A Tangled Road to Justice

by Olan Thorensen

  Ahbutan looked like he needed a chair but had to manage with leaning against the lobby counter. “Please, Mr. Millen. I don’t want any trouble. I’ll be happy to reimburse you double the amount you were charged for the room. I believe you had wanted it initially for one week.”

  “How about four times the charge?” asked Millen.

  Ahbutan swallowed but didn’t hesitate. “Of course, that will be fine. I just want to settle this amicably.”

  “Even more amicable would be ten times,” I interjected, annoyed and wondering exactly how badly the owner wanted us out of the hotel.

  “Ten—”

  Rangul smiled, as his uncle stumbled over getting words out.

  “Yes, yes, anything to settle this,” said the owner. “After all, this misunderstanding was our fault.”

  “You know, Millen,” I said, “it’d be a shame to move. The room fits all our needs, so why don’t we just tell Mr. Cherkoff, should we happen to meet him, that Orneel here did everything he could to evict us, but you threatened to shoot Orneel?”

  Ahbutan looked like he might faint.

  “Actually, not a bad option to consider,” said Millen. “Even better if Orneel can show bullet holes. I’m sure Mr. Cherkoff will be understanding.”

  I took pity on the hotel’s owner. “Nah, let’s just leave things the way they are. Wouldn’t want to mess up the rugs here. However, Mr. Millen is correct that you need to move the other customers staying on the same hallway that we are. You know, just in case shooting starts.”

  “In fact,” said Millen, “we’ll give you half an hour before we start knocking on doors to see that the hallway is empty except for us.”

  We left Orneel looking pale and Rangul grinning.

  “We’ll give him a little more than a half hour,” said Millen to me, “and then I’ll set up the motion detectors and cameras to cover the hall and the alley our one window faces. I don’t think we’ll have trouble tonight, but once the other customers are moved, we’ll sleep across the hall in another room. At least for tonight.”

  CHAPTER 9

  I didn’t know which I found more annoying: Millen’s cryptic predictions he seemed to pull out of his ass or his calm acceptance of how they came true, as if his merely saying the words made them reality.

  Mid-afternoon the next day, I was sitting outside the marshal’s office, watching the citizens of Justice go about a busy day. I took it as a good sign that only occasionally did anyone seem to avoid passing the office. Maybe they weren’t afraid of us. Maybe they hadn’t heard the latest news. Maybe I didn’t know why I should care.

  With little else to do, I took time to note the distribution of conveyances. In the four-wheel category, there were about seven or more electric or hydrogen for every equine. The oddity of horse-drawn wagons had given me the initial impression they were more common than they were. For two-wheelers, bicycles compared favorably with cycles and scooters. In the two-foot category . . . well, there was only one way to move using two feet.

  A dozen or more flying creatures, what passed for birds on Astrild, took off from whatever they were doing and flew in all directions. The men and women I’d served with in the FSES had survived more situations than others did because we took note of changes that most people never noticed—not to mention that inexplicable thing people call intuition or luck, when you went on alert, though you couldn’t identify why.

  That’s what I was experiencing now in Justice. The synchronous agitation of the flyers was caused by something I couldn’t identify—at first. Then my hearing picked up a faint drone that increased in volume as I listened. At first, no one else on the street heard it. I couldn’t be sure, but I think the first responder was a man washing a store window a block away. He stopped wiping, cocked his head to one side, then hurriedly picked up a soapy water bucket and went inside.

  Moments later, a family of four stopped as the father grabbed his wife’s arm, said something, and they each took a child’s hand, hustled around a corner, and disappeared.

  In sixty seconds, the moderately busy street was empty of people, horses, and vehicles.

  I opened the office door and leaned in to see Millen going through papers he’d pulled out of a filing cabinet. He’d already finished checking the computer files.

  “You may not believe this, but there’s a hovercraft coming. I’d say it’s a kilometer or less away and coming fast.”

  Millen looked up. “Hovercraft? How do you know?”

