Solfleet: The Call of Duty (85 page)

“Leave?” the
second guard asked his partner, being careful to keep his weapon trained on the
old man. “We can’t just let him leave. He ran in here with some kind of needle!
Maybe he came in here to
kill
somebody! We gotta hold him for the
police!”

“We ain’t
got that kind of authority,” the first guard replied. “All he did was run in
here. He ain’t broken no law yet for us to hold him on. All we can do is maybe confiscate
that needle as drug paraphernalia.” He started inching cautiously toward the
old man. “Step back, away from the needle,” he ordered.

Min’para
straightened and held his arms out to show they were empty. “You do not
understand,” he told the advancing guard, breathing easier now. “I must see...”

“I said step
back!” the guard shouted. Min’para backed away and the guard continued forward
until the syringe lay right at his foot. “You got him covered?”

“I got him,”
the second guard answered.

The first guard
holstered his sidearm and then squatted down and picked up the syringe.

Gambling,
literally betting his life that the guard who had him covered wouldn’t actually
shoot him, and that he was fast enough to get passed the two marines, Min’para
suddenly dashed forward and made a run for the stairs. But the guard squatting
in front of him reacted faster than he’d anticipated and grabbed him by the arm,
stopping him almost before he could get started. “Whoa, buddy!” he shouted. “You
ain’t going nowhere!”

“But I must
see Chairman MacLeod!” Min’para insisted as he tried unsuccessfully to free
himself from the less than eloquent guard’s iron grasp.

“Not without
an appointment!”

“I didn’t
have the time to make an appointment!”

“Well you’re
just gonna to have to make the time to make an appointment,” the guard
responded, tightening his grasp on the old man’s arm and pushing against his
chest with his own forearm, “because you ain’t gettin’ up there without one!”

“Wait a
moment!” Min’para cried out, struggling against the guard’s efforts to push him
back toward the front doors. “Stop! Please!”

“I said
leave!” the guard demanded, pushing harder. “Now! Or we
will
call the
police!”

“But I must
see him now!” Min’para cried as he finally started pushing back. “Before it is
too late!”

The second
guard holstered his weapon and hurried to his partner’s aid. He grabbed hold of
the old man’s free arm, and together the two of them more easily muscled the
belligerent old man backward, toward the exit. “It’s already too late for you,
old man,” he said.

“No! Wait,
please!” Min’para pleaded as he struggled. “You do not understand! I must see him!
There is a... There is a conspiracy going on in your Solfleet! It is a matter
of your world’s security!”

“Not without
an appointment! That’s for the
chairman’s
security!”

“Let me go!”
Min’para roared, struggling more violently. Somehow he managed to break free
and he made a second run for the stairs.

“Marines!”
the guards yelled in unison.

The marines
dashed across the lobby and tackled the old man to the highly polished hard tile
floor in such a way as to avoid injuring him too seriously...hopefully. Then
they grabbed him none to gently by the arms and hauled him back to his feet.

“Let’s go,
sir,” the sergeant said as they practically dragged him back toward the exit.

“No!” he
yelled. He tried to break free again but quickly realized that his efforts were
in vein—that he didn’t stand a Cirran’s chance on Sulain against a pair of
United States Marines—so he decided to try a different tactic. “Wait a moment,
please, sir,” he pleaded in a much calmer and quieter tone of voice. “There is
someone out there. Two men. They have been chasing me. They are trying to kill
me!”

“
We
might kill you if you don’t get the hell out of here,” the corporal told him.
And with that they dragged him out through the doors and pushed him away from
the entrance.

“And if you
even
think
about coming back in here, sir, you
will
be arrested,”
the sergeant advised him.

If he even
thought? Could the sergeant read his thoughts? “But I...”

“There he
is!” someone shouted. Recognizing the voice, Min’para whirled around to find
those same two men walking quickly up the sidewalk toward him.

“Police!”
the older looking one, the ‘daddy’, yelled as they approached. “Stop right
there, old man!”

