The Sword of Sophia

by John Bowers

  “I wasn’t told about any appointment,” he said with some irritation. “What time did you call?”

  “This morning. I was told you could squeeze me in at the end of the day.”

  “Who did you talk to?”

  “She didn’t tell me her name.” Erik hesitated. “Is this a bad time, sir?”

  Minore glared at him a moment, then heaved an exaggerated sigh.

  “Well, since you’re here…what did you need?”

  Erik took two more tentative steps, twisting his woolen cap in his hands.

  “I think I might need representation,” he said. “I—I killed a man.”

  Minore stared at him another moment, then leaned back in his chair. His irritation faded, his eyes narrowed with interest.

  “You killed a Vegan or a Sirian?”

  “A Vegan.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about. The Sirians run the courts now, and they aren’t concerned with the murder of Vegans.”

  Erik took a deep breath and sighed with relief.

  “Thank the goddess!”

  “It’s unfortunate, but true. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Erik thought for a moment.

  “Well, no, I guess not. But I would like to say that I’m sorry about your wife.”

  “My wife?”

  “Yes, sir. I heard the Sirians took her.”

  Minore’s frown returned. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Oh, goddess, sir, you’re a famous man. Word gets around.”

  Minore nodded again, relaxed again. He managed to look sad.

  “It was too bad, but I don’t really miss her. She was a first-class bitch.”

  Erik showed his surprise. “Really?”

  “Yep.” Minore got out of his chair and walked around the desk. He towered over Erik by two inches. “I already have another one. Much younger and much sweeter. It’s too bad we lost the war, of course, but there are advantages.” He put a hand on Erik’s shoulder. “If you ever want to unload an abusive spouse, the Sirians will take her, no questions asked. Just tell them where to find her.”

  He laughed as if he’d made a joke.

  Erik looked confused. “So you’ve remarried?”

  “I have. I must say, even with the Sirian occupation, I’m happier now than I’ve ever been.”

  He walked Erik to the door, a hand still on his shoulder.

  “I’ve heard that some men who lose their wives have started raping Vegan women,” Erik said slowly. “Apparently that’s also legal?”

  “Not only legal, it’s encouraged. The Sirians have a whole different approach to civilization. I must say, I find it intriguing.” They had reached the hallway, and Minore removed his hand. “Listen, if you ever have any legitimate legal problems, don’t hesitate to call me. My door is always open.”

  Erik nodded. “On the subject of rape…”

  “If you’ve done that, don’t worry about it. Like I said—”

  “I haven’t,” Erik said quickly. “But…if I wanted to…”

  “Go for lower class women,” Minore replied confidently. “Poor people. Older women. Elderly widows are the easiest. And don’t worry about their age—as they say, it’s all the same in the dark.”

  Minore was grinning, a tutor mentoring a student. In the darkened hallway he missed the glitter in Erik’s eye.

  “And how many women have you raped?” Erik asked quietly.

  “Dozens. Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get back—”

  His last words were choked off as Erik jammed the bayonet under his sternum, angled upward into his heart. His eyes sprang wide, his mouth flew open. Saliva dripped from his chin. Erik’s left arm snaked around his neck and pulled him closer—Minore’s arms flailed in helpless indecision as Erik put all his strength into the bayonet, driving the hilt tight against the bone. He held it for ten seconds…fifteen—then gave it a sharp twist.

  Whatever life remained in Pierre Minore was stilled forever by that twist, and Erik carefully turned him away before withdrawing the blade. Erik knew about blood spatter—anyone who’d ever fought hand-to-hand in the trenches knew—and he didn’t want to be covered with gore. Minore’s blood sprayed across the carpet as Erik stepped back, breathing hard, and watched for a full minute to make absolutely sure. Finally he bent over, carefully wiped both sides of the weapon on Minore’s white shirt, and slipped the blade back into its sheath. He found the bathroom then and washed the blood off his hands, leaving nothing on his clothing. Murder might be legal on Vega, but there was no sense advertising.