  “There’s no mistaking the sound once you’ve heard it. Once my unit got isolated from support in Siberia when a rebel group activated a Fransoise Damper they’d cobbled together to jam our electromagnetic communications. When they turned it on, we dug in to wait for the jamming field to be deactivated or destroyed. That’s when the rebels attacked using a dozen hovercraft. They work well over snow-covered terrain, but you can hear the things coming kilometers away if your hearing is good—which mine is.”

  “Assuming you’re right, there’s the obvious question.”

  “What the hell is a hovercraft doing in Nowhere, Astrild?”

  “Read my mind,” said Millen.

  “Well, maybe we’re about to find out.”

  We went outside. The noise was louder than when I’d gone into the office. Millen had to raise his voice for me to hear him, even though I was only a meter away.

  “Coming from the south. As I recall, that’s the direction to ranch country, including Cherkoff’s place.”

  “I’ll take a flying guess and predict we’re about to get a response from Mr. Cherkoff.”

  “I believe you’re right,” said Millen, just as the ugliest and one of the biggest hovercraft I’d ever seen turned a corner three blocks away and settled to the ground, taking up most of the street’s width. The abrasive noise wound down and stopped.

  A vertical swinging door opened, and men started coming out. Men with guns. I wasn’t particularly worried with the first four, got a little worried at number six, and definitely was worried at number eight. Fortunately, eight seemed to be the total, so I didn’t have to consider looking for a way to retreat.

  The eight men spread out.

  “They think they’re securing the area,” I said. “Means there’s likely someone of rank still in the cabin.”

  One of the men turned to the opened door, yelled something—we were too far away to hear what—and a ninth man exited the hovercraft. After the two men consulted, most of the men went into the tavern, leaving remaining two flanking the tavern’s entrance.

  “If I had to guess, I’d say Cherkoff is asking some questions as to what the hell is going on in Justice,” said Millen. “Maybe he owns that tavern.”

  “You still think he’s going to try to hire us?” I asked. “Why bring eight men if you’re just recruiting?

  “Never hurts to be cautious,” said Millen. “I expect Cherkoff will come out shortly and be looking for us.”

  “I suggest we move ourselves to someplace with a little more room,” I said.

  “How about the Starliner?” responded Millen. “Should be a few customers, plus Farr and other staff. Might give Cherkoff a moment to consider starting anything with witnesses around.”

  The tavern was catty-corner to our hotel. We stopped first at our room. Millen thought Cherkoff was here for a talk, at least to begin with. However, he didn’t comment when I said I was donning a suit. He did the same.

  When we entered the Starliner, Millen waved to Farr, then looked at me and nodded to a far corner with a view of the back door. I wove my way to the last table so I could sit in a chair that faced the main entrance.

  Millen chose a table at a window with a view in the direction of the hovercraft. Farr walked over to him. I couldn’t hear what was said, but the owner obviously wasn’t pleased that his establishment was about to be the meeting place of two parties, one of which had uncertain intentions. Whatever the tavern owner heard, he returned to stand behind the solid wooden bar, with the barkeep s
uddenly looking nervous. When a woman carrying a mop and a bucket entered from a back room, Farr motioned her over, said something to her, and she hurriedly left via the same door.

  There were five customers besides Millen and me. Four sat near the bar and played a card game, and a fifth patron dozed in a chair not far from my table.

  About fifteen minutes later I saw Millen sit slightly straighter in his chair and glance my way. I lifted the 6-gauge from across my lap and thumbed the hammer back; I’d already racked a shell into the firing chamber. I cradled the stock under an armpit and rested the barrel on the opposite knee.

  Less than a minute later, men started filing into the Starliner. The first one stopped just across the threshold. He perused the room, eyes stopping five times: bar, card game, me, dozing man, and Millen. You can guess which two looks were the longest. Finished, he moved farther into the room, followed by eight more men.

