The Fighter King

by John Bowers

  The moons disappeared over the horizon. Oliver changed shifts at midnight, sending four in and bringing the rest out to replace them. Pedersen and Giordino avoided his eyes as they walked past, and Oliver tried to look nonchalant. Mortensen, Norquist, and Fenske took up their positions and the vigil resumed.

  Ten minutes later it started.

  There was no warning; six SolarFighters appeared out of the west and screamed over the hillsides at fifty feet, releasing plasma bombs that ripped into the Vegan lines with explosive devastation. The platoon to Oliver's right took a direct hit, and the trench above them took two more. As Oliver shouted orders to his squad, he heard the screams of dying men, and the heavy smoke that rolled over him was greasy with the stench of roasting flesh. His helmet radio came alive with orders and information, and a glance down the slope with night glasses revealed at least three skirmish lines already advancing upward. It was too dark to tell if they were serf troops, but Oliver suspected they were.

  Not that it mattered.

  Amid the sudden confusion, rocket salvos streaked in from the south, slamming the hillside above and below the trench.

  "Into the bunker!" Oliver yelled. "Move it! Move it!"

  He stood by the open door, windmilling his arm as the men raced toward him. Fenske and Norquist made it, but Mortensen was the farthest out, and two rockets hit just above him on the hillside; shrapnel ripped off an arm and flung him cruelly against the side of the trench. Without a conscious decision, Oliver raced toward him, but more rockets exploded and the side of the trench collapsed, burying Mortensen and narrowly missing Oliver.

  Panting from sheer terror, Oliver buried his head in his arms and lay where he was, praying that nothing else came down on him.

  "Sergeant!" The voice in his headset was Giordino's. "Sergeant, are you okay?"

  "I'm okay!" he panted. "Button up the bunker. Everybody stay inside!"

  The ground heaved as more rockets exploded; dirt and bits of starcrete rained down on him. Blinding flashes lit the night. Sweat poured into his eyes and dirt filled his ears.

  Then the fire shifted uphill, and after a moment Oliver dared pull himself to his feet. He could do nothing for Mortensen — Mortensen was buried. He turned back toward the bunker in a stumbling run. Somewhere ahead he heard the chirp of heavy lasers and at least one machine gun as Vegans fired on the skirmish lines below. The night was one steady roar of heavy weapons and exploding ordnance.

  Then, behind him, he heard — almost felt — a new sound.

  Hoversleds!

  He was thirty yards from the bunker. He started to turn, then saw the bunker door slide open. Pedersen leapt out, Stockholm at her shoulder.

  "Sergeant! Get down!"

  She opened fire, her slugs sweeping a foot above his head. Something exploded behind him and he was catapulted forward, agony stabbing through his left shoulder.

  Giordino joined Pedersen, and they kept firing as two others rushed forward, seized Oliver, and dragged him into the bunker.

  There was no medic in the bunker, but someone bandaged Oliver's shoulder as he wavered between full and semi-consciousness. He heard firing outside, and dimly became aware that only Fenske and Pedersen were in the bunker with him. Fenske was closing up the aid kit while Pedersen knelt over him.

  "How are you feeling, Oliver?" she asked, her dark eyes concerned.

  He shook his head groggily. His shoulder felt numb, but when he sat up he felt dizzy.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  "Infantry sleds," she told him. "Marco and I killed most of them. The rest ran up the hill and we lost them. They got you with a grenade before we could stop them."

  "Where is everybody?" Had the artillery stopped?

  "Marco ordered them into the trench," she said. "You were out of it for a few minutes, so he took charge."

  "The skirmish line?"

  "It's almost here. I've got to get out there. Will you be all right?"

  He cleared his throat with an effort. "Yeah. Help me up, I'll go with you."

  "You stay here," she said. "You're in no condition …"

  "Bullshit! We need every rifle. Help me up!"

  Fires burned in every direction as Oliver stepped up to a firing post. The plasma mines had ignited, but several hundred Sirian infantry had made it through, and were less than fifty yards away. Vegan fire was sweeping the line, but clearly there weren't enough rifles to do the job …

  … and bullets popped past his head from the hillside directly opposite.

