The Sword of Sophia

by John Bowers

  “Vegan Elite Guards?” Brandon scowled.

  “Yes, sir. It’s a new service—”

  “I know what it is. I just haven’t met any VEs yet.”

  The woman had been piloting the hovercar. Now she stepped onto the sidewalk and also saluted.

  “Sergeant Norma Teasdale,” she said.

  Brandon nodded and she dropped her arm. She was clearly a Sirian woman, and the uniform looked natural enough on her.

  “So what’s this about?” he demanded.

  “I’ve been assigned to find the terrorist, sir,” Hans Norgaard said.

  Brandon looked him up and down skeptically. “Really! And what genius gave you that assignment?”

  The young Vegan hesitated, put off by Brandon’s hostility.

  “Uh, my commanding officer, sir. Colonel Vetter.”

  “Colonel Vetter. Never heard of him. Doesn’t exactly sound like a Vegan name.”

  “No, sir. He’s—”

  “Major,” Norma Teasdale cut in, “Lieutenant Norgaard knows the people and the culture. He’s a Vegan himself, so—”

  “At ease, Sergeant,” Brandon sighed. “Just for the record, I’m in charge of this investigation, but I’ll take all the help I can get.” He glanced at the upstart Vegan in the fancy ebony uniform. “From anyone and everyone.”

  With the tension abated, they began to compare notes. Four facilities had been destroyed, all of them at approximately the same time.

  “I think it’s obvious the weapon was plasma,” Brandon said. “Question is, how did the perpetrator get away? Plasma grenades are too powerful for use in the city. The only proper way to use them is in the field where you can duck into a hole after throwing one. Out here, in the open like this, whoever tossed it should have been fried along with his target.”

  Hans Norgaard was silent a moment.

  “It wasn’t a grenade,” he said.

  Brandon eyed him closely. “How do you know that?”

  “Four buildings were destroyed all at once, all of them several blocks apart. It would take four people to do that using grenades.”

  Brandon’s eyebrows lifted—the kid was right.

  “So what was it? A plasma mine?”

  “Yes, sir. Possibly.”

  Brandon considered that for a moment.

  “I guess that makes sense. Mines can be triggered remotely. But…who in the hell would have a goddamn plasma mine?”

  “Could be ex-military, Major. Ex Vegan Guard.”

  Brandon grimaced. “Only about ten thousand suspects, then,” he grunted. “Even so, how many men bring plasma mines home from the war?”

  Hans Norgaard stared at him a moment, his sky-blue eyes widening slowly.

  “Maybe someone works in a munitions factory,” he said slowly. “There’s only one in the city.”

  Brandon’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at the upstart.

  “NordTek,” he said.

  * * *

  Valyn’s fingernails scratched across the surface of Col. Royer’s desk as she clenched her teeth to keep from crying out. Royer was particularly brutal this morning, as if working off extra tension, or perhaps anger. The pain was like a hot iron piercing her belly, and it was taking him twice as long as usual. She closed her eyes and squeezed out tears of pain, sucking air through her teeth, unable to silence the grunts he forced out of her.

  Then, finally, it was over—Royer stepped back and wiped his face with a handkerchief. Valyn stood up unsteadily, wobbled, and caught herself, panting against her dizziness.

  “Dismissed,” Royer said, buckling his belt; she hurried out of the office without a word.

  She went straight to the ladies’ room and threw up, gagging repeatedly for five minutes, until her head cleared and she could think straight again. This was by far the worst incident, even worse than the first time, and she felt a deep, burning anger in her chest. It was bad enough being abused simply because she was Vegan, but Royer had been punishing her for something, something not even her fault. She suspected it had to do with last night’s bombings.

  She washed her face in the sink, dried it, then began repairing her makeup with shaking hands. She half expected Jule to come in and comfort her, but Jule didn’t show. Tension was high in the office this morning and even Jule seemed subdued.

