The Sword of Sophia

by John Bowers

  “Too bad. Terra used to be plagued with wars all the time. It was rare when there wasn’t a war somewhere on the planet. Any time a country was conquered by a totalitarian force, they collected all the weapons. In some countries, when a free government became totalitarian, they outlawed guns before taking over. It was the only way they could subdue their own people and enslave them. That’s what happened to the old United States, in North America, before the Federation. The debate raged for decades, but the totalitarians won, and an apathetic public let it happen. Next thing they knew they were living in a dictatorship.”

  Erik listened but wasn’t really interested. Whatever had happened on Terra centuries ago might provide lessons, but what mattered to him was right now on Vega 3. But his dad was an amateur historian and loved to pontificate. Erik let him go, nodding occasionally, happy to be in the same room with him. He hadn’t realized how much he missed his family until he got home. He finally poured himself a glass of Nektar and sipped it while Karl talked.

  After an hour he said good night and went to his room.

  He locked the door and got down on his knees, reaching under the bed for the backpack he’d brought home from prison camp. Deep inside one of the pockets he found the six flat discs he’d found in the bunker at Lake Francesca. Plasma mines. He didn’t have a gun, but he did have a bayonet, which was probably better because it was silent. But a bayonet had its limits, and these mines might come in handy. He knew what they were and what they could do, but wasn’t entirely clear how to use them. Luckily, he worked at a munitions factory.

  He would find out.

  Tuesday, 25 February, 0200 (PCC) – Reina, Vega 3

  Sirian Elite Guards Capt. Gerald Croswell smiled in amusement as Erika Sebring made her case. His office faced Kongelig Alle, Reina’s most famous street. Frost decorated the outside of his windowsill and the glass was opaqued by ice crystals, but the room was comfortably warm. Erika played the news clip for him and waited for his reaction. He glanced at Steinbach, who stood solicitously beside Erika.

  “What do you think, Steinbach? Is it news or not?”

  “I’ve asked Mr. Steinbach not to share his opinion with you,” Erika cut in. “I wanted your unbiased review of this piece.”

  Croswell glanced at Brandon Marlow, who lounged by the office door with his arms crossed. Marlow also looked amused; Erika had requested his presence at the meeting.

  “How about you, Major?” Croswell asked.

  Erika spun toward Marlow, and he caught her expression. He shrugged.

  “The lady asked for your opinion, not mine.”

  Croswell leaned back in his chair and sighed.

  “A Vegan man rapes a young priestess and three years later someone murders him. Is it news or is it not—that is the question.” He cracked his knuckles. “It definitely is news,” he said clinically. “It definitely has human interest. It even has a flavor of justice, doesn’t it.”

  Erika eyed him hopefully, her silver eyes gleaming.

  “On the other hand,” Croswell continued, “it seems to convey the message that if you rape a Vegan woman you deserve the death penalty.” He glanced up. “Sort of like the old laws before the war. I’m not sure that’s a message we want to put in the public’s living room.”

  “Not just any woman,” Erika corrected, “a priestess. Even your own men don’t do that. From what I’ve heard, you don’t even take holy women as slaves. It’s to your advantage to leave the religious system intact on this planet; if it wasn’t, you’d have dismantled it already.”

  “We still might, for all you know.”

  Erika’s eyes blazed, but she plowed on. “Maybe, but not any time soon. Am I right?”

  She pulled up a chair and dropped into it, carefully crossing her legs so as to show as much skin as possible. “Look, Captain, RHN’s ratings are in the toilet. As a holonews professional I can tell you why; it’s obvious to anyone in the business. Nobody watches RHN because there isn’t any reason to. RHN does not report news. It’s a propaganda machine, pure and simple. You know that because you designed it that way, but the public also knows it.”

  Croswell shrugged. “Ratings are not my concern. The people who own the network can worry about ratings; my job is to enforce Confederate policy. And Confederate policy does not want the public stirred up unnecessarily. This story in particular—” He indicated the video player. “—is a perfect example. Like I said, we don’t want to convey the message that a man who commits rape can be executed by another citizen.”

