by John Bowers
Lincoln turned away from the window and settled into his office chair.
"What's up?" he asked.
"I need to go to Vega."
Lincoln's eyes narrowed. "What the hell for?"
Oliver sucked a deep breath and let it out slowly. He'd known he would meet resistance, but was ready for it.
"Victoria's death wasn't an accident," he said. "She was murdered by the Sirian KK."
"The KK? You mean the state police?"
"Yes."
"What makes you say that?"
Oliver briefly filled him in on the events of the night Victoria died. Lincoln sat immobile until he finished.
"You sure about this? How do you know she was right about Sirian invasion plans? Maybe her source was fucking her over for money."
"She told me he'd never once been wrong."
"Always a first time."
"Dad …"
"I think it's a stretch."
"Victoria's dead!"
"Yes, because the lift failed. An accident."
"Anti-grav lifts don't fail!"
"Any technology can fail."
"I did a Solar-Net search last night. I went back fifty years, and I didn't find a single case where it ever happened."
"Did you include Sirius in your search?"
"No, but …"
"Maybe their workmanship is substandard. They can't build a decent space fighter, maybe they can't build a decent A-G lift, either."
"Bullshit! A-G lifts do not fail! They have redundancies out the ass!"
"What's all this got to do with going to Vega?"
Oliver sighed in exasperation. "The Sirians are going to inv …"
"You don't know that."
"Yes I do!"
"No you don't!"
"Goddammit, Henry Wells confirmed it!"
Oliver Lincoln II blinked. "How does he know?"
"He's a congressional aide. He has access to classified stuff."
"And he's giving it to you? That would be the end of his career, even if he stayed out of prison."
"He didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. I asked him point-blank and he didn't deny it. Nothing more than that."
Lincoln sat silent, staring at his son.
"Dad, they're going to use our fighters to launch an invasion against a peaceful world. I don't know how you feel about that, but it bothers the hell out of me."
"What do you want me to do? Ask the Sirians to give the fighters back? I'm sure they'll all be returned by the end of the week."
"There's nothing we can do about the fighters we've already sold them, but we can damn sure refuse to sell them any more. No more fighters, no more spare parts."
"And you were planning to make a living how?"
Oliver scowled. He hated his dad's sarcastic nature.
"I'm not worried about the distant future right now," he said. "I'm thinking we should approach the Vegan Guard and offer them a deal. Henry says …"
"Are you out of your mind? If what you say is true, they're about to be invaded! If they get their ass kicked, which they probably will, we'll never make a dime on a deal like that!"
Oliver felt his face heating up. He fought his rising anger.
"Is that all that's important to you?" His voice was shaking. "Money?"
"Somebody has to worry about money around here!" Lincoln retorted, "if you're ever going to get an inheritance! Look, the Federation isn't giving us any business and neither is anyone else. Except for the Sirians. If I break trust with them, I might as well shut this facility down."
"We are a defense contractor, Dad! Have you forgotten that?"
"I haven't forgotten anything."
"And it doesn't bother you that Lincoln fighters will be used to invade another civilization?"
"I am not the moral guardian of the universe!" Lincoln said. "And neither are you. If we built hovercars, would we be responsible if someone used one of them to commit vehicular homicide? No! And I'm not responsible for what my customer does with the fighters I build."
"What if that same customer murders your daughter? Do you have any responsibility then? Or maybe you just don't give a shit!"
Lincoln leaned threateningly across the desk, his grey eyes blazing. "Don't you ever say that to me again! Victoria was my child. I loved her as much as I love you. Don't you ever …"
His voice broke, and he sat back, staring at the ceiling.
Oliver also slumped, suddenly ashamed. He gave his dad a minute, his own anger subsiding.
It took almost a minute. When he spoke again, Lincoln's voice was hoarse.
"What do you expect to accomplish on Vega?"
