The Fighter King

by John Bowers

  * * *

  "It is my first time to Terra," Lars Sorensen said. He was tall for a fighter pilot, well over six feet, blond and rawboned, with a long jaw and pale blue eyes. "I have cousins I had never met, in Sweden. I was visiting them when I received orders from General Montenegro to come here. To learn to fly your SolarFighter." He smiled ironically. "And then the Sirians attacked, so maybe it is too late. But I still have orders, and I cannot go home, so …"

  Oliver Lincoln II nodded slowly; his grey eyes narrowed as he took in the sky-blue Space Guard uniform.

  "I was aware that General Montenegro was going to send a team of pilots. But as you said, the war started, so they probably never got off the planet. After that, I wasn't expecting anybody."

  Sorensen nodded again, staring at his hands.

  "I suppose it is up to you whether I stay here or go back to Sweden. What do you think I should do?"

  Lincoln considered the matter for thirty seconds. Finally he shifted in his chair and cleared his throat.

  "You have orders. I have people who can teach you to fly our fighter. You have nothing better to do, and right now I can't deliver the fighters to Vega. So I guess the only thing to do is get you trained. Who knows, Vega might just kick the Sirians out. If they do, you can go back and start training your own pilots without delay."

  Sorensen's smile faded a little — neither of them expected that to happen — but he nodded once more.

  "Very well, sir. I am ready to begin."

  Thursday, 16 July, 0195 (PCC) — Southern Plain, Vega 3

  It was a small cemetery, a hundred feet higher than the surrounding terrain, offering an unobstructed view in all directions. Only a few dozen headstones graced the grounds, artistic markers of marble and onyx, most of them incorporating the Triangle of Sophia somewhere in the design. The cemetery's most prominent feature was the modest country Temple of Sophia in the center.

  Jacquje Norgaard was laid to rest in the shade of a tall tree near the perimeter forcefence. Only Oliver, the Janssens, and the temple priestess were in attendance. A gentle summer breeze ruffled the tree branches and caressed Oliver's face. He stared at the simple silver coffin almost without hearing the gentle words of the priestess; tears slid down his cheeks, and only with difficulty did he keep from breaking down completely.

  He'd caused this.

  Pure and simple.

  "We commend Jacquje, our sister, to the arms of beloved Sophia, the Goddess of Mercy, the Goddess of Beauty, the Goddess of Love, the Goddess of Life. O Righteous Sophia, open your arms to receive her soul, her life, her beauty, and her essence. Forever comfort her, protect her, and fill her with the pure joy of your majestic presence. Wipe away her tears and her sorrow. Forever ease her pain, and restore in her the force of life, a life that can never be stilled."

  The priestess held out a closed fist, palm up, and opened her fingers. A small bird flew out of it and streaked for altitude.

  "Be forever at peace, Jacquje our sister," she said. "Sophia's tears."

  The Janssens made the Sign of the Cult. Oliver blew his nose. He knelt beside the coffin, pressing his face against it, and closed his eyes. For over a minute he couldn't speak as tears flooded from his eyes and his lungs constricted with emotion.

  "I'm so sorry, Jacquje," he said when he could form the words. "I should never have let this happen. But your life isn't over yet, because you left something behind. I swear to god — I swear to Sophia, I'll guard it with my life."

  He kissed the coffin, then stood shakily and laid a bouquet of flowers on the top. The Janssens were waiting, and after thanking the priestess, he left with them.

  Sunday, 19 July, 0195 (PCC) — Southern Plain, Vega 3

  Oliver spent three more days on the farm, trying to decide his next move. Mrs. Janssen fussed over him a little, baking special treats and trying to cheer him up. He had several long talks with her, finding comfort in her motherliness, but spent most of the time alone.

  He wondered what had happened to Erika, where she was now. Had the Sirians killed her, too, when they no longer needed her sexual services, or found another hapless girl to replace her? He might never know.

