The Fighter King

by John Bowers

  The foliage along the stream bank suddenly ended as the farmhouse came into view. A wide lawn stretched from the stream to the back door, and his only cover was to keep his head down and hug the bank nearest the house. He could no longer see the sled, but did hear a dog barking. He moved carefully, deliberately, almost panting with anxiety.

  He got past the house, and had just reached the point where the foliage sprang up again when he heard a scream. It was faint, from inside the house, and he froze. He listened, and heard it again, louder. It was blood curdling, and Oliver felt rage well up inside him.

  It sounded like Jacquje.

  "Jesus!" he whispered. What did he do? What the hell did he do?

  He wanted more than anything to keep going, to walk away from here, but somehow he couldn't. Yet he had no weapons. The Sirians had taken his rifle and he didn't even have a pocketknife.

  Now the screaming was constant, punctuated by the yelling of angry men. Oliver realized with a start that he heard two women screaming.

  He looked around on the stream bank and found a section of tree limb about three feet long and an inch thick. It had been broken off, and was jagged on one end. He snatched it up and peeled the leaves off, gripping it with both hands like a spear. He looked toward the house again, his rage turning to indecision.

  He jumped at the sound of a gunshot. God! Someone was being murdered in there! Oliver shrugged off his backpack, picked up his spear and — ducked down again as the back door sprang open. A woman charged out at a dead run, shrieking hysterically. She was about fifty, naked from the waist up, her breasts swinging heavily as she blindly fled the house.

  Oliver held his breath as a man charged out right behind her, also at a dead run. He looked about nineteen, his face flushed with anger. He wore a grey uniform.

  Oliver flattened against the stream bank as the woman raced helter-skelter in his direction, screaming at the top of her lungs, obviously too distraught to think about where she was going. When she reached the bank, she lost her balance and tumbled head over heels into the dry sand. The soldier saw her fall and never slowed down. He raced to the bank and leaped, intending to land beside her.

  Oliver sprang out of hiding and thrust his makeshift spear upward just as the Sirian came down. The two men collided like a pair of asteroids, and Oliver went down into the sand with the Sirian on top of him. Suddenly unable to breathe, he struggled in panic to get free. It took him a moment to realize the other man wasn't moving, and only when he managed to push him off did Oliver realize he was covered with blood. The tree limb protruded from the Sirian's stomach, along with some of his intestines.

  Oliver retched, but nothing came up. A few feet away, the woman was struggling to her feet, still screaming in horror. She turned and fled down the middle of the stream, mindless with fear.

  Oliver let her go, and she was soon lost to sight around a bend.

  He still heard cries from inside the house.

  He bent over the Sirian, checked his pulse, found none. Shaking from adrenaline, he spotted a bayonet hanging from the dead man's belt. Without hesitation, he took it, peered toward the house, and crawled out of the streambed.

  The dog was barking and lunging against its chain, but Oliver ignored it. The screams were louder now, more insistent – the woman inside sounded desperate, hysterical.

  He slipped inside the house, moving carefully, gripping the bayonet. He found a Vegan man lying in a hallway, bleeding from a wound in his chest, probably the husband of one of the women. A few feet farther stood an open doorway to what looked like a bedroom. The screams were coming from inside.

  Oliver's fear faded as hatred surged through him. Sliding along the wall, he peered through the doorway.

  The second woman was much younger than the first. She was pinned against the bedroom wall, most of her clothing ripped away, fighting for her life. The second man from the gunsled had her by the throat and was driving his fist into her face, trying to subdue her.

  OLIVER!!! HELP ME!!!"

  His fear forgotten, Oliver stepped through the doorway, bayonet in hand. The soldier’s eyes sprang wide at the sight of him. For one extended second the two men stared at each other, then the Sirian released the woman and his right hand snaked toward his sidearm.

