by John Bowers
They all stared at him unblinking. It was Giordino who spoke for all of them: "Sophia's pussy, Sarge!"
"What?" Oliver hadn't heard that one.
"Sophia's pussy. No problem."
Oliver stifled a laugh and nodded. "I'll take the point. Let's go."
They set out in single file, Oliver in the lead. Within minutes they found the creek bed. It was barely a stream, only inches deep, flowing south through heavy undergrowth. They waded into it.
Within minutes, Oliver's feet were numb from the icy water. His boots were soaked, but he still had good traction. The undergrowth extended into the creek in places, making the trek difficult, but shielding them from enemy eyes. After twenty minutes the creek emerged from the foliage and Oliver could see several yards into the trees on both sides. They were approaching the area where the Sirians had defensive positions, and this would be the most critical point until they reached the objective. He reminded himself that the enemy wouldn't likely be expecting the Vegans to probe their lines, but it wasn't much consolation.
His eyes constantly scanned the trees.
He stopped, raising his right hand. The four behind him froze in their tracks, rifles ready. Oliver moved forward a few feet and crouched, trying to keep his butt out of the water. He pointed to the right, then to the left. Ten yards ahead, on each side of the creek bed, two squat tripods had been placed. Atop each tripod was a square box with what looked like an IR window in the side. The IR windows appeared to be in alignment. Without a doubt, a laser beam was stretched across the creek. To interrupt the beam would set off an alarm.
Sloppy, Oliver thought. The Sirians were too cocky for their own good, leaving the tripods in plain sight like that. Certainly they didn't expect intruders, at least not in daylight.
Oliver gave hand signals and the men moved out of the stream, walking carefully toward the tripod on the right. Oliver wondered briefly if the tripod was a diversion, if the real alarm system was better camouflaged. He stopped, surveying the area carefully, but saw nothing suspicious. He stepped around the tripod and moved back into the creek. One by one, the others followed.
They continued for another fifteen minutes, seeing and hearing nothing. If an alarm had sounded, there was no evidence of it. Finally Oliver judged he'd moved as far south as necessary, and led his team out of the creek. Moving carefully, as silent as possible, they penetrated the trees for a hundred yards, until they came to a small rise. Oliver stopped his men at the bottom and made his way carefully toward the top. Flattening out in foot-high grass, he put glasses to his eyes and gazed out across a clearing.
A farmhouse sat serenely at the edge of a meadow, a narrow road leading to it from the woods on the other side. A dozen cows grazed peacefully inside a white wooden fence. Like a picture holo-card, not more than fifty yards away.
Except for the twenty or so Sirian soldiers lounging around near the house. They looked like regular infantry, their uniforms grey with a red stripe down the legs. As he watched, four more emerged from the house, their attention apparently on a small hovervan parked a few yards away. The van was black, with an insignia Oliver didn't recognize — and another that he did — the single lightning bolt of the SE.
He took a deep breath, feeling his tension build. The van was small, probably seated no more than twenty. For a moment he thought his glasses were unsteady, then realized the van was moving slightly, a rocking motion. He saw a soldier step out of it, then another. A third soldier left the nearby group and climbed into the van. Then an SE officer came out of the van and waved toward the group by the house. Three more men walked forward, one of them rubbing his crotch.
Oliver backed down the slope and returned to his men.
"This is the place," he told them, and explained what he'd seen. "We have to assume they've got sentries out," he added. "I want two of you to my right and two to my left. Take up positions at thirty-yard intervals, keep your heads down, and watch your ass. If you run into a sentry, take him out, but use your bayonets. No shooting. Got that?
"I'll give you ten minutes to get in position before I do anything. I'm going to try to take out the SE people. Do not fire unless I tell you to. Only on my command. Are we absolutely clear on that?"
They all nodded.
"Okay. If you do have to fire, do not hit the van. I think it's full of Vegan women. But kill anything in uniform. And let's assume there are Vegans in the house."
They nodded again, chewing their lips, panting with anxiety.
