by John Bowers
When asked about the night in question, Jeremy denied any wrongdoing.
"Did you, or did you not," the defense attorney demanded, "tell Sergeant Cedarquist that you had beaten Miss Egler?"
"I did."
"Yet your testimony is that you did not, in fact, beat her?"
"That's correct."
"Will you explain to me — and to the jury — why you would confess to something that you did not do?"
Jeremy nodded solemnly. "Sergeant Cedarquist shoved a laser pistol against my throat and threatened to kill me. His exact words were, 'Give me an excuse!'"
"So …"
"I was afraid for my life."
The trial was over in a single day, and it was only the medical evidence that did it. No one had tried to introduce another suspect, and the jury was left with only Jeremy as the perpetrator. The medical evidence, including holos and video, showed the jury what Rosemary had looked like when she reached the hospital. They deliberated for two hours and came back with a verdict of guilty …
… and a recommendation of leniency.
Sentencing took place a week later. Rosemary didn't attend, but Jules Cedarquist called her in the afternoon to give her the news. The defense had argued for a reduced sentence, citing that this was a first offense, and reiterating the sterling record of the convicted man prior to this offense. The judge agreed, and ordered Jeremy to serve one year in the county jail.
* * *
The first of the two documentaries aired in late September, shown on different nights on each of the major continents; network ratings indicated that perhaps as many as ninety million people were watching. As Howard Nieters had promised, the program painted Henry Wells and his defense proposal in a favorable light.
The first segment dealt with Henry's abortive attempt to introduce an appropriations bill into the Senate, including interviews with Hinata Naveedh and two other opposing senators. The second segment was a brief history lesson that detailed how Sirius had invaded and conquered several of its own independent nations, followed by Beta Centauri, and now Vega 3. Stock footage of early conquests punctuated the narrative.
Henry's interview was shown in the final segment, along with comments from the Polygon Chief of Staff about what was needed for just the most rudimentary defense.
It was a riveting, thought-provoking piece. At the end, the narrator concluded:
"Senator Henry Wells has said that, in the event of a war in space, the fighter will be king. From all appearances, the senator faces an uphill battle if his dream is ever to see the light of day. Should he succeed, Senator Wells himself may well become known as — 'The Fighter King'."
Chapter 43
Late 0196 (PCC) — Soderstad, Southern Plain, Vega 3
The months passed slowly. Vegan winter gradually gave way to spring, and the fighting in the Alps renewed its intensity. Several more infantry divisions arrived from Sirius and Beta Centauri, and the beleaguered Vegan Guard, in spite of the swelling ranks of volunteer irregulars, steadily lost ground, taking and delivering staggering losses.
Oliver Lincoln III accompanied Brandon Marlow during the execution of his duties; twice visiting terrain he'd fought over, and saw scenes that would live in his mind forever. Tens of thousands of Vegan women were detained and forced into slavery. Sirian troops raped civilians at will, and pressed many into service in "recreation barracks", a sanitized term for slave brothels.
After a few months, Oliver opted to stay in Soderstad with Tascha; he'd seen enough brutality to last a lifetime, and found it much more pleasant to watch the slave girl's belly grow.
Tascha was ecstatic to be pregnant. She suffered typical morning sickness, but that soon passed and she simply enjoyed the experience of life growing within her. Oliver looked forward to the birth of his child, but dreaded the day Tascha would have to give it up.
It would be one more regret for him to live with.
January 0197 (PCC) — London, Europe, Terra
In January, Henry Wells reintroduced his military budget proposal in the Defense Committee. Support was growing, and this time the proposal cleared the committee and was calendared for debate on the floor. That was no guarantee of its passage, but Nieters had assured him that, if it failed, they would just introduce it again. And again, if necessary.
The second documentary aired in the middle of the month; this one showcased what was known about military hardware used by both Vega and Sirius, then compared that to what the Federation had. The comparison was laughable. The final segment delved into ancient history, with footage of military disasters visited on unprepared nations; Pearl Harbor, New York City, and other unprovoked attacks were featured. Interspersed throughout were comments by Henry Wells and his opposition. The piece concluded with two simple questions:
Could it happen again?
