by John Bowers
The girl stopped, turned, and smiled. "Gate 11, sir."
"Thank you."
"Thank you, for flying Monarch."
He hadn't flown Monarch, but didn't tell her that. She was already gone, off to help the next lost soul who needed her direction. Oliver felt almost abandoned, as if he'd found some rare and precious treasure but had lost it again.
He sighed and set down his travel bag, checked his wristwatch out of habit, and rubbed his face with both hands. Snap out of it, Ollie! Wake up and pay attention.
Reina, Vega 3
Barely an hour later, Oliver's shuttle touched down at Reina Spaceport. From the position of Vega in the sky, it appeared to be early afternoon, but Oliver was uncertain about the solar cycles here; it might be late morning for all he knew, depending on the rotation of the planet.
Partially recovered from his shock at seeing real Vegans for the first time, he entered the main terminal. Trying not to act so much like a tourist, he kept moving until he found a limo station, and minutes later was on the way to his hotel.
As the limo streaked across the city, Oliver tried to see as much as possible. He'd been to Sirius and Alpha Centauri, but had never seen anything to match this. Vega had been settled at roughly the same time as Sirius, yet what he saw now was much cleaner, more organized. The city sprawled for miles in every direction, but he saw no pollution, no snarling hover traffic, no congestion. Below him were broad avenues, gleaming buildings, spacious parks, and patches of forest. Reina had been designed from the ground up and built right. The river that meandered through it looked pristine and unspoiled.
The Vegans were a marvel, he decided. No wonder Henry admired them so much.
The Sophia Hilton was a marvel as well. Fifty floors high, it was balanced on a single column of Startanium no more than ten feet across. The column only supported the center of the building — the corners rested on some sort of magnetic field that shimmered in the sunlight. Oliver had expected it to be taller, like the skytowers of Denver, but apparently there was no need. Open space wasn't lacking, and no other tall buildings stood nearby. The area around the hotel looked like a park.
It was even more unbelievable inside. A thirty-foot waterfall thundered like Niagara in the center of the lobby, and live deer-like animals grazed among slender saplings that grew around the fall. They barely glanced up as he passed within a few feet of them.
He was ushered to his suite within minutes, only to find it much larger than he'd expected. The main salon was huge, like a ballroom. The walls were decorated at tasteful intervals with the most abstract art he'd ever seen, and the bar was stocked with a wide variety of wines and spirits from every world he could think of. Exotic fresh fruits from Vegan orchards had been left on an otherwise empty buffet, and along one wall, flowers grew in fertile soil beside a small stream, their fragrance permeating the suite.
He tipped the bellman and stood alone for several minutes after he'd gone. He was here. What the hell did he do now?
He went into the bedroom and stared out the window, drinking in the view. It was truly magnificent, a world such as he'd never imagined. From his vantage point he looked across the top of a small forest toward the river, which gleamed in the distance. Here and there a tall building poked upward, and in the near distance he saw a solar-power station. Hovercars sparkled as the sunlight reflected off them, but it all looked surreal, like an image from a fantasy vid.
"God!" he murmured. "Who could have believed it?"
Twenty minutes later, a glass of wine in hand, he put on the headset and placed a subspace call to LincEnt. It took four minutes to connect.
"Oliver Lincoln's office," said a familiar voice in his ear, "Rosemary speaking."
Oliver felt a surge of affection.
"Rosemary! It's me. Oliver!"
Her voice changed at once, a combination of pleasure and surprise.
"Ollie? Where are you?"
"Reina. I just got in. What time is it there?"
"Almost six. I was about to go home."
"Christ, why are you working so late? The old man doesn't pay you that well!"
"And he never will if I don't do a good job." There was no video with the call, but Oliver was sure she was smiling. "So tell me, are the women there as pretty as everyone says?"
Oliver laughed. "You have no … idea! I haven't seen them all yet, but …"
Rosemary laughed. "If I know you, Ollie, you'll manage it before you leave. How was your trip?"
"Boring. Nineteen days is a long damn time to be bottled up in a starship. Is the old man around?"
