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

by John Bowers

  Nineteen minutes after passing the intersection, Hawkins pointed and the ambulance began to slow. Just ahead, as the ambulance dropped to twenty feet, Nick saw a picturesque farm with two barns, two dozen corrals, and grain fields that extended up against the banks of a river that wound past the north edge of the property. The farmhouse was just this side of the barnyards, a two-story frame building with two chimneys and a shingled roof. Two ground cars were parked in front of the house and half a dozen people milled about outside, most of them women.

  “Put it down,” Nick said. “No one leaves this vehicle until I give the signal.”

  The ambulance swung around like a cargo hover and settled to the ground with the emergency door facing the house, blowing dust and leaves in every direction. The cult people grabbed their hats and skirts against the blast and turned their faces away as Nick leaped out and strode toward the house, his heart pumping with adrenaline and not a little anger. The women watched fearfully as he approached, but the two men stood their ground, indignation on their faces. Nick didn’t recognize either one.

  “What is the meaning of this!” the older of the two demanded, his long grey beard bobbing with every word. He was wearing the ubiquitous black hat and white shirt, but also a black coat and string tie.

  “I’m looking for the Hawkins farm,” Nick said evenly. “Is this the place?”

  “You have no business here! Take your heathen devil machine and be gone!”

  “What’s your name?”

  “My name is not your concern, murderer!”

  Nick hit him in the chest with open palms, shoving him three feet backward. He advanced into the man’s face.

  “What’s your name!” he repeated. “I won’t ask you again.”

  The man’s face flushed red with anger.

  “Exactly what I would expect from a heathen killer of young men!” he blustered, breathing hard. He leaned into Nick’s face. “You are a vile sinner, the son of the devil! A usurper and a trespasser!”

  Nick shoved him again, causing him to crash into the second man, who was younger but appeared no less outraged at Nick’s presence.

  “Last time, asshole!” Nick muttered, and reached for his laser pistol.

  “Elder Billings!” one of the women cried. “His name is Elder Billings! Leave him alone, for the love of God!”

  “He doesn’t believe in God!” Billings muttered, recovering his balance and straightening his lapels. “Son of Perdition, profaner of holy places…”

  “You mean like Antiochus?” Nick snapped. “Antiochus Epiphanes?”

  Elder Billings’s eyes widened in shock. Nick turned to the second man.

  “Where’s the boy?”

  Without his elder to guide him, the second man suddenly looked helpless. He glanced at Billings, his mouth trying to form words, but nothing came out.

  “The boy!” Nick yelled in his face. “Where is the boy?”

  “I—uh, I’m not… What boy?”

  Nick shoved him aside and charged into the house, the women gasping in outrage behind him. The living room was dim and drab, with three doors leading to other parts of the house. Through the door to the left he could see a kitchen; the other doors apparently led to bedrooms. He heard the murmur of voices behind one and headed toward it. Six feet from the door he picked up an odor.

  When he shoved the door open the smell boiled over him, sickening and overpowering, the smell of rotting flesh. Nick almost gagged, but managed to hold on to his composure long enough to identify those in the room.

  The boy lay face-up on a large wooden bed, wearing what looked like a woman’s nightdress. He was bathed in sweat and appeared to be delirious, rolling his head from side to side and moaning, his chest rising and falling rapidly in short gasps.

  A man with rolled up shirtsleeves stood over him, looking sleepless and haggard. On a table beside the bed rested a porcelain wash basin filled with bloody rags. A clear jar of cut glass was half full of what looked like olive oil, and another contained what might have been red wine. Nick braced himself against the smell, trying to breathe through his mouth, and stared at the boy’s extremities…the right leg was encased in a makeshift splint made of wood and tied with strips of cloth. Clearly the splint was inadequate for the injury—Nick saw white bone protruding from the leg in several places, and everything below the knee was mangled. The foot was black and putrid, pus draining from open sores.