Should we take the chance?
Tuesday, 31 January, 0197 (PCC) — Denver, CO, North America, Terra
On the last day of January, 0197, Maxine Lincoln stood in the bedroom that had belonged to her daughter, Victoria. Her silver hair was unkempt, her overdone makeup streaked by tears. Today was Victoria's birthday. She would have been thirty years old.
Maxine picked up a hologram of her child, a pretty little girl with brown hair. Witty, intelligent — a beautiful child. So full of life, so rich with promise. Victoria …
Dead.
Her children were dead.
Both of them.
Maxine stood there for an hour, her heart broken. A parent shouldn't outlive her children. It wasn't natural. Parents were supposed to die first.
Maxine set the holo down, turned, and walked unsteadily out of the room. She braced herself against the wall as she navigated the hallway toward her own room. Inside, she settled heavily into an armchair, stared out the window for some moments. Her thoughts were no longer coherent. She sensed she should take her medication, but the thought didn't register clearly for some minutes.
Finally she reached for the bottle of pills. She dumped them into her hand, staring at them vacantly. How many was she supposed to take?
She popped them all into her mouth and picked up a glass. It was empty, so she poured it half full from a bottle of vodka. She swallowed the pills, washing them down.
Her children were dead.
And her husband didn't care. He had his own life, and it didn't coincide with hers. He thought she was crazy. He wouldn't admit it, but it was true. She knew it was true.
Crazy Maxine!
February 0197 (PCC) — Soderstad, Southern Plain, Vega 3
In late February the Sirians broke out of the Alps into the rolling farmland of the north; the Guard took up last-ditch positions to protect the northern cities, and the Battle of Vega entered its final phase.
"Not long now," Brandon told Oliver. "The northern cities have pretty much used up their food reserves, and they won't be getting any more until they surrender."
"The Guard has lots of ammunition left," Oliver told him. "They won't quit until the last bullet is fired."
"They'll quit when the food runs out," Brandon said. "When people begin to starve, Queen Ursula will throw in the towel."
"Maybe. But I wouldn't want to be in the Confederate infantry right now."
Thursday, 25 May, 0197 (PCC) — Soderstad, Southern Plain, Vega 3
Tascha went into labor on May 25. Brandon summoned a military surgeon who'd been an obstetrician in private practice. After a brief five-hour labor, Tascha delivered a baby boy, nine Terra pounds and five ounces.
Oliver was ecstatic. No matter what else had happened in the interim, his and Jacquje's child had been born! He and Brandon enjoyed a drink in celebration.
When Tascha was somewhat recovered, Oliver and Brandon entered the bedroom. She sat propped up on pillows, her long blonde hair brushed and beautiful, her almond eyes tired but elated. The baby, fat and pink and perfect, suckled quietly at one of her magnificent breasts.
Oliver leaned over and kissed her. She
smiled at him.
"I did it, Oliver!" she said. "I gave birth to your baby!"
"You did a wonderful job, Tascha," he told her. "I'm so proud of you."
Tascha beamed at him, then looked at Brandon. He also kissed her.
"You always wanted to have a baby," Brandon said. "Now you've done it."
"Yes, I have. Thank you. Oliver, thank you for letting me do this."
"Hey, don't thank me — I owe you!"
"Can I keep him for a little while, Oliver? He is so beautiful!"
"I'm counting on you to take care of him until I go home."
"I will take good care of him. I love him very much."
Brandon nudged Oliver. "What're you gonna name him?"
Oliver considered that for a moment.
"I've always liked the name Bradley," he said.
June 0197 (PCC) - July 0197 (PCC) — Soderstad, Southern Plain, Vega 3
The next couple of months were a delight for Oliver Lincoln III. Baby Brad was growing like a well-watered weed, and Oliver stayed with Tascha as she nurtured the child and experienced the joys of motherhood. Oliver learned to change diapers, saw Bradley's first smile, and spent hours just holding him as he slept. Tascha was wonderful, and Oliver almost wished he could take her home with him to care for the baby. He even broached the subject to Brandon.