Min’para ran
at the marines and tried to force his way past them, but they stopped him
easily and held onto him for the civilian officers.

“Look, mister!”
the sergeant said sternly into his ear as he and the corporal waited for the
two policemen to take him off their hands. “I’ve had just about enough of you!
Whatever kind of trouble you’re in, you’re not bringing it into our building!”

“But I did not
do anything wrong!” Min’para desperately cried as the marines suddenly twisted
his arms up behind his back and held them there while one of the two policemen
fought to cuff his hands together.

“Of course
you didn’t,” the corporal replied sarcastically.

“Honestly, I
did not!” Min’para insisted as he continued to resist. “Do you not see? These
two men are not really police officers!” He felt the cuffs lock around both of
his wrists. They had him.

“Of course
they’re not,” the corporal responded. “They’re just a couple of average guys
who happen to carry handcuffs who picked you at random because they thought it
would be fun to chase someone through the city streets and pretend to arrest
him!” To the policemen he said, “He’s all yours, gentlemen,” and then he and
the sergeant allowed them to take control.

“No!” Min’para
shrieked as he struggled against their grasp.

“Thanks for
holding onto him, Marines,” one of them said. “He’s a lot stronger and a whole
lot slipperier than he looks.”

“No problem,
Detective,” the corporal responded.

“He is
not
a detective!” Min’para shouted as they started to haul him away. “They are
not police officers!”

“Shut up,
old man, before I knock you out!” the younger of the two suited men hollered. “You’re
under arrest! Deal with it!”

The men
turned him away from the building, but he kept on struggling against them and
looking back and shouting at the marines. “They are not the police!”

The younger
man suddenly belted him across the mouth hard enough that he would have fallen to
the ground had they not been holding onto him. “I said shut the fuck up!”

But the
professor continued to resist as violently as he could, even as they hauled him
back to his feet. “You are going to have to report this to your commanding
officer, Sergeant!” he cried over his shoulder, spitting blood as they dragged
him away. “What are you going to tell him when he asks you if you verified the
arresting officers’ identification?”

The sergeant
gazed at the old man and saw, perhaps for the first time, the unbridled terror
in his violet eyes.

The look did
not go unnoticed. “Go on, ask them!” Min’para begged. “Ask them for their
identification!
Please!
”

The sergeant
exchanged doubtful glances with the corporal, then looked back at him just as
he started to do what was probably the oddest thing he could possibly have
chosen to do at that moment. He started to sing.

“From the
halls of Montezu—
u
ma to the shores of Tripo—li. We will fight our country’s
ba—
a
ttles on the land and on the—sea.”

“
Gentlemen!
”
the sergeant barked, interrupting the old man’s song as he started following
them toward the street. “Excuse me for a moment, but the prisoner is right.”
Following his superior’s cue, the corporal started forward as well. “I do need
to see your identification. I’ll need your names and badge numbers for my incident
report.”

Min’para
stopped struggling as the men on his arms stopped and looked back.

“We’re in a
bit of a hurry, Sergeant,” the older one said.

“I just need
your names and badge numbers for my report, sir. Then you can be on your way.”

“Fine. I’m Detective
Lieutenant Mark Smith, badge number two three seven zero, and this is my
partner, Detective Sergeant Paul Winters, badge number...”

“Three one
one two,” the younger man supplied.

“I’m sorry,
Detective, but just telling me isn’t good enough,” the sergeant advised him as
he closed the distance between them. “Regulations require me to physically
check both you and your partner’s credentials.”

“
I’m
sorry,
Sergeant, but that’s going to
have
to be good enough. The fates just
dropped a felony investigation into our hands and we’ve got to get a positive subject
identification from the victim before she’s taken to the hospital.”

The sergeant
rested his hand on his sidearm, and his voice suddenly grew deathly serious. “Show
me your credentials, sir, and you can be on your way.”

“You’re
outside
the Federation Building now, Marine!” the
maybe-
detective reminded
the sergeant. “Outside your jurisdiction!”

