by John Bowers
Senator Cash from North America: "Let us suppose for just a moment that Senator Wells is right; let us suppose that, ten years from now, the Sirians do attack. Who will scream the loudest then when we are not able to defend ourselves? Senator Wells? Or Senators Weinstock, Boxer, and Kennedy? I am sick and tired of the double-talk from certain members of this august body! It's time to put your money where your mouth is and get the job done!"
Senator Apostollos from the Mediterranean: "It has become a cliché, yet it is still true — those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. I remind you of Pearl Harbor in 1941; New York City in 2001; Melbourne, Australia in 2044; and the Atlantis Colony in 2116. In every case, the victims were not prepared, did not expect an attack, perhaps did not even think an attack was possible. Sixty billion terros is a small price to pay if it will prevent even the remote possibility of disaster."
Henry listened in silent awe. Every one of these senators was ideologically opposed to him on the majority of issues. Did they really support his proposal, or was some other force at work?
I can still twist a political arm or two!
Denver, CO, North America, Terra
"I have a decision to make," Lincoln told his son later that morning.
"What kind of decision?" Oliver had left Rosemary to watch the baby while he went down to LincEnt for the first time in over two years. The place hadn't changed a lot, but it seemed strange to be there. They stood by the window in Lincoln's office, staring out at the sprawling complex. Oliver saw figures moving in the control tower, just five hundred yards away.
Lincoln turned away from the window.
"We delivered the fighters the Sirians ordered," he said, "even though the cocksuckers refused to cooperate with me about your whereabouts. I tried to lean on that bastard Baker; I told him I wouldn't deliver until I knew you were safe, but he pleaded innocent and finally I had to deliver or face breach of contract."
Oliver nodded. "Makes sense. You couldn't prove anything, so you didn't have a leg to stand on."
His dad nodded.
"But now," Lincoln said, "I have to ask myself if I still want to do business with the Confederacy." His eyes narrowed as he peered at his son. "What's your take on that?"
Oliver met his gaze directly.
"You have the board to think about, and you have stockholders. It's not just your investment at stake here."
Lincoln looked surprised. "I thought you'd tell me to shove it up their ass."
Oliver laughed, the first time since arriving in Denver. "Two years ago I would have."
Lincoln studied him a moment, nodding slowly.
"Well," he said, "we don't have any outstanding orders with them. We've fulfilled all our existing obligations, but we still have an open contract; so if I just bluntly refuse to sell them any fighters in the future, they might have grounds to sue. However …"
"You can lever up the price," Oliver said, guessing where this was going. "Make any future order so expensive they'll refuse to pay it. After all, now that we've lost Vega as a trading partner, production costs do keep going up. Don't they?"
Lincoln grinned. "You know, I might just be able to retire one of these days after all. Sounds like you're beginning to understand how business is done!"
Chapter 45
Denver, CO, North America, Terra
With credit for time served, Jeremy Mason was released from jail on Friday morning. His belongings were returned to him and he caught a hover-cab home. His disability pension from the police department had continued uninterrupted, enabling him to keep the apartment; the utilities had been cut off, the plants were dead, and the air was stale, but otherwise, everything looked normal. He opened windows to air the place out, then looked into the nitro-cooler for a beer. The unit was still working and everything was cold. The beer went down like nectar from the gods.
Beer in hand, Jeremy walked into his bedroom and opened the closet. His uniforms were still hanging there. On the wall he saw his gun belt, the one Rosemary had given him for Christmas two years ago. He took it down, drew out the 9mm automatic, and hefted it lovingly. It was a fine weapon, and he'd spent many happy hours practicing with it. How ironic that it had been a gift from Rosemary.
He took it into the living room, sat down with a kit, and began to clean it.
* * *
Oliver returned to the mansion in the early afternoon, feeling restless and disconnected. He was home, but now what? Everything here had proceeded for two years without him; his dad had work to do, his mother was dead … For one intense moment he almost wished he were back on Vega; at least there he'd known his place in the scheme of things.
He walked into the sitting room and stopped cold. The baby lay on a blanket, face up; Rosemary, on all fours, was bent over him, making googly noises. Bradley was laughing hysterically, both fists filled with her hair. Oliver watched for a moment, finding more pleasure in the spectacle than he would have expected.
"Looks like Brad's winning," he said.
Rosemary looked up in surprise, then winced in pain as Bradley's grip on her hair pulled her back down. She lifted him and got to her feet, flushed and a little embarrassed. The child was still giggling. He pulled a fistful of Rosemary's hair into his mouth.
"He's a beautiful baby," Rosemary said, trying to pry her hair loose from his fingers. "It's been a long time since I held one."
"When was the last time?"
"My baby brother. I was about twelve when he was born, and I used to take care of him."
Oliver nodded silently, remembering her loss.
"If you ever decide you don't want this little guy," she smiled, "maybe I'll adopt him."
Oliver sank into a chair and shook his head. "I went through too much to get him," he said. "He stays with me."
"Then I'll just have to be his Aunt Rosemary." She kissed the baby's forehead, talking nonsense to him, making him laugh again. Oliver watched in contented amusement. Finally Rosemary placed the baby in Oliver's lap.
