing them to enter the town piecemeal rather than in force. Coalition artillery had plastered the town before the assault, but had failed to destroy the bell tower; when they finally made their move, Nick had a clear line of sight toward the pass, enabling him to pick off enough individuals to slow their advance to a crawl.
Funny what eight years could do—back then it had looked like a battlefield, but today it was just a mountain road.
Nick skimmed along at twenty feet, high enough to allow ground traffic to pass beneath him and giving him a nice view of the plain as the elevation dropped off and the pass gave way to farmland. Once it hit the flat plain, the road continued east for another hundred miles, gradually edging away from the rocky ridge that formed a stark barrier at the edge of the plain. To the south, the ridge got higher and mountain peaks towered in the distance; to the east, north, and west, the plain stretched off to the horizon, some of the most beautiful farm country Nick had ever seen. Much of it lay fallow, never cultivated, but as he continued east he saw more and more farms. Corn, wheat, cattle, and row crops formed a stunning mosaic of green and gold; streams and irrigation canals meandered across the landscape, and artificial treelines marked the borders of individual farms.
Much of it looked like a quaint picture holocard. Two-story farmhouses, red-painted barns, grain silos, white fence lines, and unpaved farm roads appeared to be the norm. As farms became more numerous he began to see people here and there, many of them children. Men worked in the fields with antiquated wheeled tractors, a few even using horses. Sometimes he saw women working alongside the men, and children as well. Everyone was dressed the same—the men in white or blue work shirts, baggy pants with suspenders, and the ubiquitous flat black hats; the women in full skirts and bonnets. The kids wore exactly the same thing, adults in miniature.
Even as he shook his head i
n wonder, Nick couldn’t escape a sense that they were living an idyllic life. Backward though it might be, certainly something about their environment was appealing. He had also grown up in farm country, California’s Central Valley, and felt the pull of agriculture. He wasn’t a farmer, had no instinct for it, but loved the smell of crops growing—wet soil, fertilizer, and the unique scent of each type of plant. He loved the sound of the wind through a cornfield and the frantic, almost military urgency at harvest time. Agriculture, the oldest symbol of civilization, held an almost evolutionary fascination for him, and the sight of so many square miles under cultivation filled him with a sense of peace and well-being.
Yet only a few years ago this region had been anything but peaceful, and this morning someone had shot Hugh Povar down like a dog. Nick hoped the whole thing wasn’t just an illusion.
His console map clearly indicated his destination. He’d never been this far east before, not even during the war, but he could see the rocky promontories up ahead. Thirty-three miles from Trimmer Springs the mountain ridge formed a sort of bowl, something like a box canyon, with towering peaks on three sides. In the center of that, according to the map, was a small valley two or three miles across. The residents had named it Petra, a Greek word meaning “rock”; Petra was the Homerites’ headquarters.
Nick passed through two or three villages before reaching his destination, each just a collection of small shops that sold food, clothing, and farm equipment. At the point indicated on his map, a road branched off to the south; he followed it a little over a mile, the rocky peaks rising like sentinels ahead, and passed through a narrow pass into the hidden valley inside the bowl.
Inside the bowl was the closest thing to a city he had seen since leaving Trimmer Springs. The homes were modest, the architecture ancient; some were single story dwellings, many were two or three stories, but each appeared to be built for a single family. Nick saw hundreds of them, each sitting on a nice plot with a lawn, shaded by trees. The streets were paved with cobblestone, but he saw no sidewalks, no street lights, none of the modern accoutrements usually provided by a city government. Without exception, every house he saw was neat, the lawn trimmed, no garbage in evidence, the sure sign of an orderly society.
The main road drilled straight through the settlement toward a large building in the center. Nick saw a spire as he approached, something like a church steeple, but it was like no steeple he’d ever seen. It was more like a watchtower than a bell tower, though a bell was visible in the top of the structure. The tower was attached to a building that looked as wide as a stadium, with a sloping roof topped with red slate; the watchtower seemed to rise out of the center, and in addition to the bell, antennae sprouted from it, including what looked like a satellite dish. Much of the red roof was covered with solar panels.
When Nick reached the building he halted the car and let it hover, the fans blowing dust while he looked the situation over. The giant building sat in approximately the center of the settlement, surrounded by wide lawns. An oval street ran around the whole thing, and on the far side, there appeared to be a park. The building was modern, yet simple, ostentatious only in size; much of it was built of stone, and in one sense it resembled a medieval structure from Terra.
Nick realized his was the only hovercar in sight—several older, more conventional vehicles were parked along the street—and he was filling the air with dust from his lifters. This place was remote and serene and very clean, and the locals likely wouldn’t appreciate his pollution. He set the car down on one side of the oval street and cut his turbines.
He felt his blood pressure elevate a little as he popped the driver’s door and stepped out, adjusting his hat. He locked the car for good measure—the locals might be honest, but he saw no reason to place temptation in their path. A few people were visible up and down the street and they were all looking at him. They were all dressed alike and he stood out like a magnesium flare at midnight. No one moved in his direction and no one was near enough to speak, so he ignored them and began to stroll slowly toward the big structure.