"No, he left early today. Some concert or something in the city. Do you want him to call you?"
"Not unless he wants to. Just tell him I got in, and tomorrow I'm going to sell some fighters."
"He was pretty mad at you, Ollie."
"So what else is new. He'll get over it."
"He already has. But for a week after you left he just stalked around here like a storm cloud. Do you really think you can pull this off?"
"Damn straight! When I turn on that Lincoln charm, they'll be helpless at my feet."
Rosemary laughed. "What charm is that, Ollie? When you growl, or when you swear?"
"You've never seen it, Rosemary. I haven't used it on you yet."
"Be still, my heart!" She laughed again.
"Well, this is costing LincEnt more than my allowance, so I'd better disconnect. Tell Dad I'll call him after I meet with the Vegan Guard. Okay?"
A brief hesitation, then Rosemary's voice again, quieter and more serious than before.
"I'll tell him. Ollie — your dad told me what this is all about. Don't stay there too long, okay?"
"Count on it. I'll be off planet in a few days."
"Be careful."
"I will. See you."
He disconnected, staring out the window. Now he had to figure out how to approach the Vegan Guard.
Chapter 9
Tuesday, 7 July, 0195 (PCC) — Reina, Vega 3
The following morning Oliver ate breakfast in one of the hotel restaurants. Feasting on smoked fish and local fruit, he gazed with awed admiration at the décor. Long vines dangled from the overhead, birds flitting among them. The dining room was bathed in bluish light from the rising sun. He worried initially that the birds might drop something unexpected into his food, then realized they were holograms.
But the waitress was not, and when she approached his table to refill his coffee cup, he drank in the sight of her.
"Is everything to your liking, sir?" she asked musically. She looked about sixteen, but was probably closer to thirty. "Can I get you anything else?"
Oliver couldn't help it. His heart-stopping disbelief of the day before had faded. "You could come up to my room for an hour or so," he suggested with a grin.
The waitress shook her head sweetly.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I am devoted to Sophia. You're not Vegan, are you?"
"No, but I wish I were."
"And you're not a Sirian."
"How do you know that?"
"Sirians are not so polite. Will there be anything else, sir?"
Oliver sighed. "No, thank you."
She hurried on to the next table, leaving Oliver to finish his meal. He turned on the holo at the edge of his table and idly watched the news as he ate. His eyes narrowed as the Top Story came on.
"The Sirian ambassador made an appeal to Queen Ursula yesterday that he said was an attempt to ease the tension between the Monarchy and the Sirian Confederacy. From Sophia's Island, Erika Sebring reports."
The info-babe who appeared next was even more stunning than the other women Oliver had seen on this planet, blonde and curvy with silver eyes. She was standing in front of a castle that looked like something from a fairy tale, all towers and turrets and spires.
"Sirian Ambassador Jessie Jackson made an emergency visit to Sophia's Island today with an appeal to Queen Ursula that the ambassador hopes will, in his words, 'heal the wounds of
intolerance and cultural misunderstanding'. Queen Ursula declined an audience with the ambassador, but Regent Kristensen met with him for forty-five minutes. Apparently the meeting was fruitless."
The scene changed. Now Erika Sebring was interviewing Ambassador Jackson. He looked out of place in his diplomatic attire; his face was lined and weathered, as if he'd spent most of his life working in the sun.
"In a nutshell," Jackson said in an accent that reminded Oliver of Defense Minister Harold Baker, "Sirius has agreed to drop our request for purchasin' slaves in return for clemency for Sirian citizens already sentenced to death for alleged violations of Vegan law. Unfortunately, the gover'ment of Vega chooses to ignore our request. Sixty-one Sirian citizens are still slated for execution."
"Mr. Ambassador," Sebring asked, "isn't it true that most of the men now awaiting execution have been convicted of the rape of Vegan women?"
Jackson scowled.
