by John Bowers
"You planning to head back north, then?"
Still trembling, she shook her head. "I don't know. I …"
"You wanted to give Viktor a report about atrocities."
She nodded jerkily, as if just remembering. "Yes. Yes, that's right. But …"
"We can go east. If we run into trouble we can always detour north, but if we go all the way to Soderstad, we're a long ways from help."
Erika seemed to draw strength from his logic. She nodded, becoming calmer. "Okay. I like that idea."
They found a secondary road a few miles to the north and turned east as Oliver had suggested. Within minutes they began to encounter surface vehicles coming toward them. Erika tried to stop several of the vehicles and interview the occupants, but the drivers were unwilling to stop. Oliver saw terror in some of their faces, and wondered once again just how close the Sirians were.
They came to a small river town where the traffic was more congested. Setting down to one side, the girls hoisted their equipment and, with Oliver at their heels, approached a line of stalled cars. Erika began her interviews, and the result was dramatically different from those earlier in the day.
"They're headed this way!" one anguished man with small children in his car proclaimed. "Just a few miles behind us. What's the holdup here, anyway?"
"Have you seen any evidence of the Vegan Guard?" Erika pressed.
"No. Nothing. What in hell do we pay taxes for? The Sirians are running wild!"
"How are they treating civilians?"
"I didn't hang around to find out. I loaded up the kids and got out of there!"
But a few minutes later, another witness was more specific.
"About twenty soldiers came into our town yesterday," he said. "They must have been the advance party. They only hung around a couple of hours and then moved out. As soon as they were gone we started packing. I didn't want to be there when the main force showed up."
"How did they act?"
"Just like you'd expect. They shot our constable dead right on main street. Then about six of them walked into the restaurant and attacked two waitresses. Raped them right there on the floor. When they left town, they took a woman and her two daughters with them. I don't know what else they did, but I saw that much."
"Which way did they go?"
"They were coming west, but I don't know for sure. Never saw any sign of them after we got on the road."
Others told similar stories. After twenty minutes, Erika filed her story and Jacquje transmitted it.
They returned to the convertible. Erika seemed undecided.
"Maybe we'd better go back," she suggested.
"You sure?" Oliver was biting his lip.
"We have eyewitness accounts now. Viktor should be happy with that."
"You haven't talked to any real victims yet. I mean, you find a woman who was actually raped and get her story — that's an eyewitness."
Erika hesitated. Her fervor of a few hours earlier had faded. She turned to Jacquje. "What do you think?"
"I never wanted to come this far," the cam girl admitted.
"I think we should go back," Erika said.
Oliver looked toward the bridge where refugee traffic stood nose to tail. He could almost smell his freedom. If he could find a Sirian officer of high enough rank …
"You know," he said, "I'm a neutral. If we run into Sirian troops, I have immunity. They aren't gonna hurt you girls as long as you're with me."
Erika frowned. "What are you saying?"
"You want to get the story of a lifetime, don't you? What I'm saying is, as long as you're with me, you shouldn't be in any real danger."
"Shouldn't?"
"Look, it's up to you," Oliver added quickly. "All I'm saying is …"
The girls exchanged glances.
"You call it, Jacquje," Erika said.
Jacquje shrugged. "What do you want to do?"
"I want to get the story. But I also want to live to report it."
The brunette looked at Oliver. She sat silent for several seconds, then spoke four words that would haunt Oliver for the rest of his life.
"I still trust him," she said.
Interlude
Denver, CO, North America, Terra
"Are you the one who called?"
"Yes. It's on the third floor, apartment 311. You better hurry! Sounds like he's killing her!"
Sgt. Jules Cedarquist ignored the gravity lift and raced up the stairs two at a time, his right hand on his pistol grip. As he reached the second floor landing he could hear the screaming. He already had a sick feeling about this call, which was why he hadn't yet called for backup.
It was Jeremy Mason's apartment building.
"You fucking whore! I'll kill you!"
