by John Bowers
“How do you know I will?”
“Because I know you better than you know yourself.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Is not.”
“Is, too.”
“Is not.”
“Is, too.”
“I can prove it.”
“No you can’t.”
“Can, too.”
“Okay, prove it.”
“You’re thinking about it right now.”
“I’m thinking about what right now?”
“You’re thinking about proposing. That’s what you really wanted to say tonight. You wanted to ask me to marry you.”
Nick’s eyes sprang wide. “How did you know?”
Suzanne smiled sweetly. “I already talked to Mildred.”
About the Author
John Bowers began his first “novel” at age 13. It took him nine months and was only 30,000 words, but he finished it. Before he graduated high school, he wrote four more. His teachers were convinced he was the next Hemingway, but it wasn’t to be.
Bowers was raised in a religious cult. Cults suppress creativity, demanding obedience and conformity. Though he wrote several more novels for fun, he never published them, and by the age of 30 he gave up writing entirely.
At age 44 he broke out of the cult, rediscovered his dream, and began writing again. He wrote a juvenile adventure for his children, and then began a science fiction novel. That novel became A Vow to Sophia, the first published book of The Fighter Queen saga.
Bowers is married and lives in California with his wife and three adult children. He is a computer programmer by profession, but a Born Novelist by birth.
The Fighter King
by John Bowers
Just before dusk on 29 April, the barrage stopped. Heads came up, eye contact was made, and Oliver's helmet radio sprang to life.
"Take your positions! Confederate infantry approaching!"
"Let's go!" Oliver shouted. "Into the trench! Let's go! Let's go! Pedersen! You're with me"
They boiled out of the bunker, spreading down the trench and taking up firing positions. The squad to their right was setting up a machine gun.
The trench was a wreck; entire sections had caved in, and what was still intact was littered with debris from the bombardment. As Oliver and Pedersen peered down the slope from the nearest firing post, bullets began to whiz past them. Oliver saw flashes of gunfire on the hillside opposite, and wondered how the Sirians had fared with the minefields.
"Keep your head down," he told Pedersen. "Don't give them a silhouette."
But he had to expose himself to get a look down the hillside, and saw a line of infantry moving upward, perhaps three hundred yards away. It was a skirmish line, ragged but unbroken. Too many to count, but it looked like at least a battalion. He put glasses to his eyes and muttered a curse.
"What?" Pedersen demanded, her dark eyes wide with fear. "What is it?"
"Serf troops," he told her.
"What's a serf troop?"
"Black, brown, oriental men. The Sirians use them in the front lines to soak up our fire. On Sirius they aren't even allowed to hold citizenship. They're treated worse than slaves. But out here they have to die for Sirius, to save the white troops."
"Why do they do it?"
"My guess is they don't have any choice. Probably their families are being held hostage."
Pedersen looked troubled. "So what do we do?"
Oliver lowered the glasses and pulled the arming lever on his Stockholm 12mm.
"We kill them."
Fire from the opposite hillside intensified. Oliver ordered his men to keep down until the last possible moment, then chinned his helmet radio.
"Lieutenant, this is Lincoln. Can you get some artillery on that slope across from us? We're taking small arms fire, and when that skirmish line gets here it's gonna get hot."
"Stay on the line, Lincoln. I'll see what I can do." Lundgren was gone for twenty seconds, then came back into Oliver's headset. "On the way. Let me know if you need it adjusted."
Before Oliver could reply, he heard a sound like the rustle of dry leaves rattle through the sky above him; the first salvo hit the hillside. It was a little short.
"Raise it fifty yards," he reported. "I mean, fifty meters."
Thirty seconds later, the second salvo landed.
"Drop ten meters and let 'em have it!" Oliver shouted.
The third salvo was right on target, and as shells began pouring into the hillside, the small arms fire died away.
"Now," Oliver said, "can you put something on that skirmish line?"
"We're monitoring that," Lundgren told him. "Don't worry about it."