"When I start shooting, keep an eye in my direction. If you see me pull back, then rendezvous back here. We'll have to haul ass because they're gonna be all over these woods."
"Shit!" Biswell whispered.
"Just relax. You'll be okay," Oliver told him.
Oliver checked his watch. It was almost noon. "Okay. Move out."
They split up; Oliver crawled back up the slope and put the glasses on the house again. He wondered how the hell they were going to manage this one.
When Oliver was sure the men were in position, he sighted down the barrel of his rifle. He had no scope, but the targets weren't that far away. Most of the Sirians either had their rifles slung or had left them in a stack. They would need a few seconds to return fire, which gave him a slight advantage.
He took aim on the SE officer standing by the van. It would be an easy shot if the guy just kept standing there. He scanned the scene again, making sure he hadn't missed anything important. Just then another SE officer emerged from the van. Interesting. Two of them, transporting women around the combat zone for the soldiers' pleasure. Well, today would be the end of that.
The two SE men stood together, their backs to him. The van rocked again and a soldier stepped out, then another, then three more. Oliver held his fire and watched. A total of seven infantrymen exited the van, crossed toward the house, and picked up their weapons. An officer barked an order and another dozen men joined the seven, forming up. A moment later the officer spoke again and the entire group moved out, heading down the road into the woods.
Oliver lowered his rifle. Nineteen men were leaving, shifting the balance of power dramatically. Not more than five or six remained, and they didn't appear to be going anywhere. The SE men crossed to the soldiers and shook hands with one of them. Oliver heard laughter and scattered comments. One of the SE turned back toward the van with a wave, the other looked about ready to leave.
They were pulling out!
A wild idea suddenly seized him.
Oliver forced air out of his lungs and quickly took aim. He drew a bead on the SE man closest to the van, who was about to climb inside. Seconds before the ebony uniform reached the doorway, Oliver fired. Instantly he shifted to the other one, who jerked at the sound of the shot. As he fired again, his first target catapulted headfirst into the doorway of the van; blood splashed across the ground and the hat flew off, allowing a mane of yellow hair to billow out. The second target turned to run, but the bullet arrived first, blowing away a significant portion of his head.
Her head. Oliver realized with a shock that both targets were women!
He had no time to dwell on it.
"Fire!" he shouted into his helmet mike. "Kill 'em all and rendezvous at the van! We're taking it out of here!"
Instantly four Stockholms blazed into action. The half-dozen Sirians at the farmhouse were caught off balance, in the open, still reaching for their weapons. Within seconds they were all down, and Oliver leaped up, running toward the van. Before he'd gone ten yards, a man exited the front of the house and opened fire. Oliver heard the chirp of a laser weapon, saw the flashes burn past his head. He dived to the ground and brought his rifle up, but one of his kids was quicker, and the Sirian died in a hail of bullets.
Oliver reached the van seconds ahead of his men. As he stepped over the dead SE woman, he heard female screams inside the vehicle.
He quickly looked down the road, but saw no one. Surely the soldiers who'd just left had heard the shooting, would be com
ing back. With a thunder of soggy boots, his men arrived.
"Giordino, get this van started. The rest of you guys take cover! That platoon that just left is gonna be coming back real quick, so keep them busy until I call for you."
Giordino was already inside the van; the others took up defensive positions, and Oliver followed Giordino. His ears were assaulted by the terrified screams of the Vegan women inside — except they weren't women. Instead of seats, the van contained bunks, five on each side. Nine of the bunks contained Vegan girls, teenagers.
"Vegan Guard!" Oliver shouted over their cries. "We're taking you out of here. Try to keep calm."
The turbines began to wind up. Oliver hurried to the cockpit.
"Thirty seconds, Sarge!" Giordino shouted. "Sophia's pussy!"
Oliver hurried back to the rear door. As he reached it, through a side window he saw a smudge of grey uniforms. At the same instant, the Stockholms outside opened up with a combined chatter that could wake the dead.
"They're here, sergeant!" someone shouted.
