Gunfight on the Alpha Centauri Express (Nick Walker, U.F. Marshal Book 5) Read online

  Sudden Death

  Nathan pushed off from the station wall and squared himself as he watched them approach. The five teens were laughing and joking, but it quickly became apparent they weren’t really together. As they approached the terminal they stopped, as if to say good-bye. One of the girls impulsively kissed both boys, and with a final laugh and wave, the boys separated from the girls and walked away.

  The girls kept coming.

  They were weirdly dressed.

  They had no luggage.

  They definitely weren’t locals.

  One was heavy and wore a dress that draped her like a tent to within an inch of the ground. The others were skinny as flagpoles, their unkempt hair long and stringy; all three wore bead strings around their necks and one had flowers in her hair. They proceeded toward the station as if they hadn’t seen him, still laughing and joking, but Nathan saw furtive glances in his direction. The hair on his neck began to tingle.

  They were thirty yards away. He began strolling in their direction, his pulse ratcheting up another notch to double-time.

  The train sounded its horn and began to move, returning back the way it had come. The girls, still pretending they hadn’t noticed him, stopped at the baggage cart and began matching their boarding passes to the luggage tags. They identified two bags and hauled them off the cart; one was so heavy it took two of them to lift it. Nathan reached them just as they set it on the platform.

  “Evening, ladies,” he said casually, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. “Welcome to Trimmer Springs.”

  All three turned to face him, eyeing him from head to toe. They were smiling, but he detected animosity—the smiles weren’t friendly.

  “Hey, check out the pig with the cowboy hat!” the fat girl said, and the other two giggled.

  A second girl nodded at the .45 in his holster.

  “How many people have you killed with that?” she asked, her eyes an open challenge.

  “What brings you to town?” he asked.

  “It’s a free planet,” the fat one said. “We can go anywhere we want.”

  “That’s right!” the third girl declared. “So stop hassling us.”

  Nathan grinned. “I welcome you to town and now I’m hassling you?”

  “That’s what pigs do, isn’t it? Hassle people?”

  “Maybe in your world. Not in mine.”

  “What do pigs do in your world, then?” asked the second one.

  “They shoot people with big guns,” said the third girl.

  Nathan planted his feet. “You don’t look like you’re from this area. Do you have relatives in town?”

  “Not in this town,” the third girl said.

  “Then I think you got off at the wrong station.”

  “Oh, well.” The fat girl sneered at him. “Too late now. The train’s already gone.”

  “Is there a hotel around here?” the second girl asked.

  “Maybe we can stay at your place,” said the third one.

  “Yeah, how about that?” said the fat one. “You are kind of cute…for a pig.”

  The second girl plucked a flower out of her hair and stepped forward, reaching for his hat. Nathan instinctively took a step back and put up both hands to block her, his danger flags snapping at high alert.

  “Step back!”

  “What’s the matter, pig? You don’t like flowers?”

  “Flower Power!” shouted the fat girl.

  Nathan’s scalp tingled. “Don’t you mean, ‘Power to the people’?”

  All three registered shock at his utterance, then sprang into action.

  “That’s right, bitch!” snarled the girl with the flower.

  She lunged for his weapon, but he blocked her and elbowed her aside. The third girl also sprang at him—he didn’t see the knife until it impacted his body vest. The blade skidded off, but she drew back and lunged again, aiming for his throat. His combat training kicked in and he nailed her in the face with his right fist, leaving his gun momentarily exposed. The knife wielder hit the platform with a cry, but the flower girl leaped for his gun again, jerking it halfway out of the holster before he slugged her in the face with his left. As she fell, he jerked the .45 free of her hand and swung it toward the fat girl.

  He was almost too late. As Nathan was fighting off the attack, the fat girl hiked her tent up around her waist and unslung an ugly semi-automatic machine pistol. She swung it toward him just as he gained control of his .45, and he found himself staring into the stubby 10mm muzzle. For one frozen instant he hesitated; the fat girl did not.

  “Kill the pig! Kill the pig! Kill the pig!” the others shrieked, their shrill voices cutting through the gathering dusk.

  The fat girl pulled the trigger.

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  Nick Walker, United Federation Marshal

  Gunfight on the

  Alpha Centauri Express

  by

  John Bowers

  A Faster Than Light eBook

  Published by John Bowers

  Copyright 2015 by John Bowers

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by John Bowers

  You are granted a non-exclusive license to this work. You may make copies or reformat it for YOUR OWN USE ONLY. You may not resell, trade, nor give this work away.

  Created in the United States of America

  First Publication: September 2015

  Cover by Duncan Long

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters are a product of the imagination of the author and any resemblance to any real person, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To Richard Womack

  Sydney, Australia

  Rest in peace, old friend. I owe you one.