  He had a lot more people to kill.

  Thursday, 27 February, 0200 (PCC) – Reina, Vega 3

  FADE IN

  EXT – PROFESSIONAL BUILDING, DOWNTOWN REINA – DAY

  In the background, Constabulary officers mill about and talk with a Sirian SE man while civilians stream around them. This is obviously a crime scene. In the foreground, Erika Sebring speaks directly into the news camera.

  Erika Sebring

  For the first time since the occupation began, a high-profile murder has occurred in downtown Reina. Pierre Minore, a well known defense attorney, was found murdered last night in his office. He had been stabbed with a large knife or bayonet.

  Erika glances over her shoulder as two men wheel a gurney through the wide doorway of the Professional Building. The body on the gurney is covered by a heavy blanket.

  Erika Sebring

  (continues)

  As you can see behind me, constables are still investigating. Minore’s body was found in the hallway outside his office some time after midnight. A security guard found the office unlocked and made the grisly discovery.

  (a beat)

  Minore was well known before the war for defending Sirian criminals. When the war came, many Vegans considered him a traitor, and some speculate he was killed in retaliation for his prewar activities. Constables decline to say whether the killer left behind any clues, but even if he’s caught, it seems unlikely he will be prosecuted in the current political climate.

  (a pause)

  Erika Sebring—Royal Holo News.

  FADE OUT

  * * *

  “Goddammit, Erika!” Steinbach glared at the holoviewer and shook his head grimly. “I cain’t use that! Didn’t yew hear anything I said the other day?”

  “What’s wrong with it!” Erika was right in his face. Kelly Nobel stood to one side like a spectator, clutching a brown folder. “It’s a good piece!” Erika insisted. “It’s a balanced piece! It’s news! The man is famous around town, even around the planet. And it doesn’t mention the fact that he turned his own wife in to the SE so he could marry a younger woman, or the forty-three women he’s known to have raped!”

  “Goddammit!” Steinbach swore again and walked around his desk. He reached for a cigarette. “Am I gonna have to go through it with yew line by line?” he demanded, glaring at her.

  “Please do. I’m just a dumb, blond, award-winning Vegan reporter who was voted Newsie of the Year four times in a row! Hold my goddess-scorn hand!”

  Steinbach eyed her critically. “First, I need to teach yew how to cuss. What the fuck does ‘goddess-scorn’ mean?”

  “What the fuck do you think it means?”

  “I don’t have a fucking clue!”

  “Well, use your fucking imagination!” Her face was glowing red.

  He sucked tobacco smoke and stared at her some more. He settled into his chair.

  “Okay, number one—yew can’t talk about the bayonet—”

  “Why the hell not? That’s what killed him!”

  “The autopsy hasn’t confirmed that, but even if it was, yew cain’t mention it.”

  “Then tell me why!”

  “It’s inflammatory. If a Vegan did the killing, then it means a Vegan is running around with a weapon, and that’s illegal. Number two—yew cain’t use the word ‘occupation’—”

  “That’s what it is!”

  “No, it�
��s not.”

  “Okay, I won’t say occupation. I’ll say ‘military dictatorship’! How about that?”

  “Jesus fucking…NO! Yew cain’t say that either. Just say ‘for the first time since the war ended’. Just that, nothin’ else.”

  Erika rolled her eyes.

  “Goddess Sophia! Are you big, bad Sirians that damn sensitive? You won the war, you’re camped all over the planet, and you get your iddy-biddy feelings hurt if someone speaks the truth?”

  Steinbach turned even redder than Erika, but didn’t take the bait. Arguing with her was fruitless—he was beginning to wish he hadn’t hired her, but she had somehow sucked up to the SE (he still hadn’t figured out how) and he was stuck with her.

  “Finally,” he pointed out, “yew said it’s unlikely the killer will be prosecuted even if he’s caught…”

  “It is unlikely! Captain Croswell himself said they don’t care if Vegans kill each other.”

