The Fighter King

by John Bowers

  They stopped walking and stood facing one another.

  "Okay, Adam. I didn't come here to steal your meal ticket, okay? I didn't even know you were building fighters."

  "But you are still selling to the Guard."

  "Yes. Adam, you know what's been going on with Sirius, right?"

  "Of course. There will probably be a war."

  "That's right. My only concern is that Vega has a decent chance to defend itself. You've only been building fighters for four years. There's no way your ships will be any match for what the Sirians will throw against you."

  "And yours will?"

  "Yes."

  "Have you seen any of our ships?"

  "No. But I've seen what the Sirians have."

  Pedersen's eyebrows rose. "Oh? And how did you manage that?"

  Oliver took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Because LincEnt built them."

  Pedersen's eyes flew wide. "Good goddess on the mountain! Are you kidding?"

  "No, I'm not. Look, Adam, it's a long story, and if you want to hear it, I'll tell you. But trust me, I'm here only to give the Space Guard a fighting chance. I personally don't care if we have to give the fighters away. I want Vega to win this war that's coming."

  Pedersen stared at him for ten seconds.

  "You're selling ships to the Sirians. Why would you want Vega to defeat them?"

  Once again, Oliver was unexpectedly threatened with tears. He swallowed them back with some difficulty.

  "The Sirians murdered my sister," he said.

  Friday, 10 July, 0195 (PCC) — Reina, Vega 3

  Pedersen was an engineer. Oliver spent the rest of that day and the next showing him holos and design specs of the various weapons the SolarFighter carried. It wasn't comprehensive, but Oliver's portfolio case contained design chips that NordTek could insert into their computers to get everything they needed. The session ended late on Friday afternoon. Both men stepped outside and stared toward the river. Pedersen's hostility had faded during their time together.

  "So, Oliver," Pedersen asked, "are you also a pilot?"

  "No." Oliver laughed. "I can handle a space yacht, but I don't have the reflexes for combat fighters. I don't even fly aircraft."

  "You seem to know the SolarFighter very well."

  "I've spent a lot of time with the engineers."

  "Your father owns the factory?"

  "He owns the controlling interest. We're a public corporation, but it's a family operation. My grandfather was the founder."

  "The same in my family. Except that my father was the founder."

  "So you're next in line to run the place?"

  Pedersen shook his head.

  "No. My father died five years ago. I am the president of NordTek."

  "Jesus! I didn't think you'd been out of college that long!"

  Pedersen smiled. "I am almost thirty. Perhaps I look younger."

  "I thought you were about my age. I'm twenty-four."

  The door opened behind them and both men turned. Pedersen smiled, but Oliver felt his body turn to stone. The girl who stood looking at him was about nineteen, slender and shapely, with long auburn hair trailing down over her bare shoulders. Her eyes were black as space and seemed to pierce his skull. She was the most beautiful … well, he'd thought that about every woman he'd seen in the past few days, hadn't he?

  But she was.

  Pedersen laid a hand on his shoulder.

  "Oliver, when I told Olga about you she wanted to meet you. Oliver Lincoln, Olga Pedersen."

  Oliver felt a stab of regret, but accepted the girl's hand in greeting.

  "Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Pedersen," he said.

  Olga's intense expression softened for a moment, and she almost smiled. Pedersen laughed out loud.

  "Oliver, she is my sister! Not my wife!"

  Oliver felt his face turn red, but with his typical bluster managed to cover it.

  "Then it's my double pleasure," he said.

  "I am very pleased to meet you also, Oliver," she said in a husky voice. "I very rarely have met someone from Terra." Her midnight eyes remained fixed on his face.

  "Olga is fascinated by Terra men," Pedersen teased. "She thinks they are sexy."

  The redhead shot her brother a dagger, but quickly returned her gaze to Oliver.

  "My brother thinks he is a comedian," she said. "I apologize for his immaturity."

  Oliver grinned. "No apology necessary. But if you insist, maybe we can have a drink later."

  "Actually, Oliver," Pedersen said, "I was hoping you would join us for dinner. I'd like you to meet my fiancée, and of course, Olga is welcome, too."

