by John Bowers
“In the back room. The water works sometimes, but right now it’s probably frozen.”
Erik navigated through a door into the bunker’s rear room. The toilet was dark, but he flicked on a pocket torch and took care of business. The water pipes were indeed frozen, but he found fresh water in a bucket with only a thin layer of ice over it. He used a nearby cup to scoop some out and wash his hands; he splashed some on his face and caught his breath at the shock. After he dried his hands with a towel he looked around the room with his torch, and frowned as the light picked up a stack of crates in the corner.
He stepped over to the crates and pried one open. Packed neatly inside, separated by layers of plastic, were small round objects about the size of hockey pucks. Each had a small jack on each side that allowed them to be wired together. Each crate held about fifty of the round objects, and he counted thirteen crates. The stencil on the crates read:
Mark XI Plasma
NordTek Corporation
Reina
Unaccountably, his heart began to race.
On impulse, he lifted six of the objects out of the top crate and dropped them into his jacket pocket, then replaced the lid.
Back in the main room, the corporal was spooning soup into a cup. She handed it to him as he settled onto the edge of the bunk.
“I don’t have any coffee or tea,” she apologized. “There is a little wine.”
“Too early for wine,” he said. “Thanks anyway.”
He sipped at the soup, something meaty with vegetable. It tasted fabulous.
“Where do you get supplies?” he asked. “Seems like it would be dangerous for you to go into town, in case someone followed you back.”
She nodded. “I stay away from town altogether. There’s a kitchen bunker on around the hillside. It still has quite a few food stocks, but there isn’t much variety.”
“Whatever keeps you from starving.” He worked on the soup for a few more minutes, then set the cup down. “How long can you survive out here?”
She shrugged, sipping her own soup. “I don’t think about that. I worry about surviving from day to day.”
“Spring is five months away.”
“I know.”
She said nothing else, nor did he. Post-war Vega didn’t offer either of them much of a future at the moment.
After a few minutes, Erik tried the main door to the bunker. It opened easily and he stepped out. The trench was clear of snow near the door, which was partially protected by the shrapnel shield, but on either side the snow was over a foot deep. The air was cold and crisp, but the sky was clear. The corporal followed him outside.
“I thought the snow would be deeper,” she said.
Erik nodded. “I think the wind pushed most of it on up the hill.” He pointed up the slope, where drifts had accumulated around the tree stumps. He went back inside and retrieved his pack.
“Well, thanks for your hospitality. I hope you’ll be okay here.”
She stared at him for a moment, and for the first time he realized she had clear green eyes.
“You don’t really have to go,” she said, “if you don’t want to.”
“Thanks. But I haven’t seen my family in over five years. I need to find out who survived and who didn’t.”
“Where do you live?”
“Reina.”
She nodded acceptance, disappointment in her eyes.
“Do you think you’ll ever get back down this way?” Reina was over five hundred miles to the north.
“I don’t know. But if I do, I’ll look you up.”
She smiled sadly. “Good luck to you, Private.”
It was an hour’s walk back to the town of Lake Francesca. Erik followed the trench line until it ended, then trudged along an icy mountain road. Through the pines to his right he could see the lake for which the town was named, a scenic pond that stretched more than a mile across, ringed with forest that, in places, had been blasted by artillery. The surface was a slate grey; small snowdrifts suggested the lake was frozen.
As he approached the little mountain town, Erik picked up the pungent smell of wood smoke mingled with fresh pine needles. A few more minutes of walking brought him into view of the first houses; in spite of the battle that had been fought here, most of the town had been spared.
As he rounded a bend in the road he saw an intersection ahead, and a checkpoint; his anxiety levered up a notch.
Two Confederate soldiers stood beside the checkpoint, both smoking cigarettes. Their distinctive grey uniforms were covered by heavy jackets; slug rifles were slung over their shoulders. Erik walked resolutely toward them, determined to show no fear. They turned to face him as he approached, and one held up a hand.
They were young, he realized, not more than nineteen—too young to have been part of the invasion. These were occupation troops, brought in to police the planet after the real soldiers had gone home. Their faces were clean-shaven and pink with the cold. One had a stripe on his arm.
“Where yew comin’ from, Veggie?” the one with the stripe asked. “No towns back that way.”
Erik ignored the question. Instead, he handed the soldier a small plastic case with his papers in it. The Sirian glanced at the paperwork briefly, then began to grin.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “Veggie Guard! Haven’t seen one of yew fellers in a while. Where yew headed?”
Erik took the paperwork back and slipped it into a pocket. “Reina,” he said.
“You’re a fur piece from home, boy. Where yew been?”
“I’ve been a guest of the Confederacy,” he replied. “Just got released yesterday.”
“Yestiddy? I thought all yew fellers were let out two years ago.”
“Not everybody.”
“Smoke?” The second soldier extended a pack with a cigarette extended. Erik looked at it a moment, then nodded and pulled the cigarette free. He had no intention of smoking it, but it seemed prudent not to antagonize the enemy.
“Thanks. I’ll save this for later.”
The young soldier grinned, obviously pleased to have established a rapport with his former enemy.