The sound of a fist against flesh, followed by a god-awful shriek that hardly sounded human.
Jules hammered on the door. "Police officer! Open up!"
More curses, another strike, another scream.
Jules tried the door, but it was locked. He drew his weapon and used the butt to hammer against the surface. Fear coursed through him — this couldn't be happening.
"Jeremy! Open the goddamned door! Right now!"
The cursing stopped, the only sound now the muffled sobbing of a terrified woman.
Jules hammered again. "Open up, goddammit!"
He heard heavy breathing just behind the door. The lock rattled. He holstered his gun, but kept his fist around the butt. The door opened a crack.
"Jules?" Jeremy managed a little laugh. "What the hell are you doing here? Someone call for help?"
"Let me in," Jules said, and pushed the door wide. Jeremy hopped back on his one leg and caught himself against the wall. His hair was soaked in sweat, plastered down over his forehead.
"Hey, take it easy, buddy! What's got you in an uproar?"
Jules ignored him and strode toward the bedroom door. As he entered, the weeping grew in volume. A vaguely familiar young woman sat huddled in a corner, head down, sobbing from pain and terror. Jules knelt beside her and pulled her hands away from her face.
"Are you all right?" he asked, wincing at the bruises, the blood, the broken nose. "What happened here?"
The girl tried to answer, but could barely get the words out.
"He— He— He t-tried to k—" She gushed a lungful of air and tried again. "K-kill me! He— He …"
"Okay, I get the picture. Just calm down. He isn't going to hurt you any more. Stay right here, I'll be back."
Her fingers clutched at his shirt. "Don't— Please! D-don't leave me!"
"I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right in the next room."
He carefully disengaged her fingers and stood up, rage in his heart. Jeremy stood in the doorway, supporting himself against the jamb. Jules took him by the arm and half shoved him into the living room, causing Jeremy to hop awkwardly.
"Hey, what the fuck, Jules! I only have one leg, man!"
Jules gripped his collar and jerked him forward until they were nose to nose.
"What the fuck is the matter with you!" he snarled.
"Hey, this isn't what it looks like, all right …"
"No? What does it look like to you, Jeremy? I see a girl beaten half to death and I see blood on your knuckles. I don't need a forensics team in here to figure this one out. Tell me what happened, or I swear I'll blow your other leg off!"
Jeremy flushed with humiliation and anger.
"I met her at the banquet the other night, okay? I asked her out. So we went to dinner, then we came back here. We had a couple of drinks and things were going great until she started ridiculing me."
"Ridiculing you?"
"Yeah. Because of my injury. Said I wasn't a whole man. Said she wouldn't sleep with me unless I had two good legs." He swallowed and caught his breath, as if fighting down emotion. "I got my pride, Jules. I don't take insults from anybody. You know that. Not anybody!"
Jules pushed him away, trembling with adrenaline.
"Sit down over there. Don't get up until I come back."
He returned to the bedroom, where the young woman, a brunette, had quieted somewhat. He helped her to her feet and into the bathroom, where he soaked a washcloth to stem the flow of blood from her nose. When she'd quieted yet further, he asked for her side of it.
"You know, I just — I just thought he was such a hero and all. I mean, he won that award the other night, and I thought — I thought he must be a great man. And now this!"
"What set him off? Did you do or say anything to him?"
"No, I swear! I mean, he wanted to go to bed with me, and — and I was okay with that. But — he said he was going to get a new leg in a couple of weeks. You know, a bio-regen. And I thought it would just be so much better to w-wait until…"
"So you told him …?"
"I said why don't we wait? Until you get your new leg? And then you'll be a complete man again."
Jules winced.
"I d-didn't mean anything by it, Officer! I swear. I just — I just wanted everything to be p-perfect." She held the cloth under the water to wash the blood out of it, then applied it to her face again. "And he just went off. He was crazy!"
Jules sighed. "Do you want to file charges against him? Are you willing to testify in court?"