  But Jacquje was dead. That much he did know. And yet …

  He frequently reached into his pocket to finger a nitrogen capsule the medics had given him. Their scanning equipment had detected a fertilized egg— a zygote — in Jacquje's womb. Because Jacquje's body hadn't died yet, neither had the zygote. The medics believed fertilization had occurred no more than three days earlier, which meant only one thing — Jacquje had been a virgin that night on the boat, so the sperm was his.

  The medics had removed the zygote and frozen it in the nitrogen capsule, which they gave to Oliver. Now he vowed, whatever the cost, to eventually find a surrogate mother to incubate the zygote and give life to his and Jacquje's child.

  But not on Vega. First he had to get home.

  Sitting in the shade of a tree, staring across the fields for hour upon hour, Oliver faced the hardest decision of his life. The zygote was important, but not his primary consideration at the moment. His starpass was gone, apparently stolen by the soldiers when they left. He'd returned to the scene and searched for it in vain.

  So, he could still try to surrender to the Sirians and hope for fair treatment as a Federation citizen, and perhaps transportation home. But without the starpass he couldn't prove his identity. Even if he could, he was no longer inclined to ask the Sirians for anything. They'd given him no reason lately to trust them with his life. They had raped Erika and Jacquje, had murdered Jacquje —

  — and they'd murdered Victoria. He knew that as surely as he knew his own name. They were plundering this beautiful planet even now, one day at a time. Eventually they would control it completely, and the peaceful Vegan people would be little more than slaves.

  So what the hell did he do now?

  More to the point, what should he do?

  The longer he thought about it, he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

  I'm a pacifist. I could never kill a human being.

  Sure you could. Anybody could, given the right circumstances.

  Brandon had been right.

  * * *

  "How far is Sophiastad from here?" Oliver asked the Janssens that night at dinner. He and the two girls had made so many stops and detours getting here that he no longer had any idea.

  "Over four hundred miles," Mr. Janssen told him. "West and north."

  "What about Soderstad?"

  "Why do you want to go there? Last I heard, the Sirians had it surrounded. There's Guard trapped in the city and the Sirians are fighting street to street."

  Oliver shrugged. "Just wondering."

  "A little over three hundred miles." The farmer laid down his fork. "What are you planning to do, Oliver?"

  "I need to get back to Reina."

  "Soderstad is the wrong direction."

  "I know, but I figure the Sirians won't push north very hard until they get Soderstad under control. That might buy me a little time."

  "If you want to get to Reina," Janssen said, "Sophiastad is not the shortest route. There's another pass almost straight north of here, only a little over a hundred miles. It cuts through the Alps for another hundred miles or so, then connects with three or four other major roads that go to different places. The terminus is a town called Lake Francesca."

  "How far is that?"

  "Close to three hundred miles. It's farther south than Sophiastad, but you can get to anywhere in the north from there."

  "Is there any kind of public transportation around here? Tubes or rail?"

  Janssen shook his head. "The only rail and tube lines serve the Southern Plain. None of them pass through the Alps. To get north of the mountains, you have to use surface or air."

  "And the Sirians have shut down air travel," Oliver said thoughtfully.

  Janssen exchanged meaningful glances with his wife. He sighed.

  "I have an old surface pic
kup you might take," he offered. "If the Sirians see it, they'll think you're a local farmer."

  But Oliver shook his head. "I've imposed on you folks too much already. I'm not going to take a vehicle that I can't return."

  "I have another one, so …"

  "Thanks anyway. If the Sirians do spot me, they'll want to see identification. I've lost mine, so my best bet is to become invisible."

  Mrs. Janssen frowned her puzzlement. "How will you do that?" she asked.

  Oliver allowed himself a rueful smile.

  "I'm going to walk."

  Monday, 20 July, 0195 (PCC) — Southern Plain, Vega 3

  How hard could it be? A hundred miles straight north to the foot of the Alps, find the pass, and start through it. Surely before he got very far into the mountains he would encounter the Vegan Guard, who could provide transportation to the nearest town. How far could he walk in a day? Twenty miles? Thirty? Aside from the occasional hunting trip, he'd never done anything athletic, had never exercised regularly, and was at least twenty Terra pounds overweight. But his heart and lungs were strong — his legs would catch up when they could. The good news was that Vega 3's gravity was only .89 that of Terra.