Oliver looked down the slope again. The grade was steep, but climbable. Vegetation had been cleared to deny cover to the enemy, but there were depressions and occasional boulders. Even so, the Sirians making their way upward looked terribly exposed. They were only two hundred yards out now, still climbing. At the base of the gorge, Oliver saw another battalion getting ready. They would soon follow.
"When we open fire," he told Pedersen, "take your time and aim your shots. No need for full auto until they get closer. Got that? This is just like a rifle range."
"Except the targets can shoot back," she reminded him.
He grinned at her. "You'll do okay. Just remember your training."
Pedersen gazed down the slope at the oncoming Sirians and Oliver sensed her tension. He remembered his first real combat, and sympathized.
"Right now," he said, "it's best to keep your head down. Wait until they get closer."
"How much closer?"
"A hundred yards or less."
She heaved a deep sigh and settled down into the shelter of the firing post. Artillery still blossomed on the hillside opposite, and there was conversation over the helmet net, but otherwise the situation felt almost normal.
Oliver checked the rest of the squad. They were all veterans by now, and waited patiently, unhurried. Oliver quietly gave them instructions and they nodded.
The Sirians hit the first minefield; artillery had destroyed some of the mines, but most were still active. The skirmish line wavered as dozens of men died in fiery agony. Oliver peered through his glasses, saw their hesitation.
"Giordino! Four AP rounds into that line. Hit 'em where they're bunched up!"
Within seconds, Giordino placed four anti-personnel rockets into the Sirian line with deadly accuracy. The explosions further disrupted the Sirians, causing many to seek cover. Officers yelled and cursed to get them moving again. Oliver had noticed the officers earlier — they were all white. He wondered what infractions they had committed to get themselves assigned to a serf unit.
Now he laid his Stockholm on the edge and took careful aim. Without a scope it was a difficult shot, but not impossible. Just as the first cluster of serf troops began to struggle up the hillside again, Oliver took out the nearest officer, blowing off the top of his head. As the body landed heavily and skidded downhill, half the serf soldiers dived for cover again. They began firing up the slope, and bullets kicked along the edge of the trench.
Oliver ducked and waited. When the fire slacked off, he took another look and saw another officer kicking the frightened serfs to their feet. Before he finished the job, Oliver put a round through his heart. A few yards to the right a third officer was leading a platoon up the slope, and Oliver nailed him in the leg, felling him as the femur shattered and his thigh folded.
The Sirian advance stopped cold. At least a hundred men tried to go back, only to run into the minefield again. Trapped, they seemed uncertain what to do. Then the parabola guns began to hit, dropping thirty rounds a minute along the length of their line. Screams filled the gathering dusk, and Oliver truly felt sorry for the men on the slope. When the P-guns finally stopped, most were dead or dying, the rest scattered prone across the hillside, too demoralized to move.
But two hundred yards down the slope, another battalion was a
lready moving upward.
"Incoming!"
Oliver dragged Pedersen down with him as the first salvo of rockets slammed into the hillside. Heavy concussion and hot fragments hammered the Guardsmen in the bottom of the trench; Oliver tried to breathe through his mouth, and as wave after wave of rockets hammered the hillside, he became aware that Pedersen was screaming. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her tight, struggling for air as each nearby explosion seemed to constrict his lungs.
Someone was shouting in his helmet radio, but he couldn't make out the words. Only when the rockets suddenly stopped and he looked up did he realize what was happening.
"…sleds!" Lt Lundgren was shouting. "Infantry sleds! Fire at will!"
Oliver stumbled to his feet, bringing his rifle to bear. His ears still rang, but now the Sirian strategy was clear. As he shouted his squad to its feet, he saw at least twenty sleds hovering just yards below the trench; the rockets had been covering fire to allow them in close, and now Sirian infantry were leaping out and converging on the trench. Tripod lasers on the sleds were pouring condensed light into his men.