"How about cutting Tascha loose?" he suggested. "You have other slave girls. She's totally dedicated to the baby, and I'm gonna need a nanny when I get home."
"Not a good idea, Ollie," Brandon said with a shake of his head. "You're not falling in love with her, are you?"
"No, of course not …"
"Because, even if you were, I couldn't let her go."
"Why the hell not? Give her her freedom."
"I told you once before — if I ever did that, she probably wouldn't survive."
"I don't believe that."
"I do. I've seen it before. She's preconditioned, Ollie. She's a fuck machine, and not much else. Somebody wants to screw her, she'll let him. At the very least, she'd become a street whore, and some Terra pimp would pump her full of drugs and make money off her until she died. Trust me, buddy, it's not in her best interest to set her free."
Oliver still wasn't convinced, but couldn't formulate a convincing counter argument. He let the matter drop.
Friday, 21 July, 0197 (PCC) — Soderstad, Southern Plain, Vega 3
On July 21, 0197, Brandon Marlow entered the suite with a big grin on his face. Oliver looked up with questions in his eyes.
"Private Martin Vaughn!" Brandon said.
"What?"
"Remember that name!"
"Why?"
"Because of him, you can go home."
"What the fuck you talking about?"
Brandon poured them a drink of Lightning, clinked glasses, and took a swallow.
"Private Martin Vaughn, nineteen years old. Captured the Queen of Vega this morning."
Oliver stared at him in shock, uncertain whether to celebrate or cry.
"Ursula is now a prisoner of the Sirian Confederacy," Brandon told him. "We have troops in the suburbs of Reina. We've offered the Guard surrender terms, and they'll probably accept them in the next twenty-five hours. The war is over, Ollie. You can go home!"
Denver, CO, North America, Terra
Jeremy Mason would almost have rather been in state prison. The county jail was a zoo, filled with drunks, sleaze balls, and assorted felons awaiting trial. The only advantage was that, in state prison, he would have faced a few people he sent there himself, which could have been delicate.
He shared a cell with two creeps who were also doing short time, and held them both in total contempt. They were rabbits, afraid of their own shadows, and once he established the ground rules, he had no trouble out of them.
Each day was an eternity of boredom, of being forced to see, hear, and smell the riffraff around him. There was no question in his mind that he was out of place; he might have his problems, but he certainly wasn't scum like this.
The jailers were friendly enough. They treated him with respect, gave him occasional favors, and helped dissipate the boredom with conversation. They knew him by reputation, the cop who lost a leg chasing a murder suspect; he was something of a celebrity to them.
"Mason? Oh, yeah, he's doin' a year for slappin' his girlfriend. Use to be one helluva cop!"
To Jeremy, of course, they weren't real cops — guys who couldn't make it on the street worked in corrections. Still, they helped him through it, and he wasn't altogether ungrateful.
As the last few months of his sentence inched by, Jeremy grew increasingly tense. He'd had a year to think, and had used it wisely.
Rosemary was a tease, pure and simple. She'd taken advantage of him, using him for her own purposes until she no longer needed him. It hadn't come clear all at once — at first he'd thought she might be getting it on with Jules, but he knew that was a stretch; Jules was too straight-arrow.
Then Jeremy heard on the news that the heir to LincEnt, who'd been missing for a year, was coming home from Vega. Rosemary had broken up with Jeremy just about the time the family had heard from the kid; that was when everything fell into place — the timing was too perfect to be a coincidence. Young Lincoln had probably been boning Rosemary before he went off to Vega, and now she was dumping Jeremy in favor of the rich fuck.
She was probably fucking the old man, too!
She'd played Jeremy for a fool, but he had news for her, for all of them — he was nobody's fool. Rosemary and the Lincolns might have won the first round, but the show wasn't over.
Not by a light year.
