The Sword of Sophia

by John Bowers

  “Keep it quiet, lady!” her captor said. “This won’t take long.”

  “Bring her over this way!” a second voice said. “Get her out of sight.”

  Inga tried to scream but her cries were stifled. Her heels dragged across the rough starcrete, one shoe coming completely off; she tried to regain her footing, but she was off balance, pulled along like a piece of luggage. They peeled off her coat and dumped her in a darkened recess of the structure wall, maybe six feet wide, out of view of the main parking area. She lay on her back, struggling to get a purchase with her elbows; one of them was ripping her skimpy dress, the other was pulling down his pants. They loomed over her in the gloom, just faceless shadows, but she could tell they were young. Goddess, they were so young!

  “What are you doing!” she cried. “Goddess, you’re just boys! Vegan boys!”

  She tried to sit up, but the one nearest her pushed her back down with a firm hand. He leaned close and spoke in a low but firm voice.

  “You need to keep quiet!” he repeated. “I don’t want to hurt you, but you have to cooperate. Just be still, now.”

  He resumed ripping her dress, and she could feel everything spilling out. Breasts, thighs, groin—everything was exposed in the cold air. She dropped her head back to the starcrete and wailed, a cry of abject despair. The second assailant was pulling her thighs apart, and now leaned over her, placing both hands flat on the starcrete beside her. The first held her arms pinned at her sides.

  “Hold your breath, lady,” the second one said with a grin. “Daddy’s home!”

  Inga rolled her head to the side, terrified beyond belief. She had never been assaulted, not once since the Sirians came, and had thought she was too old to interest them. But now it was happening, and her attackers were Vegan boys! Neither looked older than seventeen. With a final intake of air, she made her final appeal.

  “Sophia! Save me!”

  Suddenly, as if by a miracle, a third shadow appeared above her—above and behind the two boys.

  “Is that any way to treat a Vegan lady?” an older, more mature voice demanded.

  The boys spun around, startled.

  “Who the fuck’re you!” one of them demanded.

  “I’m just a bystander,” the third man said. “And I asked you a question.”

  “Fuck you! We’re on a mission, so just go about your business.”

  “A mission, huh?” The third man dropped to a crouch, evenly balanced in case he needed to move quickly. “Is this what they teach you at VYC? How to rape elderly women? Is this what you have to do to save your own mothers from becoming slaves?”

  Both boys stared at him a moment, as if he had read their minds. Neither answered for the space of three heartbeats.

  “Question too hard for you? Okay, here’s another one—do your mothers know what you’re doing right now?”

  The one holding Inga’s arms released her and twisted to face his antagonist.

  “Fuck you!” he shouted, his face twisting with rage. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about! You don’t know anything!”

  “Oh, I think I do,” Erik Norgaard said. “I didn’t spend two goddess-scorn years of my life fighting the Sirians just to come home to this! Vegan boys? Raping Vegan grandmothers? That isn’t what I fought for.”

  The boys glanced at each other. The one looming over Inga still had his pants down.

  “Well, guess what, asshole!” the first one said. “You lost the scorn war! So I guess it doesn’t matter what you thought you were fighting for!”

  “Oh, I get it. It’s all about the New Vega, right? Opportunity for the open-minded? Help build a new society? Lead Vega into a shining new future?”

  “Listen, pal, just get the fuck out of here, okay? If you fuck with us you’re fucking with the SE, and I don’t think you want to do that. We have a mission to accomplish, and we’re going to finish it, whether you like it or not.”

  Erik stood up and took a step forward, gazing down at the two punks. The poor old lady was still spread like a chicken on a chopping block, and this had gone far enough.

  “So that’s your answer, is it?” he said. “Nothing I say will persuade you not to do this.”

  “That’s right. Now beat it, unless you want to get some leftovers.”

  Erik reached into his coat pocket.

  “You have a mission. Well guess what—I have a mission too.”

  He pulled his hand clear of the pocket. In his fist was a Confederate bayonet.

  “You had your chance,” he said, and kicked the mouthy one right in the face. The kid crashed over backwards, and the other one, suddenly panicked, tried to get up, but his pants were still around his ankles and he didn’t quite make it. Erik’s bayonet speared his throat from left to right, through and through; Erik gave it a twist and jerked it free. The kid collapsed backward with a gurgle; the woman screamed in horror as hot, steaming blood fountained across her, soaking her in gore.