He heard someone scream.
Switching to full automatic, Oliver poured a stream of fire into the bottom of the nearest sled, only to see his bullets ricochet off its armored hull. Then the sleds skimmed away into the dusk, leaving behind dozens of enemy troops.
"First Squad! Open fire!"
The enemy clusters were only ten yards away, chugging up the slope like Olympians. Pedersen was already firing, pouring lethal streams of steel into the onrushing Sirians. Oliver joined her, switching magazines every few seconds. To his right and left the chatter of automatic weapons was deafening.
Just yards in front of the trench, men were falling in heaps, but more still struggled upward. Even so, it was clear the Vegans were winning. Just a few more to kill…
Something landed in front of Oliver with a thud, and then exploded. He felt himself flung backward as if by a giant fist, and crashed against the far side of the trench. Light flashed before his eyes, his head pounded, and for a moment he thought he was dead.
Just before his world went black, he could hear Pedersen still firing…
…and screaming.
Endlessly.
Starport
by John Bowers
Askos Queen – Orbit of Environ
Col. Oliver West stood on the bridge of Askos Queen, code named Troop 1, as the two starships orbited the planet of Environ. Askos Raven, code named Troop 2, was fifty miles to starboard on a parallel course. Raven was empty, its vast cargo bays available if needed. West hoped they wouldn’t be needed.
Capt. Mios, master of Askos Queen, stood a couple of feet to West’s left, his body tense as he watched the navigation holos on the bridge. Two pilots were seated six feet forward with similar holos in front of them, and the advantage of viewports so they could actually see where they were going. Mios was an experienced civilian spacer who could truthfully claim he’d made at least one run to every commercial port in the galaxy, though he was only forty-one years old. West had known him for years, personally and professionally. This wasn’t the first clandestine military operation Mios had been involved in.
So far everything had gone according to plan. Environ Space Traffic South had logged the flight plan and granted permission for execution, pointing out several spacecraft in the vicinity that the two merchants should watch out for; Environ space was crowded at all times and accidents were always a threat. West felt his arteries tingle as anticipation pumped adrenaline into his blood, but everything looked good. They had completed half their orbit, and were just crossing the dawn line over the planet, heading for the night side. In twenty minutes everything would begin to happen.
***
For two days Tyler Unruh had lived in the same cabin with Third Squad, First Platoon of Dragon Company. Now the cabin was empty. Everyone making the landing had moved down one deck to the modified cargo hold where fifteen landing craft waited to deliver them to the surface of Environ. Most of the men had already boarded and were belted securely into their boats, one platoon to each boat. A few officers and noncoms stood about outside the open hatches, reviewing last minute details, issuing final orders. Tyler stood beside landing Boat 9, feeling unaccountably nervous. Rocha stood beside him, trembling slightly.
“I guess you’re on your own, kid,” Rocha said with a grin. “From here on you won’t need me to babysit you anymore.”
Tyler nodded. “The colonel already told me. I’ll be okay.” He fell silent a moment, feeling a trifle guilty. “You be careful, okay?”
Rocha laughed, an explosive release of tension. “No problem. I’ve trained for this.” He clapped Tyler on the shoulder. “See you when I come back aboard. Thanks for behaving yourself.”
He turned and stepped through the open hatch and disappeared from sight.
Tyler looked around. He really shouldn’t be here, he thought, because when the time came to release the boats this deck would be depressurized, but he wanted to see as much as he could see. And it would be at least fifteen minutes before the boats departed. For just a brief, irrational moment, he almost wished he was going with them. There was something about them, a bond they shared, something fraternal—he’d never been a part of anything like that.
The group of officers and noncoms at the other end of the deck broke up and men started heading his way. It took Tyler a moment to recognize Cpl. Toews, all decked out in his helmet and combat gear. As always, the corporal looked severe, his head down, his lips compressed as he strode toward the boat next to Tyler. As he reached the hatch he noticed Tyler and stopped, staring at him a moment.