Return fire was almost instantaneous, a withering stream of laser and lead. Oliver leaped out the door, stepped on the SE woman, and turned his ankle. With a grunt, he crashed headfirst to the ground, but held onto his rifle. For just an instant he felt as if he were inside a tornado — flame from the Stockholms surged past his head and a shitstorm from the Sirians surged the other way. The turbines were whining louder as Giordino applied power, but Oliver wondered if it would make any difference.
He brought his rifle to bear and added his own fire to that of his men. He saw Sirians lying crumpled in the road, but others still returned fire from behind trees and fence posts. Oliver aimed at muzzle flashes and poured his own fury back at them. Bullets chewed into the back of the van.
"Grenades!" Oliver called, sweat beading his forehead. "Everybody, throw grenades!"
Dukakis was the first to throw, then Konrad. As the little bombs burst among the Sirians, Oliver shouted to his men.
"Get on board! I'll cover you!"
Biswell threw a pair of grenades, and all three men leapt for the doorway of the van. Oliver laid down grazing fire as the smoke from the grenades drifted across the road. The return fire was less by at least half. But as Biswell leapt the last ten feet toward the van, a bullet snapped his right leg off at the knee, and he went down with a scream.
"Fuck!"
Oliver scrambled up, grabbed Biswell by the collar, and hauled him halfway into the van. His own ankle stabbed with pain and refused to support him, so he shouted for help and resumed firing. The others pulled Biswell inside.
"Sergeant! Giordino says he's ready!" Dukakis called.
Oliver threw his rifle into the van, tugged two grenades off his belt, and heaved them as far as he could. More bullets snapped past him as he lunged through the doorway, but the grenades roared and the firing suddenly stopped.
"Go!" Oliver yelled. "Go, Giordino! Go!"
With a roar of turbines, the little hovervan lifted quickly and skimmed toward the trees at the edge of the meadow. Oliver looked out the rear window as the farmhouse receded, and saw one lone Sirian emerge from the smoke and stand staring after them. Bodies littered the scene, and the last thing Oliver noticed before the trees occulted the view was Biswell's leg, lying next to the dead SE woman.
Chapter 32
Monday, 28 December, 0195 (PCC) - Friday, 1 January, 0196 (PCC) — Denver, CO, North America, Terra
The week after Christmas was slow at LincEnt. The holiday season wouldn't end until after the first of the year, and plant production was virtually nil. Mrs. Waterbury was on vacation, and Oliver Lincoln II seemed preoccupied. Rosemary felt almost alone in the office; with not much work to keep her busy, her mind continually returned to Christmas with Jeremy.
What the heck had happened?
Had she been insensitive? Naïve? Prudish?
Gosh! Was it possible that she really was a tease?
She was twenty-three years old, and had always considered herself more mature than most women her age, but was she really? Was she instead just out of step with the rest of society, a consequence of personal tragedy that had somehow retarded her social development?
She tormented herself with such questions for hours, and in the final analysis came up with no answers at all.
What she did know for sure was that she felt somehow responsible for the failure of Christmas at Jeremy's. She still didn't think she was a tease, but somehow she'd mishandled his attempt to seduce her. It was a fact of nature, after all, that men were sexually aggressive; she couldn't hold that against him, could she? Some women would consider it a compliment that he'd selected them for his attentions, so maybe Rosemary should think of it that way.
Or should she?
At times like this, she really regretted being unable to talk to her mother.
* * *
Jeremy Mason strolled slowly across the grounds and stared up at the lighted windows of the Tower, his boots crunching on a half-inch of frozen snow. It was after five o'clock, darkness had fallen, and Rosemary would be leaving soon. He hadn't seen her since Christmas day; he wasn't sure if she was avoiding him, or if their schedules had just worked out that way.
He tugged his jacket tighter and paced slowly toward the guard shack at the gate, keeping an eye on the executive parking lot where Rosemary's hovercar waited. His face stung from the cold, but his neck was warm as toast under the knitted scarf she'd given him.