He had crossed the street and made fifty yards when two men emerged from a doorway in the large building and approached him. Nick saw them coming and halted, waiting. One was about his age, the other several years older, and both wore lettered armbands. When they got close enough he was able to read the lettering: DEACON. Except for nightsticks on their belts, neither man appeared to be armed. They walked to within a few feet of him and stopped, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Howdy.” Nick allowed himself a trace of a smile.
Neither man smiled back.
“Can we help you?” the older one said in a voice that was neither friendly nor hostile.
“My name is Nick Walker, United Federation Marshal.”
“We know who you are. What is your business here?”
“I came to see Jeb Wiest.”
The younger man glanced at his partner, but the other never took his eyes off Nick.
“Reverend Wiest is occupied,” he said with quiet authority.
“Then unoccupy him.”
“I can’t do that. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.” The man seemed very sure of himself.
“What’s your name?”
“My name is of no consequence.”
“Are you a fugitive?”
“What?”
“I said, are you a fugitive?”
The deacon’s brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t want to tell me your name. The only reason I can think of for that would be if you’re some kind of outlaw.”
“I am not an outlaw.”
“Then tell me your name.”
“You don’t need to know my name.”
“Then you’re hiding something. You must be a fugitive.”
“I am not a fugitive!” The deacon’s face was getting red.
“What’s your name?” Nick asked the other one.
The younger deacon gulped. “Hezekiah,” he said automatically, then paled as his companion glowered at him.
Nick grinned and nodded.
“There, you see? Nothing to it.” He looked at the older man again. “Your friend obviously has nothing to hide. What’s your excuse?”
The older man reddened even more, his composure slipping.
“You have to leave.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I’m a United Federation Marshal, here on official business. If you try to interfere with me in any way I am authorized to place you under arrest and lock you up. At that point I will find out your name, what you’re hiding, and why you’re afraid to identify yourself.”
“I am not afraid to identify myself!”
“Then identify yourself! Hezekiah did, and I’m not yelling at him, am I?”
The other man glared at him for fifteen seconds, and Nick was about to give up and try something else. In truth he didn’t care a whit who the guy was, he just wanted to distract him from his mission to keep Nick away from Rev. Wiest.
“Zerubbabbel,” the deacon said unexpectedly.
Nick smiled slowly, then extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Zeb. Put ‘er there.”
Zeb stared at his hand a moment as if in shock, then reluctantly shook hands, completely off balance. Nick offered his hand to Hezekiah as well, and the younger man accepted it with less reluctance.
“What do they call you?” Nick asked. “‘Hez’?”
“Uh…no, sir. Just Hezekiah.” Hezekiah actually smiled.
“Well, you can call me Nick.”
Nick dropped a hand on Zeb’s shoulder and took a step as if to walk around him. Zeb turned with him, stiff as a board under the hand.
“So tell me, Zeb, what do I have to do to see the Reverend? I’m sure he also doesn’t have anything to hide and wouldn’t want me to think he did. But if I don’t get to see him, I’m sure going to be wondering why. You understand that, don’t you?”
/> Zeb frowned unhappily, his eyes peering at Nick like obsidian chips.
“The Reverend is a very private man. He is also very busy, and he doesn’t care for outsiders.”
“And I don’t blame him one bit. But you know what? Whether the Reverend likes it or not, he still lives on a Federation planet, and is still subject to Federation law. It isn’t usually a good idea to take a belligerent attitude with the law, as I know he is fully aware, so it only makes good sense that he meet with me for a few minutes. I’m not here to arrest him or interfere with his work…I just need some information.”
Zeb thought that over a moment, then relented just a fraction.
“What kind of information?”
“Well…Zeb…I don’t mind telling you, but I really hate to repeat myself a whole bunch of times, so why don’t you come with me and when I tell the Reverend why I’m here, you can find out at the same time. You can leave Hezekiah on patrol to keep all the crazies and maniacs outside while we visit. How does that sound?”
Zeb’s cheek twitched, as if he wasn’t sure whether he was being mocked. He stood breathing heavily for a moment.
“Zeb, if I have to leave and come back a second time, I may bring a whole bunch of outsiders with me. I’m sure the Reverend would rather avoid that, don’t you think? Always easier to deal with one outsider than twenty. Especially if they’re carrying guns.”
Zeb’s frown deepened. “You’re carrying a gun.”
“Actually, I’m carrying two. But they’re for your protection, Zeb. And the Reverend’s. Now…where do I find Reverend Wiest?”
Chapter 8
Petra – Alpha Centauri 2
The big building had no sign to identify it. Nick automatically thought of it as “the church”, but learned soon enough that the locals called it “the tabernacle”. Fully two-thirds of it housed a huge arena with seating for ten thousand people; the other end housed administrative offices. Zeb and Hezekiah took him into the business end and within a matter of minutes he was ushered into an office where a short man in his late thirties sat behind a simple wooden desk. The man didn’t rise or offer to shake hands, only gazed at him with dark, intelligent eyes. His beard was short and neatly trimmed, his curly black hair peppered with grey; he was dressed like everyone else Nick had seen except he was wearing a red shirt. Nick stopped in front of the desk and returned his gaze.