  “Then find out who killed him and punish him. That will also be news, and it will convey the message that you won’t tolerate murder.”

  “But we do tolerate murder. We don’t care if the Vegans kill each other. As long as they’re fighting each other they’re not resisting the occupation.”

  Erika blinked. That was more candor than she had expected from an SE man. He noticed her expression.

  “Surely I’m not telling you anything you hadn’t already guessed,” he said.

  “No, but I didn’t think you would admit it.”

  Croswell smiled, his eyes devouring her body. “Is there anything else?”

  She shook her head. “No.” She turned and looked at Brandon. “Do you agree with Captain Croswell…Major?”

  Brandon Marlow stirred and uncrossed his arms.

  “The captain makes a good point,” he said. “But it occurs to me that an awful lot of Vegan men are out there committing rape. And they have a carte blanche from the SE to do it. If this turns out not to be an isolated incident, it might be beneficial for them to know they’re in danger.”

  Croswell lifted his eyebrows and nodded.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. He sat in thought for another moment.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “We’ll hold the story for now. If there’s another killing, or maybe two more killings, then you can run it. Only then the story will be a serial killer preying on Vegan men who have lost their wives to the slave industry. It won’t say a word about rape but it will warn the public they have a killer on the loose. That will serve the public interest and it should help the ratings.” He grinned at Erika. “Satisfied?”

  She wasn’t, but it was half a victory, and it defeated Steinbach…sort of.

  “Yes. Thank you, Captain. I knew you would take a fair approach to this matter.”

  She stood up to leave.

  “Stick around a minute, will you?” Croswell glanced at Steinbach. “You’re dismissed,” he said.

  Steinbach left without hesitation. As the door closed behind him, Brandon Marlow leaned against it again.

  “I’ve seen some of your old newscasts,” Croswell told Erika, “from before the war. Quite frankly, I was impressed. Which is one major reason you have your job back.”

  Erika nodded, her face pinking slightly. “Thank you.”

  “Now I have to ask you—are you under anyone’s authority?”

  “She has a full exemption,” Brandon said.

  “Yes, sir, I know that. But I’m asking about personal relationships.”

  Erika felt her throat constrict as she gazed at him. She had lived among Sirians for five years and fully understood the phrase under authority—when a Sirian placed a woman under his authority she belonged to him, body and soul. He could do anything with her that he pleased. In this case, since she had an exemption, Croswell seemed to be trying to recruit her as a mistress.

  She felt the blood drain out of her face.

  “Actually, I’m…” She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m, uh, under Major Marlow’s authority.”

  Croswell smiled, but was obviously disappointed.

  “I see.” He glanced at his superior officer. “Congratulations, Major. She looks like a winner.”

  Brandon Marlow grinned and winked. “You have no idea.”

  * * *

  Brandon Marlow turned up at her apartment that night. They didn’t have a date, but Erika wasn’t completel
y surprised to see him. He grinned boyishly when she answered the door, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. As he came through the door he leaned forward and kissed her on the lips.

  “Goddess!” She was slightly startled. “What was that for?”

  He handed her the flowers and set the bottle on a table.

  “Just because you’re so fucking gorgeous.” He lifted his nose and sniffed. “What’s that I smell cooking?”

  “Nothing. I already ate.”

  He grinned. “Then it’s a good thing I did too. Otherwise you’d have to get in there and make me some strudel or something.”

  “I can open a jar of pickled herring.”

  He laughed. “I’m kidding. Like I said, I had dinner already.”

  She carried the flowers into the kitchen and pulled a vase out of a cupboard.

  “What’s the occasion?” she asked.

  Brandon had followed, and now stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. He kissed the side of her head and buried his lips in the base of her neck.

  “Well,” he said, “now that you’re under my authority…”

  She set the vase on the counter and turned to face him, pushing him back a few inches.