  Valyn returned to her desk, queasy and trembling. It was still two hours until noon, and she had work to do. She struggled to focus, to get her mind back in the game. It was a little like slave labor, she reflected—take your beating then go back to work. No chance to rest, no chance to recover. Just numb your mind and gut it out.

  She was getting tired of gutting it out. She was starting to get really angry. She narrowed her eyes as she peered at her terminal, but her mind drifted back to last night, when Erik had set off the bombs. She had seen him do it, not really understanding what he was up to until she saw the flashes. Those brilliant flashes had brought it home to her, that he really was the terrorist—or what the Sirians considered a terrorist; until that very moment it had all been talk, as if they were discussing a role in a holovid. The whole thing had been rather vague and abstract, not completely real. But those explosions underscored what he was telling her, that by associating with him she was in danger.

  It frightened her, more than a little. She’d slept poorly, haunted by dreams, and gone to work this morning feeling gritty and tired.

  Then Royer had called her in.

  Now she was angry. More angry than she had been since it all started. She was glad Erik was bombing the bastards, killing them by the dozen—office gossip said that forty-three soldiers were killed by the four bombs, and she had seen it happen. Good! Too bad it hadn’t been forty-three thousand.

  She shook her head briefly and concentrated on the merge file in front of her. As she began the file integration, she stared at the data, reading it, and felt her blood pressure rise a little. This was bad. This was worse than anything she had seen yet. She should tell Erik about this! He would know what to do. This was important.

  But Erik didn’t want to contact her any more. It was too dangerous for her.

  But right now, after what Royer had just done…she didn’t care.

  * * *

  Erik Norgaard was bending over his conveyer belt, head down, concentrating on his job. Plastic donut, explosive core, snap, snap, next. Plastic donut, explosive core, snap, snap, next. The routine was monotonous, but not difficult. It was impossible to make a mistake. Another department had built the components, all he had to do was snap them together. Simple, mindless work. Plenty of time to think of other things. Erik’s mind was racing.

  He had taken a major step this morning, after leaving Valyn’s apartment. If the Vegan public believed in the stupid Sword of Sophia prophecy, who was he to take it away from them? What he did he did for himself and those he had lost, but if others drew hope from it, or even a sense of vengeance, then so be it. He would be their Sword of Sophia. He was already as deep as he could get, so it cost him nothing extra to gratify their desires.

  What he needed now was another target. The boarding houses had been easy, vulnerable, unprotected—but not anymore. Now the Sirians would be watching everything through a magnifying lens. What he really wanted was a barracks filled with troops, maybe as many as a thousand, but that was virtually impossible. Those places were guarded just like any other military base, with armed sentries on duty at all hours. Walking past a house on the street and surreptitiously pitching a plasma mine so that it sank beneath the snow next to the building had been a walk in the park, but that wouldn’t work at a regular barracks. He would have to be more creative.

  Loud voices outside the assembly room caught his attention, and heads jerked up. Erik spun around, forgetting the conveyer, to peer through the window into the main warehouse. To his surprise, he saw twenty Confederate soldiers with rifles ready, spreading across the floor. Two men and a woman in ebony uniforms strolled almost casually behind them, peering around as if expecti
ng to find a stash of illegal drugs. Adam Pedersen was descending a ladder from an overhead catwalk, his diplomatic face in place, but Erik noted the furrow in his brow.

  The conveyer belt stopped—everyone in the room was watching through the window. Barely a moment later two soldiers entered the room, one from each end, rifles ready.

  “Awright, nobody move!” one of them barked. “Keep yewr hands where I kin see ‘em! Just sit tight.”

  Erik and eight others did exactly that, remaining motionless while gazing at the intruders with wide eyes.

  “What’s this about?” Erik asked, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.

  “Yew’ll find out, pig fucker! No talking!”

  Erik shrugged and peered out the window again. He watched the two SE men talking to Pedersen, saw Pedersen gesturing as he answered questions. One of the SE men turned to look in Erik’s direction, and his scalp tingled as he realized it wasn’t an SE man at all—it was his own brother. His heart beat a little faster.