"I should probably get to the office," she said. "I've done zero work today."
"What's your rush? Sit down, let’s visit."
She settled onto a sofa opposite him, smoothing her coffee-colored hair with her hands. Oliver bounced the baby, but his attention was on Rosemary.
"You look wonderful," he told her. "I didn't realize I missed you until I saw you this morning."
Rosemary laughed. "You really have a knack for making a girl feel special!"
He smiled ruefully. "Guess that didn't come out quite right, did it? What I meant was …"
"I know what you meant. You don't need to explain."
"How've you been?"
"Busy. A little worried. After we found out you were alive it wasn't so bad."
"Any boyfriends?"
Her expression turned guarded. "I … had one for awhile. It's over now."
"Anybody I know?"
"I don't think so. Your dad hired him after you left. He was head of security for a few months."
"Was?"
"He got fired."
Oliver noted her discomfort and didn't pursue it.
"Oliver, why all the questions? I should be asking about your experiences."
He shrugged. "I'm going to be explaining those for years to come," he said. "I'm in no hurry to get into it."
"You saw terrible things."
"I did terrible things." He frowned at the memory. "I can't tell you all of it; even if I did, it wouldn't convey what it was really like." He met her eyes. "I killed a lot of people, Rosemary."
She sat silent for a moment. "But they would have killed you, wouldn't they? If they had the chance?"
He conceded that point. "Most of them. But …" He let out his breath in a sigh. "In the beginning they used me as a sniper. The people I killed never knew I was there."
"Oliver, it was war. You did what you had to do."
He nodded slowly, his eyes unfocused.
"We heard you were wounded."
"Three times."
"Gosh!" She looked shocked. "Were you shot in the face?"
He fingered the scar on his cheek. "Grenade fragment. It was the least serious of all. I also got hit in the chest and the shoulder, at different times."
"Gosh!"
He stared at her with narrowed eyes, surprised at how much he enjoyed her company.
"You know something?" he said.
"What?"
"I should have asked you out a long time ago."
Her eyes widened for a second, then lowered with embarrassment.
"Why didn't you?" she asked quietly, glancing up.
"Because I knew I was going to marry you someday and didn't want to spoil my chances."
Rosemary was so shocked she laughed out loud. "Are you serious?"
"As a solar flare."
"How long have you known this?"
"Since the day you came to live with us." Oliver felt his cheeks flush, but had said too much to stop now. "I think I fell in love with you that day. There were a lot of nights I wanted to crawl into your bed."
Her smile faded as she recognized his vulnerability. "But you never did."
"I didn't think you wanted me to. Even if you did, I would have been taking advantage of you. And if Dad ever found out, he'd have killed me."
She stared at him for long seconds, questions in her eyes.
"Are you still planning to marry me?" she asked.
He nodded soberly. "When the time is right."
"When will that be?"
"I'm not sure. But you'll be the first to know."
Rosemary stared at him for thirty seconds. He chewed his lip and looked at his son, who was busily pulling the hair on his arm.
"You've changed," she said quietly.
* * *
Rosemary returned to the office shortly after two. Oliver, still carrying Brad, crossed the back of the property to the family plot, where he stood for a time over his mother's grave. She rested next to Victoria … both of them, he realized, victims of the Sirians. No longer able to contain his emotions, he let the tears go, cleansing himself of accumulated grief. He wept not only for his mother and sister, but for others — Danmark, Pedersen and Giordino, all those who had died in the trench at Lake Francesca, and of course Jacquje Norgaard. He wept for all of Vega, and his failure to make a difference.
* * *
Jules Cedarquist left roll call a few minutes after three and headed for his cruiser. He was the sergeant on duty for the mid watch, and remained in the parking garage as his troops began to spread out on their patrol beats. As he piled gear into his car, he saw Captain Anderson arrive, and spent a few minutes talking shop.
"By the way," Anderson said as Jules started his turbines, "you might want to look in on your old buddy."
"Which old buddy?"
"Mason. I got a call from Corrections this morning; he's out."
"Already?" Jules was surprised.
"Time served. They cut him loose this morning."
Jules lifted his cruiser above roof level and checked his gauges. As he tapped his boosters and moved out over the city, he felt a knot of tension in his gut. It had been a year since Jeremy's arrest? Time was passing too damn fast!
He checked his watch list, then accessed his computer and requested Jeremy's address. To his surprise, it was the same as his old one. He turned in that direction.
Ten minutes later he was climbing the stairs to the third floor, wondering if Jeremy had kept the apartment or if the files hadn't been kept updated. Only one way to find out.
He rang the bell.
Thirty seconds passed. Jules glanced at his watch, thinking this was a dead end. Most likely Jeremy was in a hotel or halfway house. Maybe he could ask …
The door popped open. Jeremy Mason stood there, and Jules stared in surprise. Jeremy was in full uniform, complete with body armor and gun belt. He turned and walked back into the living room; Jules followed, the door closing behind him.
"You want a drink, Jules?" Jeremy asked, uncorking a bottle of bourbon.
"Not on duty, you know that. What are you up to?"
Jeremy poured himself a shot and turned, his eyes hard as he gazed at his old friend.