  “I had to say something,” she said. “I was afraid Captain Croswell would find a loophole somewhere.”

  “If anyone was going to try, it would be him. He is a horny bastard.”

  “All you Sirians are horny bastards.”

  “Not true.” Brandon grinned. “My parents were married.”

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her firmly. Erika didn’t resist, but her heart pounded in her chest.

  “What’s this about?” she demanded breathlessly when he released her. “Where is this going?”

  “Well…since you brought up the authority business, I got to thinking—why not? We’ve known each other a while, I like you, and I think you’re okay with me. Right?”

  “Wait-wait-wait-wait a minute—you had nineteen days on the starship and you never made a move. Why now?”

  His eyes turned serious from two inches away.

  “Believe me, I wanted to. But if I had attempted to seduce you then, you’d have interpreted it as a rape. Rape is not what I have in mind with you. I want a relationship, Erika. Consensual. A give-give relationship.”

  “And when did you start wanting all this?”

  “Several weeks ago. I just didn’t think it was a good time to bring it up.”

  He started to kiss her again but she pushed him away. Ironic, she thought to herself, how many Vegan women can push an SE man away and get by with it?

  “Look, Brandon—I appreciate what you did for me today. You’ve been good to me all the way and I owe you a lot—”

  “You don’t owe me anything. Oliver Lincoln does. What I did for you I did for him. You and I started off even, and we’re still even. I don’t want any confusion about that.”

  She nodded, her nerves singing. She gazed into his eyes and saw sincerity. In truth, she was attracted to him. He was a big, boyish, fun-loving man, the kind who could show a girl a good time and probably make a good husband as well. But there was that damned ebony uniform!

  “If you’re looking for sex—”

  “—I have a slave girl,” he finished for her. “Yeah, I know. And I have three more slave girls at home, and I have my pick of any woman on the planet. I’m not looking for sex, Erika. I’m looking for love.”

  Her eyes sprang wide. “Love! Goddess! Are you saying you’re in love with me?”

  He didn’t answer for ten seconds, and he didn’t smile.

  “Is that so unbelievable?” he asked quietly.

  She backed away, her mind racing.

  “What is it?” she demanded. “I have a full exemption and I’m unattainable? Is that it? You want what you can’t take by force?”

  She thought that might make him angry, but it didn’t. He merely shook his head.

  “No. That’s not it.”

  “Then what? I can understand if you want a roll in the hay. I might even agree to it, but when you start talking about love, that sounds permanent, or at least long-term.”

  “It is.”

  “And what kind of future could we have together? You, the SE man, the slaver, and me, the Vegan woman, the slavee? Everywhere we went, every time we were seen in public, people would assume that you owned me!”

  “It wouldn’t be like that, Erika. You’d be Mistress Brandon Marlow.”

  Her mouth fell open in shock.

  “You want to marry me? Is this a proposal?”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He gripped her carefully by the arms.

  “I hadn’t planned on that yet,” he said, “but since you brought it up…yes. I love you. I want to marry you. I want to take you home and show you off as the woman I love.”

  She stared at him as if he were mad. For a moment she felt she was mad.

  “Do SE men even get married? After all the women they’ve brutalized, can an SE man treat a woman with tenderness? Is it even possible?”

  “Look, I know we have cultural differences—”

  “Cultural differences! Are you kidding? You invade my planet, carry a million women into slavery, and expect me to dismiss that as a cultural difference? Brandon, I’m sorry, but you’re out of your fucking mind!”

  He stared at her for a poignant moment, obviously hurt, and then took a step back. Erika wondered if he would strike her, or at least fly into a rage and throw something, but he didn’t. He picked up his hat, his eyes lingering on her.

  “I guess the answer is no,” he said quietly. “Okay, then. I’ll let myself out. Call if you need anything.”