  The mouthy kid, whom Erik had kicked, struggled to his knees, groggy but aware, his eyes like saucers. He tried to back away as Erik took another step toward him, but his back was against the wall and he had nowhere to go.

  “Oh, man!” he gasped. “Oh, man, no! Please! No-no-no-no!”

  “Didn’t they teach you any martial arts in that place?” Erik asked conversationally. “No self defense techniques?”

  He kicked the kid in the stomach, then took a step back while the kid retched.

  “Think you’re a big man, huh? Trained by Sirians, no less. Real tough. Big, bad, V-Y-C.”

  He kicked him again, in the face. The nose exploded and the kid screamed, but it came out like a gargle.

  “Big man, dick and balls. Learning to rape, the way real men do.” Erik knelt in front of him, two feet away, and lifted his head by the hair. “But to accomplish your mission, you have to stick it in an old lady. Is that the kind of Bright Shining Future you’re going to build for Vega?” He rammed the kid’s head backward into the starcrete wall. “What was that, asshole? I didn’t quite get your answer!”

  “P-p…lease!”

  “Oh, you said ‘please’. Is that ‘Please don’t hurt me’, or ‘Please let me finish raping the old lady’?” Erik studied him a moment, then sighed loudly. “I guess it really doesn’t matter. I gave you the option to walk away, but you made your choice. VYC forever, right? Well, guess what punk—today you graduate. I hope it was worth it.”

  He could barely see the glitter in the kid’s eyes, the head back, the nose streaming blood, the broken lip trembling. He shoved the bayonet straight through the heart, struck the spine, and shoved it again, until the hilt buried up against the sternum. The kid’s mouth worked pitifully, trying to breathe, but nothing moved through it. Erik twisted hard, almost spraining his wrist, and pulled the blade out. Another gush of hot blood surged into the air, splashing loudly, and the kid’s body began to jerk and twitch like a marionette in a breeze.

  Erik stood up and took a step back, wiping the blood off his face. He hadn’t planned this one very well—he was soaked. And so was Inga Nordstrom.

  He wiped the blade on the kid’s pants and put the bayonet away. Then he knelt over the sobbing woman and helped her sit up.

  “Bless you!” she wept. “Goddess bless you! They would have k-killed me!”

  Erik helped her to her feet and steadied her. What remained of her dress was in tatters, but her coat still lay where the boys had dropped it. Erik quickly wrapped it around her and pulled her against him for stability.

  “I don’t think they meant to kill you,” he said, “but they definitely weren’t being polite.”

  She clung weakly to him as he helped her to her car. Her bags were still sitting there, the engine was still running. Erik seated her on the passenger side, loaded her bags, and got behind the yoke.

  “Give me your address,” he said. “I’ll get you home.”

  He backed out of the parking space, suddenly aware that five or six people h
ad gathered and watched in silent disbelief. He quickly accelerated around the corner and down the ramp, leaving the crowd behind.

  “Did you see that?” one man said as he stared at the retreating vehicle. “Did you see what that guy did?”

  “Someone should call the constables!” a woman declared.

  “Don’t you dare!” the man yelled, turning on her in his excitement. “You just witnessed a miracle from the Goddess!”

  “Wh-what?” His wife looked at him with open mouth. “He just murdered those two boys!”

  “No, he didn’t. He saved that woman from rape! Those boys were the criminals, not him.”

  The little crowd was still stunned. Another man spoke up, still shaking from what he’d witnessed.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “Who was he?”

  “That was him!” the first man said, his voice rising in admiration. “That was the Sword of Sophia!”

  * * *

  Let the Vega-born beware—Sophia will not be mocked. Sophia’s Creed is more than just words. Vegan boys who defile the woman will not be held blameless. The Sword cuts both ways.

  —The Sword of Sophia

  Wednesday, 2 April 0200 (PCC) – Reina, Vega 3

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” Brandon Marlow rubbed his face with both hands, the air rushing out of his lungs in a heavy sigh. “Who the hell is this guy?”

  “And why is he sending these v-mails to you?” Edgar Steinbach added, staring at Erika. “VHN hasn’t had a single communication that we know of.”

  Erika returned his gaze confidently.

  “Because I’m the most popular holonews correspondent on the planet,” she said. “The Sword knows that.” She glanced at Kelly Nobel, but the anchor girl refused to meet her eyes.

  They were gathered in Steinbach’s office—Kelly Nobel, Steinbach, Erika, Brandon, Hans Norgaard, and Norma Teasdale. Brandon had asked the latter pair to join him when Erika called to say another v-mail had arrived.

