The Fighter King

by John Bowers

  "Are you fucking with me, Fed man?"

  "Excuse me, Drill Sergeant?"

  Amundsen took the rifle, inspected it briefly, then reloaded it. He handed it back, fiddled with the controls on the holo-target, then nodded at Oliver again.

  "Okay, smart‑ass. Ten targets, random appearance. Hit as many as you can."

  Oliver dropped into his firing crouch. No targets were visible, and he waited. The first popped up exactly where the last had been, and he drilled it through the heart. Before it faded another appeared ten yards behind it, and he put one through the head. Two popped up at once, ten yards to the left of the first two. Oliver hit one in the heart, the other in the shoulder. Then three appeared almost at once and he got two of them squarely, barely nicking the third. Another flashed in the original position and he hit the heart, and the last two appeared a split second later on either side of it. He hit them both in the head, then stood and cleared his weapon.

  Amundsen's jaw worked grimly as he studied the computerized result on his console. Oliver could almost hear his teeth grinding as he snatched the rifle.

  "City boy, huh?" he snarled. "What were you, a fucking police officer?"

  "No, Drill Sergeant. I've never fired a weapon before."

  "Sophia scorn, Lincoln! You're lying through your fucking teeth!"

  "Did I do good, Drill Sergeant?"

  Amundsen didn't answer. Instead, he waved him aside, calling in another recruit to take his place.

  * * *

  Vega had settled behind the mountains when Amundsen sent the recruits on their nightly five mile run before evening chow. For the first time since training had begun, he didn't accompany them, sending an assistant drill instructor instead. Oliver Lincoln III stood at attention on the field, alone in front of the drill sergeant.

  "Okay, Lincoln," Amundsen said in a dangerously low voice, "just what the fuck were trying to pull today?"

  "Excuse me, Drill Sergeant?"

  "Are you trying to make a fool out of me?"

  "No, Drill Sergeant. You don't need my help!"

  A pregnant silence hung before them as the light faded and small bat‑like mammals winged overhead.

  "Now you're also a comedian. You're very funny, Lincoln. Very funny."

  "Thank you, Drill Sergeant." Oliver closed his eyes briefly as Amundsen circled him, wondering at his own stupidity. He hadn't meant to say that; the words had just come out. He knew from painful experience that he was writing checks only Amundsen could cash.

  "You've been here six weeks, Lincoln. In three more weeks it's all over. Do you think you're ready to face the Sirians?"

  Oliver grimaced. He'd been asking himself the same thing in those rare moments when he had had time to think.

  "I don't know, Drill Sergeant."

  "I've been hard on you. Do you know why?"

  "I think so, Drill Sergeant."

  Amundsen stopped pacing, stared hard at him.

  "Really? Suppose you tell me."

  Oliver frowned. "You're trying to help me survive the Sirians."

  "That's right, Lincoln. Sophia scorn! That's right! I'm trying to save your life. When you came here you were a worthless fat Fed fuck who didn't stand the chance of a Vegan virgin in a Sirian chain gang of living long enough to take a piss during combat. I've taken you from being nothing but a worthless fat Fed fuck and turned you into a slightly less fat Fed fuck who just might be worth the money we've spent training you.

  "Look at yourself. You've lost weight. You've got muscles. You can see your feet for the first time in your life. You can run ten miles through the mountains without puking your guts out. You can get through the obstacle course without crawling under things. I did that for you, Lincoln. And you repay me by laughing at me? Trying to make a fool of me?"

  Oliver chewed his lip, staring at a fixed point on the dark mountainside across the valley.

  "I apologize, Drill Sergeant."

  "Lincoln, I've been in the Guard for twenty-three years. When I enlisted, our drill instructors were Sirian advisors. The Sirians taught me everything I know about military life, about weapons, about fighting. If you think I'm tough, you haven't met a Sirian drill instructor. They are mean cocksuckers, let me tell you. And now we're at war with them. These kids don't stand a chance without discipline, without iron in their blood. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  "Yes, Drill Sergeant."

  "Where did you learn to shoot?"

  "In the North American wilderness. I used to hunt big game with my father."

  "What kind of big game?"

  "Elk, antelope, big-horned sheep."

