by John Bowers
North American Holo News operated out of an office building just off the Central Plaza of downtown New Birmingham, Missibama. The building was owned and managed by the Confederate government, which licensed foreign journalism and kept close tabs on its activities. Housed in the same building were six other Terran news agencies, one from Vega, and two from Alpha Centauri. Sirius offered no first-amendment rights, especially to off-worlders, and wasn't shy about placing restrictions on investigative reporters.
Victoria Lincoln waved at the unsmiling Confederate guard in the lobby as she left the building at sunset. Out on the street the sidewalks were crowded as the heat of the day dissipated. Like Christmas back home, she thought, except this was a normal workday. She saw tourists, families, but mostly men — white males from the suburbs, already in the city for the night's carnal activities.
She took a deep breath, trembling lightly from a mixture of fear and anticipation. She'd been on Sirius a year and a half, knew the risks, and the price of failure. But nothing could dissuade her from what she was about to do.
Tony Colombini had tried.
"This is crazy, Vic!" he'd told her just minutes ago. "If you get caught, don't you know …"
"Tony." She put a finger to his lips. "Shh."
He subsided unhappily, staring at her with his dark eyes.
"You want me to go with you?"
"Are you nuts? One person they might not notice, but two people they will notice."
"You shouldn't do this."
She gave him a brave smile, one she didn't feel.
"My daddy told me the same thing when I became a journalist. Don't worry. I'm a big girl now."
"That's the part that scares me. If you were a man, they'd just shoot you. But with you, that'll come several weeks later."
In spite of her outward confidence in Tony's presence, she still felt queasy, almost guilty.
She strolled leisurely through the crowds on the way to the tube station. As Sirius A sank lower, the breeze whipped up, twisting down the canyon-like streets of the capital. Smells assailed her — hot shrimp and red-meat barbecue, the distinctive exhaust from hovercars, a whiff of Vegan perfume.
Victoria glanced to her right as she passed a slave shop. A sign in the window advertised a sale. A pretty serf woman stood by the door, sexy in a skimpy, shiny, too-tight dress, her face painted like a whore. She was dark complected, her racial mixture exotic and indefinable, her ankle shackled to an iron ring embedded in the sidewalk. Two adolescent white boys stood beside her, trading comments about her body, occasionally poking her breasts. The woman's expression remained blank.
Victoria looked away.
The tube station was crowded as usual, but Victoria wormed her way aboard a capsule and settled into a seat staring out at the tiled platform, her body rigid with a sense of destiny. Nervous tension congealed in her veins, impeding her pounding heart; in spite of her bravado with Tony, she wondered if she were making a fatal mistake.
The warning bell sounded, the recorded voice intruded on her thoughts.
"Departure in fifteen seconds. All seated, all secured. Please remain seated until the capsule stops. Departure in ten seconds."
Victoria braced herself. With a final warning, the capsule rattled and jerked, propelled toward the insertion point. She closed her eyes and swallowed. The capsule paused, a final warning was given, and with a rising hiss of compressed air the capsule trembled.
Then it fired. Victoria was thrust back into her seat as the vehicle shot into the tube and stabilized. She caught her breath again and glanced at her watch.
Traver Ranch, Missibama, Sirius 1
She left the capsule at the Traver Ranch station, ninety miles from New Birmingham. The trip had taken twelve minutes.
The tube station was deserted; not even a ticket terminal was visible, as the rare passenger from TR generally paid in advance or upon arrival at destination. Victoria climbed the starcrete steps to the surface and looked around.
Traver Ranch was a small town on the edge of cattle country, mainly a supply depot for farmers, with a few dozen homes for merchants and their families. Victoria breathed deeply of the country air, scented with cattle dust and the distinctive sage weed native to the area. It reminded her of home.
She knew she looked out of place here, dressed for the city in a full skirt and high heels, her long brown hair waving in the wind, earrings dangling from her lobes. She should have gone to her apartment and changed, but there hadn't been time. Her contact had insisted on an early meet.