Oliver spread his hands. "I just want to extend the offer to buy our ships. Henry thinks we might have up to a year before the Confederacy invades. In that time they could beef up their Space Guard with a few hundred Lincoln fighters, get their pilots trained, and have at least a fighting chance to defend themselves."
"And what do I tell the Confederacy if they find out we're selling to Vega?"
"Fuck them! They can't dictate to us! We've always delivered what they paid for."
"You told me yesterday they want a couple hundred fighters, too."
Oliver shrugged. "Make them wait. Production delays. Tell them they'll get the ships, but it'll take a little longer. We have to fill the Vegan order first.
"Look, Dad, just let me explore it, okay? Maybe Vega won't even bite. Then it's a moot point."
Lincoln leaned back and stared at his desktop. "I have to run it by the board first."
"That'll take forever. They're slower than Congress. Let me go to Vega, and if I do get an order, you can tell them about it after the fact. They won't turn down the business once we have an order in hand. They like to make money as much as you do."
"I'm convinced we'll never see a dime from the Vegans."
"The board won't know that. They don't know anything about a pending invasion and you'd be a fool to tell them."
"I'll be out on my executive ass if I don't tell them."
"I'll try to get the money up front, or at least negotiate a cash on delivery deal. Vega is a wealthy world, and I suspect their military budget is getting what it needs right now, in view of the current crisis."
Lincoln stood up again and paced across his office. Oliver watched him with bated breath, realizing this was the crucial moment. Finally Lincoln shook his head.
"Ollie, I can't authorize this on the spot. I need to think it over."
Oliver rolled his eyes.
"For Christ sake, what's to think over! The Sirians are about to start a war of aggression using our ships. They murdered my sister and they threatened me! All I'm asking is a chance to talk to the Vegans! I won't close any deals without calling you! How hard is that?"
"Give me a couple of days."
"Dad, it takes nineteen days to get to the Vegan system. That's nearly three weeks. Henry could be wrong about the timetable, but even if he's right, every day counts. If I can convince the Vegans to deal with us, we need to get things rolling. They need our fighters and time to train their pilots."
Lincoln stopped pacing and turned. "If two days is going to make a difference, then we don't have enough time anyway. You're asking me to make a radical alteration in the sales policy of this company based on speculation …"
"It's not speculation!"
Lincoln raised a hand. "With all due respect to Henry and his sources, that's all it is — speculation. Nobody but the Sirians knows for sure if they're going to attack Vega."
Oliver was on his feet, his blood pressure soaring.
"Goddammit, Dad! Why do you think the Sirians are beefing up their fighter fleet? Why do you think they killed Victoria! Because of rumors?"
"I admit it sounds suspicious. But answer me this — what if you go to Vega and don't make a sale? And the Sirians find out we're pitching a contract to the Monarchy? What happens then? Maybe they cancel their order, find another supplier? Where does that leave Lin
cEnt? I have to think of the stockholders, too."
"That won't happen. Baker told me we build the best product he's ever seen. Nobody on Sirius builds anything close to what we do."
"All they have to do is take one of our ships apart and reverse engineer it, Ollie. Might take them two or three years to get it right, but if they have to, they will."
Oliver trembled with impatience. This conversation was going in circles.
"Dad, I'm going to Vega."
"I haven't authorized the trip yet."
"I'll pay my own passage. You go ahead and make up your mind, if you ever do, and in the meantime I'll get an order from the Vegan Guard. I'll call you from Reina."
For just a moment, Oliver Lincoln II seemed at a loss for words. He shook his head, his mouth working.
"Don't do it, Ollie. Just give me a day or two to think this through."
"You're not listening, Dad! We don't have time to dick around!"
"What if the Sirian attack comes while you're there?"
"I can be off the planet a week after I arrive. A month from now I'll be on my way home with an order in hand."
"I can't let you do it."
"You can't stop me."
"I can fire you!"
"Then fire me!" Oliver started for the door.
"Goddammit, Ollie …!"
"See you in a couple of months." Oliver went out the door before his dad could reply.