  Amundsen nodded. "Have you ever killed a man?"

  "Yes, Drill Sergeant."

  Amundsen's eyes expanded in surprise for just a second. "When did you ever kill a man, Lincoln?"

  "A few days after the war started, Drill Sergeant. I killed two Sirians."

  "Are you fucking with me again?"

  "No, Drill Sergeant. It was on the Southern Plain. I was trying to reach Vegan lines. I ran into two Sirian soldiers who were attacking some women. I killed them both."

  "How did you kill them?"

  "I — impaled the first one with a tree branch. Then I took his bayonet and …"

  "Stabbed the other one?"

  Oliver nodded, cringing at the memory. "Yes, Drill Sergeant."

  Darkness obscured Amundsen's face, but Oliver sensed a penetrating stare.

  "Is this true, Lincoln?"

  "Swear to god, Drill Sergeant. Swear to Sophia. The second Sirian damn near killed me before I got him."

  Amundsen let out his breath in a sigh. "Goddess!"

  "Drill Sergeant — I apologize for lying to you. It — was the first time you tried to teach me something I already knew how to do. I-I guess I wanted to show off a little."

  The drill sergeant didn't reply at once. Oliver waited, feeling inexplicably ashamed.

  "All right," Amundsen said finally. "You've made excellent progress so far. There are some tough times ahead, but I think you'll do okay. You've worked hard, and you're good with a rifle. I'm going to make you a recruit corporal. I want you to work with the other men on the rifle range. Can you do that?"

  "Yes, Drill Sergeant!"

  "Good. Now, tell me one thing. Just between you and me."

  "If I can, Drill Sergeant."

  "Why the hell are you even here? The Federation has given Vega the finger as far as help is concerned, and yet here you are. If you were smart, you'd be hiding out at the Fed embassy."

  "Drill Sergeant … The Sirians murdered my sister before the war. And since I came here, they murdered another girl that I cared about very much."

  "A Vegan girl?"

  "Yes, Drill Sergeant."

  Amundsen nodded. "I wondered if it was something like that. Okay, Lincoln. Dismissed."

  Chapter 24

  Thursday, 24 September, 0195 (PCC) — Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  The visitor was a big man, over six feet tall and broad in the shoulders. Powerful, good looking, confident. Oliver Lincoln II got up from his desk and walked around to shake hands.

  "Oliver Lincoln," he said heartily. "I've heard a lot about you."

  "Thank you, sir. I'm very glad to meet you."

  Lincoln waved him to a chair and returned to his desk.

  "I don't normally interview new hires, but I make an exception for department heads. And security is of particular concern to me."

  "Yes, sir, that makes sense."

  "Hofstedder, down in Personnel, seems to think you have all the qualifications we need. But you've never worked as a security guard?"

  "No, sir, but I understand the issues. And I have worked in law enforcement. I'm confident I can do the job."

  Lincoln nodded. "I don't doubt it. You come highly recommended. How's the new leg?"

  Jeremy Mason smiled. "It feels great. Only took me a week to get my balance back. And I'm dying to get back to work."

  "Great." Lin
coln leaned over and pressed the intercom. "Rosemary, schedule an employee assembly tomorrow at noon to introduce the new Chief of Security."

  "Right away, Mr. Lincoln."

  Lincoln shut off the intercom and faced the visitor again. "Welcome to LincEnt, Mr. Mason. Now let's talk about security issues …"

  Washboard Mountains, Vega 3

  "Try to relax," Oliver told the kid with the rifle. "You're too stiff. The rifle isn't going to hurt you, it has to become a part of you." He adjusted the stock against the recruit's shoulder, then stood back. "Try it again. And squeeze the trigger, don't jerk it."

  He turned to watch the target as the kid sighted down the barrel. The rifle roared and the kid rocked back under the recoil. Another clean miss.

  "Stand up," Oliver said wearily. "Give me the rifle."

  The kid was barely seventeen. He handed the rifle over with a hopeless look in his eyes. His left hand moved to massage his right shoulder.

  "It hurts," he complained. "I didn't know they kicked like that."