  Mrs. Janssen gave him a backpack filled with enough food for several days. Mr. Janssen provided an old pair of work boots that were more durable than the shoes he was wearing; they fit badly, but they fit. He also took a refillable water flask; it was farming country — irrigation canals crisscrossed the countryside.

  The fourth morning after Jacquje's funeral, Oliver was ready. The Janssens bade him a fond farewell and stood watching as he began his trek north. Oliver waved once and didn't look back. He was sure he'd never see them again, and only hoped that Sophia would watch over them. His own destiny lay across those mountains.

  Chapter 20

  Southern Plain, Vega 3

  The roads in the area were narrow but well surfaced; a man on foot could make good time. Unfortunately, the Confederate army used the roads, too. A hard surface provided better resistance for the lifters on hover vehicles and therefore saved fuel. The Sirians also used surface vehicles.

  Oliver had been walking less than an hour when he heard the approaching roar of heavy engines behind him. He felt something close to panic as he realized he was totally exposed; flat fields stretched away on both sides, not a tree in sight. He looked back and saw a line of vehicles approaching, too far away to see him clearly, but close enough to notice if he tried to hide.

  His heart racing, he walked several yards off the road and stopped between two rows of cabbage. Dropping the backpack into a furrow, he bent over and began pulling weeds. The approaching convoy became louder. Finally he stood upright and looked toward the road, both hands clutching clusters of weeds. The trucks were moving at about forty knots, at least a hundred of them. Some carried troops and others towed huge guns and missile launchers. Oliver watched with bated breath, hoping against hope they would ignore him. Helmeted heads gazed back at him, and one or two Sirians actually waved.

  Oliver waved back, then returned to pulling weeds.

  It was ten minutes until the last truck disappeared up the road. When they were gone, Oliver sat heavily in the dirt and waited for his heart to drop out of warp speed. Obviously, the road was not the best place to be.

  He angled across the fields until he was a mile from the road, then turned north again. But the soft ground made slower going, and he felt his fatigue building faster.

  The terrain changed slowly, but never varied much. It was farming country, vast and flat. Every so often he came to an unpaved farm road, a canal, or a small stream. Here and there lines of trees bordered the fields, serving as both windbreaks and property lines. Farmhouses came and went, and the crops changed from cabbage to potatoes to beets to corn — which was still young, not tall enough to provide much cover. When he passed through an irrigated field, Oliver noticed the drop in temperature. He found no lack of fresh water.

  He stopped every other hour to rest his feet and check his progress. Mr. Janssen had given him a small device that measured how far he walked, and each time he checked it he was disappointed. When Vega finally settled over the horizon, Oliver was physically and mentally exhausted. He stretched out in the edge of an alfalfa field and felt every muscle throb as he waited for sleep.

  He'd been walking all day, but had only covered nineteen miles.

  Tuesday, 21 July, 0195 (PCC) — Southern Plain, Vega 3

  The second day was harder. Every muscle was sore, every joint stiff. Oliver's feet hurt, his back ached, and shortly before noon a hot wind blew up, swirling dust around him. He lowered his head and trudged on, squinting against flying grit.

  He passed through fields of carrots, Vegan squash, and some indigenous vegetable he didn't recognize. In mid-afternoon the wind began to die, but Oliver was still hot and weary. He stopped more frequently, drank more water, and was afraid to look at his "mile-o-meter". Twice he saw Sirian spacecraft flying in formation, only a few thousand feet up, and once he heard another truck convoy growling north up the road parallel to him.

  Late in the day he skirted a small village, preferring not to be seen even by Vegans. By the time he'd cleared it, he was simply too tired to continue. He stopped when he reached a small stream with trees along the bank. Crawling into their shelter, he pulled off his boots and inspected the blisters on his feet, poured a little water over them, and stretched out to rest. He fell asleep without even taking time to eat.

  He'd only managed thirteen miles.

