by John Bowers
“Oh. No! I’m not your owner. Didn’t they tell you?”
“No one told me anything. They just came for me and delivered me to you.”
He turned off the turbine.
“Oh, hell. You must have a million questions then.”
“Two million.”
He hesitated thoughtfully, as if trying to decide how to explain it to her.
“I have this cousin,” he said. “Brandon Marlow. He’s a captain in the SE—he’s on Vega right now. He called me two, three weeks ago I guess, and told me you were comin’. He told me which ship you were on and when you’d git here. He said I was to pick you up at the Wallace Slave Center and take you to his plantation. He sent me a money draft to pay for your release.”
Erika blinked in dismay.
“So…is he my new owner?”
“Well, I’m not sure. He said you had been shipped by mistake, and you were to stay at his place until he gets home.”
Erika sat perfectly still for thirty seconds, staring at Tom Marlow like a statue.
“Until he gets home? And then what?”
“I don’t know, Miss. What I just told you is what he told me. That you was shipped by mistake.”
“When will he be coming home?”
“He never told me.”
Erika turned and stared through the windscreen of the pickup. She felt numb again, but for a totally different reason. This made absolutely no sense at all.
“How much did he pay?” she asked softly.
“To git you out? Fifty thousand.”
Monday, 24 July, 0197 (PCC) – Sophia’s Island, Vega 3
Regent Peder Kristensen sat at his desk and gazed through the tall window at the city of Reina. His office was located on the top floor of the Royal Spire of Sophia's Castle, eighty feet above the ground, with a magnificent view across the harbor from Sophia's Island. It was a beautiful day that, under normal circumstances, would have inspired a sense of well-being; Reina gleamed in the spring sun, its tall buildings reflecting the class and architecture of the finest civilization in the galaxy.
But circumstances were anything but normal.
The man seated across from him was dressed in intimidating ebony, his uniform immaculate, the brass and leather polished as if for parade. SE Col. Paul Royer was the ranking SE authority on the planet, outranking even the generals in the Confederate Army. He gazed calmly at Kristensen with his legs crossed, a cigarette burning nauseatingly between his fingers. Kristensen sat silent, weighing his response to what Royer had just told him.
“You want me,” he said slowly, “to become a puppet ruler under your regime? Is that what you're telling me?”
Royer 's mouth crinkled at the corners in what passed for a friendly smile.
“You can call it that if you want to,” he replied. “The simple fact is that Vega no longer has a queen, and somebody has to run the government.”
“I rather thought you had people who were going to do that.”
“Well, that is certainly one possibility,” Royer admitted. He sucked on his cigarette, inhaled deeply, and let smoke dribble out of his nose as he continued. “Unfortunately, Regent, the Vegan people might not take too kindly to anyone we might put in charge. They're already a bit upset about how things turned out in this situation, and for their safety as well as ours, the Confederacy would prefer to have a Vegan citizen as head of state. Surely you can see the wisdom of that?”
Kristensen did, all too well. The Sirians wanted to avoid riots, rebellion, and insurrection. The Vegans had a reputation as a peaceful people, but sixty-odd percent were descended directly from the ancient Vikings; they were in no mood to tolerate a conqueror, which they had proven during the war. Royer needed to put a Vegan face on the despotism that was about to begin.
His face drained of blood, Kristensen met the colonel's eyes directly. “I think you need to find someone else.”
Royer 's eyes narrowed as he stared Kristensen down. His lips compressed noticeably.
“Regent, you have been second in command under Queen Ursula for thirteen years. For all intents and purposes, you already run the planet. The people know you, they trust you, and they will listen to you. The bottom line is that there is no one else.”
But Kristensen was shaking his head.
“You underestimate the people,” he said doggedly. “You underestimated us from the first day you invaded and you're still doing it. They trusted me yesterday and they trust me today, but if I accept this position they'll call me a traitor tomorrow. Have you ever heard of Vidkun Quisling?”
“I don't think so.”
“Quisling was a Norwegian back on Terra, centuries ago. When his country was occupied by a foreign power, he turned against his people and embraced the enemy. The people hated him, and as soon as the occupation ended, they executed him. The same will happen to me if I do what you want. Even without that consideration, I have no intention of assisting your civilization while it plunders and enslaves my planet!”
Royer sucked on his cigarette again and stubbed it out on his chair arm.
“Regent, this 'occupation', as you call it, is not going to end, so you have nothing to worry about. What you need to do is stop worrying about yourself and think about your people. If you take this job you will save lives, both Sirian and Vegan. I know you don't like to see me here in your office, but I am here and it's too late to do anything about that. So you can dispense with the righteous indignation and we can move on. I need you to help the people through this transition. Once that job is finished, you can step down if you want. Give it a year and let's see how things go.”
“No. I won't betray my people. You can shoot me if you want to, but I'd rather be shot by you than hated by Vega.”
Royer uncrossed his legs, his boot landing heavily on the marble floor.