"Gotta put my life back together," he said coldly, and downed the shot. "Seems like I lost a year somewhere."
"Sometimes that happens when you beat up on helpless women." Jules nodded at the uniform. "Got a new job already?"
"Going for an interview."
"You allowed to carry a firearm? You're an ex-con now."
"It was a misdemeanor. Firearm exclusion applies only to felons." Jeremy poured himself another shot. "Surprised you didn't know that."
Jules watched Jeremy sink the shot and put the glass down. His sense of unease was growing.
"Anything else, Jules? I don't wanna be late for my interview."
"Just one thing. That's not a security guard uniform. It's Denver PD. I know you're not allowed to wear that."
"So, you gonna arrest me for impersonating a police officer?"
"Should I? Is there anything I need to know about?"
"Like what?"
"Like why you're wearing the uniform six hours after getting out of jail. Where do you plan to go?"
"I told you, job interview."
"I don't think that's going to get you hired."
Jeremy laughed bitterly. "Maybe you can put in a good word for me."
Jules didn't smile. "You and I need to talk," he said. He pointed at the gun belt. "I think you should take that off."
"Sure, Jules. I'll take it off."
Jules was pointing with his gun hand. Jeremy drew and fired before Jules's brain could register the danger. The soft-nose bullet struck him above his left eye and expanded on impact, blowing off the back of his skull. Death was instantaneous.
Jeremy stared at the fallen officer for a moment without expression, then sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He leaned over and began stripping the body, taking documents, ID, the badge, and the personal radio. Moments later, he left the apartment, climbed into the hover cruiser, and lifted off.
* * *
Oliver dropped Bradley off at the company day-care center, where he was instantly surrounded by maternal employees, then made the rounds of several departments, renewing acquaintances with people he hadn't seen for two years. His last stop was the flight line, where he shook hands with Lee Hatley, LincEnt's lead test pilot.
"God damn, Ollie!" Hatley exclaimed. "I thought you decided to marry one of those Vegan dolls and stay there!"
Oliver laughed. "Lee, if you haven't been there, you'll never know the definition of 'temptation'!"
They chatted for a few minutes. Lee showed him one of the latest SolarFighters, pointing out several minor improvements. Oliver took it all in, listening closely.
"Lee, tell me something — have you field-tested this thing against shoulder-fired missiles?"
"Sure."
"How'd it do?"
"Missiles can't touch it. The static interference from the jets disrupts the seek radar and the missile can't get a lock. Not one single hit in all the tests we ran."
Oliver walked around to the front of the ship. "What about here?"
"What about where?"
"The nose. A straight shot, down the throat. Did you test-fire a missile that way?"
Lee scratched his head. "I'd have to check the database, but I don't think so. Why would we? The SF is so fast, the target won't know it's coming until it's too late."
"That's true, but after the SF makes a pass, if it comes around again, the target is aware."
"Okay, I'll buy that. What's your point?"
Oliver laid a hand on his shoulder. "Because I was on the ground one night, and they made several passes at us. I shot one down, with a shoulder-fired missile."
Hatley looked stunned. "You shot down one of our fighters?"
Oliver laughed. "It wasn't 'one of ours', Lee; it was trying to kill me!"
Oliver turned as another man walked up, a tall blond fellow he'd never met. Hatley stood trying to digest what Oliver had told him, and failed to notice. Oliver stuck out his hand.
"Oliver Lincoln," he said.
"I am Lieutenant Lars Sorensen, Vegan Space Guard."
"Good god! You came here to train on the SF?"
"Yes."
Oliver pumped his hand, then stopped.
"I should be saluting you," he said. "You're an officer."
Lars looked puzzled.
"I was a sergeant in the Guard," Oliver explained. "Technically, I guess I still am."
It quickly became apparent that neither man knew much about the other. They retired to an empty lounge to get acquainted. Lars had known Oliver was missing on Vega, but hadn't heard the rest of the story. Oliver brought him up to date in a few minutes. The tall Vegan shook his head sadly.
"So the war is truly over?" he asked. "I was hoping there still might be a chance …"
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I don't think so. They refused to let me leave until it ended, and they captured Queen Ursula more than a month ago."
Lars sat very still, breathing slowly. Oliver could see the emotion in his face.
"What will you do now?" he asked finally.
Lars shrugged. "I would like to lead a squadron back to Vega, but that is unrealistic, isn't it?"
"I'm afraid so. You don't have the pilots, and even if you did, how would you get there?"
"Exactly."
"You said you have family in Sweden?"
"Relatives. I don't really know them, only met them once. We are not close."
"You could join the Federation Space Force," Oliver suggested. "I imagine you could teach them more than they could teach you."
Lars shook his head. "What is the point? From what I've heard, no one is taking the Sirian threat seriously."
"Work for my dad, then. Be a test pilot."
Lars looked up. "Yes, probably. For two years I have lived here. I have nowhere else to go."
Lars invited Oliver for a drink. He lived in VIP quarters at LincEnt, a dormitory reserved for guests and special visitors. Located only fifty yards from the flight line, it kept Lars close to his work. He took most of his meals in the company commissary.