“Whew, ain’t she something? Mebbe I’d like living here.” Clem grinned, then he squinted. “Hey, what’s happening over there? Some sort of speech?”
Glancing around, Mildred spotted a growing crowd of people forming a half circle before a blank wall of the fortress.
“Let’s go see,” she said, heading in that direction.
Pushing their way to the front of the waiting mob, Mildred and Clem saw a line of sec men with rifles facing a man chained to the wall. The surface around the captive was heavily pockmarked with bullet holes. Another man in clean clothes and sporting a fancy blaster was reading off a list of crimes.
“Speech, hell,” Clem drawled, crossing his arms. “This be an execution.”
“Hush,” Mildred said, trying to hear every word, “and so, as baron of this ville,” the handsome man finished, folding the sheet of paper, “I condemn you, Quinn Marley, to death by firing squad.”
“But I was only drunk, Lord Nathan,” he whispered, head bowed. “Just drunk, is all.”
“Drunk while on guard duty, you mean!” Nathan snapped, his face a mask of fury. “An unforgivable act of treason! This ville survives by the diligence of its sec men, and when they fail us, lives are risked. Plus, this isn’t the first instance. You’ve been publicly whipped already, and I told you plain what would happen the next time this occurred.”
“But I was only drunk!” the man screamed shrilly and began to rattle his chains, kicking at the wall. “Please, my lord, have mercy!”
“No. You have received enough mercy. Now it’s time for justice.” Nathan raised his hand high. “Firing squad, ready”
The sec men lifted their blasters and worked the bolts, chambering rounds.
“You got to listen to me!” Quinn pleaded.
“Aim”
The sec men took a firing stance, the barrels pointed at the prisoner.
His lower lip quivering, the man burst into tears and shamefully soiled his pants. “No! Please, don’t chill me, Lord. It was a mistake, and it’ll never happen again. Please, don’t shoot me!”
Arm poised ready to drop, Nathan waited for a few ticks to let the terror seep into the struggling prisoner. Quinn was a superb gunsmith, the best he had ever known, a valuable asset to the safety of the ville. But his flagrant dereliction of duty had to stop today. A natural tech, Quinn was a special man with unique gifts, and Nathan was willing to overlook a lot of shit from the top-notch gunsmith. But nobody could be allowed to directly challenge the authority of the baron.
Technically, being drunk on duty could be considered an act of treason, and a harsher baron would simply make an example of the sec man. But master gunsmiths were few and far between, so Nathan had decided to give the damn fool one last chance and a taste of what could have occurred. Hopefully, that would set him straight. A ruler had to be merciful, as well as strong. However, if it ever happened again, Nathan would personally heave him in the dungeon for a hundred years. “Hold!” somebody roared within the anxious crowd. Reluctantly, the people parted to make way for a large man striding toward the execution. As he came into view, Mildred dropped her jaw in astonishment. What the hell was this?
The man was tall, well over six feet in height, and his skin was deeply tanned, as if he’d just come from the desert. His black hair was long and curly, swept off a stern face with a square jaw and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in a dark blue shirt like all of the other sec men, but this one also had matching pants and knee-high jackboots. A blaster rode in a holster at his right hip, another under his left arm. The curved sheath for a panga slanted up from his belt for a quick cross draw. “Son of a bitch,” Clem muttered. “Looks just like him.”
Mildred was forced to agree. Whoever this man was, he strongly resembled a young Ryan Cawdor. He even carried a panga! The physician had never even heard of the strange weapon before meeting Ryan, and never seen another since.