"The Confederacy is accustomed to policin' its own," he said. "For years Vegan law enforcement turned Sirian criminals over to us for punishment. Now they insist on doin’ it all themselves, and the consequences are lethal! We resent the implication that we cannot handle our own criminal cases, and we insist that Vega stop executin' our citizens for a crime that should not be a capital offense."
"According to recent statistics," the newsgirl said boldly, "men who were turned over to Sirian justice frequently were not punished at all, especially if the crime was rape."
Jackson grimaced.
"If some men weren't punished, it was because the allegations were discovered to be false, or because there were mitigatin' circumstances."
What, Oliver wondered in amazement, would constitute "mitigatin' circumstances" for rape?
"Mr. Ambassador," Sebring continued smoothly, "last month President Adolph stated that unless the executions are discontinued, diplomatic relations between Sirius and Vega could be in jeopardy. Does that mean the Confederacy is willing to go to war over this issue?"
Jackson stared at the girl a moment, as if weighing his next words.
"War," he said carefully, "is what results when diplomacy fails. I cannot speak for President Adolph, but I do know that Sirius has made every reasonable effort to keep diplomatic channels open. What happened today, however, indicates to me that the Vegan gover'ment is no longer willin' to listen to reason."
"Does that mean …?"
"It means that Sirius is not goin' to sit on its hands. The executions will stop — whatever it takes!"
With a nod of dismissal, Jackson turned and walked away.
Oliver let out his breath, realizing for the first time that he'd been holding it. "You bastard!" he breathed.
* * *
Unlike the Federation, which headquartered its military in the Polygon near Washington City, Vegan Guard headquarters was housed in a plain ten-floor building that, though attractive, looked very much like all the others around it. Oliver arrived by hover cab an hour after breakfast, paid his fare, and walked in the front door.
Aside from marble walls and a parquet floor, the lobby was quite ordinary, almost Spartan by modern standards, with no waterfalls or other effects. A directory told him the Space Guard was on the sixth floor, Military Procurements on the third, and all business was by appointment only. He grimaced and walked toward the security desk where a very blond young sergeant in a dazzling red uniform looked up.
"Can I help you, sir?" the sergeant inquired.
Oliver cocked his head and grinned.
"My name is Oliver Lincoln. I arrived yesterday from Terra, and I'm here to meet with whoever is in charge of purchasing combat spacecraft."
"Do you have an appointment, Mr. Lincoln?"
"I wasn't aware that one was necessary. In any case, under the …"
"Sir, you must have an appointment. Who exactly did you wish to see?"
Oliver searched his memory. On the voyage to Vega he'd spent several hours researching the Vegan Guard on the starship's database.
"I believe his name is General Montenegro. Is he in?"
The sergeant looked at him as if he were crazy. "Mr. Lincoln, you can't just walk in off the street and see General Montenegro. He's a very busy man."
Oliver felt his temper rising.
"I'm sure he's busy, but I'm a defense contractor and I came all the way from Terra …"
"Which defense concern do you represent?"
"Lincoln Enterprises. We build fighters and auxiliary military …"
"I need to see your identification," the sergeant said, unimpressed.
Feeling his face flush, Oliver produced his starpass. The sergeant examined it briefly.
"So you are a Federation citizen?"
"That's right. Now, look …"
"General Montenegro is not available until next week. I can make you an appointment to see him." The sergeant's blue eyes bored into his skull. "Is that satisfactory?"
Oliver shook his head in frustration.
"No, that is not satisfactory! This is a very urgent matter. I'm not leaving here until I see him."
The sergeant's eyes hardened. "Mr. Lincoln, I can make you an appointment to see the general, or you can walk out of here and go home. Which will it be?"
He might be young, but he was no pushover. Fine, Oliver thought, neither am I.
"I have a better idea," Oliver replied flatly. "I'm going up and introduce myself right now."
He started around the desk toward the lift, but before he had taken six steps a loud alarm began whooping from somewhere in the ceiling and he found himself staring into the Vegan sergeant's laser pistol.
"Mr. Lincoln, if you take one more step, I'm going to kill you. Now, drop your portfolio and turn to face the wall. Very slowly."