  "Lieutenant, this is Lincoln! Can you get some artillery on that hill across from us? They're grazing us pretty hard."

  Lundgren sounded strained in his headset.

  "Sorry, Lincoln, the fighters took out the P-guns. The main artillery is already firing a mission, so I don't have anything available."

  Oliver frowned. "What about the Space Guard?"

  "Can't establish contact with them. For the moment, we're on our own."

  "I've got seven people left, Lieutenant, and about a thousand Sirians fifty yards below us. We can't possibly stop them!"

  "It's the same all over," Lundgren said. "The whole line is in trouble. Do what you can. If they look like they're going to overrun you, then get the hell out of there!"

  Fuck!

  "Is there any hope for reinforcements?" Oliver asked, already sensing the answer.

  "Negative. Lincoln, we knew from the beginning this line wouldn't hold forever, and it looks like forever starts tonight. They've landed troops in our rear, and there isn't a scorn thing we can do about it. Do what you can, and after that, do what you have to."

  Oliver tried to digest that.

  "Good luck, Lincoln. It's been a pleasure."

  Oliver nodded. "Roger that, sir. You, too."

  He never heard Lundgren's voice again.

  They kept a steady fire on the advancing line, dropping dozens, but the line came on. Norquist and Rasmussen were already down, and over the next few minutes Konrad and Fenske were killed as well. Oliver kept firing, though he felt weaker by the second; Fenske's bandage hadn't held, and blood leaked down his side.

  Giordino was pouring rocket fire into the Sirians, laying round after round right at their feet; Oliver and Pedersen were mowing down those nearest the trench, but it was buying them only minutes. The second skirmish line had caught up with the first, and in spite of the heaped bodies on the slope, was closing on the trench in a relentless wave.

  "Giordino!" Oliver swayed and caught himself against the firing post.

  "Here, Sergeant!" Giordino appeared at his side, his eyes wide and white in his grimy face.

  "Get Pedersen out of here!" Oliver ordered. "I'll cover you!"

  "Which way, Sergeant?"

  Oliver pointed to the left, past the bunker, where at least one heavy laser still poured condensed light down the slope.

  "That way. Try to get her to Lake Francesca. This part of the line is finished. Get going."

  "What about you?"

  “I’ll be right behind you. As soon as you’re clear.”

  “You’ll never make it, Sarge. You’re barely on your feet. You’ve lost too much blood.”

  Oliver grabbed him by the collar, tried weakly to shake him.

  "Goddammit! Get going!"

  Giordino turned, grabbed Pedersen by the arm, and dragged her away from the firing post. She shook him off, squeezed off another burst at the enemy, then turned to Oliver.

  "I'm not going to leave you," she said. "You come with us or we all stay!"

  Oliver shoved her roughly away.

  "Get the fuck out of here!" he rasped. "I'm finished! The two of you might have a chance. But you got to go right fucking now!"

  Giordino tugged at her again. "For Sophia's sake, Olga! Let's go!"

  Pedersen grabbed Oliver by the head with both hands, kissing him hard.

  "I'll never forget you!" she cried.

  Oliver nodded, and pushed her away again.

  Giordino spun an
d fired, killing a Sirian who'd just crested the trench. He grabbed Pedersen's arm again.

  "Olga! Let's go!"

  Pedersen turned, then looked beyond him and screamed.

  Giordino spun and fired; three Sirians loomed above them, rifles aimed. Giordino's rifle chattered, then stopped, the magazine dry. One Sirian fell, but the other two fired. Giordino threw himself in front of Pedersen; slugs ripped into him and he staggered, taking her down with him. Oliver managed to get his rifle up and shot the Sirians away from the trench. Swaying, he swapped magazines. Pedersen rolled Giordino over, frantically looking for his wounds. Before she could even speak, four more Sirians appeared against the night sky.

  Oliver slammed his arming lever home and lifted his weapon again; he got off one burst, but the Sirians were already firing. Heavy slugs ripped through Pedersen's lungs, and she teetered for a moment before collapsing on top of Giordino. Oliver killed the last two Sirians, then dropped his rifle and lurched toward Pedersen.