“Regent, I'm not going to shoot you, but I am going to twist your arm.” He sighed for dramatic effect. “I didn't want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice. Either you take the job, or your wife and daughter will be taking a one-way, all expenses-paid vacation to Sirius. And they won't be coming back. Do I make myself clear?”
Honor the woman, for she is the one who bears life.
Honor life, and do not destroy life, except to protect life.
Walk the Path of Rightness in all your dealings, showing equity to friend and foe alike.
Give your best effort to every endeavor, and work hard, that you may take pride in your accomplishments.
Aid the weak, and protect the innocent against all evil.
Let every believer live an example toward unbelievers.
Respect Sophia as your goddess and respect the right of others to believe as they have been taught.
—Sophia’s Creed
Book One: Homecoming
Chapter 1
Sunday, 5 January 0200 (PCC) – Lake Francesca, Vega 3
There had been one hell of a battle here.
Erik Norgaard stared down the slope with narrowed eyes, his face blanched by the icy wind. He stood near the top of the ridge; below him, winding around the hillside, were three trench lines, each a hundred or so feet below the other. The shooting had stopped three years earlier, but the trees hadn’t grown back yet. The ground had been churned by artillery and withered grass now furred the surface, but it would take years of wind and weather to completely erase the scars.
Erik started down the slope, stepping carefully; he didn’t expect land mines, but couldn’t overlook the possibility of unexploded ordnance. His boots crunched on patches of frozen snow. The wind was out of the southeast, bitter with the promise of more snow. Full darkness was an hour away and he needed to find a hole for the night. The bunkers along the trenches seemed like good candidates.
He stepped around the remains of a P-gun, the barrels bent and twisted; they’d been hit by plasma, if he was any judge, and now sat rusting and useless.
He worked his way down to the nearest trench, and here saw more signs of vi
olence. The parapets were splintered, and sections of trench had collapsed. A few yards below the trench lay the remains of a two-man hoversled, belly-up and half buried. Lying next to it he saw a Sirian helmet perforated with bullet holes. The Sirians had won this battle, he knew, but had paid a terrible price.
Not terrible enough. The bastards had won the war.
The wind picked up as Erik navigated the trench, climbing over mounds of earth, stepping on bullet casings and spent laser packs. He lowered his head as he made for the nearest bunker, still fifty yards away. Several bunkers had been destroyed, but the one ahead appeared to be intact.
By the time he reached it, flakes of hard snow swirled about his head, the knife-edged wind penetrating his thin jacket. His breath frosted in the lee of the bunker but was quickly swept away.
He tried the door but it seemed to be jammed. He leaned into it with his shoulder, then tried to kick it open. The vibration from his efforts dislodged a clump of snow from the damaged splinter shield overhead. The snow landed on his shoulder and broke apart, some of it falling inside his collar. He caught his breath with the shock, and stopped to brush the excess off his jacket.
In the rising wind he almost didn’t hear the voice.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
Erik stopped moving, senses alert. The voice was faint, but clear, from inside the bunker. It was unmistakably female.
“I just want to get out of the weather,” he replied, half shouting. “Can you open the door?”
“Go away. Find another bunker.”
Erik frowned. She sounded scared, and it was no surprise. If she was alone here, she would feel threatened by any man who came along.
“I’m Vegan Guard, Ma’am. Private First Class Erik Norgaard, 5th Royal Infantry. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The silence stretched to twenty seconds.
“How do I know you’re not a Sirian?”
“Do I sound like a Sirian? Look, can you open the door please? I’m freezing out here.”
He stamped his feet as he waited for her to decide. Snow was falling heavier now, swirling thickly. Visibility had fallen to a few yards. It was almost dark.
“Can’t you find another bunker?”
“It’s almost dark, Ma’am, and the snow is coming down hard. I swear to Sophia I won’t hurt you. I’ll leave in the morning, I promise.”
A long silence followed; he was about to shove off and look for another bunker when the door suddenly slid aside, revealing a dim opening just wide enough for him to squeeze through. He entered quickly, and the door slid shut again.
For just a moment he was blind, but the room wasn’t completely dark. A dim lantern burned against one wall, and he saw half a dozen bunks, one with bedding on it. The air was cold and smelled of lantern incense, but nothing like the blizzard outside. A small camp stove burned with a low flame.
The woman stood to his left, beside the door control. She was facing him, her face pale and frightened, her long red hair tied back with a green ribbon. The next thing Erik saw was the laser pistol in her hand, pointed directly at his face. He slowly lifted his hands clear of his body.
“If you’re going to use that,” he said quietly, “then go ahead. Otherwise, I’d like to get rid of this pack.”
“How do I know who you really are?” she asked. “Do you have some kind of ID?”
He nodded. “I’m wearing datatags.”
“Hand them over. Put the pack down first, and step away from it.”
Erik moved slowly as he followed her orders. She might be frightened, but clearly she wasn’t stupid. He set the pack in the center of the room and drew the datatags over his head, carefully tossing them to her. She moved away from the door until she could inspect them in the lantern light. She looked up at him.
“These could be stolen.”
