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

by John Bowers

  “To train how many men?”

  “About two hundred at a time. The training lasted two months.”

  Nick considered. That sounded like a shoestring operation, four to five men at each training camp. Mercenaries.

  “How many training camps were there altogether?”

  “I’m not certain, Marshal. Five or six.”

  So…thirty or forty men. It could be a renegade mercenary force from almost any planet. If the weapons were black market, they might have come from anywhere. Sirius, maybe, or Altair. And there were still lawless regions of Terra where warlords defied the Federation.

  But how did the Coalition pay for the weapons? They must have been obscenely expensive.

  He didn’t bother to ask Pickard, since the man obviously wouldn’t know the answer. Even Jeb Wiest had claimed ignorance. But there was one man who definitely would know, and that was Antiochus Groening.

  Nick swept the clearing again, taking his time and walking from one side to the other. It was clear of mines, but he found something he hadn’t been looking for—a piece of metal barely visible in the deep grass. Bending over and feeling around with his hand, he touched it. It felt like a door handle. He gave it a tug.

  His heart thumped as the grass moved. He tugged again, harder, and the square outline of what looked like a doorway began to open. He pulled harder still and it came loose, lifting up on hinges, the grass still sticking to the top of it. He stood back and peered into the dark hole that had opened up, then pulled a strobe torch off his belt and flicked it on. Pointing it into the dark mouth of the opening, he saw steps leading down.

  “What’s this?” Pickard asked as he approached.

  “Looks like a storm cellar,” Nick told him. “Only I don’t think that’s what it was designed for.”

  Pickard’s eyes widened as he gazed into the hole. Nick played the strobe from side to side and could clearly see a starcrete floor about twenty feet below the surface. He handed the minesweeper to Pickard.

  “Hang onto this,” he said. “And keep your gun handy.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “I’m going down. You can cover me.”

  Pickard drew his antique pistol and held it down by his side. He looked slightly overwhelmed by everything he’d seen—his life wasn’t nearly this complicated on a normal day.

  Nick drew his own weapon and started down the steps.

  Chapter 27

  The steps led down twenty feet or more.

  As Nick suspected, it wasn’t really a storm cellar.

  But it was a warehouse.

  As he swung the torch from side to side, he stared in disbelief at what the light revealed. The ceiling was eight or ten feet high, but the chamber covered at least five thousand square feet or more. The air was stuffy but breathable; he suspected there might be fans somewhere and probably lights as well, but didn’t see any power switches, so he relied on the strobe torch, which illuminated everything in a near-nuclear glare.

  Everything was arranged in rows, with six-foot aisles in between. Nick felt his throat tighten as he saw rifles, machine guns, and crates of ammo stacked six high. Mortars, parabola guns, crates and crates of landmines; hoversleds, gun sleds, power generators, and fuel cells. More rifles, more machine guns, rocket tubes, more ammo crates. Uniforms, combat boots, field rations, bayonets, knapsacks, missiles; and on the south end of the warehouse floor, thousands of artillery shells, enough to keep those field pieces up top firing for a very long time.

  And there was more, lots of unmarked crates filled with things he could only guess at, but he had seen enough. He wiped sweat from his brow—it was hot down here—and took a deep, shaky breath. This was far worse than anything he had ever dreamed he might find. This bunker, this…arsenal…contained military equipment worth millions of terros. There was enough stuff here to equip a full regiment for several weeks, and he realized there might very well be other equipment dumps like this around the Trimmer Plain.

  But who did it belong to?

  Who was paying for it?

  And why?

  He returned to the steps and found Pickard standing there, staring in shock, still holding his pistol.

  “Put your gun away,” Nick told him quietly. “If it goes off this place will go up like a solar flare.”

  Pickard nodded dumbly and did as he was told. Together they took the steps back to the surface. Nick lowered the doorway again and adjusted it so it was nearly invisible. Better that whoever was responsible for all this never knew it had been discovered.