  Oliver nodded. "Look forward to it."

  * * *

  Pedersen had suggested that NordTek had trouble making ends meet, but he nevertheless spared no expense on dinner. As dusk thickened to darkness, the party of four boarded a riverboat that took them several miles up the Queen River. They sat on the top deck — Oliver and Olga, Pedersen and his fiancée, a lovely blonde girl named Marie. The dinner was expensive and exotic, some kind of native shellfish, native vegetables, and a jelly-like dessert that Oliver could only guess at. The music was soft and alien, the drinks a potent liqueur called Nektar.

  It was an idyllic evening as the boat cruised past darkened farms and villages; the music was punctuated by chirping insects from trees along the shore. Oliver felt relaxed and happy, much as he'd felt at Brandon Marlow's plantation, only there would be no sense of guilt after this experience.

  After dinner the two couples retired to the dance floor. Adam and Marie drifted away, caught up in the music and each other, and Oliver found himself alone with Olga. She felt natural in his arms, her full breasts pressed against him as she laid her lovely head on his shoulder. He'd never considered himself a great dancer, but managed to navigate the dance floor without stepping on her.

  "So why do you think Terrans are sexy?" he asked. "Compared to Vegan men, most of us are pretty ugly."

  She leaned back and looked into his eyes, her expression serious.

  "What you might call 'ugly' I would think of as 'rugged'. Vegan men are very handsome, but not all Vegan women like pretty men."

  "Really?"

  "Of course not. They are too perfect, many of them. We Vegans have taken genetic engineering one step too far, I think. It is fine for women to be beautiful, but not for men."

  "So you think I'm rugged, then?"

  "Yes. And a little fat …"

  "Fat!"

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  "Oliver, does that offend you? I did not mean …"

  "No, it's just that — well, I'm about twenty pounds over what I should be, but I don't think of it as 'fat'. Stocky, maybe."

  "I apologize. I merely meant that I like men who are not artificial."

  "So my being 'fat' doesn't bother you?"

  "No, of course not."

  He grinned. "Well, you know what? I think Vegan women are the most delicious things I've ever seen in my life. And you … Olga, you are the prettiest one I've seen yet."

  Her eyes smiled, if her lips didn't quite follow. She looked pleased.

  "Thank you, Oliver. That is very sweet."

  "Would you like to come back to my hotel tonight? We can spend the night together."

  He immediately saw conflict in her eyes. A little frown wrinkled her porcelain forehead, and she compressed her full red lips.

  "I am sorry, Oliver. But …"

  He winced. "Don't tell me. Are you a follower of Sophia?"

  She nodded quietly. "Yes, I am. My religion is very important to me. I must remain a virgin until my marriage."

  "Damn." But he grinned. "Well, if you didn't stand by your beliefs, I wouldn't respect you.”

  "Thank you," she said softly.

  They danced in silence for some minutes.

  "How long will you be on Vega?" Olga asked finally.

  "I'm leaving tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow?" She looked
disappointed. "Will I ever see you again?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe not. Unless …" He stopped dancing and took her hand in both of his. "Would you like to come to Terra with me? You could tour the planet for a few months and we could get to know each other better. No strings attached, I promise."

  Again she looked tempted, but shook her head.

  "I don't think I can do that. At least not right now."

  "Olga, you know there's probably going to be a war here. The Sirians are very hard on women. You'd be a lot safer on Terra."

  "That is why I cannot leave now," she said. "If the Sirians come, I will have to be here to help fight them."

  He frowned. "What're you talking about? You'd just be in danger. Fighting is a man's job."

  "Oliver, I will fight them. Along with the men."

  "But …"

  "I am very good with a rifle. I am what you call a — how do you say it? A tommy boy."

  His eyes widened in disbelief. "A tom-boy? You don't look like one."

  "Because you have never seen me wearing anything but a dress. I am descended from Vikings. Trust me, Oliver, I am deadly with a rifle."

  * * *

  Pedersen drove Oliver back to his hotel. It was with some regret that the two men shook hands.