  "The tighter you hold it, the less it hurts. Right now you're afraid of the noise, but when you get past that, you won't even notice the kick. Let the rifle become part of your body. Like your …"

  "Lincoln!"

  "… dick." Oliver turned. It was Amundsen's voice. He saw the drill sergeant waving him over. Oliver returned the rifle to the recruit. "Take a break. I'll be back."

  He turned and double-timed to where Amundsen waited for him. He jerked to a halt and stood at attention.

  "Yes, Drill Sergeant!" he yelled.

  "At ease, Lincoln."

  Oliver blinked. Amundsen had never said that to him before. He relaxed only slightly and allowed himself to make eye contact with the older man.

  "Something unusual has come up," Amundsen said, his eyes narrowed with intrigue. "We got a request from HQ a little while ago. Apparently the brass has cooked up some kind of special op and they're looking for marksmen."

  Oliver felt his heart begin to pound. He swallowed in anticipation.

  "You're the best shot in the camp, Lincoln. Looks like your training is complete."

  "I still have a week left, Drill Sergeant."

  "I know, but I guess the Sirians aren't aware of that. They don't always conform to our training schedules."

  Oliver suppressed a grin. He was probably as ready as he would ever be. He'd lost over twenty pounds, was in the best physical shape of his life, and nobody on either side was a better rifle shot.

  "One more week won't make that much difference," Amundsen said. "You're as ready as you're going to get." He handed Oliver a small packet. "Your combat infantry badge. You've earned it. Pack your gear, you leave in thirty minutes."

  Sophia Alps, Vega 3

  Oliver was in transit most of the night, sleeping uncomfortably in the back of a light hover transport. Several times the transport stopped to take on other men, until a total of fourteen were crowded into the compartment. None of the newcomers knew any more than Oliver did, and no one was telling them anything.

  About an hour before dawn, the transport finally stopped. Oliver and the others stepped out onto a cobbled street in a small mountain town. The air was cold and fresh, scented with pine needles and raw lumber. The dark silhouettes of houses were barely visible. As the transport lifted on its jets and turned back the way it had come, an officer approached the new arrivals and they snapped to attention.

  "Welcome to the war," he said quietly. "I'm Lieutenant Hansen. Follow me."

  Hansen led them into what looked like a business establishment, where they squeezed into a small conference room. Oliver looked with interest at the holomaps displayed against the walls. A female clerk worked at a computer terminal in the corner.

  "Gentlemen," Hansen said, "I'll keep this short. You men have been selected for your ability to use a rifle. We're going to form you into teams of two and send you forward. The enemy has been dicking us around, and we're going to stir him up a little. We've identified certain targets we want to eliminate, and that will be your job. Any questions?"

  "Exactly where are we, sir?" one of the men asked.

  "This is Lake Francesca. We're about a hundred miles from Sirian lines. You'll be joining your units in a couple of hours. You'll be issued weapons at that time."

  Oliver spoke up next.

  "Lieutenant, are you telling us we're going to be used as snipers?"

  "That's right, private." Hansen's eyes bored into his skull. "You have a problem with that?"

  "No, sir!" But he felt his blood racing. Victoria's bill would be paid very soon.

  "Anything else? All right, Corporal Volga will scan your datatags and assign you transport. Good luck."

  Hansen turned and left the room. The girl at the computer terminal stood up and approached each man with a scanner in her hand. Moments later she had their datatags recorded, and then counted them off in pairs. She made notations on her hand-held and gave each pair their assignment. Oliver and the man next to him were assigned to the 49th Volunteers.

  "Exit out that door," she told them, pointing. "Drivers are waiting outside. Tell them which unit you belong to and they'll take it from there. Good luck." She turned back to her computer without another word.

  Outside, Oliver turned to the man who'd been assigned with him.

  "I'm Oliver Lincoln," he said.

  "Bjorn Hoffmann."

  "Nice to meet you."

  Less than a minute later they were seated in a four-man hoversled. As dawn began to break over the mountains, they set out. Oliver Lincoln III was on his way to war.