She looked in the mirror at her ruined face, fresh tears streaming from her rapidly swelling eyes.
"I should, shouldn't I? L-look what he d-did to me!"
"If you don't press charges, I can't arrest him. It's your call."
She turned and looked at him imploringly.
"What good will it do?" she asked. "He's Police Officer of the Year. He's a h-hero! Would anybody believe me?"
"I believe you."
She looked toward the bedroom doorway.
"You know him better than I do. Has he ever done this before?"
Jules shook his head. "Not since I've known him. I do know that he took his injury very hard. He's been under a lot of stress." Because he's going to lose his job, he didn't tell her. Denver PD had a policy that prevented an officer from returning to duty once he'd suffered a dismemberment.
She daubed more blood. "I didn't know that," she whispered.
"But that's no excuse for what he did to you. You have every right to file charges."
She was silent for nearly a minute. Finally she shook her head.
"Once he gets his new leg he'll be all right. He's suffered a lot already."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. My face will heal. I just won't date him any more."
Jules returned to the living room and faced Jeremy Mason.
"She isn't going to press charges," he said. "But let me tell you something; if this ever happens again — ever — I'm going to beat you to death with my bare fists. Do we understand each other?"
Jeremy stared at Jules with widened eyes. He blinked, then let his face twist into a sneer.
"Fuck you, Jules. You can't threaten me!"
"It's not a threat. Don't test me, Jeremy. I promise you, I'm not kidding."
Chapter 17
Southern Plain, Vega 3
They made another hundred miles before dark, crawling along in the face of heavy traffic going the other way. They saw no Sirians, stopped when possible to interview refugees, but learned nothing essentially new. When Vega sank below the horizon, they stopped for the night, parking the convertible a half-mile south of the roadway under a grove of trees.
Oliver couldn't believe how weary he was; the girls seemed just as fatigued. It must be the stress, he decided.
They ate a meal of cold rations they'd brought with them. The girls unrolled sleeping gear under the trees. Oliver walked a few dozen yards away to relieve himself and stood gazing up at the stars. Where the hell were the Sirians? Everyone they'd talked to was all in a panic, but aside from the military column the Vegan fighters had strafed, he'd seen no sign of them.
Erika appeared beside him and stood quietly, also gazing up. Neither spoke for some moments. Oliver noticed that many of the stars were moving. They were ships, he realized — the Sirian fleet, in orbit around the planet.
"I'm really scared," Erika said at last. "Tomorrow, I want to head back north."
Oliver continued gazing at the sky, but his mind was racing.
"Did you get the story you wanted?" he asked.
"Not all of it. But enough. If Viktor doesn't like it, he can fire me."
Oliver just nodded.
"If you want to surrender to the Sirians," she said slowly, "we can leave you here. I'm sure you'll run into them sooner or later."
He looked at her in the darkness. Her silver eyes glinted in the starlight.
"That's what you want, isn't it?" she said. "I mean, you are a neutral. You have nothing to fear from them."
The way she said it made him feel suddenly guilty.
"I'll stay with you and Jacquje," he said. "I don't owe the Sirians any favors."
"Speaking logically," she replied, "I wouldn't blame you if you surrendered to them. You're not Vegan. This isn't your fight."
"Maybe I will," he said, "but not until the two of you are safe."
She was silent for a moment. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. I'm sure."
Tuesday, 14 July, 0195 (PCC) — Southern Plain, Vega 3
They were up before dawn. After a quick breakfast of cold sandwiches, they loaded the convertible within minutes. Oliver checked his rifle to make sure it was serviceable and placed it between the front seats.
"I really don't think you should use that," Erika told him. "If you take one shot, they'll murder all of us."
He nodded solemnly. "I know."
Erika looked at Jacquje. "You ready to go home?"
"Goddess yes!"
"Then let's do it."
"Want me to drive?" Oliver offered. "You're too jittery. Might get us killed."
Erika forced a laugh and nodded. "Okay, sure."