  “Let’s get back to the road.”

  Pickard led the way, looking shaken. Once they were past the landmines and back on the trail, he glanced over his shoulder.

  “What’s all that stuff for, Marshal?”

  “I don’t really know, Aaron. But I’m guessing someone wants to get the revolution going again.”

  “Lord, I hope not. Once was enough.”

  “You said it.”

  Minutes later they arrived at where the road had curved away and saw Carrie King sitting in the car just across the stream. Nick took Pickard by the sleeve.

  “Aaron, until we find out more about this, I’d appreciate it if you don’t mention this to anyone. We don’t need people getting curious and coming to see for themselves. There are still a lot of landmines around and someone might get killed.”

  Pickard nodded soberly. “I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Thanks. And keep your kids close to home.”

  Trimmer Springs – Alpha Centauri 2

  Nick didn’t say a word to Carrie King until they dropped Pickard off at his farm. On the way back to town, he filled her in.

  “Jesus Christ!” she whispered. “What do you think it means?”

  “I don’t know, but when I find out, I’m pretty sure I won’t like the answer.”

  “You’re sure it isn’t just left over from the war?”

  He shook his head. “I saw stencils with dates as recent as last year. And none of the weapons looked like they had ever been fired.”

  “Do you think Father Groening is behind it?”

  “He’s my prime suspect.”

  “What’s your next move?”

  “I’m going to draw up a warrant for his arrest based on yesterday’s events, then I’m going to bring him in. Once I have him out of his comfort zone, we’re going to have a long talk.”

  Nick dropped King off at the police station and returned the borrowed equipment, then parked his car behind the marshal’s office. He found Nelson inside chatting with Hugh Povar’s mother.

  Nick removed his hat and approached the woman carefully, keeping his expression neutral in deference to her grief. But she seemed to be in control of her emotions and nodded to him.

  “Marshal Nelson tells me you’ve arrested the man who killed Hugh,” she said.

  “Yes, Ma’am, we have.”

  “I want to meet him. Can you arrange it?”

  Nick chewed his lip briefly. She had mentioned it the day of the shooting, but he wasn’t sure it was a good idea. On the other hand, he had no good reason to refuse her.

  “If you’re sure that’s what you want,” he said quietly.

  “I’m sure.”

  Nick glanced at Nelson, who only raised his eyebrows and tipped his head. Nick smiled and nodded.

  “I’ll walk over with you.”

  Ten minutes later they were sitting across a table from Nicodemus Downing. The Groaner youth looked as if he hadn’t slept in two days. His hair was unkempt and his eyes narrow with fatigue. He eyed Nick suspiciously as he sat down, but didn’t say a word.

  “Nicodemus Downing,” Nick said quietly, “this is Mrs. Povar. She’s been wanting to meet you.”

  Nicodemus looked at her in surprise. “Why?”

  “Because you killed her son.”

  The boy’s expression changed dramatically. His mouth dropped open and his eyes widened in fear. He began to tremble ever so slightly. Mrs. Pov
ar only gazed at him. They sat like that for nearly a minute. Nicodemus broke first.

  “I-I…didn’t mean to…”

  “Then why did you?” she asked gently.

  “I—” He glanced at Nick and swallowed. “I m-meant to…I thought it was him.”

  Mrs. Povar also looked at Nick, then back to the prisoner.

  “You wanted to murder the Marshal? Why?”

  “Because he k-killed my father. In the war.”

  Mrs. Povar’s eyes wrinkled sadly and her lips compressed.

  “My son lost his father in the war, too,” she said. “But he didn’t murder anybody because of it.”

  Nicodemus moved his lips, but nothing came out. He shook his head helplessly, and tears sprang to his eyes.

  “I’m sorry!” he whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t want to hurt your son.”

  Tears also slipped down the woman’s cheeks, and she shook her head sadly.

  “You’re so young!” she said. “Even younger than Hugh. What kind of god do you worship that fills you with so much hatred?”