  Chapter 25

  Saturday, 26 September, 0195 (PCC) — Sophia Alps, Vega 3

  Oliver picked his way carefully down a ravine, following the man ahead; bringing up the rear were Bjorn Hoffmann and two other soldiers. The landscape had been beautiful once, but now looked like a wasteland. Weeks of artillery and rocket barrages had destroyed trees and rocks, leaving the hillsides pocked and scarred. Gaping craters dotted the tortured terrain, but the steep, narrow sides of the ravine had protected it from most of the devastation.

  They'd been walking nearly forty minutes when they arrived at their objective. Sgt. Meier, the point man, stopped and pointed upward, then began to climb out of the gorge. Sweating, Oliver slung his new 9mm Scandi sniper rifle and climbed after him. A minute later he found himself crawling into a fortified position where two Vegan Guardsmen were waiting.

  "Goddess!" one of them exclaimed. "Glad to see you guys. It gets pretty lonely up here with just two of us."

  Oliver looked around briefly. The spot looked like a nest, twenty feet across and banked with rocks and dirt. The splintered remains of two trees offered a bit of shade and a hand-dug depression had been covered with what looked like roofing material — a place to sleep or hide from the elements, he decided. On the south side of the nest, a short tripod held some sort of telescopic device and what looked like a camera.

  An observation post.

  "Anything happening?" Sgt. Meier asked as the last three men crawled over the side.

  "It's been pretty quiet for the last hour," the other Guardsman said. "They loaded another transport right after dawn, and then nothing."

  Oliver settled onto one knee and looked out over the edge of the nest; more foothills lay to the south, but just beyond was the Southern Plain. Slightly to his left, barely visible between two opposing hills, he caught a glint of light. Peering closer, he realized it was a town, or maybe a village. Not more than a mile away.

  "We brought a couple of sharpshooters," Meier said, and made the introductions. The two men in the nest were Krug and Wulf. Oliver nodded but didn't shake hands. His stomach felt queasy and knotted.

  "It's a pretty long shot," Wulf suggested. "A mile at least." His eyes met Oliver's. "Can you reach that far?"

  Oliver nodded. "No problem."

  "Man, I hope so. I'd love to see some of those fuckers go down." Wulf nodded at the imaging equipment. "We've been watchin
g them drag women into their hovercraft, up to twenty at a time, and take them away. Makes you crazy when you're just two guys and can't do anything about it."

  Oliver swallowed as adrenaline fed into his system. Jesus!

  Meier pulled him and Hoffmann aside and explained.

  "This is an ideal setup," he said. "Just under two thousand yards, the wind is in your face. What we'd like is to get three or four kills at least. Go for the SE bastards — they're wearing black uniforms. They're the slave takers, so ignore everyone else."

  "Don't they have sentries? If that village is their front line, they've got to have someone between us and them."

  "They do, but we're prepared to abandon this post if we have to. We just want to sting the bastards, let them feel a little fear."

  Oliver nodded, studying his sniper scope.

  "Wulf will spot for you," Meier concluded. "As soon as he spots the targets we want, he'll point them out to you. Ideally, if both of you can take down targets at the same time, we can maximize the damage."

  It was approaching noon. Vega was high in the sky, the air had warmed some, but the day remained pleasantly cool. The men broke out rations and ate a cold lunch of processed meat, hard cheese, and crackers. Wulf and Krug alternated at the tripod. Almost an hour after they finished eating, as Oliver was just starting to relax, Krug stiffened.

  "SE hovercraft!" he said tersely.

  Oliver and Bjorn Hoffmann sat up abruptly. Wulf took over the tripod and motioned them forward. Oliver settled against the side of the nest and rested his rifle on the edge. He checked the position of Vega to make sure there would be no reflection off his scope, then sighted through it and began adjusting the magnification.

  He saw a single hovervan settle into the center of the village street. Six men emerged and stood for a moment, all wearing the ebony uniform of the SE. Another Sirian, an officer in standard grey, emerged from a building to talk to them. Documents were produced — a shipping manifest? — and examined. The officer talked while the SE man nodded.

  "Stand by," Wulf said.

  Oliver checked the range — 1766 yards — and adjusted for it. The breeze was in his face, almost dead-on, not more than one or two knots. He twisted the strap around his left wrist to remove the slack, took two deep breaths and released them, pulled the butt plate against his shoulder, and began willing himself to relax.