  Erika stood frozen as he left the apartment, her blood racing. She didn’t move for five minutes, half expecting him to come back. Finally she walked to the door and manually locked it, then walked into her bedroom and stretched out, fully clothed. She felt confused, conflicted. Everything she had told him was true—a Sirian SE man and a Vegan woman getting married was unthinkable; worse, it was unnatural, like a marriage between a dog and a cat. It would never work, for more reasons than she could count. It had been irrational and irresponsible of him to think otherwise, and she had been right to turn him away.

  The problem was—and she had never even admitted this to herself until this moment…

  …she loved him too.

  Chapter 17

  Wednesday, 26 February, 0200 (PCC) – Reina, Vega 3

  Reina was a large city, not only in population, but in physical size. It was nearly twenty-five miles from one city limit to the other, and anyone without a vehicle was severely restricted in how far they could travel. Even with a vehicle, military checkpoints now made rapid transit difficult; the fastest way to get from one point to another was the underground tube, which bypassed most of the checkpoints and delivered passengers to major stations in each district. When Erik Norgaard got off work on Wednesday, he walked quickly to Queen River Station and boarded the tube, though he had to pass through a checkpoint before boarding.

  Fortunately the guards were tired and only checked his papers; they ran no weapons scan.

  Ten minutes later Erik stepped off the tube at Downtown Station—it was barely five-thirty in the evening, though it was already dark. Walking quickly, he covered three blocks to the office building he wanted and turned inside. The lobby was warm and brightly lit; people in fine dresses and business suits were leaving, carrying their homework in briefcases. Erik found a lift and took it to the ninth floor, hoping against hope that Pierre Minore hadn’t left the building yet. He suspected that most attorneys worked late, and was counting on that.

  Stepping out of the lift, he followed a corridor until he was faced with a glassed-in lobby; the sign on the door stated:

  Pierre Minore

  Counselor at Law

  Through the glass door he saw a woman still seated at the reception desk. She was looking down and
didn’t see him; he backed away and walked to the other end of the corridor, where he lingered for a few minutes. He detected no other movement on the floor; the other offices were dark. He waited fifteen minutes.

  The glass door at the end of the corridor opened and the woman came out. Erik backed into a recessed doorway so she wouldn’t see him and peered around the edge. She fumbled with her purse and keys, but didn’t lock the door, nor had she turned out the lights. Erik felt a wave of relief—someone was still inside. He pressed back against the wall of his hiding place until the woman walked past; a moment later he saw her get on the lift and disappear.

  She hadn’t seen him.

  His heart pounded slightly, but he wasn’t afraid—this wasn’t nearly as scary as combat. He stepped out of the recessed doorway and walked quickly toward the glass door. When he reached it he leaned his shoulder into it—no point leaving fingerprints—and shoved gently. The door swung open.

  The outer office smelled like flowers and fruit candy—he spotted both on the receptionist’s desk. He glanced briefly around for surveillance pods, but didn’t see any. In the New Vega they were an unnecessary expense, since crimes against Vegans weren’t investigated anyway. Erik stepped to his right and peered down a short hallway that led to the rear of the office space. The hallway was dark, but light spilled from an open office door at the far end. Erik moved quietly across the deep carpet and approached the lighted door.

  The man he was looking for was seated at his desk, facing him. Court briefs were scattered across the desktop, his hand was wrapped around a small bottle of clear liquor. Lightning, or maybe vodka. The man was concentrating on his reading and didn’t notice Erik until Erik stepped inside.

  “Mr. Minore?”

  The lawyer looked up with a start, eyes flared and mouth open.

  “Who’re you?”

  “Erik Norgaard, sir. Sorry I’m late.”

  Pierre Minore frowned his puzzlement. “Late for what? Do I know you?”

  “I called earlier, sir, for an appointment. I was supposed to be here at five, but the tube got delayed.”

  Minore frowned at him for a moment. He was a tall man, slender and athletic, perhaps fifty. He had a pale, sunless look about him, as if he never went outdoors. His athleticism was probably accomplished inside a gym somewhere.