  Oliver sprang forward, his pudgy body hitting the taller man like a railsled. They crashed into the wall and rebounded into a dresser. Fragile knick-knacks shattered, porcelain flew. The woman scrambled out of the room as they struggled; the Sirian’s laser pistol was out, but before he could fire Oliver drove the bayonet into his side. Hot blood splashed the floor, but the Sirian wasn’t finished. He cracked Oliver’s skull with the pistol, but couldn’t get the muzzle into position for a kill shot.

  Oliver realized he was outmatched – the Sirian was a trained killer, and Oliver wasn’t trained at all. In desperation he stabbed the man a second time, hitting a rib that deflected the blade. Panting and grunting, the two men crashed sideways again, into another piece of furniture. Oliver tried desperately to stab his opponent a third time, but the Sirian got an arm around his neck and spun him around, pushing him backward toward the bed. The pistol cracked against his skull again and stars flashed behind his eyes. The Sirian was forcing him backward now, and his legs hit the edge of the bed; he lost his footing and toppled onto his back.

  The Sirian was above him now, panting from exertion and blood loss, murder in his eyes. The pistol swung toward Oliver’s face, but he managed to grab the soldier’s wrist with his left hand, struggling to queer his aim. Unable to overcome Oliver’s grip, the Sirian used his other hand to grab Oliver’s left wrist, and jerked the pistol free. His eyes narrowed with rage as he spoke for the first time.

  “You fucked up, buddy! You fucked up bad!”

  Oliver saw the laser pistol line up with his left eye, almost in slow motion. The Sirian was losing blood, but could still pull the trigger. Oliver had about two seconds left to live. But the soldier had left him an opening — and he used it. His right hand flashed upward like a rattlesnake, the bayonet clenched tightly. The blade ripped through the Sirian’s throat and out the other side. Instinctively, Oliver twisted the blade and jerked it free, then lunged sideways as the laser pistol fired. The shot missed his ear by an inch, burning a hole through the bed. Hot arterial blood pumped across his head as the Sirian’s eyes glazed and he slid backward onto the floor.

  Chapter 21

  Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  Rosemary Egler knocked once and walked into the executive office. Oliver Lincoln II sat staring at a spreadsheet on his data terminal.

  "Your mail, Mr. Lincoln," Rosemary said, placing a stack on his desk. "And those stock reports you asked for."

  He nodded absently and she turned to leave. Halfway to the door, she stopped and turned back.

  "Mr. Lincoln …"

  He looked up.

  "Is there — anything new? About Ollie?"

  Lincoln leaned back in his chair and regarded her for a moment, his grey eyes slightly narrowed. He shook his head.

  "Nothing today."

  She nodded, forced a smile, and turned for the door.

  "Rosemary. Sit down."

  Rosemary wheeled once more, stared indecisively at him for a second, then took a chair in front of his desk. For some reason her pulse began to pound.

  "Are you all right?" Lincoln asked. "You look like you've lost a little weight."

  Rosemary smiled fleetingly and shrugged. "I haven't been sleeping too well lately. Just nerves, probably."

  "What's bothering you?"

  "Well …"

  "You worried about Ollie?"

  Her smile disappeared. She nodded slowly.

  Lincoln stared at her a moment. "You can tell me this is none of my business," he said carefully, "but — do you have feelings for him?"

  Rosemary shook her head slowly.

  "No, not really," she replied. "I like him a lot and I respect him, but — he's more like a big brother to
me. Since I lost my family, he was always there if I needed anything. There was never any more to it than that." She stared at her feet.

  Lincoln sat a moment, watching her. She looked up again.

  "I don't have any designs on him, Mr. Lincoln. Even if I did, it would never work. I know I'm working class."

  "Bullshit. If Ollie wanted to marry you, I'd pay for the wedding. Johnny Egler was my best friend, and a damned fine foreman here at the plant."

  Rosemary felt her face turn red, and lowered her eyes again. "Does your wife feel the same way?" she wanted to ask, but didn't. Maxine Lincoln had all but ignored her during the years she'd lived with the Lincolns.

  Lincoln leaned forward to rest on his elbows.