Interlude
Tuesday, 16 June, 0195 (PCC) — Denver, CO, North America, Terra
At four in the morning, Denver was as quiet as it would ever get. The skytowers downtown looked like ghostly sentinels, shadowy and indistinct, only a few lights burning; the residential areas were uncannily silent. Most working people were in their beds, except those in the all-night establishments. And the cops.
And the crooks.
Jeremy Mason guided his hover cruiser smoothly along his nightly beat, his eyes peering through the windscreen above the muted glow of his instrument panel. Halfway through his watch, and little to show for it. That was fine — crime was at an all-time low, and he didn't mind that a bit.
Although he did long for a little excitement now and then.
At six feet two and two hundred four pounds, Jeremy was a big man. Muscular and fit, he could have been a poster boy for the Denver Police Academy. Square jaw, boyish good looks, Mister Federation physique. Charming and witty. Women liked him, flocked to him. He could have his pick, and did. Hell, you only went around once, and it wouldn't last forever.
Jeremy yawned and glanced at his watch. Another pass through the area and he would stop for coffee. Keeping the peace was his job, but it could put a man to sleep.
"Unit 491 and all units in the vicinity —"
Jeremy's eyes snapped open. He was 491.
"— a 187 just occurred at the nightclub, 2977 West Gateway, multiple victims. Subject is a white male, twenty-five to thirty, medium height and weight, brown hair with a beard. Wearing dark blue pants, a white shirt, cowboy boots. Last seen running eastbound on Gateway. Armed and dangerous."
Jeremy felt his heart skip. A 187 — the penal code for murder. He activated his implant as he tilted the hovercar toward West Gateway.
"Unit 491 en route, ETA one minute." He flipped a toggle and the over-under lights began to ripple waves of blue. He streaked down a side street, skimming the rooftops, and braked to a hover above West Gateway. The street looked deserted, but just as he twisted the car on its axis to backtrack toward the nightclub, he saw motion.
"Unit 491, I have suspect in sight, running eastbound on Gateway approaching the intersection of Manila. I don't think he —"
The figure on the ground looked up, his face stark white in the cruiser's lights — except for his chin, which appeared shadowed by beard.
"— correction, he just saw me."
The figure raised an arm, Jeremy saw a flash, and something impacted the bottom of his cruiser. The control yoke shuddered in his hand.
"Suspect has opened fire. I'm taking evasive action."
Jeremy felt his heart thunder in his throat as he rolled left, then right. The suspect fired again, but missed. Then he turned and raced into the darkness down Manila, a quiet street flanked by tall apartment houses. Jeremy spun again and spurted after him, the controls feeling sluggish. He pulled up even with the suspect and lowered the car to the street. Red lights flickered on his control panel.
Another flash, another impact. Jeremy ducked, then looked up in time to see his quarry turn and race between two buildings. If he found his way into the maze of alleys, it would take an IR car to find him.
Jeremy quickly released his harness and leaped out of the car.
"Four nine one, I'm in foot pursuit!" he panted into his implant.
"Roger, 491, backup is en route."
Jeremy drew his sidearm and raced into the darkness, wishing he'd taken time to insert an IR contact. Ahead he heard a clatter as someone ran into something, then the loud, hysterical barking of what sounded like a very large dog. He stopped and pressed against the side of a building, hearing scrabbling sounds but seeing nothing. He quickly thumbed his sidearm and fired a round into the air. A second later a flare popped brilliantly and floated fifty feet above. Instantly the back yard was illuminated, and Jeremy saw a dark figure spidering up the side of an apartment house, using a drainpipe for purchase while his feet clawed at the irregular siding.
"Police officer!" Jeremy bellowed. "Freeze!"
His only answer was a wild shot that buzzed past his face. Jeremy thumbed the weapon again and quickly went into a combat crouch.
"Stop, or I'll shoot!"