  Acknowledgement

  Thanks to author Rod Manchester for permission to use his name

  Chapter 1

  Monday, April 24, 0445 (Colonial Calendar)

  The Federation Building – Lucaston – Alpha Centauri 2

  The shooting started thirty seconds before Nick Walker walked in the front door. It was just noon and most offices in the Federation Building were breaking for lunch.

  The Federation Building was a skytower that stretched seventy-five floors into the air, and on an average day perhaps twelve thousand people worked there; with visitors and tourists the number approached fifteen thousand, and since the war ended nine years earlier, security had been minimal.

  Nick wasn’t even aware anything was happening. Neither, apparently, was anyone else at the lobby level. People were streaming in every direction, both into and out of the building, and the sidewalk outside was a sea of humanity. It was a beautiful day in Lucaston, the temperature warm but
not hot; both binaries were up but a gentle breeze off the river tempered the heat.

  Nick wasn’t even sure why he’d been called to the capital. He had just arrived on the maglev from Trimmer Springs for a “conference”, a word that always generated tension in his gut because it usually meant his life was about to change—not always for the better. But orders were orders; he’d been told to bring an overnight bag, which he carried in his left hand—and since he was always on duty, he was dressed for work in his trademark western clothing—denim jeans, western shirt, hat, and cowboy boots. Twin holsters on his gunbelt carried his favorite weapons, a Class 3 laser pistol and a Ru-Hawk .44 Magnum revolver.

  He crossed the broad lobby toward the elevator banks behind the security island. The lobby was twenty yards across. The largest Federation Seal on Alpha Centauri 2 was embedded in the marble floor and his hard leather boots rang as he crossed it. He gazed up at the lobby ceiling forty feet above, admiring the colonial architecture that rivaled anything on Terra. The first hint he had that anything was wrong was a woman’s scream from the mezzanine.

  He automatically tried to locate the source, but for a moment it was lost in the general din of voices on all sides. People in expensive suits were still in conversation, moving this way and that. Nick’s eyes narrowed as he caught a flash of movement on the balcony, someone rushing through the crowd, dodging this way and that as he bowled people aside. Nick’s pulse leapt into second gear as his eyes locked like radar on the subject. He stopped walking and dropped the space bag; both hands closed over his pistol grips and he drew his guns.

  So far, the lobby crowd was still oblivious, but that changed when two uniformed policemen burst into view on the balcony and shouted at the subject to stop. Another woman screamed, then several more; the panicked suspect doubled his speed, plowing people aside; an elderly man in a business suit was slammed into the railing, toppled over with a cry of surprise, and plunged to the marble below.

  “Freeze!” the cops shouted. “Drop your weapon!”

  Nick hadn’t seen a weapon yet, but now the suspect spun and fired blindly down the length of the balcony. Nick heard four shots and saw five people drop. The cacophony of screams multiplied.

  The cops were unable to return fire due to the civilians in their way, so they continued pushing forward, trying to close the distance without trampling anyone. Just as the suspect reached the end of the balcony, building security belatedly activated their panic button. A deafening siren began to bleat inside the cavernous room and the outer doors started sliding shut, preventing anyone from entering or exiting. A loud, automated voice ordered everyone to take cover or, if caught in the open, throw themselves flat.

  Like a jungle cat excited by the chase, Nick’s instincts kicked in and he began to run. He’d seen the suspect disappear around the corner of the mezzanine level, headed straight for the elevator banks. He had no way of knowing if the youth, who was shabbily attired and apparently hadn’t seen a razor since he was twelve, would take the elevator, but clearly he was going to run either up or down, and up meant trapping himself inside the building, so—he was probably coming down. Nick raced around the security island with guns in both hands, leaped over two people who had hit the floor for cover, and charged straight at the elevators.

  He saw eight elevator doors facing him. Two stood open with people cowering inside, four appeared to be rising, one was stopped on the top floor, and another was descending. Nick stopped in front of the one that was descending and got set, both guns aimed and steady.

  The elevator stopped at the lobby; just before the door swished open he heard muffled screams inside, followed by two gunshots, then the door opened.

  Nick’s blood pressure spiked as the gunman charged out, dragging a woman with him. Nick had seen panic before, but never worse than this. The gunman’s eyes were white pools of terror, escape his only thought. He saw Nick and opened fire, pumping three shots across the lobby; Nick felt the wind from two of them, but all the bullets missed.

  “U.F. Marshal!” he bellowed. “DROP YOUR WEAPON!!”

  The gunman, who might have been sixteen, did no such thing. Instead, he flung the woman in Nick’s direction and took aim for another shot. The woman, screaming and off balance, slammed into Nick and then fell to the floor; the impact of her body shoved him sideways, just enough that the suspect’s fourth shot missed by an inch.

  Nick fired. His .44 Magnum roared like a Howitzer inside the cavernous lobby, the recoil jerking the gun barrel upward. The bullet hit the suspect in the chest, dead center, and flung him back into the still-open elevator, where he collapsed onto the bodies of two office workers he had shot a moment before.