  “I know, I know, but yew cain’t say that on the fucking air!”

  Erika walked in a circle, literally pulling at her hair.

  “I’ve been here eleven days, Steinbach, and not one of my stories has seen the air yet! What the hell do you want from me?”

  “I have an idea—” Kelly Nobel ventured, but cringed when Erika spun on her.

  “You shut the fuck up!”

  Kelly turned to Steinbach with a hurt look. “Edgar, I’m the evening anchor here! I think I should get a little respect. Doesn’t anyone want to hear my idea?”

  Steinbach glared at her. “No. Go outside and see who needs a blowjob.”

  Kelly’s lip quivered for a moment, then she rushed out of the room with a sob.

  Erika watched her go, and turned back to the news director. “That was pretty damn cold!” she accused.

  “What’re yew bitchin’ about? Yew don’t even like her!”

  “Professional jealousy. She still has feelings! She knows you’re using her, but you could at least pretend to respect her.”

  “Why? She gets paid.”

  Erika gave it up. “So what about my piece?”

  “Cain’t use it.”

  “I’ll clean it up.”

  “Still cain’t use it. Croswell said we’re gonna sit on this and see if a pattern develops.”

  “This killing may not be related to the other one! The first guy was strangled, this one was butchered. The other guy was a nobody, this one is high profile. This is news, Steinbach!”

  “Then put it in yewr portfolio. Twenty years from now, when things have settled down, yew can do a documentary.”

  * * *

  Erik had been at NordTek more than six weeks when he was promoted from the warehouse to the assembly line. The work was tedious, but it wasn’t boring, and he was actually excited about the change—not because of the extra pay, but because he was working with plasma mines.

  Erik had never understood the inner workings of a plasma mine. He had seen them used and been grateful for their power—they had saved his life more than once, turning any number of Confederate units into rows of smoking corpses. When plasma was unleashed it was a good idea to be somewhere else—as far away as possible. They had an effect similar to nuclear fission, though the blast wave wasn’t nearly as powerful and they didn’t emit radiation. But the heat they unleashed was the same stuff that lived on the edge of a star. If you were in range you didn’t have much chance of survival.

  The assembly line was simple enough—Erik sat on a stool bent over a moving conveyer, wearing headgear that protected his face and eyes from injury. Each mine came down the conveyer, just a flat, round, empty shell. It was Erik’s job to insert the mine’s components, which were really quite simple: first he pressed a clear plastic donut into the shell, then snapped the explosive core into the donut hole. Everything fit together snugly with a snap, and he was done. Down the line, someone else inserted the microchip and the electronic leads. That was all there was to it. (He wasn’t sure what was inside the donut and didn’t really care.)

  At one point it occurred to him that it might be cheaper and more efficient if the work were done robotically, but when he asked he was told it was actually safer to do it by hand. He didn’t argue the point.

  At the end of his shift he went into the locker room to change out of his coveralls and put on his street clothes. Lars Thomasen, the man who was training him, was just coming out of the shower.

  “You did pretty good today, Erik,” the older man said, toweling himself briskly because the room was chilly. “Quality control is pretty good for your first day on the line.”

  Erik shrugged. “It isn’t that hard. Easier than loading crates.”

  Lars laughed. “I hear that.”

  Erik shoved an arm into his shirtsleeve and turned to face his companion.

  “You know, I’ve been around plasma mines a lot, but I still don’t know how they really work. I helped sappers lay them a couple of times, and I’ve seen them explode, but how do you set them off?”

  Lars grinned. “Several ways. These things are versatile.” He pulled his pants out of his locker and started putting them on. “You can set them for contact, so that pressure will set them off. If someone steps on one, he’s history. But—that’s the most dangerous way to use them, because recovering them can get hairy if you need to clear a minefield.

  “Another way is to string them together with wire, so that someone tripping over the wire will set off the entire string. That’s good for minefields in remote places, where the enemy isn’t expecting trouble. A third way is to set them for remote detonation—let’s say you’re watching the mines and you want to wait until the enemy is fully committed, then nail him—”

  “That’s mostly what we did,” Erik interjected. “When the Sirians came up the slopes, the sappers would wait until someone gave the order, then set them all off at once. Worked like a charm.”