The suspect was clambering onto the roof, and for an instant was perfectly silhouetted by the flare. Jeremy started to squeeze the trigger, but suddenly realized that another, taller apartment house stood behind the one he was aiming at. He saw bedroom windows, and someone was peering sleepily out of one.
Damn!
The suspect disappeared from view. Jeremy holstered his weapon and ran toward the drainpipe, grabbed hold, and hauled himself up, digging with his boots against the siding. Ten seconds later he was pulling himself onto the roof. He drew his weapon again and crouched. No one in sight. He struggled up the sloping roof toward the apex, gun in hand, panting more from fear than exertion. He reached the peak of the roof and looked around…
The flash came from his left and below. The suspect had reached the far edge of the building and started down, and now Jeremy was the one in silhouette. Jeremy never heard the shot, and almost didn't feel the impact. The gun flew from his hand as the force of the exploding bullet spun him around. He fell hard, his fingers grabbing for the tile to keep from sliding down and over the side. His left knee felt numb, something wet seeped up his pants leg.
He looked to his right, but the suspect had disappeared. He heard a noise, scraping and rattling, to his left. He looked that way, and saw it. Tumbling, skittering, sliding. End over end. Leaving a bloody trail.
Until it reached the edge of the roof and toppled toward the ground.
It was the lower half of his left leg — everything below the knee.
Book Two: Vega
Chapter 8
Monday, 6 July, 0195 (PCC) — Monarch Station, Vega 3
Oliver Lincoln III wasn't sure what to expect when he arrived on Vega 3, but was filled with anticipation. In the back of his mind was his mission, but his immediate curiosity concerned the Vegans themselves. Could the women really be as beautiful as advertised?
Nineteen days after leaving Terra orbit he stepped off City of Moscow onto a Vegan orbital station owned by Monarch Starlines, and was immediately confronted with the customs desk. A woman in a pale blue uniform smiled at him and asked to see his starpass. She was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen in his life, and he felt suddenly weak in the knees. He could hardly believe it — it was really true!
What shocked him even more was that she was at least as old as his mother.
The woman was quick and efficient. She scanned his starpass, had him place his hand inside a bio-scanner, and asked the purpose of his visit.
"Business," he said, surprised that he could speak at all.
Her smile never faltered. She glanced at a display to read the results of his bio-scan, then handed his starpass back.
"Welcome to Vega, Mr. Lincoln," she said. "Please proceed to Gate 11. Have a pleasant stay." Her accent had a musical quality, almost a mixture of Swedish, Norwegian, French, and Italian, if that were possible.
"Thank you."
Oliver stumbled away, following a series of flashing signs that directed passengers to shuttles that would take them to various cities on the planet. A festive air filled the station as hordes of people moved every which way. Exotic music played somewhere in the background, the air smelled faintly of perfume. He was carried along with the traffic, trying to absorb all the sights and sounds as he looked for Gate 11.
At least nine starships were docked at the station, some just arriving, others about to depart. Oliver saw people from several cultures, including Altair, Sirius, the Centauris, and Terra. But the most striking were the Vegans, who stood out like crystal statues among a collection of woodcarvings. The women weren't just beautiful, they were stunning. Even the men were painfully handsome.
"You look a little lost," said a musical voice at his elbow. "Can I help you with anything?"
Oliver twisted around and gazed into the emerald eyes of a young woman in Monarch uniform. Her smile was broad and genuine, her face a work of art. Usually confident, even arrogant, he found himself tripping over his words.
"I, uh — I'm…" He cleared his throat and looked at his starpass, as if it held the answer. "I'm looking for Gate 11," he said.
"Certainly, sir. Just follow me."
She took off toward a sign that said:
Gate 11
Reina, Sophiastad
And Oliver followed, his face burning. The girl was about his own age, he decided, even more stunning than the middle-aged woman in customs. Her hair was long and flowing, a rich chestnut color streaked with gold. The gold streaks looked natural, as if they'd grown that way. And, he realized, they probably had.