  Nick had spent enough time in combat to recognize gangrene.

  He raised his eyes to the man and woman standing beside the bed on his left. They looked absolutely crushed, as if their child had died already. Maybe a dead child would have been easier than what they were seeing now, the slow but steady decline of a dying boy.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins?” he asked as gently as he could manage.

  The man nodded, the woman bit her lip. Her cheeks were salty with tears. Nick turned to the man standing over the boy…this must be the practitioner.

  “Get out.”

  The man only looked at him, his eyes defeated and hopeless.

  “Right now. Get out. Leave this farm and don’t come back.”

  The man swallowed hard, turned to the parents and made what looked like a silent appeal for forgiveness, then turned and strode out the door.

  “We still have time to save your son,” Nick told the parents. “I’m going to transfer him to the hospital. Don’t interrupt!” He held up a hand as Hawkins opened his mouth. “I know it’s against your religion, and I respect that up to a point, but I’m the U.F. Marshal in this district and I won’t allow your son to die on my watch without at least trying to do something. You can tell Father Groening that I bullied my way in here and took him, I don’t care, but I am taking him. Anyone who tries to stop me will be arrested.”

  Gulping for air, Nick turned and left the bedroom, his eyes watering from both the smell and an emotion that welled up from deep inside. He was halfway across the living room when Elder Billings entered from the outside and confronted him again.

  “You are defying the will of Almighty God!” he roared. “I demand that you leave at once. We have the situation under contr—”

  Nick grabbed him by the lapels and swung him in a circle, slamming his back into the wall. A picture frame hanging above the fireplace fell and bounced across the floor. Billings grunted in pain and his eyes widened in terror.

  “You!” Nick snarled, “get the fuck off this farm and don’t come back! I am this close to breaking your goddamn neck!”

  “Taking the Lord’s name in vain won’t save you!” Billings bleated. “You are trespassing here! This is private property!”

  Nick jerked him clear of the wall and slammed him backward again, every muscle in his body screaming for murder.

  “Hold that thought close to your heart!” he said. “It might keep you out of prison if that boy dies.”

  Getting a grip on himself, he released the man’s lapels and stepped back.

  “Then again, it might not.”

  He went to the front door and waved to the ambulance crew. Four minutes later they had the boy loaded and were lifting off.

  Nick remained behind.

  * * *

  Officer Carrie King arrived ten minutes later, setting a police hover cruiser down on the driveway. Nick was talking to Jonathon Hawkins’ parents and waved her over to join them. The parents seemed torn by what had just happened—seeking medical attention was anathema to their beliefs, yet they seemed relieved that their son might actually have a chance at survival. They weren’t exactly friendly, but neither were they hostile.

  “I understand that your son stepped on a landmine,” Nick told them.

  “Where did you hear that?” Hawkins asked in surprise. “How did you even know that Jonnie was injured?”

  “It was Thomas,” his wife said, clutching his arm. “Thomas must have told him.”

  “Is Thomas your brother?” Nick asked.

  Hawkins nodded. “My name is Nathan.
Thomas tried to get me to call for the doctors, but…”

  “You should have listened to him. Your son would have suffered a lot less.”

  Hawkins seemed to feel a need to explain.

  “Your ways aren’t our ways, Marshal. I know you mean well, but we believe in the strict interpretation of the scripture.”

  Nick ground his teeth and stared across the pasture. No wonder so many rebels had died in the war…some of them could probably have been saved.

  “Mr. Hawkins, every church or congregation that I’ve ever encountered has its own interpretation of scripture, and all of them think it’s the only possible explanation. I know that you embrace the interpretation handed down by your leaders, but has it never occurred to you that St. Luke himself was a physician?”

  “Yes, of course, but he didn’t use chemicals—”

  “Because he didn’t have them! I’m sure he used the latest, most modern tools available in his time. If pharmacology had been invented back then, he would have used it. Think it through.”