  "It has been a pleasure, Oliver," Adam Pedersen said. "I hope we will have the opportunity to work together again."

  "So do I, Adam," Oliver said sincerely. "With a little luck …. Well, I hope we're wrong about Sirius. I really hope we are."

  Pedersen nodded. "So do I, of course, but I don't think so. They will come, sooner or later. And Vega will fight."

  "Take care of yourself."

  "You, too. Have a safe trip home."

  Oliver shook hands with the women; Olga gave him a kiss, her full lips sending electricity through his body. Forcing an offhanded grin, he turned and walked into the hotel. Still throbbing with desire, he poured himself a stiff drink and downed it, wondering where he might find a Vegan girl who wasn't dedicated to Sophia.

  Tomorrow was get-away day. It took him only a few minutes to pack, then he poured another drink and sat down to reflect on what he'd accomplished. It had been a pretty good week's work. The old man had to be impressed, even if he had trouble saying so. And if Henry Wells was right about the Sirian invasion timetable, LincEnt probably had time to equip the Space Guard with enough fighters to mount a credible defense.

  He considered calling home, but decided to wait. He'd promised to call his dad the day he left, so he'd do it in the morning.

  Saturday, 11 July, 0195 (PCC) — Reina, Vega 3

  Oliver was dreaming about Olga Pedersen, something erotic and promising that somehow never quite reached the climax he was expecting. Olga blended into Tascha, who then did a fade to Rosemary. He was getting nowhere …

  A giant fist punched through the window and slammed him against the wall in a spray of flying glass. Oliver hit the floor in a blaze of pain and confusion, his breath half knocked out of him. Struggling for air, he blinked in terror as a pale orange glow flickered and faded. Only then did the crack of the explosion reach him, dissipating into a hollow roar.

  "What the fuck!" he gasped.

  Grunting with pain and fear, he managed to crawl toward the window, his heart pounding in his ears. Blood streamed down his face as he peered out and felt his heart come to a complete stop.

  He'd noticed the solar power station the day he arrived; now the facility was ablaze. In the distance, huge fires burned along the river. Off to his left, the Vegan night evaporated briefly as another explosion flashed brilliantly. Seconds later he heard the blast, then became aware of another sound — the shrill, piercing shriek of high-speed spacecraft. It was unmistakable, like something ripping the air. He couldn't see them in the darkness, but heard them crisscrossing the city.

  Another explosion hit the power station, and as the fireball blossomed skyward he saw something, a black speck in silhouette. Coming straight for him. Breathless, he stared as if hypnotized, watched it grow, coming like a bullet. Then it rolled left, not more than three hundred yards away, and all doubt was erased.

  It was a SolarFighter.

  A Lincoln fighter.

  "Oh, sweet Jesus!" he whispered.

  Terror gripped him. He scrambled away from the window, as yet unaware of glass shards that were cutting his hands. He reached the bedroom door and clambered to his feet. The building rocked as another bomb went off, but he was into the main room now, barking commands at the holovid.

  The holo materialized in the middle of the room, showing a hollow-eyed anchorman who looked as if he'd just been dragged out of bed.

  "… unconfirmed reports of hostile spacecraft attacking the city … no official word as to the identity … advised to remain indoors … emergency crews responding …"

  Oliver leaped to his feet, shaking and infuriated. He ran back to the bedroom window and looked out in time to see five more explosions blossom in different parts of the city. Somewhere a siren was wailing, somewhere a laser battery opened fire. Two more SolarFighters streaked by in pair formation, locked into a hard turn as they raced from their target — or toward it. Somewhere nearby he heard men yelling, women screaming.

  Barely able to breathe, he returned to the main room and stared at the holo. What the hell did he do now?

  Come on, goddammit, think!

  He muted the holovid and quickly activated the communications line. The power would go soon. He didn't have much time.

  "Monarch Starlines," said the pretty face on the other end. Her eyes were wide with fear, and she flinched as a nearby explosion flickered her lights.

  "My name is Oliver Lincoln," Oliver said quickly. "Is it still possible to get a shuttle up to Princess Gina? I'm booked to leave today."