  Nicodemus stared at her in horror. His tears came faster.

  “I didn’t want to hurt your son!” he said again, louder this time. “I swear it! I would never have shot him if I’d known who he was!”

  “What difference does it make? You wanted to kill the Marshal. How is that any better?”

  “He killed my father!”

  She stared at him in silence for twenty seconds.

  “Was your father a good man?”

  “Yes, of course he was.”

  “Did he do his duty in the war?”

  “Yes.”

  “Marshal Walker is a good man, too. He was only doing his duty, just like your father did.”

  Nicodemus sat trembling, his eyes streaming. He stared at her as if her words represented some new revelation. He looked at Nick, who stared back without comment, then back at the woman. Slowly his shoulders began to shake and he lowered his head into his arms. Heavy sobs wracked his body as he wept out of control.

  Mrs. Povar laid a hand on his head.

  “Nicodemus, you’ve done a terrible thing, and you have hurt yourself far more than you’ve hurt me. But I want you to know that, as terrible as it was, I forgive you for what you did. I only pray that God will grant you the ability to forgive yourself, because only then will you find peace.”

  She let her hand rest on his head for another moment, then pushed her chair back and stood up.

  “Thank you, Marshal. I’m ready to go now.”

  * * *

  Nick grabbed a sandwich for lunch and ate at his desk. He told Nelson about the weapons cache he and Pickard had uncovered.

  “You’re certain the stuff is new?” Nelson seemed a bit skeptical.

  “No question about it. I couldn’t inspect everything, of course, but what I did see was in pristine condition. I’d say it’s been there less than a year.”

  Nelson raised his eyebrows and emitted a thin whistle.

  “What’re you gonna do?”

  Nick kicked his boots up on the desk and gazed back at him. “What would you do?”

  “I’m not sure. Seems like the Federation should be notified, at the very least.”

  Nick took a bite of his sandwich and nodded.

  “Problem is,” he said as he chewed, “the stuff is on private land. I could notify the Star Marines, but if they came to investigate it might touch off another war.”

  “I’d say that’s likely to happen anyway. If the Groaners are stockpiling weapons, it ain’t for crime prevention.”

  Nick considered that, staring at his sandwich.

  “Where’s the nearest military base?”

  “Lucaston. But it’s a small post. The Star Marines hung around for about a year after the shooting stopped and then went home. Now there’s only one or two regiments of Fed Infantry on the entire planet. Not more than five thousand men.”

  Nick winced. The war had been over for eight years, and most enlistments were only four years. The odds were that what troops were available on Alpha Centauri had never seen action. If the conflict flared up again, they would be badly outmatched until reinforcements could arrive, which might take several weeks.

  He said as much to Nelson.

  “Okay,” Nelson agreed, “then for the time being you probably don’t want to stir things up. Write it up and store it in your SolarNet mailbox, in case something happens to the two of us, but don’t file it until you have more information.”

  Nick nodded. He liked that idea.

  “Then I need to pick up Groening and find out what he knows about this. I’ll give you ten-to-one odds he’s behind it, or at least knows about it.”

  He finished his lunch, then put in a call to Lucaston to talk to a Federation prosecutor, and spent the next few hours drawing up a warrant for the arrest of Antiochus Groening. The preliminary charges—more might be added later—included kidnapping, false imprisonment, conspiracy to commit murder, and conspiracy to incite mob violence. He v-mailed the application to the prosecutor and less than an hour later received his warrant, duly signed by a Federation magistrate. He was ready to pick up Father Groening.

  Unfortunately, the afternoon was waning, and Nick didn’t want to make the arrest after dark. Too many things could go wrong and he wanted full daylight to deal with them if they did. He would take Nelson with him, but not until morning. Groening wasn’t going anywhere for one more night.

  At five o’clock, Nick told Nelson good night and headed home. He was looking forward to hugging Suzanne.