“Yew kin have the whole pack if yew want. I got plenty more.”
“Thanks, but you guys need them more than I do. You’ve got to be freezing out here.”
The stripe laughed. “Yeah, but we git to meet the nicest people.”
Erik smiled. To say that he hated these two would be an understatement, but he didn’t let it show.
“Yew lookin’ for transportation to Reina?” the stripe asked.
“Yes. Someone said there’s a tube station here, is that right?”
“It sure is. Yew follow this road on about a mile and it’s just the other side of town. Next train leaves in about a’ hour.”
Erik nodded. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. War’s over, Veggie—we’re all on the same side now.”
Erik nodded again, but said nothing. Like hell!
“Yew don’t have any weapons or anything, do ye?”
“Man, I just got released yesterday. You can search the pack if you like.”
But the stripe just waved his arm.
“Go catch that train. And good luck to ya.”
Erik nodded and stepped through the checkpoint. He didn’t look back, but heard one of the soldiers speak in a lowered voice.
“Nice feller.”
The road he was on widened into the main street of Lake Francesca. A dozen streets intersected it at intervals, leading off into other neighborhoods, but the main business district was right on this street. Soon he was forced onto a sidewalk as he encountered vehicular traffic, but with the cold weather the sidewalk was largely deserted. He passed a few food shops that tantalized him with aromas, but kept walking. He wanted to make that train to Reina.
Lake Francesca was a quaint mountain village, the kind that attracted tourists before the war. The lake was a major attraction in warm weather and skiing in the winter. Erik had been
here two or three times before, and once during the war. He’d always thought it was the sort of place where he might like to settle. Right now it seemed depressed, as if everyone was sick. As he continued down the street, he saw two Sirian hovertanks parked near an intersection, and the Sirian Binary flag flew above the post office. No enemy soldiers were in sight, but their presence was unmistakable.
The tube station was right where the stripe had said it would be. The road descended a steep grade to the level of a modest parking lot that flanked the station. As Erik approached he saw another checkpoint twenty yards past the parking lot entrance. He walked steadily toward it, but turned into the station lot before reaching the checkpoint.
“Hey, yew!”
Erik stopped and turned. A Confederate sentry was waving him toward the checkpoint. With a sigh, he walked over. This man was older, maybe twenty-five, his manner less friendly than the first pair.
“Yew Veggie Guard?” the Sirian demanded with a frown.
“Yes.”
“Papers?”
Erik gave him the documentation. The soldier studied it for nearly a minute, sucking and exhaling cigarette smoke with each breath.
“Yew were in Camp Clinton?”
“That’s right.”
“I thought they cleared that place out two years ago.”
“They did.”
The sentry pinned him with a hard glare. “So what’s yewr story?”
Erik shrugged. “I was so popular with the staff that they kept me around awhile.”
The sentry’s eyes narrowed still further. He threw his cigarette away and planted his feet, as if expecting a fight.
“Yew can cut out the pig shit, awright? I don’t like Veggie Guard, so if yew want to be my friend yew can answer the fuckin’ question!”
Erik spread his hands.
“Look, I just want to get home, okay? I’ve been gone for five damn years and I was told the war is over. That’s it.”
“What’s in the pack?”
“Some food, some money, a change of clothes.” Erik swung the pack off his shoulders and set it on the ground. “Knock yourself out.”
But the Sirian gestured to the pack. “Yew open it.”
Grimacing, Erik knelt on the frozen road and began to empty the pack. When he had everything laid out, the Sirian turned the pack upside down and shook it. Looking disappointed, he tossed it on the ground.
“Yew got any weapons?”
Erik looked up. “Goddess, man, you just saw everything I own! Do you see any weapons?”
“So where yew headed?”
“Reina.” Erik began reloading the pack. Everything was soggy from contact with the snowy ground.
“Where’d yew fight?”
“I don’t remember. All over.”
“Royal Meadows?”
Erik threw the last of his clothing into the pack and began to zip it up. He shook his head.
“Yew sure? Yew said yew didn’t remember.”
“I don’t remember every single place, but I do know where I wasn’t. I wasn’t at the Slaughter Pen.”
The Sirian looked jolted. “Slaughter Pen! Is that what yew fuckers call it?”
Erik nodded, a grim satisfaction in his belly. “That’s what it was, wasn’t it? Fifty thousand Sirians and Beta Centauris killed?”
“If yew wasn’t there, how come yew know so much about it?”
“Are you kidding? It’s the only battle we won. Everybody knows about it.”
The sentry handed Erik his papers. “Yew seem awful proud about it.”
“Yeah. Well, you won the goddess-scorn war, so I guess we’re even.” Erik slipped the papers into a pocket. “Can I go now?”
“Yeah, git the fuck outta my sight.”
Erik turned and walked away. He’d gone ten yards when the Sirian called to him again.
“Just for yewr information, Veggie, I was at Royal Meadows! Yew didn’t kill all of us!”
Erik looked back with a thin smile. “They ought to give you a medal for surviving it.”
“They did.”