  “Right.” Lars slipped into his shoes. “Finally, you can set them off with a pocket phone.”

  “Really?” Erik had never imagined that possibility.

  “Sure. You need to know the microchip code, but it’s really simple. There’s a little button next to the electronic lead, a tiny hole inset a couple of millimeters, sort of an eye. Push that in with a piece of wire until it pops, and then it’s set to receive a radio signal. Then, with your pocket phone, you key in the microchip number and push Send. That’s all it takes.”

  Erik slipped his woolen cap over his head, staring across the room.

  “Where do you find the microchip code?” he asked casually, as if the answer didn’t matter.

  Lars looked at him, suddenly suspicious.

  “Why are you asking all these questions, Erik? You planning a revolution?”

  Erik laughed. “In my dreams. Just curious, that’s all.”

  Lars finished tying his shoes.

  “The microchip code is assigned by lot number. Ten thousand units in a lot, they all use the same code. It’s imprinted on the bottom of the mine.”

  Chapter 18

  Thursday, 27 February, 0200 (PCC) – Soderstad, Vega 3

  Hans Norgaard strolled casually down a broken street in Soderstad, the southernmost city on Vega 3. The sun had just set and the air was cool after the heat of the day. Soderstad sat on a peninsula surrounded on three sides by water, so it never truly got hot, but the downtown area could get stuffy where the tall buildings blocked the breeze. Hans was still wearing civilian garb, his VE uniform too inflammatory for his present assignment. Norma Teasdale hung on his arm like a middle-aged lover. As long as one didn’t look too closely, she could pass for a Vegan, especially after dark.

  The smells of cooking fires drifted over him on the breeze; Soderstad was still a ruined city—the war had been over for three years, but the Sirians were taking their time at reconstruction. Nearly a million people still lived in the dark, or in shelters, or in crude shacks hammered together from bits of rubble. The city had been the scene of terrible fighting, the
first to be invaded by the Confederate army. Fighting had been street to street, house to house, and the Vegan Guard had been virtually wiped out, but at a terrible cost. The Confederacy’s experience in Soderstad had changed their approach to the invasion, causing them to avoid major cities and fight the Guard in the mountains.

  That had also been costly, but no other cities had been destroyed.

  “Is this the right street?” Norma asked as they turned down a littered avenue where most of the houses were missing windows, roofs, or both.

  “Yeah, I think so. My GPS says it is.”

  “Place looks like a fuckin’ jungle.”

  “It is. I wouldn’t want to walk around here unarmed.”

  “Or in uniform.”

  “Especially that.”

  Halfway down the block they spotted a house with a number hanging drunkenly by a screw. 4127. Hans stopped, his nerves beginning to hum.

  “This is it.”

  The house was quiet, the windows dark, but this was the address they’d been given. Hans glanced up and down the street—he saw the glow of a campfire a block away, and shadows everywhere, but no people. Norma gripped his arm.

  “Watcherass,” she suggested.

  Hans proceeded up the walk to the door, Norma hanging ten feet behind. She held a laser pistol at her side, invisible in the gloom. Hans tried the door plate, but it was dead. He knocked instead, five hard raps. He took a step back and waited. Through the window by the door, obliquely, he saw candlelight reflected in a mirror. Someone was home.

  He knocked a second time, and called out. This time he heard a crunching sound from inside, as if someone were stepping on broken glass.

  “Who is it?” The voice behind the door sounded young, cautious.

  “Hans Norgaard.”

  “Who?”

  “Hans Norgaard. Mr. Watanabe?”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name. What do you want here?”

  “I need to talk to you. Please open the door, it’s important.”

  He waited ten seconds, and finally heard a lock snap. The door creaked open a few inches and a face peered out, a young Asian man not more than twenty years old.