Chapter 44
Thursday, 27 July, 0197 (PCC) — Soderstad, Southern Plain, Vega 3
Oliver had promised to call his dad before he left Vega. When the time came, he decided to just go home and surprise the old man. After two years on Vega, he couldn't wait to get home.
And yet …
Both Brandon and Tascha escorted him to the spaceport. Tascha carried Bradley, hugging him close, until they arrived at the departure gate.
"Well, buddy," Brandon said, a sad smile on his face, "I'd say this has been fun, but you might not agree."
"It could've been worse," Oliver said ruefully. They shook hands. "We have our differences, Brandon, but I want you to know I'm grateful for everything you've done. Without your help, I'm not sure I'd be leaving now."
Brandon laughed. "Glad you didn't shoot me?"
"Damn straight."
Oliver turned to Tascha. She gazed up at him with her blue, almond eyes. She smiled bravely, but tears slid down her cheeks.
"Thank you, Oliver," she whispered. "I will always remember you and Bradley."
"Thank you, Tascha. For giving me my son."
He kissed her, and she handed the baby over.
There wasn't anything else to say … and there was so much left to say. Oliver felt an unaccustomed lump in his throat as, with a final smile, he stepped through the gate and boarded the shuttle.
No starships were yet leaving Vega for the Federation, so Brandon had arranged, through SE channels, for him to travel on a diplomatic starpass that would take him first to Sirius, then to Terra. The trip would take the better part of a month.
Thursday, 24 August, 0197 (PCC) — London, Europe, Terra
Oliver and his infant son stepped onto Terran soil August 24th when their shuttle landed at Tony Blair Interstellar Spaceport near London. His skin tingled as he breathed the canned air and looked around at the glitz and glitter, and heard British accents from near and far. No one was there to meet him, but it was good to be home!
Passing through Customs required only a minute; he was still on the SE's diplomatic starpass, and he'd technically arrived from Sirius, so Customs had no business with him. But as he cleared the inspection station, two security guards moved in to intercept him.
"Sergeant Lincoln?" one of them said.
"Yes …"
"Would you come wit
h us, please?"
Oliver stared at them suspiciously. What the hell was this? After all he’d been through …
"Where? What for?"
"We've been instructed …"
"Am I under arrest?" Oliver felt his anger rising.
"Uh, no, sir. But we …"
"Then get the fuck away from me!"
"Excuse me, sir, I'm afraid you don't under …"
"I'm a Feddie, goddammit! You can't touch me!"
The guards looked at each other in confusion.
"I'm sorry, sir? You're a what?"
"Just get out of my face, unless you plan to arrest me." He glared at them defiantly. The baby began to cry.
"Sergeant, we're from the Vegan embassy. Ambassador Kilbo has requested to meet you."
Oliver shifted the baby to his shoulder and automatically began to pat him on the back.
"The Vegan embassy?"
"Yes, sir. It isn't an order, it's a request. Would you mind, sir?"
Oliver looked at them closely. "You aren't Vegans, are you? You don't look like Vegan Guard to me."
"No, sir, we're Federation Diplomatic Security. Would you come with us? Please?"
Ambassador Kilbo was an aging man who walked with an old-fashioned wooden cane, but as Oliver entered his office he got to his feet and rounded his desk.
"Sergeant Lincoln!" he said with genuine excitement. "It is my great honor to make your acquaintance. Please, won't you sit down?"
He ushered Oliver and the baby to a loveseat and sat facing them across a small table. "Would you care for some tea? But you North Americans prefer coffee, don't you?"
"Tea is fine, Mr. Ambassador," Oliver assured him.
Tea was ordered, and Kilbo sat back with the care of a man whose bones ache. He asked about the baby, and Oliver made small talk with him, still wondering what the hell this was about. After the tea arrived, Kilbo got to the point.
"Sergeant Lincoln," he said carefully, "I hope you will forgive me for having you dragged over here. I realize you've been gone for a long time and are anxious to get home. But I wanted to meet you and personally thank you, on behalf of the Queen of Vega, for your decision to take up arms against our enemies."