  Wednesday, 22 July, 0195 (PCC) — Southern Plain, Vega 3

  He ate heartily the third morning and set out. His feet still hurt, but his other aches seemed perhaps a little less severe. The air was cool and he found a dirt track going his direction, so tried to make up for lost time. He could see the Sophia Alps in the distance, a low, jagged profile against a beautiful sky. They looked impossibly far away, but he kept putting one foot in front of the other.

  He saw two or three farmers that morning, but merely waved at them and kept going. If they were concerned at seeing him on their property, they nevertheless kept their distance. Perhaps they'd seen other transients in their fields since the war started.

  He took fewer breaks this day, stopping only to take food from his backpack, which he ate on the move. His water ran out and he refilled it from an irrigation pump. He skirted another small town, crossed a fairly major highway, and took cover once when a string of Sirian troop transports hovered by a quarter mile ahead. When Vega went down, he continued walking until it was too dark to see.

  Tired, but not exhausted, he lay staring at the Vegan night sky for a half-hour before he fell asleep. The stars looked different from this part of the galaxy — the same stars, but a different angle. He saw constellations he couldn't identify, and could actually see two spiral galaxies near the horizon.

  He felt better tonight, more hopeful. He'd walked twenty-four miles. He was halfway to the Alps.

  Thursday, 23 July, 0195 (PCC) — Southern Plain, Vega 3

  At noon on the fourth day, Oliver ate the last of his food. He felt mildly alarmed, but decided not to worry about it. If he had to skip a couple of meals, it wouldn't kill him.

  He kept moving north. The Alps were growing now, starting to blot out the sky. The horizon had disappeared at their feet. He now knew he was going to make it.

  Several times in the afternoon he thought he heard thunder, but after a careful look in every direction, could see no clouds.

  By dark he'd passed into potato country again, and discovered they could be eaten raw. They weren't very tasty without salt, but they filled the hole.

  He covered thirty-three miles that day, and when he settled in for the night, knew why he'd heard thunder. Sitting in the dark, he watched a continuous flash of light from somewhere near the base of the mountains; Sirian artillery was pounding the Sophia Alps. Occasionally he could see pinpoint flashes where the artillery landed.

  He felt his stoma
ch knot as he realized he had to get past that artillery.

  Friday, 24 July, 0195 (PCC) — Southern Plain, Vega 3

  He woke to the sound of SolarFighters overhead. It was just sunup, and he sat up with a start, his heart pounding. Peering at the sky, he saw them, six pair formations of Lincoln fighters streaking toward the Alps. He watched until they disappeared, and when their thunder had died, he picked up the drumbeat of artillery again.

  Oliver ate half a raw potato, washed it down with water, and set out walking again. Today was his fifth day, and he realized it would be the most critical. He was nearing his primary objective, but the presence of Confederate troops up ahead represented a wrinkle in his plan. He could hardly walk through them, so he would have to go around, try to find a hole in their lines that he could slip through. He felt a knot of fear in his stomach, but kept going. He'd come too far now to turn back.

  Barely an hour later, he came to a dry streambed that angled to the northwest. Its banks were overgrown with trees and brush, so he climbed down into it and continued walking. He could no longer see anything approaching, but neither could he be seen, unless someone was using IR equipment.

  Before long he smelled cattle. Climbing up onto the bank, he peered out through the brush and saw he was approaching a dairy. A large milk barn sat surrounded by dozens of cattle pens. A silo stabbed into the sky like a religious icon. A large, very nice farmhouse sat right on the bank of the stream.

  Oliver considered approaching the house and begging a glass of milk, but quickly trashed the idea. It would be stupid to advertise his presence this close to his objective.

  He ducked suddenly as a shadow flashed over his position. Looking up, he spotted a two-man gunsled sailing toward the dairy, its passage silent except for the whisper of rushing air. A tripod laser weapon pointed skyward on the passenger side. Oliver waited to see the sled disappear in the distance, but it turned, circled over the dairy, and settled down in the front yard of the farmhouse. Maybe the Sirians liked milk, too.

  Tense with apprehension, Oliver returned to the streambed and continued walking. But now he moved with greater caution. Two Confederate soldiers were just ahead, and he had no desire to meet them. Hopefully he could get past the dairy without being seen.