The Fighter King

by John Bowers

  Henry only stared at him.

  "Those talk shows last winter," Nieters told him; "your time during the break wasn't wasted. People are thinking now, and the question many are coming back to is, 'What if the Sirians do come after the Federation next?'" He tossed Henry a data chip. "Have you seen this?"

  Henry plugged it into a player and stared at the screen. He shook his head slowly.

  "Public polls by North American Holonews, EuroSat News, and Holo Shinbum, all taken independently within the last four days. Over twenty thousand people polled, and forty-seven percent expressed concern that the Space Force might not be able to defend us in the event of an attack. Fifty-two percent said they believe Sirius really might be a threat to the Federation, and seventy-two percent expressed concern that, even if Sirius was not a threat, an attack might come from somewhere." Nieters sighed contentedly. "So now it begins."

  Henry looked at him in surprise. "Did you commission these polls?"

  Nieters looked surprised. "Me? Hell, I'm retired! No, these were commissioned by the press agencies that conducted them. All I did was ask a couple of executives I happen to know if they were aware that their competition was conducting similar polls."

  Henry laughed out loud. "Senator, you are an old snake!"

  Nieters grinned wickedly, quite pleased with himself.

  "Even snakes have their uses," he said. "May I suggest that you start work on your next proposal. I have a feeling that, within a few weeks, the public is going to start demanding that the Senate take another look at the issue."

  "What makes you think so?"

  "Because there are two documentaries currently in production that will focus on the history of Sirian aggression. The first one will be ready for release in the fall, the other by the end of the year."

  "How is it that you're aware of this and I'm not?"

  "I happen to own stock in one of those production companies. Quite a lot of stock, as a matter of fact."

  "Christ!" Henry shook his head in wonder, his respect for the old man levering up another notch.

  "By the way," Nieters added, "leave some holes in your appointment calendar. Those productions will be asking to interview you within the next few weeks. They're already editing some of your comments from those news shows."

  "They'll probably interview Hinata as well, won't they? She's my biggest opponent at the moment."

  "Oh, certainly. And not only her, but several other big names who oppose you. But don't worry about that — after their views have been edited and inserted into the proper context, they'll come off looking like fools. Or traitors."

  "How do you know?"

  "Trust me, Mr. Wells. I know."

  Henry placed his hands flat on his desk, feeling foolishly delighted.

  "One more thing, Mr. Wells …"

  "Yes?"

  "Those debates you don't give a shit about? You may need to make a few deals, trade a few votes here and there. Start giving a shit."

  Thursday, 28 July, 0196 (PCC) — Soderstad, Southern Plain, Vega 3

  Nearly a month had passed since Brandon Marlow's visit, and Oliver Lincoln III was still a prisoner. Indeed, not a thing had changed, and he hadn't seen or heard from Brandon. Nor had he been allowed to send a message to his family. What the fuck was taking so long?

  This morning he'd been ordered to assemble with over two thousand other prisoners; now he stood shivering in a cold, driving rain as a Sirian guard called roll. Oliver was miserable as hell, but also curious — since his arrival at the Soderstad camp, there'd been no assemblies such as this. Exactly what the hell was this about?

  It took forty minutes to call the roll; by the time it was done, most of the prisoners were soaked and sneezing. Oliver's shoulder was killing him, and he wondered if his next cellmate would be pneumonia.

  "Fall in!" a Sirian officer shouted, and the Vegans took up a semblance of military formation. "Left face!"

  They executed that, a little raggedly.

  "Forward — march!"

  Oliver trudged through the mud, making no effort to keep in step. What genius had come up with this little exercise? They could at least have waited until the rain stopped.

  The prisoners marched down the line of barracks toward the inner forcefence, then turned left again on command. They continued marching another two hundred yards, and when the order was given to halt, Oliver felt his skin begin to tingle. They'd stopped in front of what looked suspiciously like a gallows. Actually, it was a wooden platform about six feet off the ground, and rising from it were four poles, or stakes, each about eight feet high. Attached to each stake at about the midpoint was a pair of E-cuffs, dangling empty in the gusting wind.