Down the single street she spied a cantina, an oasis of light and noise, dusty hoversleds parked outside. The Sirian version of country music jangled from inside, accompanied by bawdy laughter. The shops along the street looked deserted; it was now fully dark. She took a moment to insert a single night-vision contact into her left eye. It should enable her to see in the dark without blinding her from the cantina's lights.
She walked in that direction, feeling her skin crawl as she imagined unfriendly eyes peering out from behind darkened storefronts. She barely remembered to turn on her bug detector, in case any electronic surveillance modules were following her. The indicator came up negative.
She breathed a sigh of relief. One less thing to fear. The battery light was flashing, so she turned the machine off — she might need it later.
Victoria was still a block from the cantina when a hand closed around her arm, pulling her into a narrow alley between two buildings. For just an instant her heart froze with terror, her mouth sprang open to scream — then she heard the most welcome words of her life.
"Shh! It's Charley Main."
Victoria sagged against the faded building, hot and cold flashes alternating through her blood stream.
"God!" she whispered, panting with relief. "You scared the living shit out of me!"
"Sorry, Mistress." Charley Main released her arm and took a step back. His face was indistinguishable in the darkness, but Victoria had met him before. He was a serf in his late sixties, his black face weathered by years in the sun, his longish hair kinky and grey. He wore rumpled pants and a stained shirt, rubber irrigation boots on his feet, looking as if he'd just walked out of a cotton field. Victoria could smell his dried sweat.
She got herself under control and fished in her purse, passed him an envelope containing cash. He stashed it in a pocket without counting it. She swallowed down her excess adrenaline and waited expectantly.
"It's everything you thought," he said quietly, his voice deep but barely audible. "Vegan choir girls, all of 'em missin'. 'Cept for the dead ones at the crash site. An' they all been abused."
"What's the KK doing about it?"
"Nothin'. Coverin' it up. Nobody allowed to see the crash site, no pictures released. Public don't know nothin' about it. They got the news media shut down on this one. Them that know ain't allowed to speak of it. Jis' like yew."
"The girls were scheduled to perform in New Angeles next. How can they not be missed?"
"Concert's been canceled. Story is the girls come down sick. Stomach flu. Had to send the whole passel back to Vega."
Victoria shook her head. "But — when they don't return home, what then? Vega will demand answers. It'll be an interstellar incident. Why would they deliberately provoke the Vegans?"
Charley Main looked over his shoulder, down the alley, then lowered his voice still more.
"Cause that ain't all, Mistress. That ain't nearly all."
He talked for two minutes without interruption. His words gave Victoria a chill. When he finished, she could only stare at his silhouette for long seconds. Finally she found her voice.
"How — how do you know all this? How can you possibly know?"
The old man shrugged.
"I know people, and they know people. W'ite folk don't think twice about talkin' in front of a serf; we jist furniture to them. But I never give you bad dope before, did I?"
She shook her head numbly. She'd met him in a variety of places, ne
ver the same place twice. He'd appeared in various disguises, always surprising her.
"No," she admitted. "You never did."
"That's it, Mistress," he said gently. "I gots to go now."
Victoria closed her eyes, trying hard to think. There had to be an explanation. This couldn't be true.
"Wait!" she whispered.
But he had already gone, melted into the night.
Victoria edged out to the street and looked toward the cantina again. The same bawdy noises emitted from the place, but no one was in sight. She turned and walked quickly back toward the tube station.
* * *
In the alley where she'd met Charley Main, unseen and unheard, a small metallic insect floated ten feet above the ground. Hovering. Until Victoria was out of sight.
Then it turned and streaked off after Charley Main.
Chapter 3
Marlow Plantation, Texiana, Sirius 1
The venison was superb, charbroiled over native Sirian wood with an aroma similar to mesquite and served with vegetables from the Marlow plantation. They ate on the veranda, which offered a stunning view of the river and fields beyond. As dusk fell, night creatures began to sing, chirp, and buzz. The sky changed colors as darkness approached, turning the river that flowed endlessly past the plantation house into molten metal. An elderly black man in a liveried uniform attended the meal. As the dessert dishes were cleared away, Brandon poured brandy for each of them.