Oliver found himself trembling with sudden fear, and angry with himself because of it. How had he let a pussy Guardsman put him in this position? The kid couldn't be more than twenty years old!
"Drop the case, Mr. Lincoln! I won't tell you again."
Oliver released the portfolio case and turned slowly to his left. The Vegan kept the pistol against his head, placed a hand against his back, and shoved him roughly against the wall. A sudden thunder of running feet echoed down a corridor as others burst into the lobby. A babble of voices demanded to know what was going on. The sergeant explained briefly and within seconds Oliver was shackled with E-cuffs. Moments later he was sitting in a basement room with two armed Guardsmen glaring at him.
Oliver glared back, his mounting anger overpowering his fear. He felt his face getting red.
"Jesus Christ!" he growled. "I come here to help you fucking people and this is how you treat me?"
The guards said nothing, but didn't take their eyes off him. In very short order an officer appeared, also looking grim.
"Are you Oliver Lincoln?" he demanded.
"Who the fuck are you?" Oliver wanted to say, but didn't. If he were ever to see Montenegro, he'd have to get control of his temper. "Yes," he said instead. "And you are …?"
"Major Medard. Tell me what this is all about."
Medard was perhaps thirty-five, lean and athletic, and no taller than Henry Wells. His features were distinctly French, though his accent had the same musical quality as everyone else on Vega.
Oliver briefly explained his confrontation with the sergeant in the lobby. "The bottom line, Major," he concluded, "is that I need to see General Montenegro and I can't hang around a week to see him. It's extremely urgent."
Medard stared at him in silence for ten seconds.
"What exactly do you want to see the general about?" he demanded.
"I sell military hardware. I want to show him what I have."
"What's in the portfolio case?"
"Presentation materials. For the general's eyes only."
"Is that all?"
"There aren't any weapons, if that's what you're thinking. I didn't come here to assassinate anybody."
Medard pulled out a chair and sat down. He leaned back an
d folded his arms across his chest.
"Mr. Lincoln, I am not very busy today. I have plenty of time. You are going to tell me exactly what you were going to tell General Montenegro, and until you do, neither of us is going anywhere."
Oliver felt his temper rising again. He shook his head.
"I don't think so, Major," he said. "I don't think you're cleared that high."
Medard's eyebrows lifted. "What?"
"This stuff is top secret. If I talk to you, the general could have me shot."
Medard flushed. "If you don't tell me, maybe I will have you shot."
Oliver forced himself to smile. "Well, there you are, Major. A Mexican standoff."
Medard frowned. "'Mexican'? What is that?"
"Look, why don't you just call upstairs and get the general down here. He can settle this matter in a hurry."
"Mr. Lincoln, the general has a great deal on his mind these days. I'm sure he has all the military hardware he needs. So you have the choice of making an appointment to see him, or leaving your presentation materials for him to look at. He simply cannot afford the time to see you today."
Oliver leaned forward. "Mister, he can't afford not to see me today!"
Medard's eyes glinted with amusement. "No? And why is that?"
Oliver stared at him for five seconds.
"Because," he said slowly, "I build fighter ships for the Sirian Space Fleet."
General Fernando Montenegro was in his middle fifties, dark of complexion and grey at the temples. Out of uniform he might have looked like an attorney; his piercing eyes suggested he was possessed of a sharp intelligence. Montenegro was seated in a conference room when Oliver was brought in. He didn't stand or offer to shake hands.
Oliver was pushed into a chair and two armed guards stood nearby as he faced the man across from him.
"You wanted to talk to me?" The general didn't appear impressed, but Oliver knew his curiosity must have been piqued, or this meeting wouldn't be taking place.
"I represent Lincoln Enterprises of Denver, Colorado," Oliver said by way of introduction. "I assume you've heard of it?"
Montenegro nodded briefly.
"LincEnt was founded by my grandfather, and my dad is currently the president of the company. We build deep-space combat fighters and assorted other military spacecraft. For the last ten years we've been selling them to the Sirian Confederacy."