by John Bowers
“When did they let you out?”
“Day before yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?”
“I didn’t know myself until they let me go. Even then, it didn’t seem real, like they might change their minds, so I decided to just head on home and hope I made it.”
“They didn’t torture you did they? You don’t look too bad.”
“They don’t usually beat people, unless you break the rules. They play mind games instead.”
“What kind of mind games?”
He waved a hand and shook his head.
“Some other time. I don’t want to think about it now.”
He reached for another chunk of sausage.
“What about you? I’ve heard all kinds of stories about what the Sirians are doing to civilians. Is everyone alive and safe?”
Birgitt, seated across the table from him, frowned in pain.
“We haven’t seen Jacquje since the invasion. She was working with a news crew, and never came home.”
Erik stopped chewing, alarm in his eyes.
“Did you ask the network about her?”
“Of course we did. She was on assignment with Erika Sebring; they were sent down to the Southern Plain to get video of the situation, but after a couple of days the network lost contact with them. They stopped reporting in, and no one ever saw either of them again. We simply don’t know what happened.”
Erik swallowed hard, his face a mask of pain. Sirian troops had landed on the Southern Plain at the outset of the invasion; if Jacquje had run into them, he had a pretty good idea why she never came home again. The most likely explanation was that she was either dead or a slave. Given the alternative, he hoped she was dead.
He closed his hands over his face for several moments. Jacquje was his only sister, and they had been very close. The thought of her falling into enemy hands was almost more than he could bear.
He forced himself to breathe, and lowered his hands.
“What about Hans?” he asked with a sigh.
He didn’t catch the hesitation in his step-mother’s voice.
“Hans is fine. We don’t see him very often. He…has his own place now.”
Erik nodded. Hans would be okay. Boys were safe around most Sirians. It was the girls you had to worry about.
“And Dad?”
“He’s fine too. He has a Sirian supervisor now, and it was rough for a little while, but he’s adjusted.”
Erik pushed the rest of the food away and drank deeply of the fruit juice.
“Do you have a spare bedroom for me? I’m beat.”
“Of course. We kept your room just the way it was. We knew you’d come home some day.”
He nodded, feeling a little better.
“I need a shower. Then I want to sleep for about a week.”
“Sleep all you want. You’re home now, thank the goddess. Nothing else matters. Everything will be all right now.”
Tired as he was, Erik only slept four hours before coming awake. The room, which had been dim when he dozed, was now dark. He rubbed his eyes and lay quietly, hoping to return to sleep, but the hum of voices distracted him. One of them was Birgitt, the other his dad. He sat up and pulled on his pants.
Karl Norgaard was drinking a glass of Nektar when Erik emerged from the bedroom. Erik felt his heart swell as their eyes met, then Karl was on his feet as father and son embraced.
For the next hour Erik visited with his parents. After five years there was so much to talk about, yet so little to say. The conversation rambled, keeping away from painful issues.
“Are you hungry?” Birgitt asked presently.
“Yeah, I could eat.”
She headed for the kitchen to prepare him a meal. Now Erik faced his father alone, and for a moment neither spoke.
“Birgitt seems to be in pretty good spirits,” he said. “I’ve been hearing some pretty harsh things about the occupation.”
Karl grimaced and set down his glass.
“Most of it’s true,” he admitted. “The Sirians make life really hard on the women, and that affects everyone.”
“They’re taking slaves?”
Karl nodded. “Mostly women Birgitt’s age. They have this philosophy about ‘harvesting the planet’, or some such crap. They invaded to take slaves, pure and simple. All that stuff about Vega executing Sirian criminals was a diversion.”
“I think we always knew that.”
“Yeah. They’re so smitten by Vegan beauty that every Sirian wants a Vegan woman. There aren’t enough women to satisfy that demand, of course, so only wealthy Sirians can afford them. But the Sirians are smart—they’re not taking all the women; for the most part, they only take women who have already had families, to ensure a continuing supply. There are exceptions, of course, but that’s their general strategy.”
“So Vegan citizens are just cattle? Is that it?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“Birgitt doesn’t seem to be scared.”
“Well, she worries a lot. A couple of her friends have been taken. But…she has an exemption.”
Erik frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means she will never be taken slave, or raped, or forced to service the enemy. It’s a lifetime exemption.”
Erik peered at his father carefully. It sounded like good news, but his dad’s expression reflected pain.
“How did she get that kind of exemption?”
Karl looked up at his son, and Erik clearly saw the conflict in his eyes.
“Hans arranged it.”
After eating the most delicious meal he could remember, Erik slipped on his jacket and kissed Birgitt on the cheek.
“I’m going for a walk.”
“Erik!” Birgitt looked alarmed. “It’s dark outside! There’s a curfew!”
“From when to when?”
“It starts at eleven. It’s almost nine now.”
“I’ll be back by then.”
“Make sure you are,” Karl Norgaard said. “The Sirians won’t care why you’re on the street, they’ll just arrest you.”
Erik shrugged. “They don’t scare me. Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”
His parents clearly didn’t share his optimism, but held their objections.