Looking up again, he saw the lights dim on the fifth floor, and turned, making his way casually toward Rosemary's car.
Three minutes later, she left the building and headed toward him.
She stopped ten feet away when she saw him standing by her car. God, she looked beautiful!
"Rosemary!" he said breathlessly. "I was afraid I'd miss you."
She walked slowly forward, keys in hand. Her face was in shadow from the light standards, her breath frosting in the frigid air.
"Listen," he said quickly, before she could respond, "I just want to tell you that — well, I'm an asshole." He stared at her with sincerity brimming in his eyes. "But you probably already figured that out."
She pressed a button on her key pod and the hovercar's engine fired, idling quietly as it warmed up. She stared at Jeremy without moving.
"I want to apologize for the other day," he continued, obviously struggling with his emotions. "It was childish and immature of me. I have no excuse, and I hope you'll forgive me."
She seemed to relax a little, her posture not quite so rigid. Jeremy pressed on. He held up the end of the scarf, and offered her a tentative smile.
"This is really warm," he said. "It makes all the difference on a day like this."
She offered him a noncommittal smile.
He pulled up the bottom of his jacket to show her his holster.
"See this?" He tried a feeble grin. "Brand new, nine millimeter! A beautiful lady gave it to me. Finest weapon I ever owned." He dropped the jacket over it.
He took a step toward her.
"I've been a jerk," he said quietly, reaching for her hands, "and you don't deserve that. Let me make it up to you."
She let him squeeze her hands, then looked up into his eyes.
"What do you have in mind?" she asked quietly.
"Tomorrow is New Years Eve. Let's try it again, shall we? And this time I'll respect your wishes. No strings attached." He gave her his winning smile. "What do you say? Forgive me?"
She studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly.
"Jeremy," she said quietly, "I'm still not sure what went wrong the other day, but I think it was as much my fault as it was yours. I'll forgive you if you'll forgive me. Okay?"
He put his arms around her and pulled her close, pressing his face into her dark hair.
"God, Rosemary! Of course okay! It wasn't your fault, it was mine."
"So what do you want to do tomorrow?"
"I'll meet you right here at five, and we're gonna da
nce all night!"
North America, Terra
Henry Wells had tried to put the Defense Committee out of his mind during the congressional Winter Break. He flew home to North America for the holidays and used the time to meet with constituents. As an unelected Senator, he was the subject of great curiosity along the Atlantic Seaboard, and people wanted to know more about him. He was eager to accommodate them; he wouldn't be up for election for another four years, but when that time came, he would need all the grass-roots support he could get.
Throughout the Federation, his defense proposal had the media buzzing. He was invited to guest on several holonews programs.
"Senator, you seem to have started a fire with your theory that Sirius might attack the Federation next. Did you really say that?"
"Senator, what is the current state of the Federation military? Could we withstand an attack if one happened, say, tomorrow?"
"Senator Weinstock of South America has characterized your statements as an insult to the Sirian people. How do you respond to that?"
"Senator, do you really think it will take sixty billion terros to put the Space Force into shape?"
"Senator, don't you think it would take a lot more than sixty billion terros to adequately arm the Space Force?"
"What about the other services, Senator Wells? You spoke of the Space Force, but what about the Federation Infantry and the Star Marines? Will you seek funding for them as well?"
Before long Henry felt like a looping hologram, repeating himself day after day.
"Relax, young man," Howard Nieters told him one evening by vidphone. "This is the legwork that has to get done. By taking your case to the public you go a long way toward neutralizing that pacifist bitch Hinata."
But "that pacifist bitch" was also getting airtime, and she came across a lot more fervently than Henry did. Op-ed pundits quickly weighed in, taking sides based on their liberal or conservative bias, and by the time Congress reconvened in the spring, hundreds of millions of citizens were watching closely to see what would happen.
It didn't take long. Hinata Naveedh killed Henry's proposal in committee.
Friday, 12 February, 0196 (PCC) - Monday, 15 February, 0196 (PCC) — Ginastad, Sophia Alps, Vega 3