"That was incredible!" Oliver told him. "Best food I've eaten in years!"
"We aim to please." Brandon passed a glass to Oliver. Lifting his own, he offered a toast. "To success with the Ministry of Defense."
"Hear-hear." Oliver tipped his glass and savored the fruity liquor as it flowed across his palate. Leaning back in his chair, he felt a rare contentment as he admired the surroundings.
"How big a spread do you have here?" he asked, sweeping an arm at the farmland across the river.
"Just under sixty thousand acres."
"Good god!"
Brandon smiled, but shook his head.
"Not as big as it sounds. Some of the plantations in this part of the country are several times bigger than we are. But it's a living."
"What do you grow?"
"Twenty different row crops; cotton, wheat, cattle — we have something in the ground or on the land year round."
"How big a staff does it take to operate this place?"
"Several thousand, mostly serfs. I don't know all the details — it's mostly my daddy's farm. I have a piece of the action, but farming isn't my thing. When the old man goes I'll probably hire a manager to run it for me."
Oliver shook his head in wonder. In spite of Brandon's modesty, sixty thousand acres was clearly a major operation.
"Well, it's really a beautiful spot here," he said. "I could get used to it."
"Hell, I sort of liked where you live. Colorado, Rocky Mountains, mansion on a mountain top."
Oliver shrugged.
"When you get back from New Birm, I'll show you all the sights. Then we'll run into New Angeles for some night action. Maybe we'll go hunting again. I'm glad you brought that old rifle with you. I swear I didn't know anybody could shoot like that, without laser sighting and smart ammunition."
Oliver laughed. "All that stuff just takes the fun out of it. The real thrill is when you hit the target all by yourself, without any help from modern technology."
"Remind me never to get you mad at me."
"Forget it. I'm a pacifist. I could never kill a human being. It just isn't in me."
"Sure you could. Anybody could, given the right circumstances."
Oliver shook his head. "No way," he said doggedly. "There's no justification for killing. Ever."
Brandon laughed. "A pacifist who sells military hardware! Unbelievable!"
They chatted on for a half-hour, taking the brandy down to half a bottle. Oliver's eyes grew heavy and he yawned.
"Hang on there, ol' buddy," Brandon cautioned. "You can't pass out on me yet. I got one more treat for you tonight."
Oliver sat up straight and blinked, forcing himself alert. Brandon signaled for the old man.
"Jeeter!"
The elderly serf appeared at the end of the table.
"Yes suh?"
"Bring Tascha here, will you?"
"Yes, suh."
Jeeter moved away and Oliver stirred with curiosity. Brandon was grinning wolfishly.
"I remember you at Berkeley, Ollie," he said. "Different girl every night. I think you screwed the entire female half of the student body."
Oliver laughed. "Only the gold diggers. The nice girls wouldn't even talk to me."
A young woman approached them, her long hair straying in the evening breeze. Backlit by the torches that flickered along the veranda’s edge, her face was in shadow, but her figure was willowy and memorable. She stopped beside Brandon and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Ollie, this is Tascha. She’s a nice girl and she doesn’t even know what a gold digger is.”
Oliver stared at her in awe, catching a whiff of exotic perfume.
"Good god!" he whispered. "Is she a slave?"
"Don't concern yourself with that. And before your Puritan morality kicks in, just remember — when in Rome…"
Brandon stood and slid his hand down the girl’s back.
"You know where your room is, right?" he asked Oliver. "I'll see you in the morning. Have fun."
Brandon headed into the house; Oliver pulled himself to his feet and approached the girl.
She stood perfectly still, gazing into his eyes as he looked down at her. Up close, he was amazed at her exotic features. Her skin was white, or nearly so, but her face was definitely oriental. High cheekbones, full lips, straight nose. Her green eyes were almond-shaped, her waist-length hair the color of straw. Oliver gazed in awe at her beauty.
"My name is Oliver," he said at last.