“You’d better clear this deck,” Toews said. “They’ll be depressurizing it soon.”
Tyler nodded. Toews turned to enter the hatch.
“Corporal!”
Toews turned back. Tyler stared at him, ill at ease.
“Look, Corporal—I just… I want to apologize for the other day. Almost running over you. I guess I was thinking about my own problems and had my head up my ass. I’m really sorry I scared you like that.”
Toews stared hard at him, then nodded abruptly. Without a word he disappeared through the hatch.
Tyler stared after him, feeling a little let down. Toews hadn’t even said “thanks”, or “forget it”. Nothing. Just a hard stare and a nod. Now he felt foolish for even making the apology, though he had done it sincerely. He shrugged and turned toward the lift at the end of the cargo hold. As Toews had said, it was time to clear out of here—he didn’t want to be around when the ship’s crew depressurized the hold.
He walked along the row of landers, fifteen of them sitting nose to tail, gleaming in the overhead lights. They would be released through a launch tube at the forward end, each boat advancing on a conveyer until it reached the exit. As each boat reached the tube it would be launched with compressed gas, and once clear of the ship would fire its own engines for a controlled descent to the planet below.
Tyler reached the lift and stepped inside. The door closed automatically and he pushed the button for Command Deck. Col. West had told him he could watch the launch from a small observation lounge just off the bridge. There wouldn’t be much to see, but in spite of the circumstances this was the most exciting thing Tyler had ever been a part of and he didn’t want to miss any of it.
The lift started to rise and Tyler looked at his watch. Ten minutes to launch. He had time.
Suddenly the ship’s engines fired, thrusting him against the side of the lift. His eyes widened in alarm—the ship was already in orbit, so why were the engines—
Twin hammers hit the starship with the loudest noise Tyler had ever heard. A giant hand slammed him into the side of the lift, crushing the air out of his lungs, and the lift began to spin wildly. Pinned and helpless, for the second time in four days Tyler Unruh was sure he was about to die.
***
Askos Queen crossed over the dark side of the planet, the s
un blotted out by the orb of Environ. Col. West felt his blood pressure increase slightly as the big moment approached. Askos Raven was still in position to their right, and would soon be jumping to hyperspace. The chief pilot was talking to STC South as if Queen were also going to jump.
“Environ Traffic South, Askos Queen; preparing for hyperspace in four minutes.”
“Roger, Askos Queen, copy four minutes. Trajectory lane is clear, nothing inbound.”
“Thank you, South. Askos Queen.”
West glanced at his watch. At the same moment, he felt Mios tense beside him. Mios was staring intently at a holo-screen that displayed air traffic inside the atmosphere. West looked and for a moment saw nothing out of order…
“What is that?” he murmured a second later. Two pinpoints of light seemed to be rising straight up at incredible speed; a flashing collision warning followed them as the onboard navigation radar determined their projected course—if nothing changed, they would intersect with Askos Queen in less than a minute. West felt his mouth turn dry.
“They’re going too fast for manned spacecraft,” Mios replied, his voice almost detached, as if his mind were on other things. “Got to be intercept missiles. Mach Six at least.”
“Kristopher Krist!”
“Environ Traffic South!” Mios shouted over an open channel, “Askos Queen. We are detecting what looks like two intercept missiles rising from the surface on a convergent course! Please identify and advise!”
Mios’s tongue traced his lips rapidly as he stared at the glowing radar images on the holo. They were coming closer, and fast. West remained silent, a thousand thoughts cycling through his mind. Of all the things that could go wrong with this mission, this was one he hadn’t even considered.
“Captain, shall I take evasive action?” the pilot shouted.
“Stand by!” Mios ordered.
“Askos Queen, Environ South—I don’t know where the hell they came from, but they do look military in nature. Take evasive action! Repeat, evasive action! I’m trying to raise Environ Defense Net, but you better get out of there now!”