  The conversation outside lasted a good ten minutes, then Pedersen began calling his warehouse personnel together, giving them instructions. The woman and a dozen soldiers stayed with Pedersen as the two ebony-clad officers strolled toward the assembly room. A moment later a tall Sirian officer stepped through the door, followed by Hans. Lars Thomasen, the assembly line supervisor, moved forward to meet them.

  “So what are you doing in this room?” the SE man asked innocently.

  Hans made eye contact with Erik, grinned slightly, and walked over to his stool.

  “Nothing to worry about,” he said. “Just routine.”

  “Routine, my ass. What’s going on, Hans?”

  Hans maintained the grin but avoided his eyes.

  “You probably heard about last night’s attacks? We think the devices might have been plasma mines. And this is the only place north of Sophiastad that makes them.”

  Erik nodded slowly, as if trying to digest that.

  “Surely there must be warehouses where the stuff is stored? Maybe it’s one of your own people. Have you considered that?”

  Hans looked at him in surprise—obviously he had not considered that.

  “A Sirian blowing up other Sirians? What are the odds of that?”

  “You’re telling me there are no malcontents in the Confederate Army? We had our share in the Guard.”

  Hans shook his head. “Confederate discipline is quite a bit harsher than Vegan,” he said. “Anyone who did something like that would be looking at a firing squad.”

  Erik shrugged. “Somebody who thinks he has nothing to lose wouldn’t let that stop him.”

  Before Hans could reply, the SE man pulled to a stop beside him.

  “Find something, Lieutenant?”

  Hans turned slightly red.

  “Major Marlow, this is my brother, Erik Norgaard. He works here.”

  Erik turned his eyes on the major, who gazed steadily back with clear grey eyes.

  “You look mighty fit,” the major said. “Vegan Guard?”

  Erik nodded. “Fifth Royal Infantry.”

  Marlow pursed his lips, impressed. “Regular Guard. Ever work with the sappers?”

  Erik smiled, but his eyes remained cold.

  “I helped lay a minefield or two.”

  “So you know about plasma mines.”

  “Until I came to work here, I had no idea what was inside them. I still don’t know how they work.”

  “You don’t know how to set one off?”

  “Not a clue. Somehow you string them together and when somebody steps on one, the whole bunch goes off. I saw that in combat, but other than that…” He spread his hands.

  The major regarded him a moment longer without expression.

  “Where were you last night around eleven?” he asked quietly.

  “Making love to a beautiful woman.”

  Maj. Marlow allowed himself a thin smile. “What’s her name?”

  Erik lifted his right hand and flexed his fingers. “I forgot to ask.”

  The major’s eyes glinted slightly, whether with amusement or irritation Erik wasn’t sure. He nodded.

  “Nice meeting you, Mr. Norgaard. Lieutenant?”

  He turned away, and Hans, with an apologetic smile to Erik, followed.

  The line remained shut down the rest of the day. Soldiers and civilians were put to work popping open crates, counting components, and conducting a general inventory of the entire facility. Physical counts were compared against production reports, quality control rejects, and shipping documents. At the end of the day, every single plasma mine was accounted for, including all the components that hadn’t been assembled yet. The Sirians withdrew, and NordTek heaved a collective sigh.

  “Good Goddess on the mountain!” Adam Pedersen said when they were gone. “Let’s hope we never have to go through that again.”

  * * *

  Kelly Nobel was on the air early, with full SE approval, talking about the midnight attacks. Erika Sebring sat in her office and reviewed the raw feeds, looking for an angle. On a corner of her desk, a holoviewer carried Kelly’s report.

  Erika listened with half an ear—nothing Kelly was saying was anything she didn’t already know, but there might be something in the raw footage that had been overlooked. Another reporter had done the on-site report, but she was ready for a follow-up if she could find anything worthwhile. After several minutes she put that aside and turned to her v-mail.