"I am Tascha," she told him, her husky voice barely audible. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, then put her arms around his neck, smiling seductively. “I will show you a good time tonight.”
“Are you a slave?” he asked quietly.
“I am here willingly.” She tilted her head. “Do you like me?”
He nodded drunkenly. “Yeah, I do.”
"I am here for you. I wish only to please you."
She kissed him again, and whatever reservations he might have had melted away. He took Tascha by the hand and led her into the house.
Chapter 4
Friday, 29 May, 0195 (PCC) — New Birmingham, Missibama, Sirius 1
The next morning Brandon dropped Oliver off at the shuttleport in New Angeles, where he caught a rocket for New Birmingham, thirty-five hundred miles away. Ninety minutes later he stepped into a hover cab for the short hop to the Sirian Capitol Complex.
The midmorning was hot and still; Oliver was from Colorado, where the rarified air remained comparatively cool even as the sun burned the skin. Here it was oppressive, with two suns above the horizon. In a few weeks the planet would virtually shut down as Sirian Summer descended in all its blazing fury, a phenomenon caused by the planet orbiting between binary stars. Oliver had heard of it, but hoped never to experience it — he'd be long gone by then.
The Capitol Complex was magnificent. Situated on a hill overlooking the city, it consisted of massive marble structures reminiscent of Ancient Greece and Rome; the Presidential Palace to the right, the High Court to the left, and in the center the Hall of Parliament. The grounds were extensive and inspiring, acres of manicured lawns, tall trees, fountains, frescoes, statues — everything so perfect it almost looked like a model.
The Ministry of Defense was located in a subbasement of the Parliament building, and Oliver found it after only a brief search. He presented his starpass to the clerk and stated his business. Fifteen minutes later he was ushered into the office of the Minister.
"Mah name is Baker, Mr. Lincoln," the Minister said in a lazy drawl. "Ah'
m awful happy to make yore acquaintance. Won't yew sit down?"
Baker was short, shriveled, sunburned, and not more than forty-five. He wore a light blue suit with a string tie, making Oliver feel as if he were back in Colorado, or perhaps Texas. They shook hands and Oliver settled into a comfortable chair in front of a wide, polished desk made from a native wood that might have been mahogany, except it was green.
"Somethin' to drink? Coffee? Juice? Maybe a shot of Lightnin'?" Baker's eyes twinkled.
"I'm fine, thanks," Oliver said, feeling unaccountably nervous. "I had coffee on the rocket coming over from Texiana."
"Well, that's good, then. Tell me, how's yore daddy? I haven't seen him in three, four year' now."
"He's doing fine, sir. Said to give you his regards."
"He's a good man. Builds a fine product, too. Yew look a lot like him. Yew enjoyin' yore stay on Sirius?"
"Yes, sir, very much. I'm staying with a friend I met at college back home. His family has a plantation near New Angeles. We've been catching up, did a little hunting, and he introduced me to Lightning."
Baker laughed. "So yew've already tried it! How'd yew like it?"
"I couldn't breathe after the first shot, then I learned how to sip. After that it was okay."
Baker laughed again, a cordial guffaw that set Oliver at ease in spite of the official surroundings.
"Sounds like yew're stayin' with the right people." He sat back then, crossed his legs, and nodded. "So, what kin Ah do for yew?"
Oliver shifted in his chair and cleared his throat, gazing at Baker's cowboy boots.
"My dad has made me liaison to the Confederacy for the fighter contract. Basically, I wanted to meet you, get a feel for what your needs are, and see if there's anything I can do for you. We value your business and want to make sure you remain a satisfied customer."
Baker nodded. "Yew came at a good time. Jist this week the Parl'ament authorized an expansion of our fighter fleet. We're gonna raise six new squadrons in the next year, and we'll be lookin' for more ships to outfit 'em. That means a hundred and twenty fighters, plus about thirty more for spares. And I 'spect we'll need at least two dozen more to beef up our trainin' units. That's about a hundred an' seventy-five ships, plus spare parts. Think yew kin handle that?"