“Be careful!” Birgitt implored as he went out the door.
The street was dark and cold; it was a winter night, though the temperature was well above freezing. Erik walked quickly, keeping to the shadows. It was two hours until curfew, but he didn’t care to be intercepted in any case. His path took him back toward Queen River Station.
Minutes after leaving his parents’ house he arrived at the River Pub. He stood outside for a moment, listening to the jangling music, smelling the stench of cigarettes from inside. A breeze coming off the river chilled him. With a brief reflection on his own sanity, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The pub was dim and smoky, the music so loud that people were shouting to be heard. The place was full of soldiers, mostly in uniform.
He blinked against the sting of tobacco smoke and scanned the tables and booths. Vegan women in skimpy clothing mingled with the troops; most were smiling, some laughing. Two or three actually seemed to enjoy themselves. Erik frowned and walked across a wooden, sawdust-covered floor to the bar and stared at the array of bottles on the shelf facing him.
The bartender, a man in his forties, moved in his direction. He was slightly paunchy, face slack from dissipation, his hair just thin strands of waxy fibers, but his eyes were clear and sharp as he leaned toward Erik.
“What in the name of Sophia are you doing here?” he hissed, his eyes narrow with anger. “This is a Confederate joint! Don’t you know that?”
Erik gazed evenly at him, surprised at the man’s hostility. “No. I just got into town. Last time I was home this place wasn’t even here.”
The bartender glanced past Erik and reached for a glass, lowering his eyes. A Sirian solder was looking their way.
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“What’ll you have?” he demanded.
“Give me a Nektar.”
“We don’t carry Nektar. Sirians don’t drink it.”
“Then what’ve you got?”
“Bourbon, beer, and Lightning.”
Erik grimaced. He’d tried Lightning once, but it had no flavor and burned like plasma. He’d never tried bourbon and wasn’t in an experimental mood.
“Beer,” he decided.
“Any particular brand?”
“Just something cold.”
The man filled the glass from his tap and set it down. “Ten crowns.”
Erik scowled. “Since when does a beer cost ten crowns?”
“That’s the price. Pay it or get out.” The man glared at him.
Erik fished a bank note from his pocket and placed it on the counter. He picked up the beer and sipped it.
“You own this place?”
“No. I just work here.”
Erik watched as he began toweling the bar top.
“Sirians own it?”
“Too many questions, pal. You should know that. Where the hell you been?”
“Place called Camp Clinton.”
The man glanced up again, realization dawning on him. He glanced toward the soldiers, then back at Erik.
“POW?”
Erik nodded. “Until two days ago.”
“Well. First thing you need to learn is that nothing around here is the same. Before you run around asking questions, get somebody to clue you in. The wrong kind of talk could get you sent to a lot worse place than you came from.”
He moved away. Erik sipped his beer again and turned to watch the soldiers. They were a loud, boisterous bunch, but in that respect were no different than young Vegan men. What did make them different was their conquest of his home world. As much as he might have in common with them—and that was open to question—they would forever be his enemies.
He was taking his third swallow of beer when a young woman sidled up to him. She might have been twenty-five but looked no older than eighteen; she was beautiful like all Vegan girls, but not exceptional. Her outfit revealed most of her body, and clearly her job was to seduce. She smiled at him in an attempt at coquettishness.
“I haven’t seen you in here before.”
He didn’t return the smile. “You probably won’t see me in here again.”
“You’re Vegan.”
He said nothing.
“What brings you in? Only Sirians hang out in here.”
“Then why are you here?”
Her smile faded as he failed to warm to her charms.
“A girl has to survive,” she said testily.
“I’m sure Sophia is real proud of you.”
Her right hand snaked out to slap him, but he blocked it with his elbow.
“Fuck you!” she screamed. “I never did worship that pagan bitch!”
“Too bad for you, then. Go bother somebody else.”
The girl backed off, rage in her eyes, her lip curled in a sneer. A soldier with sergeant’s stripes appeared at her side and took her by the arm.
“This guy givin’ you a hard time, Sallje?”
“He insulted me!” she said. “He’s some kind of religious freak.”
The Sirian’s eyes turned hard as he faced Erik.
“What about it, Veggie? You insult my lady friend here?”
Erik gazed at him evenly.
“Is that what she is? A lady?”
Two more soldiers stepped forward and flanked the sergeant. All three now faced Erik with challenge in their eyes.
“No,” the sergeant replied, “she’s a Vegan whore. What’s that to you?”
Erik picked up his beer and shrugged.
“Nothing.” He drank and set the beer down.
“What the fuck you doin’ here anyway?” the sergeant demanded. “This is a soldier’s bar.”
Erik shrugged again. “I’m a soldier.”
They blinked at him. “Veggie Guard?”
“I think that’s what you call it. Can I buy you a beer?”
They glanced uncertainly at each other, then the sergeant nodded.
“This is a Confederate water hole,” he said, “but in the interest of interstellar relations…yeah, what the hell.”
Erik paid another thirty crowns for three more beers, wiping out the cash the ticket agent had given him at Lake Francesca. The Sirians seemed intrigued by his presence and questioned him closely.