“That
gentleman extended my jurisdiction when he forced me to drag him out through
those doors behind me, sir,” the sergeant explained. A
real
policeman
should have been aware of that fact. He adjusted his grip on his sidearm. “Show
me your credentials, now!”

“All right!
Fine! We’ll be right back after the victim makes her I-D.”

The men
turned away in unison, but before they could take another step, both marines
drew their sidearms and took aim, and the sergeant hollered, “I officially
request that you show me your identification
now
, sir!”

The older of
the two men—the one who’d called himself ‘Smith’—the one who’d done most of the
talking and who was clearly the senior partner whether they were policemen or
not—faced the marines again and hesitated just long enough to draw a deep
breath and sigh, then said calmly, “Very well.” He let go of his prisoner and
reached inside the back of his jacket as he stepped toward the sergeant. Then,
in one sudden fluid motion, he sidestepped the sergeant’s aim and pulled out a
pistol. But the corporal fired first, a double-tap, striking him in the center
of his chest with both shots and dropping him to the sidewalk, very likely dead.

The sergeant
dropped the other man an instant later after he’d thrown the prisoner to the
ground and tried to draw his own weapon. Bystanders in the street screamed and
ran for cover, or dropped straight to the ground and covered their heads with
their hands, like ostriches burying their heads in the sand.

And then it
was over.

The marines
looked around, scanning their surroundings to be sure there was no more danger.
Most everyone who’d dropped to the ground was already getting back up again. A
small crowd of curious onlookers was beginning to gather across the street and
to either side of the building’s front walkway, but so far it seemed that no
one felt brave enough to come any closer than that.

The sergeant
slowly holstered his weapon but didn’t fasten the thumb strap. “Looks like the old
man was right about them after all,” he said as he hurried toward the
prisoner—toward the
gentleman
—who’d managed to sit up and was trying
unsuccessfully to climb to his feet.

“Seems that
way,” the corporal agreed. He approached the younger of the two imposters
cautiously, weapon still in hand and trained on him. He was only wounded, clutching
his hands to his abdomen, moaning and groaning and writhing in pain. There wasn’t
very much blood, the corporal noted, and he guessed that the wound probably
wasn’t fatal. “Looks like this one will make it if we get him some medical aid quick
enough, Sergeant.”

A faint
sound like a whistling zipper passed between them and another shot rang out
from somewhere out in the street. As frightened civilians’ screams once more filled
the square, the marines instinctively hit the ground and rolled, taking cover behind
two of the large plasticrete tree pots that were placed at equal intervals
along the two foot high polished marble walls that lined both sides of the wide
walkway.

“What the
hell!” the corporal exclaimed. “Where did that come from?”

A second
shot rang out. More screaming, and the old man yelped and collapsed.

“Right there,
Corporal!” the sergeant advised his partner, pointing across the street and to
the left where he’d just spotted two more men dashing from behind one parked
car to another. “Behind the cars, just to the left of the bakery door! I don’t
have a clean shot!”

“I think I
do, Sergeant!” the corporal advised him as he took aim. Then he shouted as
loudly as he could, “United States Marines! You have committed a hostile act against
United Earth Federation property! Cease fire and throw out your weapons
immediately!”

The gunmen
ignored his order and fired a third time, blindly, over the hood of the car,
just missing the sergeant’s head as he low-crawled toward the wounded old
gentleman who lay motionless where he’d dropped.

“I say
again!” the corporal screamed. “Cease fire and throw out your weapons! Now!”
But the gunmen fired yet again, and the old gentleman cried out in pain.

“Son of a...
If any of these bastards are cops, I’m Donald Duck,” the corporal commented
under his breath. He fired a single shot through the car’s headlight and left
fender, dropping one of the gunmen to the sidewalk. The other reached out from
farther back along the car’s far side, grabbed hold of the man’s shirt, and
dragged him to safety. “Go, Sergeant! I’ve got ‘em pinned down!”

“If you get
a chance, take ‘em out!”