  “But Jesus heals!”

  “Hey, if Jesus goes to that much trouble then I’m all for it, but he hasn’t healed your son, has he? I’ve heard that God helps those who help themselves, so maybe Jesus is waiting to see just how badly you want to save your boy before he steps in.”

  Both parents stared at him as if he had profaned heaven and earth, but Nick wasn’t there to convert them to his way of thinking. He abruptly changed the subject.

  “I need to see where this landmine was that your son triggered. I understand he was with a couple of friends.”

  “Yes. Joel and Jacob Pickard. They live on the next farm over.”

  “Were they injured by the explosion?”

  “No, thank God. Jonnie was a few yards in front of them and he took most of the blast. I think they were knocked down, but that was all.”

  Nick nodded. “I need to talk to them. Can you show me exactly where their farm is located?”

  “I…suppose that would be all right. I don’t think their father will approve, however.”

  “Just take me over there, I’ll do the rest. Then Officer King here will take you into town to be with your son.”

  Mrs. Hawkins stiffened as she gazed at the police cruiser.

  “I don’t think I can ride in that,” she said, her voice quavering.

  “What?”

  “It’s a hovercar,” her husband explained. “Hovercars are of the devil.”

  Nick turned to look at Carrie King, who smiled grimly back at him. He turned back to the parents.

  “Medicine is of the devil too,” he said, “but your son is getting medical treatment. I guess when all this is over you’ll just have to ask God to forgive you. You do believe in forgiveness, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Good. Just explain to God that you had no choice. The big bad U.F. Marshal made you do it.”

  They took the cruiser to the Pickard farm, the Hawkins couple riding in the back. Nick felt bad for being so sarcastic—in many ways they seemed innocent and childlike—but it was just so damned frustrating trying to deal with them. When Carrie set down at the Pickard farm he stepped out of the car and leaned back inside.

  “Run them to the hospital and come back for me?”

  She nodded with a smile. “Sure, Marshal. Give me an hour.”

  Dealing with Aaron Pickard was no picnic. He stood glaring at Nick while his two sons, aged about nine and eleven, stood on either side of him and stared openly at the heathen lawman who had descended onto their property.

  Pickard was wearing a pistol.

  “Look, Mr. Pickard, I’m not trying to bully you, I’m simply trying to—”

  “You are trespassing!” the man bellowed for the third time. “I won’t have you on my property!”

  “I need to talk to your boys,” Nick insisted. “I’m not leaving here until I do.”

  “My boys have nothing to say to you!”

  “I believe they have plenty to say. And you’re a fool if you don’t let me talk to them.”

  “You dare call me a fool!”

  “I dare. Yes, I do dare. Jonnie Hawkins may lose his leg, if he doesn’t die, because there are landmines somewhere around here! Your boys were lucky the last time—”

  “God protected them!”

  “Fine, I’m sure he did, but where there is one mine there will be many more, and sooner or later someone is going to run into them again. That someone could be one of your boys.”

  “God protected them once, He will protect them again.”

  Nick sucked air and blew it out, puffing his cheeks. “God didn’t protect Jonnie Hawkins.”

  “Nathan Hawkins is weak in the faith. His son paid the penalty. I won’t make the same mistake!”

  Nick turned in a half circle, trying to bleed off his rage. He turned back again.

  “You think God punished Jonnie Hawkins for his father’s sins?”

  “I do. The Bible says that God visits the sins of the fathers onto the children unto the third generation.”

  Nick chewed his upper lip.

  “Mr. Pickard, I’m going to find those landmines. If I don’t do it today I’ll come back later, because I don’t want any other children to get blown up. But let me warn you—if I have to come back later, I’ll bring the Star Marines with me. Is that what you want?”

  “The Star Marines are already here. I know who you are, Walker!”

  Obscenities boiled into Nick’s mouth, but he bit them back. Rough language would only solidify this man’s resolve, and Nick was already getting nowhere. He lowered his head and rubbed his temple—he was getting a headache.