“What’re you doin’ here?” one of them asked. “This is no place for civilians.”
“I’m not a civilian.”
“Were you at Royal Meadows?”
Erik shook his head. The Sirians seemed obsessed by that single Vegan victory.
“No. I heard about it, but I wasn’t there.”
The soldiers relaxed a little more and the sergeant bought the next round.
When Erik finished his second beer he set the glass on the bar and faced his new companions.
“Gotta go,” he said. “Thanks for the conversation.”
The sergeant nodded and clapped him on the shoulder.
“It was fun meetin’ you, Veggie. We’re all on the same side now. What’s your name?”
“Erik Norgaard. What’s yours?”
“Jeff Kilburn. Will we see you around here again?”
Erik glanced around the smoky bar and nodded.
“Yeah, I think you might.”
Chapter 4
Tuesday, 7 January, 0200 (PCC) – Reina, Vega 3
Valyn Kristensen stood when the secretary called her name. Her stomach knotted as the woman told her that Col. Royer would see her, and for a terrible moment she thought she might vomit. Somehow, she managed a panicky smile and surged toward the major’s door on wooden legs. She felt gaudy and exposed in the skimpy dress she was wearing; it was a size too small and everything she had stood out in sharp relief.
That was the rule now for a woman going out in public—every woman had to be provocative, even if she didn’t feel like it. Valyn was, by nature, modest; she accepted her Vegan looks as a heritage, but didn’t enjoy the stares she got from enemy soldiers when she dressed like a whore.
Swallowing down her fear, she stepped through the door and the secretary closed it behind her.
Col. Royer was seated behind his desk, staring at a piece of paper.
Valyn stopped uncertainly, but without looking up he waved her to the chair across from him. She settled unsteadily into it and waited with pounding heart to see how this was going to go. It was the first time she had been in the presence of an enemy officer.
“Kristensen, eh?” Royer mused aloud. He looked at her with cold blue eyes, his expression stern, as if he were inspecting recruits. “You’re Regent Kristensen’s daughter?”
“Yes, sir,” she whispered.
“And you want to work in this office?”
“Yes, sir. You were recommended by the—”
“What experience do you have?”
“I, um…”
“Have you worked in an office before?”
“Yes, sir. During the war.”
“Which company?”
“The…Vegan Guard.”
He peered at her suspiciously. “The Vegan Guard has been out of business for three years. What were you doing in the meantime?”
“I was going to school.”
Royer glared at her, then sat back slowly, tipping a stylus end over end with his fingers.
“Where do your loyalties lie?”
Valyn felt flustered. Was he kidding? Surely he didn’t expect her to be loyal to Sirius!
“I’m a Vegan citizen,” she said slowly. “My father is the Regent. Obviously I’m loyal to Vega.”
Royer nodded slowly, as if making a decision.
“As you should be. In time, you people will come to understand that the Confederacy has Vega’s best interest at heart. I wouldn’t expect you to believe that now, but you will.”
Valyn
sat mute. Her fear faded slightly.
“All right. Entry level pay is one hundred crowns a week. After six months, if your evaluations are good, it will increase. Normal working hours are eight to five, but there will be some overtime and weekends. Jule, in the outer office, will be your supervisor. She’ll show you the ropes. Girls who work here have exemption from the attentions of our soldiers, although I see you already have one because of your father.”
His brow furrowed.
“However, you may receive attention from the senior staff. Your exemption doesn’t cover that, so be prepared for it.”
Valyn’s heart lurched. She gulped involuntarily—Royer didn’t miss it.
“You still a virgin?”
Her face flamed red. She only nodded.
“Well, you might want to remedy that soon. But it’s up to you.”
Her tongue traced across her lips as a flood of adrenaline set her trembling. Coming here for a job now looked like a big mistake.
“Maybe I…”
“No. You applied for the job and you’ve been hired. It’s official. Be here tomorrow morning at eight.” He nodded curtly. “Dismissed.”
* * *
Erik Norgaard sipped a cup of hot, strong tea while Birgitt cooked his breakfast. He’d made it in before the curfew and slept another dozen hours, effectively catching up on his rest. His dad was gone when he got up but Birgitt had been waiting, ready to feed him as soon as he was ready. He watched her fussing about the kitchen and smiled inwardly.
Erik’s real mother had been murdered when he was eleven, the victim of a Sirian tourist. Erik and his sister, Jacquje, had been devastated by their mother’s loss; Hans, their baby brother, had only been five at the time, and recovered more quickly. Partly because his children needed a mother, and because he was lonely, Karl Norgaard had remarried three years later, to a woman ten years his junior. Erik had resented Birgitt at first, but she had always treated him—all of them—as her own. Erik joined the Guard four years later, and rarely saw his family after that. Once the war started, he didn’t see them at all.
Now Birgitt fussed over him as if he were her own flesh and blood, and for the first time Erik really felt a bond with her. She set a plate in front of him piled with hot bread, cold cheese, boiled egg, sausage, and pickled herring. He reached for the condiments and dug in. A moment later he moaned with pleasure.