  "What in hell?" Oliver whispered to himself.

  The Vegans stood almost at attention, many with sick expressions in their eyes. They seemed to know what was about to happen, and Oliver was beginning to have an idea. He hoped he was wrong.

  The Sirian officer mounted the platform and surveyed the assembled prisoners.

  "Yew men of the Vegan Guard!" he bellowed in a harsh voice. "It has been explained before and I will explain again; it is the pleasure of the Confederate Army to provide prisoners of war with food, shelter, and comfort. Yew have all been well fed, yew all have adequate shelter, and yew have all been provided with comfort. To refuse any of these offers is considered rude and ungrateful. Ingratitude will be punished."

  He nodded to someone on the ground, and four other Sirians began to mount the steps, each leading a Vegan woman by the arm.

  "We only offer yew what we provide our own troops. It is the desire of the Confederate Army that, when this war is over, the Vegan people will learn to appreciate and enjoy the same luxuries as the Sirian people. This especially applies to yew; when the shooting stops, we will no longer be enemies, but brothers in arms.

  "Therefore, we take a dim view of any refusal to accept what we freely offer. These women —" he pointed to the four miserable black women now shivering on the platform "— were provided for the comfort of some of yew in this assembly. Yew refused them. Therefore, if yew value them so lightly, then so do we!"

  He nodded again, and the four Sirians manhandled the terrified women toward the upright stakes and manacled them with the dangling E-cuffs. Some of the women sobbed in terror as the Sirians ripped off their clothing, leaving them naked before the prisoners and the elements.

  "I want every one of yew to witness this ceremony," the officer said, "and remember it. We will offer yew the comfort of your own women again, and when we do, think very hard about what yew have seen here before yew refuse our offer."

  He turned and dismounted the platform, followed by the four men who'd escorted the women into position. Another Sirian climbed the steps, a big man with wide shoulders and thick muscles. As Oliver watched in horror, the Sirian unfurled an electro-whip.

  The display lasted twenty minutes. One after the other, the Sirian lashed at the nude women with the E-whip, each lash ripping flesh off the backs of the shrieking victims. The women writhed in agony, collapsing from the pain, only to suffer additional assault from the E-cuffs, which fed voltage into their wrists when their weight triggered the mechanisms. Puffs of smoke were carried away by the wind as the whip did its hideous work, and long before it was over, Vegan soldiers were retching on the ground. Oliver wanted to look away, but forced himself to watch; if he ever got back home, he needed to remember this, though he wasn't sure what good it would do.

  One by one, blood streaming from flayed backs, the women died. Oliver forgot his own discomfort as his hatred of Sirius reached new heights. The only consolation to the whole thing was that he didn't recognize any of the women. He'd slept with several since the night Georgia had been put in his cell, and was grateful now that he had; he had enough deaths on his conscience without being responsible for any of these.

  Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  "Four twenty‑one Sierra."

  Sgt. Jules Cedarquist chinned hi
s microphone. It had been a quiet night, one of those shifts when staying awake became the biggest challenge. He stretched his eyes wide and answered the call.

  "Four twenty‑one, go ahead."

  "Four twenty‑one Sierra, unit 1392 requests a sergeant. At the comm booth, Avalon and St. Cloud. Code two."

  "Ten four, on my way."

  Jules switched on his over‑under lights and nosed the hover cruiser around as he kicked his boosters. The intersection in question was about three miles away. He could make it in under a minute. He streaked above the street at rooftop level, his siren mute, letting the lights do the work. At this hour hardly anything moved, except hover cruisers, garbage collectors, and burglars. Even the drug dealers were asleep. His lights bathed the streets and houses below with red, blue and white light, spectacular rainbow bands that couldn't be missed. His turbine whined under full power, adding to the whoosh of tail thrusters. He reached the intersection in sixty-five seconds.

  As he settled to the pavement of the parking lot where the comm booth was located, he saw another patrol car already there, two officers standing beside it. He recognized them as Gregory and Talbot. He stepped down and walked toward them.