“They could be. But they’re not.” He nodded at her pistol. “Does that thing even work?”
“Of course it does. Why wouldn’t it?”
He inclined his head and lowered his hands. “No charge light. The power pack is dead.”
She blinked at him once and lowered the weapon. She tossed the datatags back.
“You’re not a Sirian,” she said. “At least you weren’t lying about that.”
“I wasn’t lying about anything. But I don’t blame you for being careful.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Looking for shelter, just like I said. It’s cold out there.”
“But why here? Why not in town? There’s a hotel in Lake Francesca.”
“Hotels cost money. And the town is crawling with Sirians.”
“So what? The war’s over.”
Erik squatted next to the camp stove and tried to warm his hands. The woman watched from ten feet away.
“I just got out of prison camp yesterday,” he told her. “I need time away from the enemy.”
It was the woman’s turn to frown.
“The war ended over three years ago! You’re just now getting out?”
He nodded. “They had to ‘reeducate’ me first.”
“What does that mean?”
“I didn’t go along with their program very well. Broke too many rules. So they decided I was too dangerous to release. They held me back with the rest of the troublemakers while other men went home.” He glanced up. “What about you? How come you’re hiding out here? Not very safe, is it?”
“No place is safe for a Vegan woman,” she said, dropping the pistol onto her bunk and sitting down beside it. “The Sirians have all kinds of creative ideas for us. Maybe you didn’t hear about that in prison camp.”
“I heard rumors, didn’t know how much was true.”
“The truth is probably a lot worse than whatever you heard.”
He nodded glumly. “Did your name come up for a slave shipment?”
“Not yet. That’s the worst that can happen, but they have other programs while you wait. None of them are very pleasant.”
“How long you been here?”
“A few weeks.”
“Don’t they patrol this area?”
“Sometimes. So far I’ve seen them first.”
“You’ve been lucky.”
She shrugged. “They haven’t come around since the weather turned bad.”
“What’s your name?”
She stared at him a long moment, then shook her head.
“What you don’t know you can’t reveal.”
“So what do I call you?”
“Corporal.”
As the storm intensified, wind howled past the bunker. Erik and the woman huddled in the near darkness, somewhat comforted by the fire. The bunker had been built to withstand a different kind of storm and was still standing; Erik had no worries that a simple blizzard would damage it.
His companion was barely twenty-one, but displayed the maturity of a much older woman. She was lovely, like all Vegan women, but he hardly noticed. It was comforting simply to talk to her. Her supplies were limited, but he had food in his pack and they shared a simple meal heated over the fire. After a time she seemed to relax a little.
“What unit did you say you were with?” she asked.
“Fifth Royal Infantry.”
“You were regular Guard.”
He nodded. “I joined right out of high school. I was going career.”
“Where did you fight?”
He shrugged. “All over. When the Sirians first invaded we were ordered to Soderstad, but we never got there. The Sirians surrounded it and the Guard wrote it off as untenable, so we were redeployed in the southern Alps.”
“When were you captured?”
“After the surrender.” Erik frowned; he really didn’t want to relive any of it. “What about you?”
“I was in the 77th Volunteers. I was one of those college girls that demanded a chance to fight.” She shook her head with a bitter smile. “I got my wish.”
“We had a couple in my outfit. Good soldiers.”
“We did our best. They didn’t have much time to train us, so they taught us how to shoot. We killed our share, but we were fools.”
“Where did you fight?”
“Right here. My one and only battle was on this ridge.” She smiled bitterly. “I was only in the Guard for three months.”
“And you made corporal?”
“Not really. The first night they hit us, most of the noncoms in my platoon were killed. So the lieutenant promoted some of us. It was never official.”
She fell silent, staring into the fire.
“What happened?” Erik asked gently.
She glanced up, as if she’d forgot he was there.
“Oh, they swarmed up these slopes like an army of ants. Artillery, space power, hoversleds, and thousands of serf troops. We fought until the ammo was gone and then it was bayonets and grenades. I don’t really remember how it ended, except that I woke up in one of these bunkers tied to a rack with about a hundred men lining up to rape me.”
“Goddess!”
She nodded. “That’s what I said, only no goddess ever showed up to save me.” She bit her lip, gazing at the fire again. “I wasn’t the only one. Every girl who survived, and—and a lot of those who didn’t. They raped the dead girls, too.”
Erik closed his eyes, his insides squirming. He’d heard stories like this, but didn’t know if they were true. Until now, he’d never met anyone who’d experienced it.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She managed a short laugh, half ironic, half embarrassed.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
Chapter 2
Monday, 6 January, 0200 (PCC) – Lake Francesca, Vega 3
The bunker held a dozen wooden bunks. Erik slept in one of them, covered by a poncho. He woke cold and stiff, briefly disoriented as to his surroundings.
The corporal was bent over the camp stove, stirring some kind of soup in a pan. He sat up and blinked at her.
“The storm over?” he asked.
“I haven’t looked out. Sounds like the wind stopped.”
He swung his legs to the floor and rubbed his face.
“Is there a head in this place?