Oliver started to get behind the yoke, but Jacquje stopped him. Without a word, she pressed her lips to his for several seconds, then smiled.
"Go fast," she said.
When they reached the road, the endless flow of refugee traffic they'd seen the previous day had ended. No vehicles were visible in either direction. Oliver turned left to retrace their route toward Sophiastad, breezing along at just under a hundred knots. Twenty minutes later Vega peeked over the horizon, casting a glare that blinded him. He backed off to fifty knots and lifted the car to twenty feet, to make sure he cleared anything on the road below.
It was just as well, he decided. Giving himself up to the Sirians would have been foolhardy under the present circumstances. Eventually they would conquer the planet, and he could approach them when the shooting stopped. With any luck, Viktor could beam a subspace message toward Terra. At least his family would know he was safe.
The big question was what to do with himself in the meantime. The war might be over in a few days, or it might drag on for months. The Sirians seemed to be in no great hurry to end it; surely they had the military strength to go straight for Reina and capture the queen.
He glanced at his watch, realizing he'd forgot to set it. Beside him Erika dozed fitfully. In the back …
"Oliver!" Jacquje screamed.
He looked up in horror to see a military hover vehicle looming in his path. He jerked the yoke to the right, but too late — he clipped the corner with a jolt and shriek of rending metal. The convertible dipped drunkenly as it started to plunge, but Oliver instinctively kicked his lifters to full thrust and managed to regain control.
Sort of. With both girls screaming in panic, Oliver fought the hovercar toward the ground, trying to compensate for the loss of braking thrusters. He plowed through a line of thin, willowy trees before hitting the ground. He landed in a plowed field, the soft dirt absorbing the worst of the impact. Even so, the landing rattled his teeth.
Suddenly it was quiet. The turbine was dead, the hot metal ticking as it cooled. A thick cloud of dust drif
ted slowly from the scene. Jacquje was sobbing in the back. Erika seemed to be hyperventilating.
Shaking from adrenaline, Oliver released his safety belts and managed to crawl out of the car. For a moment the horizon seemed to spin around him. Thank god they had landed upright! If they had flipped …
The sound of multiple heavy turbines jolted him out of his relief. He turned to see the military vehicle plowing over the tops of the willowy trees. It was grey in color, with brown camouflage splotches. A small flag whipping from a vertical rod displayed the Binary Zero of Sirius.
"Jesus!" Oliver turned to the girls. "Get out! Quick!"
Erika was already out, her blonde hair gleaming in the early morning sunlight. Jacquje was struggling with her harness. Thirty yards away, the hovercraft was setting down, spraying more dust in all directions. Oliver saw helmets above the sides.
"Goddess Sophia!" Erika made the Sign of the Cult, a triangular motion that touched both shoulders and the heart. "What do we do, Oliver?"
Jacquje got her belt off and climbed down, gasping at the sight of the Sirian vehicle.
"Pray," Oliver said.
Twenty Confederate soldiers poured out of the hover transport. Oliver stood facing them, trying to keep the girls behind him. The soldiers surrounded the convertible with laser rifles at port arms. They all seemed to be eyeing the two women.
The line parted suddenly and a short, slightly rumpled man stepped through. He walked to within three feet of Oliver and stopped, staring at him with steely blue eyes. His seamy face looked about thirty; he had chevrons on his sleeve.
"Yew drivin' this here vee-hicle?" he asked after a tense moment.
Oliver nodded. "Yes, I was."
"Is your eyeballs not workin', or what? How in the hell did yew miss seein' our big-ass transport? Yew ran right into us!"
Oliver gulped. "The sun was in my eyes. I hope none of your men were hurt."
The sergeant glanced at the newsgirls, then back to Oliver.
"Yew ain't Vegan, are yew?"
"No. I'm a Federation citizen."
"Then what the hell yew doin' here?"
"I was here on vacation. I was scheduled to go home the day your fleet arrived."
The sergeant shook his head in irony. "Shitty fuckin' break."
"You could say that."