  There was the usual assortment of stuff, including inter-office memos, viewer fan mail, and general bullshit. She scanned through them quickly, replying when required, saving or deleting others. Then she came to item number eleven on the list. The tag line said simply SWORD.

  Erika opened the item and read it. Her heart began to thunder in her chest, and for just a moment she felt alternating hot and cold flashes. Her breath became short and she sat back in her chair, staring numbly at the terminal. This might be a hoax, but she didn’t think so:

  The Sword of justice is loose in Reina. The invader is being torn asunder. The killings will continue until the invader is defeated. Let all those who rape and plunder the Vegan people be on notice: the Sword will find you. Your days are numbered.

  Succinct and to the point. The v-mail was signed:

  THE SWORD OF SOPHIA

  Erika sat absolutely still for five minutes, her mind racing. Steinbach would never approve of this being reported—she knew that. She also knew this was something the Vegan people desperately needed to know. She no longer believed in Sophia or the cult, but she was well aware of the prophecy, and secretly approved of what the bomber was doing. She couldn’t admit that, of course, but whoever this guy was, he was taking vengeance on the Sirians for five years of rape, murder, slavery, and the destruction of millions of lives. How could she fail to approve? How could any Vegan fail to approve?

  She also knew that tens of millions of Vegans did believe in the prophecy, and this information would give them a morale boost as nothing else could. Somehow she had to get it on the air, with or without SE approval…

  And damn the consequences.

  * * *

  “I think that Major Marlow likes yew.”

  Norma Teasdale peeled off her bra and tossed it on the pile that included her uniform and undergarments. She turned to face Hans and moved slowly, enticingly, toward him. He gazed at her nude body with his customary youthful fascination, gulping slightly as he had the very first time she seduced him.

  Norma loved this assignment—one of the drawbacks of being in the SE was that, as a woman, she was compelled to submit to whatever superior officer fancied her; that wasn’t always a bad thing, unless the man was an absolute pig, but it kept her in her place. SE or not, a woman on Sirius was always subordinate to the male. Being in the SE gave her a little more control over that aspect of her life.

  But not many assignments like this one came along. Hans Norgaard was the most beautiful boy she’d ever seen in her life. As a Vegan, he had
inherited the same genetic engineering that made the women so popular, and the results were incredible. It truly was a pity that Vega had resisted the invasion, forcing the Confederacy to kill a quarter million beautiful young men like this one. Thank God this one had been too young to fight.

  She slid her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss, then pulled back and rubbed her hands over his bare chest. She was pretty sure he would rather have been with a woman of his own kind, but he had signed up and taken the oath, so he was hers for as long as her orders remained in effect. And she would devour him at every opportunity.

  And whatever went on in his mind when they were together, his body was young and virile and responded to the stimulus…that was all she needed.

  “You think so?” he asked breathlessly as she sucked at one of his nipples.

  “I’m purty sure of it,” she whispered. “He was impressed that yew figured out it was mines and not grenades. That went a long ways with him.”

  She pushed him back across the narrow bunk in their tiny barracks room. Hans was the only VE man in the entire barracks, and as such rated his own private quarters—with his training officer.

  Hans shivered as she straddled him, his breath coming in ragged gasps. She sucked at his earlobe while twining his blond hair in her bony fingers. She began to move slowly, holding him down, making him wait for it. Technically he was an officer, but the VE was subordinate to the SE, so she was in charge even though she was only a sergeant. In a very real sense he had to obey her every command, and she took full advantage of that.

  She drew it out for twenty minutes, driving him to the heights of desire. He gripped her hips and held on, trying to hurry her, but she maintained her pace. When she finally brought him to climax he was so tense he almost whiplashed, and the breath exploded out of him like a punctured balloon. He lay gasping weakly, completely naked and helpless, his eyes glazed and his body limp. She bent over and kissed him on the forehead, then the lips. She placed her hands on his shoulders and gazed down at him, her eyes intense.

  “Yew’re a-gonna go far in this business,” she said. “But there’s one more thing yew haven’t done yet, and yew’re a-gonna haff to do it.”