  She was still breathing, but just barely. He lifted her head, her helmet rolling off into the darkness. Her dark eyes glittered at him in the flash of gunfire, and she struggled to breathe.

  "Oliver …" she gasped. "Oliver …"

  "Sh," he told her. "It's okay, Olga. It's okay. I'll get a medic."

  She tremored in agony, then looked at him again, blood bubbling from her exit wounds.

  "Oliver — don't let me die! Please — please!"

  He pushed the red hair out of her eyes, his own vision dimmed by blood loss.

  "Olga!"

  Her eyes closed, and she struggled to breathe.

  "I don't want to die!" she gasped. "I …"

  She convulsed again, and then was still.

  Oliver lowered his head and kissed her. Hoping she would somehow feel it, even though he knew she was gone. Tears flooded his eyes, and in that moment nothing in the universe mattered any more.

  Everything was lost.

  Book Five: Consequences

  Chapter 36

  Friday, 1 July, 0196 (PCC)— Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  Oliver Lincoln II was studying a security report when the intercom on his desk buzzed.

  "Mr. Lincoln," Rosemary said, "Henry Wells on one."

  Lincoln looked up, senses alert. "Got it," he said. He punched the vidphone button and Henry's face appeared. Henry was hunched over, as if sitting in a cramped chair. "Henry! What's up?"

  "Mr. Lincoln, I just wanted to alert you; I'm on my way to Denver, and I'll be landing at LincEnt in about twenty minutes. I was hoping to catch you before you go to lunch."

  Lincoln leaned forward. Henry was coming here?

  "Okay, I'll wait for you. We can lunch together."

  Henry smiled. "That's great, Mr. Lincoln. I'll see you in a few minutes." Lincoln was about to ask the foremost question on his mind — was this about Ollie? — but Henry blinked off and the connection was broken.

  Lincoln felt his heart race; this had to be about Ollie, or Henry wouldn't be going to this much trouble. Would he?

  He found himself staring at the wall, his mind drifting over various possibilities.

  Lincoln was waiting on the general aviation apron when the aircraft landed. It was a private rocket, and it taxied smartly up to the white line and stopped. Moments later the clamshell door twisted open, and Henry Wells emerged. It was a beautiful summer day in the Rockies, and Henry carried his overcoat over his arm. He looked dapper in a light-grey three-piece suit with a pinstripe, and Lincoln walked forward to greet him.

  "Goddammit, Henry! You shouldn't do this! You got my hopes up and I couldn't stand it. I had to come down and meet you."

  Henry Wells beamed at him, took a deep breath, and spilled it all at once.

  "I just got the word this morning," he said. "Ollie's been located!"

  Lincoln stared at him for just a moment, then closed his eyes as he tried to digest the news. Henry grabbed his hands and squeezed, almost giddy himself.

  "Are you sure?" Lincoln had to ask. "This isn't a mistake, is it?"

  "Absolutely verified," Henry told him. He glanced around, then lowered his voice. "FIA confirmed it. I can't tell you how, but …"

  "Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!" Lincoln breathed. He began to tremble.

  "Let's go have lunch," Henry suggested. "I'll tell you everything I know."

  Lincoln normally ate in the company cafeteria, but on this occasion he opened the executive dining room. As he and Henry seated themselves, Lincoln called his office and insisted that Rosemary join them. She'd suffered through this ordeal, and had a right to hear the good news as well.

  Lincoln ordered wine while they waited, and when Rosemary arrived, he ordered the House Special for everyone. Once the waiter had departed, he nodded at Henry.

  "Give us the full story," he said.

  Henry took a deep breath.

  "Without giving away any secrets," he said, "you already know that FIA has people on Vega 3. They've been monitoring the Sirian invasion and filing reports on a regular basis. Early on, they were able to provide lists of known Federation citizens on Vega, and they've kept tabs on the progress of the war since it started. I don't know exactly how they get their information, and I couldn't talk about it if I did. You understand."

  Lincoln nodded, impatiently accepting the disclaimer.