  "What've you got?" he asked, his clear blue eyes taking in the outline of a woman in the back seat of their patrol car.

  The officers met him a few yards from their car, and Talbot hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

  "Got a lady in there wants to talk to you, Sergeant," he said.

  "Who is she?"

  "Wouldn't tell us her name. She insisted on talking to you. Refused to tell us anything."

  "Is she okay?"

  Gregory grunted, shaking his head.

  "She's alive, but that's about all. Somebody beat the living shit out of her."

  Jules took a deep breath, knitted his brows, and walked toward the woman in the car. He opened the door and leaned inside. She looked up at him, and he winced at the sight of her. She might be pretty, he decided, if her face was in one piece.

  "Ma'am?" he inquired. "I'm Sergeant Cedarquist. Did you ask to speak to me?"

  The woman stared at him in shock, blood dripping from her chin.

  "Ma'am? Who did this to you, Ma'am? Do you want to tell me about it?"

  She nodded slowly, with difficulty. Tears spilled down her cheeks, mixing with the blood.

  "It — it was Jeremy," she whispered.

  "Excuse me?"

  "J-Jeremy Mason," she stammered. "My god, Jules, don't you recognize me? I'm Rosemary!"

  * * *

  At ten minutes to five in the morning, the front door of Jeremy Mason's apartment exploded inward and smashed against the wall, spilling knick‑knacks from a wall shelf. Jules Cedarquist advanced through the door like a one‑man squad of Star Marines, his blue eyes filled with murder. He strode straight to the hallway, his eyes missing nothing, and turned toward the bedroom. Jeremy Mason sat up from the floor, where he'd been sound asleep until the crashing door roused him. Jules stopped in the doorway, barely containing his rage.

  "Get up, motherfucker!" he bellowed. "On your feet, goddammit!"

  Jeremy squinted, shaking his head groggily.

  "What?" he mumbled. "Jules? What's going …"

  Cedarquist bent down and grabbed him by the arms, hauling him roughly to his feet. Jeremy staggered, then sagged against the wall. He reeked of alcohol.

  "You have the right to remain silent!" Jules grated through clenched teeth. "If you give up the right to remain silent …"

  "What? What the fuck're you talking about? Jules! Goddammit, what the hell are you doing here?"

  Jules grabbed his arm and spun him around, dragging the other arm back as he prepared to E‑cuff him. Jeremy jerked free and twisted around to face him, his face flushed.

  "You're pissin' me off, Jules! What the fuck …"

  Jules lunged at him in a fluid motion, one hand gripping his throat as the other jammed a laser pistol under his chin. The blue‑eyed cop's face twisted in rage.

  "Go ahead, you miserable fuck! Fight me! Give me an excuse!"

  Jeremy froze, eyes wide.

  "Okay! Okay! Jesus! Just tell me what this is about."

  "I warned you, you son of a bitch! I told you I'd kill you if you ever beat up another woman. Didn't I? Didn't I!"

  Jeremy closed his eyes as if in pain. "Oh, Christ!"

  "Turn around and prepare to be cuffed!" Jules ordered. "If I even think you're resisting arrest, I'll fry your fucking brain!"

  Panting, Jeremy did as he was told. Jules snapped the E‑cuffs on and then shoved him onto the bed in a sitting position.

  "You have the right to remain silent," he began again.

  "Oh, skip it!" Jeremy flared. "I know my rights."

  Jules stared at him for ten seconds with all the contempt he could muster.

  "Why'd you do it, Jeremy? A nice girl like that? Tell me why!"

  Jeremy shook his head. "I barely remember it. I was drinking, I'm not sure what happened."

  "But you do remember it. So you must know why."

  Mason stared at the floor a moment, then sighed.

  "She wanted to break up with me."

  "That's all? You beat the shit out of her because of that?"

  "I think so. I'm not real sure. Like I said, I was drunk."