  "I'm sorry, sir, I don't think so. Our runways have been knocked out, no shuttles are taking off. And Princess Gina has already left orbit."

  "What?" Oliver was aghast. "When?"

  "Two hours ago, sir. I don't know any more than that."

  Oliver felt numb. "They're gone? Did they head back to Terra?"

  "I don't have that information, sir."

  He passed his tongue over his lips, but his mouth was dry.

  "Is it possible to get aboard another starliner?"

  "I don't see how, sir. Two shuttles have been destroyed, the rest are …"

  The terminal rocked and the lights went out. Oliver heard the girl scream just as the connection was cut.

  "God damn it!" he whispered. "God damn it!" He hastily placed another call, this one to Lincoln Enterprises. The call took an interminable four minutes to connect. Oliver stood wiping blood off his face, trembling like a leaf.

  "Come on! Come oooooon!"

  "Good afternoon," the automated equipment in Denver replied. "You have reached Lincoln Enterprises, North America's foremost defense contractor. If you know the extension of the party —"

  "Four one three one!" Oliver barked.

  "One moment, please."

  "Hurry, dammit!" As if it would do any good.

  He heard electronic chatter in his headset, then the sweetest voice came through.

  "Oliver Lincoln's office, this is Rosemary."

  The room flashed a blinding white and Oliver was lifted off his feet. He hit the wall hard enough to stun him and slid to the floor in a heap. Building plaster and more glass cascaded over him. For several seconds he was unable to speak, but forced himself to his elbows.

  "Rosemary!" he croaked. "It's Oliver! Rosemary!"

  But the headset had gone dead. Seconds later the lights went out.

  Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  "Oliver Lincoln's office," Rosemary repeated. "This is Rosemary. Can I help you?"

  Rosemary Egler frowned at the static that filled her earpiece. The filoptics in the comm system were supposed to prevent that kind of interference. She'd never noticed it before.

  But no one was on the other end. She shrugged
and cleared the line with a touch of a button. It was probably a wrong number.

  Interlude

  Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  The banquet was a black-tie affair attended by several hundred guests, including the mayor, two congressmen, and dozens of civil servants, over half of them police officers. The news media were also well represented.

  When the last lobster plate had been cleared away and dessert was being served, the mayor opened ceremonies with a short speech, then the master of ceremonies began introducing presenters, each of whom also gave a short talk as part of the awards ceremony. The program lasted the better part of an hour as awards and citations were handed out to a variety of servants and civilians for a range of brave and valorous acts over the past year. Two men had rescued a child from a burning hovercar, a woman had captured a rape suspect, a little girl had called Rescue to save her dying mother, a dog had alerted its master in time to escape a burning house.

  "To present the final award of the evening," the M.C. announced finally, "I would like to introduce Sergeant Jules Cedarquist of the Denver Police Department."

  Jules Cedarquist was thirty, blond and blue-eyed. He strode briskly to the podium and gazed across the assembly as if scanning for concealed weapons.

  "Thank you," he said quickly. "The job of a police officer is not as dangerous as it used to be, but every policeman in this department is aware that danger still lurks out there for the unwary. We endeavor to train our officers to meet any and every eventuality, but when it comes right down to it, the one thing you cannot teach or train for is personal bravery.

  "The final presentation tonight is the prestigious Police Officer of the Year Award. While this award is prestigious, it is not awarded on merit of prestige, but on merit of service. It is my honor to present this award to a man I know well, a man I helped to train, and who was my partner for his first two years on the job.

  "On the evening of June 16, 0195, this police officer was on routine patrol when he received a call that a triple homicide had just occurred. As he proceeded toward the scene, he spotted the suspect running down a dark street. The officer gave chase, but the suspect dodged among some apartment buildings.

  "Without waiting for backup, this officer pursued the suspect on foot and spotted him on the roof of a nearby house. He called for the suspect to surrender, but instead, the suspect fired at him. The officer was about to return fire when he realized that an apartment house loomed behind the suspect; if he missed — or even if he didn't — he would be risking the lives of innocent citizens if he fired.