  The Kristoferson farm – Alpha Centauri 2

  The inside of the cell was almost completely dark; Suzanne could barely see her hand in front of her face. Her watch told her it was late afternoon, still daylight, but the cell had no windows and no light. She had used the bucket once, but only by feeling around with her hands.

  She lay on the wooden shelf, using the folded blanket as a pillow, weary from stress but too stressed to sleep. She cursed herself for not being more diligent, for allowing herself to be so easily captured, but who would have suspected such a thing was even possible? Since she came to Trimmer Springs there had been two murders, but the shooter was in custody and she had thought the crisis was over. In any case, no one had ever said anything about kidnapping.

  Self recrimination, of course, was pointless. What mattered now was how she was going to get out of this situation, and how to do so before Nick walked into some kind of trap. She had no doubt that her captors were members of the Groaners cult, and it was no secret that many Groaners hated Nick because of his war record. This almost certainly had something to do with that, but she couldn’t begin to guess exactly how, or what the kidnappers hoped to gain.

  It was too bad Nathan Green wasn’t here. Only seventeen at the time, he had backed Nick up in Kline Corners and saved his life—and hers. But Nathan was on Terra attending the U.F. Marshal Academy. Funny, she thought—she wished Nathan was here, but was glad Kristina wasn’t. That didn’t make a lot of sense.

  Lying perfectly still, trying to control her fear, she gradually became aware of a sound outside her cell. Almost imperceptible at first, she heard it again, a little closer this time. She wasn’t absolutely sure, but it sounded like…a mouse in the straw.

  Someone was outside the cell. After a moment, straining to hear, she heard someone release a sigh.

  She sat up.

  The crack between the planking was obscured. After the door had been closed for the last time, the filtered light inside the barn had been brighter than that inside the cell, and she’d been able to see a thin sliver of daylight between the boards. Now it was gone.

  She stood up abruptly, took two steps to the wall, and dropped onto her knees. She heard a scuffling sound as someone backed up quickly, then silence. Suzanne put her eye to the crack and now could see into the barn. A small, stationary shadow was just visible about four feet away. It was a little girl, staring intently at the same crack
Suzanne was peeking through.

  “Hi, there,” Suzanne said quietly, keeping her voice low and, hopefully, friendly. She didn’t really expect an answer, but it came back immediately.

  “Hello.” The voice was the same one she had heard earlier, outside the barn.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Parthena. What’s yours?”

  “Suzanne. It’s nice to meet you, Parthena.”

  “Are you the devil’s wife?”

  Suzanne fought the urge to laugh.

  “No, I’m afraid not. I’m not married.”

  “My papa said you’re the devil’s wife.”

  “Well…I’ve never met your papa, so he must be thinking of somebody else.”

  Parthena took a step closer to the cell wall and studied Suzanne’s eyes through the crack. “You talk funny,” she said.

  “That’s because I’m from another planet. We speak with a different accent.”

  “Which planet are you from?”

  “I was born on Vega Three.”

  “Does everybody on Vega Three talk like you?”

  “Maybe not everybody, but almost everybody.”

  “How come you’re on Alpha Two?”

  “I live here now.”

  “How come? Didn’t you like it on Vega Three?”

  “I loved it on Vega Three. But when I was still a girl my parents moved to Sirius One, and I lived there until just a few weeks ago.”

  “Did you like it on Sirius One?”

  “I did for a while, but then my daughter moved away and I didn’t want to stay there anymore.”

  “Where did your daughter go?”

  “She went to Terra.”

  “How old is she?”

  “She just turned eighteen. How old are you?”

  “I’m nine. If your daughter moved to Terra, why didn’t you go with her?”

  “She went to be with her fiancé. They’re going to get married.”

  “You could have moved in with them. My grandmothers live with us.”

  “Well…in some cultures married people don’t want their parents moving in with them.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s just the way they feel. They’d rather be alone with their husband or wife.”

  “Do you live alone?”