  "Look," he said, "this whole situation is frustrating as hell, for all of us. But I think I know my son, and I'm confident he's all right. In another week we'll know if he got aboard that starship, and if he didn't — well, he's a Federation citizen, which makes him a neutral. The Confederates aren't crazy. They'll handle our people with kid gloves. Ollie will be home in a few weeks, or at most a few months. As soon as the shooting stops. Maybe even before that."

  She smiled, but without conviction.

  "In the meantime, anything I hear, you're the first one I'll tell. How does that sound?"

  She nodded and stood.

  "Take the afternoon off. Go home and get some rest. And for god's sake, eat something!"

  Southern Plain, Vega 3

  Oliver was close to panic after killing the two Sirians. Far from remaining safely hidden from prying eyes, he'd now focused a spotlight on himself that would force the Sirians to take notice. His first instinct now was to run as fast and as far as he could, leaving the killing scene behind. But doing that would leave the Vegan women to face the wrath of Sirius when the Confederates discovered two dead soldiers. The women had already suffered enough.

  It took him two hours and all the courage he could muster to do what he had to do. First he had to throw up, emptying his stomach of all its contents. Then he had to find the woman who'd run away, get both women calm enough to understand the gravity of their situation, and finally figure out what to do next.

  Part of it was simple enough: the Sirians had never been there, period. Oliver would take the bodies and their sled when he left. The women would clean up the blood and erase any evidence of the two dead men. It would be difficult, but not impossible.

  The complicating factor was the husband who'd been shot. He needed medical attention, and quickly. He wouldn't last until the house could be sanitized, and if he were checked into a local hospital, the Sirians would easily put two and two together.

  The older woman offered the solution. She had a sister in Princess Carlena County, some fifty miles to the southeast. They could be there in a half-hour by hovercar, find a hospital, and return to clean the house. It might work.

  It was all they had.

  Oliver's nerves were humming as he hoisted the dead men onto the sled, then returned inside the house to wash the blood off. He longed for a lengthy hot shower, but dared not take the time. He helped the women get the injured man into a hovercar, then started to turn away.

  "Mr. Fed man," the older woman said, "we can never thank you enough. You saved our lives."

  Oliver shrugged uncomfortably. He had to get going.

  "What is your name, please?" the woman asked. "I want to pray for you."

  "I'm sorry," he said. "You don't need to know my name. You never saw me, okay? I don't exist."

  The woman took his face in both hands and kissed his cheek, tears in her eyes.

  "I understand," she said. "Sophia's tears, Mr. Fed man. Sophia sent you to save us. I think you must be an angel."

  "Good luck, Ma'am. You'd better get going. Be careful."

  He mounted the gunsled, wishing it were dark, not daring to wait until it was. The sled lifted sluggishly under the extra weight, and it took him a few minutes to get the feel of it. He hovered across the stream and dropped as near the ground as possible, using the foliage for cover. He followed the stream for several miles, nakedly aware that if he were seen he would be a dead man.

  Just before dusk the stream changed direction, meandering toward the east. Oliver needed to go west. He stopped and set the sled down. Looking carefully in all directions, he dragged the bodies off the sled and pulled them into the brush along the bank, covering them with loose branches and leaves. He kept the bayonet and one laser pistol, but left all personal papers behind. He turned the sled west and skimmed the ground at fifty knots, the wind rushing through his hair as he put distance between himself and the scene of his deed. With each passing mile he felt a growing sense of relief.

  One thing about the whole mess, he reflected grimly — Erika and Jacquje were paid for.

  Victoria was not.

  * * *

  At dark he stood beside the sled and watched the fireworks display along the mountains. The artillery was east of him now, hundreds of big guns and launch tubes stabbing the night with flashes like so many strobe lights. The thunder was a steady voice that he now hardly noticed.

  The mountains towered above him. He was actually in the foothills, and the only thing left to do was find a way through them. The pass Janssen had told him about was where the artillery was falling; to go there would be suicide. But there had to be other routes to his destination. Private roads, mountain trails…something.

  Somewhere.