  "Jeremy, you never stay with a woman more than a month! If she hadn't broke up with you, you'd have dumped her anyway. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

  "Jules …"

  "I'm getting real tired of this shit, Jeremy! You can be a shiftless prick if you want to, but when you beat up on women, that's a stain on me! I trained you! I was your fucking partner! When people mention your name, they mention mine, too! I'm not a party to this, and I'm not going to cover for you. Rosemary is a hell of a fine person, and you did something unspeakable to her. I'm not gonna let it pass."

  "Jesus Christ, Jules …"

  "You had it made, Jeremy. A good job, more money than you made with the department. A beautiful girlfriend! What the fuck is wrong with you? Where is your goddamned brain?"

  "It'll never happen again, Jules! I swear!"

  "Fucking‑A it won't!"

  "Jules …"

  "Shut up! On your feet! I've gotta book your sorry ass!"

  Chapter 39

  Monday, 1 August, 0196 (PCC) — Soderstad, Southern Plain, Vega 3

  On the first day of August, 0196, Oliver finished dinner at the mess hall and was on his way out the door when Homer caught up with him.

  "Feddie! Yew got a visitor. Gimme your hands."

  Oliver glared at him in annoyance. "Goddammit, Homer! I'm not going to run away!"

  "Gimme your hands, pig fucker!"

  Oliver extended his wrists and Homer snapped E-cuffs on him, then led him across the compound toward the administration building.

  "Who wants to see me?" Oliver demanded

  "Yew'll find out."

  There was only one person Oliver wanted to see, and when Homer left him in the interrogation room, it was only minutes until Brandon stepped through the door. Oliver was relieved, but also annoyed.

  "Thanks for getting me out!" he snarled.

  Brandon sat down across from him and shook his head.

  "Shut the fuck up, Ollie! You're really starting to get on my nerves!"

  "No shit! How do you think I feel? This isn't exactly a kid-scout camp you got here!"

  "Quit your bitchin'! You got three squares a day, free pussy every other day, and nobody shooting at you. What is your goddamned problem?"

  "First of all, I didn't ask for the pussy! And second of all, I didn't appreciate having to watch four women get beaten to death because somebody refused to fuck them. What kind of operation do you people run here, anyway?"

  "You ungrateful son of a bitch!" Brandon shook his head wearily. "I've been busting my ass with High Command trying to get you released, and all you can do is criticize! I ought to leave your fucking ass here to rot!"

  Oliver stared at h
im a moment, saw the tension in him, and backed down.

  "Okay, I'm sorry. What's up?"

  Brandon heaved a sigh. "I got permission to release you from the camp," he said.

  "Thank god!"

  "However —" Brandon shook his head. "— you can't leave the planet until the Vegans surrender."

  "What! Jesus Christ! That could take years!"

  "It could, but it probably won't. We took Sophiastad two days ago. We're working our way through the Alps, and once we hit the North, it should be over pretty quick."

  "You're underestimating the Vegans and their will to fight."

  "We did at first, but not any more. Believe me, we know what they're capable of; the casualty figures have taught us that."

  Oliver studied his face. "So what are you going to do with me?"

  "I'm getting you out of here. You'll be in my custody until the Vegans give it up. After that, you can go home."

  "No bullshit?"

  "No bullshit. Will you accept that? It's the best I could do, and I put my career on the line to accomplish that much."

  Oliver was silent for thirty seconds. Brandon was trying, he realized; in spite of everything that had happened over the past year, the other man still considered him a friend.

  Finally he nodded.

  "Okay. Sorry I've been such an asshole."

  Brandon shrugged. "Well, you've been through a lot."

  "Can I contact my family? Tell them I'm alive?"

  "I can arrange that. After we get you released from here."

  It took a half-hour. Brandon had to sign forms, Oliver had to sign forms, and finally the two of them walked out the gate together. Brandon had an SE hovercar waiting.

  "Remember, Ollie — you're still a prisoner of war. The only difference is that I'm your daddy now. If you try to escape, you'll be hunted down."

  "Hunted down and shot?"

  "Most likely."

  "You would create an interstellar incident?"

  "No, you would. If it ever came to that, you'd be labeled a criminal and dealt with accordingly. So don't let it come to that." He gave Oliver a significant look. "Agreed?"