Two more soldiers were on duty inside the tube station, but they only watched with detached interest as Erik purchased a ticket for Reina. The ticket agent was a woman in her forties, trim and lovely like all Vegan women. She eyed him with interest as he approached.
“One ticket to Reina,” he said quietly.
“I need to see your identity papers,” she said, then smiled apologetically. “It’s a new law the Sirians enacted.”
“No problem.” Erik slid the same plastic case across to her, and she glanced at the papers with widening eyes.
“Vegan Guard?” she whispered.
“Yes, Ma’am. Just released.”
She scanned the code on the forms and handed them back. “Fifty crowns,” she said.
Erik reached into his pack and drew out his meager supply of cash. He peeled off two twenty-fives and handed them to her. The woman opened a drawer and dropped the money into it, then pressed a button to print his ticket. He nodded his thanks and started to turn away.
“Sir, your change.”
Erik turned in surprise—he’d given her exact fare. She glanced covertly toward the sentries, then slid four tens toward him.
“Have a pleasant trip, sir.” She smiled. And winked briefly.
He pocketed the money. “Thank you.”
He took the escalator down to the gate and waited. The tube train arrived seven minutes later, just four cars, and a glance through the windows suggested they were full. Nevertheless he boarded, and found a single empty seat in the first car. He quickly stashed his backpack in an overhead space and sank gratefully into the contoured seat. One minute later the train began to move, lurching forward until the insertion point into the tube.
“All passengers, please remain seated. Insertion in thirty seconds.”
Erik gripped the bar that protruded from the rear of the seat ahead of him, heard the countdown begin at ten seconds, and then felt the jolt as the train entered the tube and accelerated with a rush of compressed air. A few seconds later the ride smoothed out and he was able to relax again. He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, surprised to find that he was weary.
The train’s vibration lulled him almost to slumber, until he felt a tug at his sleeve. He opened his eyes and looked to his left. A small girl about six years old stood in the aisle, staring at him.
“Are you my daddy?” she asked.
Chapter 3
Monday, 6 January, 0200 (PCC) – Reina, Vega 3
When the Vegan Guard surrendered, Sirian forces had already entered the southern suburbs of Reina, the capital of Vega. The surrender had ended the fighting, so the vast majority of the city had been spared from destruction.
When Erik Norgaard exited the tube train at Queen River Station, he rode the escalator up to ground level with a sense of apprehension. How would the city look after three years of enemy occupation?
The first thing that struck him as he reached street level was the smell of the river—that hadn’t changed, and the nostalgia that washed over him was immediate. Pungent, organic; no other river on the planet smelled like the Queen River. The second thing he noticed was how few people were on the streets.
Before the war, Vega had been a lively, vibrant society, throbbing with commerce, culture, and art. The war had necessarily halted everything except the struggle for survival, but the war had been over for three years. Even under enemy occupation, life should have resumed.
Maybe it had, but the street was largely deserted, even near the tube station. Here and there he saw a vehicle (but no hovercars), and the occasional pedestrian hurried along. Even the people from the tube train disappeared within moments, melting from view. Erik drew a deep breath of crisp air and shouldered his backpack.
He turned down a side street toward the river, his eyes missing nothing. Two blocks later he reached Flod Gata, the street that paralleled the river through the city. Here he
saw the first sign of Sirian influence; Flod Gata had once been spacious and scenic, but now a profusion of new construction lined both sides with congestion. Apartments, strip malls, and miscellaneous shops stood where a lovely park had once been, a pumping station had replaced a shrine to Sophia. The Sirians seemed to have no concept of zoning—industrial, residential, and commercial buildings were all jumbled together.
For a moment he stood on the corner and nurtured his anger. Had the invaders spoiled the entire city this way?
Jangling music reached his ears from down the street. He looked and saw a small, low building right on the edge of the water with a sign that read RIVER PUB. Erik turned toward it, crossed the street, and walked down the block. As he approached, the music grew louder. To his ears it sounded vulgar and decadent, but he’d heard it before…the Confederates called it “country music”.
He turned and walked away.
The Norgaard home sat in a pleasant middle-class neighborhood a few blocks south of Queen River Station. It was a quiet street with fine lawns and tall trees, an idyllic setting for raising children. Erik hadn’t been home in five years.
When she opened the door, his step-mother’s eyes looked wary. She looked healthy, and was every bit as lovely as he remembered, but her face was drawn, as if some heavy weight rested on her shoulders. She stared at him in shock for five seconds, then her expression relaxed and tears slid down her cheeks.
“Erik!” she gasped.
She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him in a death grip. He laughed and returned the hug, waiting until she released him and dragged him inside.
“Erik, when did you get back? Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? Have you eaten? Let me get you something to drink!”
She scurried into the kitchen and he followed, his eyes roaming the familiar house, noting things that were new or missing, soaking up the smell and feel of home. Birgitt quickly cut bread and sausage and placed them on the table, along with a cold glass of fruit juice. He hadn’t realized he was hungry until he saw the cold smoked sausage. He dropped his backpack and settled into a chair.
For the next half hour she plied him with questions while he ate. He answered between bites.