  "The latest report crossed my desk this afternoon — I'm still on London time — and as soon as I read it I grabbed the first available Lear and came directly here. The report stated that the Sirians had captured a Federation citizen, one Oliver Lincoln III, of Denver …"

  Rosemary gasped; until this moment she still didn't know why she'd been summoned. Lincoln reached out and took her hand, smiling.

  "… but that's where it gets bizarre," Henry continued. "The report gave his name as Sergeant Oliver Lincoln III…"

  "What!" Lincoln was scowling.

  "… of the Vegan Guard," Henry finished.

  "Sergeant! What the hell does that mean?" Lincoln demanded.

  Henry sipped his wine — a delicious red cabernet — and set the glass down.

  "The report stated that the Sirians are in a quandary. They have a prisoner of war who is also a Federation citizen …"

  "Prisoner of war? Good god!"

  "… and they don't know what to do with him."

  "What to do with him? Why don't they send him home!" Lincoln was furious.

  "From their point of view," Henry explained, "he 'declared war' on the Confederacy by joining the Guard. But he's a Fed citizen, and to complicate matters, he's also the scion of the company that builds their fighters. That really screws up their options!"

  Rosemary spoke for the first time.

  "Are we sure it's him? Could there be another Oliver Lincoln?"

  Henry shook his head. "I doubt it. Oliver Lincoln III, of Denver. That pretty well narrows it down."

  "How long have they been holding him?" Lincoln asked.

  "Almost two months. And there's more. Apparently, Ollie was wounded. The report stated that he had surgery to remove grenade fragments — but he's recovering nicely."

  Lincoln sat thunderstruck, too confused to evaluate this turn of events. A thousand thoughts raced through his head, and none of them made any sense.

  "So what happens now?" he asked. "Is there anything we can do on this end?"

  Henry shook his head with a grimace. "The Sirians haven't announced his capture, so any action on our part would compromise the FIA people who got the information. Unless or until the Sirians admit having him, we're still hamstrung."

  "Dammit, I've got to do something!"

  "Mr. Lincoln, he's alive and he's out of danger. They'll send him home eventually. It's just a matter of when."

  "What if I talk to my Sirian contacts? If I raise a little hell, it might speed things up?" He formed it as a question.

  Henry hesitated. "It might, but if you do — and I emphasize the 'if' — you've got to be very careful not to divulge what you kn
ow. Personally, I would advise against it."

  "Can the Congress do anything? For example, insist that the Sirians release any Fed citizens they might be holding? Just a generic request?"

  "That's really a function of the State Department. For Congress to take a step like that would require months of debate."

  Lincoln nodded. "You're right. But I've already talked to the State Department, and I don't think they're going to help, either. They claim they've already done what they could."

  The waiter arrived with the salad and the trio fell silent until he'd gone.

  "The hardest part of this was the not knowing," Henry Wells said. "That phase is over now, because we know he's alive. At this point we simply have to be patient, and that isn't going to be easy, either."

  Lincoln took a bite of salad and nodded grimly.

  "Let's give it a couple of weeks," Henry continued. "I'll monitor FIA and keep you posted. If nothing happens, we can consider further options. In the meantime, I have to caution both of you to keep this to yourselves."

  Lincoln glanced at him in surprise.

  "We can't risk the Sirians finding out that we know," Henry explained. "That means you can't tell anyone. Not even your wife."

  Chapter 37

  Soderstad, Southern Plain, Vega 3

  A winter gale whipped in off the ocean, gusting through the prison camp at thirty knots, driving a low scud before it. From behind a forcefence, Oliver Lincoln III stared down at the waves crashing on the rocks. The camp sat on the edge of a cliff and on a clear day one could see for miles. Today, visibility was limited. It reminded him of a winter he'd once spent in New England.

  His shoulder ached like hell. The surgery had been two months ago, and though the wound was mending, the damp and cold were having their effect.

  Oliver turned and walked slowly back toward his barrack. The camp consisted of twenty rows of low prefab buildings, each housing up to a hundred men. Twenty rows of twenty barracks, four hundred in all; the camp could hold forty thousand men at full capacity. It was less than half full, and most of those had been taken at Soderstad.