  They were armed with an assortment of projectile weapons. Their obvious leader was tall and lean and radiated coiled energy. He had black hair cut short and dusted with gray. He did his own survey of the room, but his eyes stopped only twice: me and Millen, who got the longest look. He made several motions to the men with him. Five of them spread along the bar, and the other three started toward the other side of the room.

  “Why don’t you fellows stay closer to your friends?” I said, emphasizing my suggestion by re-orienting the barrel of my 6-gauge.

  The three men froze, then looked at the guy I assumed was either Cherkoff or one of his lieutenants. The man gave a barely perceptible head shake, and the three men moved back toward the bar, though not all the way to line up with the other five.

  “I’m Makon Cherkoff,” announced the leader, addressing Millen. “Mind if I sit with you?”

  “Pleased to meet you. Have a seat.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Abdul—bring us the McClerkin whiskey and a couple of glasses.”

  Cherkoff sat across from Millen. “I assume you are Edgar Millen and your associate across the room is Everett Cole.”

  He knew our names, so someone in town had been talking—suck-ups protecting themselves or having a vested stake in the town’s current situation.

  Farr hurried over with the bottle and two glasses.

  “You a drinking man, Mr. Millen?”

  “On occasion, but not during work hours.”

  “And is this a work hour?”

  “Matter of fact, it is.”

  “Too bad. The McClerkin has a pleasing smokiness, though the initial bite is a little harsher than the better but ruinously expensive whiskeys we’d have to import here on Astrild.”

  Cherkoff poured himself a finger into the shot glass and finished it in one swallow. When he set the glass down, I could see even from across the room that any evidence of geniality was layered on something deeper and darker.

  “You’ve shot four of my men.”

  “Actually, I only shot two of them. Everett shot the other two.”

  “Whatever. I can’t have you going around shooting men who work for me.”

  “I can see how you’d feel that way,” said Millen, as if understanding why a citizen might support a sports team from a different town, “but they were robbing the researchers at the Starsumal Research Station, and we were hired to put a stop to it.”

  “Hired? By who?”

  “Not the important point. They were breaking the law, and no one was doing anything about. So we did. You shouldn’t have such men working for you if you don’t want them shot.”

  Cherkoff waved his left hand in dismissal. “I assure you I had no knowledge of what they were doing, so I’ve no interest in what is done with them now. I can’t have men going off on their own. They can rot in cells, for all I care.”

  From across the room, I watched and listened to the progress of the interchange. I sensed Cherkoff was telling the truth—at least, in this case. The four men probably saw the researchers as easy side money without bothering to check with Cherkoff. Not that I believed the man disapproved of what they did, only that he didn’t know about it or maybe he wasn’t getting a cut.

  “Still, they were my men at the time,” said Cherkoff. “We need to come to some kind of understanding.”

  I had to give it to Millen, he seemed to have read the situation better than I did. Despite the shootings, Cherkoff wanted to talk. The only thing left standing in the way of Millen getting my award as champion prognosticator was if we got offered employment.

  “I’ll be happy if we all understand that Mr. Cole and I will be enforcing the law in Justice from now on.”

  “Law? What law? No place or person anywhere else on Astrild has authority here. All authority in Justice is local. You’ve kicked the duly appointed marshal out of his office, so by what right do you claim to enforce the law?”

  “Probably the same way Wilton got his job. It certainly wasn’t by the will of most of the citizenry. We’re just following precedent. As for what law, it’s whatever Mr. Cole and I say it is.”

  “I had a different idea—an understanding you and I could come to,” said Cherkoff. “Obviously, I was short-sighted to put Dayton Wilton in as marshal. You are clearly a better choice. I suggest we agree that you will continue Mr. Wilton’s relationship with me . . . shall we say at twice his salary?”

  “A mighty generous offer, but I’m afraid we’ll have to decline.”

  “Surely, whoever is paying you now can’t be matching that. If it takes more, suggest a number, and let’s discuss it.”

  “As I said, the offer is appreciated. However, no one in Justice is paying us anything, not just yet. We haven’t gotten around to the compensation negotiations.”