  “Okay, then. I won’t talk to your boys. Do you know where the explosion took place?”

  “Not exactly, no. It was a mile or so upriver, but I don’t know the precise spot.”

  Nick nodded. That description was much too vague to pinpoint the minefield—and Nick was certain it was a minefield. Even if Pickard agreed to help, it would do no good. Nick needed to talk to the boys.

  They were standing right in front of him, but constitutional law prevented him from talking to them without a parent’s permission.

  “Let me ask you this. If Father Groening will give permission, will you let me speak with your boys?”

  “Father Groening would never do such a thing.”

  “Hypothetically. If Father Groening gives permission, will you let me talk to your sons?”

  Pickard glared at him in indecision. The idea was apparently so preposterous that he had trouble even considering it. He scowled and tugged at his beard, breathing hard as if the question posed some kind of puzzle too complex to unravel.

  “Well…” He struggled with it a moment longer, then tilted his head slightly. “I suppose, if Father Groening said it was all right…”

  Nick heaved a sigh of relief. He would go and see Groening in the morning.

  “What makes you think the Father would agree to something like that?” Pickard’s voice had changed, no longer hostile, but genuinely curious.

  “I don’t know that he will,” Nick said. “But I’m hoping he’s a reasonable man and will consider the danger to the children in your congregation.”

  Pickard’s eyes hardened again and he tugged at his nose.

  “Very well,” he said finally. “If Father approves it, then you can talk to them. But I want it in writing. And don’t try to forge anything, because I am familiar with his penmanship!”

  Nick saw a hovercar approaching from the south and realized with a start that it was Carrie King coming to pick him up. Taking Pickard’s thin concession as a victory, he took a step back and touched the brim of his hat.

  “Thank you, Mr. Pickard. Sorry to interrupt your day.”

  Nick also nodded at the boys, who peered back at him with bright, curious eyes. He turned and walked down the driveway to the road, where the hovercar was settling down. A moment later he crawled into the front seat and slump
ed wearily.

  “How did it go?” Carrie King asked.

  Nick turned exhausted eyes on her and shook his head.

  “You have no fucking idea!” he declared. “I’ve been arguing with that man for a goddamn hour!”

  King laughed. “Where to now?”

  “Back to town. I need a shower.”

  Chapter 19

  Millennium Village – Alpha Centauri 2

  The Council of Elders convened in mid-afternoon in the basement of the Millennium Village church. The church was modest in its construction and seating capacity, but Antiochus Groening was a frugal man. Unlike the Homerites, who had constructed a virtual stadium for their congregations, Groening preferred smaller gatherings. Small churches dotted Groaner country, dozens of them, scattered all over the landscape. This was especially convenient because many of the faithful had no powered vehicles and couldn’t travel far to services.

  Each church was pastored by an Elder, and the Elders got their sermon text from Groening himself every week. On any given Sunday, the sermon was the same in every single congregation, no matter who delivered it. The text this week would be about disobedient children and rebellion against God.

  The Council of Elders convened only rarely, usually to deal with an emergency of some kind. Today’s emergency was named Maggie Downing. The council consisted of five men, all high-ranking pastors in the Groening theocracy. The procedure was fairly straightforward—Father Groening presented the facts and the council voted. Father himself never voted, but could override the vote if God moved him to do so. To date, God had never found it necessary.

  Groening opened the session with a long, flowery prayer, fifteen minutes worth, exhorting God to open the hearts and minds of those present to do His will and not their own. He praised the Almighty for His equity and fairness, for the righteousness of Holy Scripture, and for making known His Holy Plan for mankind and salvation. He reminded the Lord that He had promised to bind in Heaven that which was bound on Earth (somehow missing the point that he was standing on Alpha Centauri 2), and briefly recapped a scripture that equated rebellion to the sin of witchcraft.