  He mounted the sled again and started forward, pushing north, keeping low, feeling the growing chill of the night as he slowly maneuvered through the rising hills. Looking. Searching. Wishing he had a map. Wishing he could use the sled's lights.

  For three hours he probed along the foot of the mountains, finding and following small secondary roads that looked promising, turning back when they failed to pan out. He finally found one that penetrated farther than the others, twisting and turning as the elevation mounted. He made several miles before he came to what looked like a rockslide, almost hitting it before he could stop.

  He set the sled down, cursing under his breath. A fucking rockslide! The only decent road he'd found! He could go over it, probably, but…

  Something about the whole scene bothered him. He left the sled where it was and walked slowly forward, peering intently at the white granite that had spilled across the road. He stopped at the base of the slide, looking up at it. Insects hummed in the grass beside the road. He hardly noticed them as he felt the hairs prickle on his arms. Something was wrong here, but he didn't know exactly what.

  He turned to walk back to the sled.

  The insect sounds abruptly ceased.

  Oliver spun around, reaching for his laser pistol …

  Two shadows sprang out of the night and tackled him; he crashed painfully to the pavement, his pistol skittering from his grasp. He struggled in terror, but a fist crashed into his face, then another. One of his attackers straddled him and sat astride his chest while the other pinned his arms.

  "Fucking Sirian baby-killer!" the first one snarled.

  "No!" Oliver rasped. He felt sharp, cold steel against his throat.

  "Don't kill him!" the other one shouted. "We need the intel!"

  Oliver almost fainted with relief. The words were harsh, but the lilting accent was music to his ears.

  He'd found the Vegan Guard.

  Book Three: The Sophia Alps

  Chapter 22

  Tuesday, 4 August, 0195 (PCC) — London, Europe, Terra

  Henry Wells followed the Vegan crisis daily. His mentor, North American Senator Howard Nieters, had business interests on Vega and wanted to stay abreast of the situation; Henry had lived on Vega and had his own reasons. His position on the senator's staff gave him access to a great deal of FIA data, much of it classified.

  Almost four weeks after the initial invasion, the Confederacy had still offered no details about the incident, and the Vegan Monarchy had gone silent. The only news came from what came to be called "pirate s
hips" lying stationary a few light hours outside Vegan space. These ships received normal broadcast signals from the planet and relayed them via subspace back to the Federation.

  What Henry had learned was hardly comforting.

  The Sirians now had almost a million troops on the ground, mostly on the Southern Plain. All Vegan Guard presence on the Plain had been eliminated — Soderstad had fallen after sixteen days of hard fighting — but the Guard still held the Sophia Alps and everything northward. The Sirians were engaging the Guard along the southern perimeter of the Alps, but seemed reluctant to press forward. Speculation held that time was on the Confederacy's side; they now controlled ninety percent of Vega's agriculture and with harvest approaching, the Vegans would soon begin to feel the shortage.

  The SE was loading transport ships with slaves from the Southern Plain, mostly women, and shipping them back to Sirius. Indications were that in some smaller towns hardly a woman could still be found.

  More names of Federation citizens had been received, but Oliver Lincoln III still wasn't among them. That in itself was disturbing enough, but another development caused Henry even deeper concern …

  Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  "Henry Wells on seven."

  Oliver Lincoln II swung around to take the call. Within seconds he was looking at the young senatorial aide.

  "What's new, Henry?"

  The face on the vidphone hesitated only a second.

  "It's been over three weeks, Mr. Lincoln."

  "I know. So?"

  "Sir — Princess Gina was due to cancel warp four days ago."

  Lincoln frowned slightly, uncertainty in his eyes. "But?"

  Henry Wells sighed unhappily. "The ship didn't arrive, Mr. Lincoln. Contact has been lost."

  Lincoln felt an unexpected chill shiver down his spine. "Spell it out for me, Henry."

  "I can't. I don't know what's happened. Except that Princess Gina did not arrive in the Solar System as expected, and repeated attempts to contact her have failed."