  Cherkoff stared silently at Millen for half a minute. I could almost imagine his thinking. Were Millen and I insane or just stupid? Were we part of another organization making a move on his operation? It might be unsettling to him to be faced with something he didn’t understand. Should he brush us aside, or were we the first move of something more dangerous? Uncertainty can lead to more uncertainty. I had no idea how he would react.

  “I’ll assume for the moment that you’re not delusional,” said Cherkoff. “But does that mean you feel secure even though there’s nine of us and only two of you?”

  Everyone in the room could hear the metallic click of Millen’s pistol hammer being cocked under his table.

  “The odds might change significantly in an instant,” said Millen, adding emphasis with a nod in my direction—reinforced when I raised my 6-gauge barrel a few centimeters to center on the men at the bar. At this distance, the shot cone would hit at least two men. I also had the selector on the auto-loading shotgun flicked to full auto, meaning it would eject the spent cartridge, then pull up and fire the next cartridge and keep going until it fired all four shells. I would have a short window to realign the barrel from the recoil after each shot. It made for piss-poor accuracy, but in this room at this distance, you didn’t need much aiming.

  Add to that, I’d seen Millen shoot his pistol like it was an appendage. He’d likely get off three or four shots before the men still standing could fire. Not a good situation for the nine men, but then neither was it good for us because whatever we did, some of the men would get off shots. We couldn’t count on luck. Some of these might hit us where we were unprotected by the Dynaflex suits.

  Similar calculations might have been running through Cherkoff’s mind. He rose slowly from his chair, careful to make no sudden movements.

  “It’s unfortunate that our relationship couldn’t have a better future, Mr. Edgar Millen. I’m sure it would have been advantageous to us both. I expect we’re due for interesting times.”

  Cherkoff motioned to his men, and they began filing out. The first four were past the door and Cherkoff at the threshold when Millen spoke up.

  “One more thing, Mr. Cherkoff. There’ll be a new ordinance in Justice. The signs will be up later today and word sent out by whatever means we have available. Ca
rrying of weapons inside the city limits will be allowed only with the permission of Mr. Cole or myself. In the next day or two, we’ll establish locations where people can leave their weapons at the town’s borders and pick them up as they leave. Of course, there’s always the option of not bringing weapons to town at all.”

  “Out of curiosity, how do you intend enforcing this ban?”

  “Everyone will get a pass the first time because we can’t be sure how well word gets out. However, on the second offense there’ll be a fine and permanent confiscation of the weapons.”

  “And if someone refuses to give up their weapon?” asked Cherkoff.

  “We’ll try to convince them otherwise, but as a final solution we’ll shoot them.”

  “As I said before, Mr. Millen, we should have interesting times ahead of us,” Cherkoff said. He stepped through the threshold, and the other four men followed.

  “Oh, my God!” exclaimed one of the card players. Two others pulled out handkerchiefs and wiped their faces. The fourth rushed to the lavatory door next to the bar. I don’t know where the barkeep was; I imagine he’d ducked or fainted behind the bar. The owner, Abdul Farr, seemed to be the most composed spectator. He hurried to Millen’s table and plopped down in a wooden chair. I eased the 6-gauge hammer down and joined them.

  “I wouldn’t have believed it,” said Farr. “Cherkoff backed down! Wait until others hear.”

  “Whoa, Hoss,” said Millen, bringing his pistol out from under the table and securing the hammer. “He just decided that today and this confined space weren’t in his overwhelming favor to start anything. Men like Cherkoff might hire those who don’t pay attention to details, but he’ll want to be sure of the outcome—or, at least, think he’s sure. It’s like some people associate predators with bravery, which is wrong. Predators kill, but only under conditions of their choosing. Acting otherwise can get them injured or killed, which is why they prefer the weak, the young, or the ill.

  “Cherkoff needs time to evaluate what he just experienced and plan for a resolution where he isn’t in danger himself—which he knew he would be if anything started here.”