  It was a kill shot, straight through the heart. Whoever the suspect was, whatever he had done before Nick saw him—he was history.

  Chapter 2

  Tuesday, April 25, 0445 (CC)

  75th Floor, Federation Building – Lucaston, Alpha Centauri 2

  Lucaston was the Colonial Capital of Alpha Centauri 2, home to the Colonial Congress, and the seat of Federation authority on the planet. Located at the junction of two rivers, Lucaston sat on a river basin ten miles from the nearest high ground with a spectacular view of mountains in every direction. It was the largest city on the planet.

  The Syracuse River flowed south through the downtown area, providing a welcome respite from the heat in summer and offering a popular River Walk where pedestrians could enjoy a leisurely stroll. Riverside galleries and cafés were popular diversions for tourists and office workers alike. The area was beautified by parks and fountains; a municipal monorail circled the city.

  In the center of the downtown complex, the tallest skytower was the Federation Building, home to every Federation agency on the planet, including the U.F. Marshal Service and the U.F. Justice Department.

  In a corner office on the 75th floor, United Federation Attorney Gary Fraites stared at the flat photo in his hand. The face looking back at him was about thirty, rugged, masculine, but not really handsome; it was wearing a western-style hat—a “cowboy hat”—but that wasn’t what held Fraites’ attention. It was the eyes. The man in the photo had a grim look about him, a no-nonsense expression that suggested he was not one to trifle with. Fraites wondered—for how many men had those eyes been the last thing they ever saw?

  Fraites released his breath in a sigh and dropped the photo on his desk. He turned to the two attorneys facing him.

  “You really want to level charges at Marshal Nick Walker?” he demanded.

  The woman lowered her eyes without speaking. Brian Godney held his gaze as if magnetized.

  “Yes I do!” he declared in a solemn voice. “The man is a rogue, a killer, a stain on law enforcement. His kill ratio is ten times higher than anyone else in the U.F. Marshal’s Service, and we need to make an example.”

  Fraites interlaced his fingers under his chin.

  “Explain.”

  “Walker has been a Federation Marshal for less than five years, and he’s killed at least twenty men that we know of, probably more.”

  “Only men?”

  “What?”

  “How many women and children has he killed?”

  “Well…none, apparently, but—”

  “Thank god!”

  Fraites grinned at Godney’s expression, then let his smile relax. Godney was a bulldog—a small one, but with lots of energy—and he knew from experience it was better to let him state his case than try to shut him down.

  “Go on.”

  Godney’s face flushed, but he picked up where he’d left off.

  “In his first assignment, on Ceres, Walker killed two men his second day on the job, shot another man in the foot, and another in the ear. He also pistol-whipped a man and bullied a judge—a female judge. Not only that, but a defense attorney, also female, was murdered in his hotel room.”

  “I know the story. What else?”

  “His second assignment, on Sirius 1, he gunned down another U.F. Ma
rshal, killed ten or fifteen suspects—the actual count is uncertain—and killed another man in a Wild West gunfight like some fictional Yancy West character. I mean, they actually faced off in the middle of the street and drew on each other!”

  Godney paused to give Fraites a chance to reflect on the horror and disgrace of it. When Fraites merely gazed at him, he continued.

  “His latest posting is right here on Alpha 2, at Trimmer Springs. Last year he blew a suspect’s hand off with his .44 Magnum, roughed up a couple of religious leaders, and got his deputy killed.”

  “How many did he kill that time?”

  “None that we know of, but his propensity for violence hasn’t abated. Most recently, just last month, he killed four more men down around the Isthmus of Latia and was involved in several other confrontations in which men were killed.

  “And yesterday—”

  “Wait a minute! You want to charge him for yesterday? Do you have any idea how many lives he might have saved?”

  “No, and neither do you. If he’s so high and mighty, what took him so long? He might have saved a lot more lives if he’d acted in a timely fashion.”

  Fraites glanced at the woman, then back at Godney.

  “Which is it, counselor? Are you mad because he kills people or because he doesn’t kill them fast enough?”

  Godney waved an impatient hand, as if the question wasn’t important.

  “Clearly he is out of control. His actual body count is a little vague because nobody really knows how many he killed on Sirius, but—”

  “And you want to do what? Bring criminal charges?”

  “If that’s indicated, yes. At the very least, he needs to be investigated. I recommend relieving him of duty pending further study, and I would like to conduct a formal hearing into the matter. Depending on the findings of that hearing, I think criminal charges may be in order.”

  “What charges? Murder?”

  “I doubt if the evidence would support murder, since Walker’s reports are always accepted by the U.F. Marshal Service as gospel, but I’m confident that excessive force would stick, and as I said, the hearing may uncover something we don’t know about that could put him out of business for good.”