  “Can I run the story?” Erika asked Brandon pointedly. “It’s the second communiqué in two days. I can say he took credit for the killings, but the public will want more details than that.”

  “Fuck the public,” Edgar said.

  “What’s the downside to running it?” Brandon asked.

  “Colonel Royer will be unhappy,” Edgar said. “When Colonel Royer is unhappy, I’m unhappy.”

  “Royer is already unhappy,” Brandon replied. “I talked him down on last night’s thing, but what’s really got him going is this whole fucking Sword nightmare. He wants an end to it, and yesterday.”

  “If you don’t run it,” Hans suggested, “the killer might get frustrated and start making mistakes. But if you do run it, he might get overconfident and make even more mistakes.”

  Brandon frowned at the young Vegan.

  “What’s your take on this? These last two victims were your people. VYC recruits.”

  Hans nodded soberly. “Yes, sir. It puts a different spin on it from my point of view. In his first v-mail he talked about the ‘invader’, but then he kills two Vegans. Apparently he isn’t partisan about his victims—anyone he sees violating Vegan women is a target, no matter who they are.”

  “Which puts you and me on the same side.” Brandon watched the kid’s eyes, to see how he would take that, but Hans didn’t flinch.

  “As far as I’m concerned, Major, we already were on the same side. I’m concerned with the same thing you are—the future of Vega.”

  Erika Sebring rolled her silver eyes, but Hans didn’t notice. Norma Teasdale did, and smirked.

  “Okay, hotshot,” Brandon said to Hans. “Give me your thoughts.”

  Hans massaged his upper lip with his tongue, eyes narrowed in thought.

  “He used a bayonet this time,” he said. “That makes me think he’s ex Vegan Guard…”

  “He’s used it before in several murders. Forensics confirmed it was Confederate issue—”

  “Assuming we’re dealing with the same man,” Erika said.

  “Do you seriously think we’re not?” Brandon asked.

  “I don’t know. He didn’t take credit for those earlier killings.”

  “Maybe he was just getting started. Word is the priestesses have labeled this guy as the Sword, so maybe he just picked it up and ran with it.”

  “Could the killer be a Sirian?” Hans ventured.

  Brandon shook his head. “I won’t rule it out, but why would a Sirian carry on about Sophia and the Creed?”

  “Maybe he fell in love with a Vegan woman. Changed his perspective.”

  Brandon shrugged. “Okay, write it down. But don’t make it your first priority. What else?”

  “How did he happen upon a rape in progress? Is he that lucky? Or did someone tip him off?”

  “Tip him off how?”

  Hans shrugged. “I dunno, but when I was in VYC, rape wasn’t part of the curriculum. That’s brand new, so how did he find out about it so quick?”

  “Maybe someone in the VYC program told him,” Erika suggested. “I don’t care how motivated these kids are, or how gung-ho they are about the New Vega, some of them are going to balk when they find out they are actually required to rape women in order to advance.” She glanced at Hans. “It wasn’t required when you were there, but what would you have done if it had been?”

  Hans turned beet red, for no reason Brandon could imagine. He smiled weakly and shrugged.

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  The kid hasn’t done it! Brandon realized. He’s a rape-cherry.

  “What else?”

  “The plasma mines,” Hans said, clearly glad to get away from the subject of VYC rape. “How does he set them off? Planting them isn’t that hard, because all you have to do is throw one if you can get close enough to your target. But are they on a timer or is he using some kind of radio signal?”

  Brandon nodded and filed that one away. The kid might be a hotshot, but he had good questions. His eyes narrowed.

  “Anything else?”

  “Witnesses…”

  “Half a dozen. Constables interviewed them, got six different descriptions. He was tall, he was short. He was forty-five, he was fifteen. He had a beard, he didn’t have a beard—”

  “Sounds like they’re covering for him.”

  “One man adamantly insisted he was sent by Sophia to punish those kids. Good luck with those people, if you talk to them.”

  “What about the rape victim?”

  “Six different descriptions—she was somewhere between eighteen and forty, she was a blonde and a redhead and a brunette, she was black, Asian, and Mediterranean, she had both long and short hair—you get the idea.”

  “I suppose nobody got her vehicle plate number?”

  “No one. The car was a luxury hovercar and also an antique ground vehicle, it was either white or red or green…one witness insisted she didn’t even have a car, so there was no reason for her even to be in the parking structure.”

  Hans scowled. “Goddess! Security footage?”

  “Mm, no. The boys pulled her into an alcove or something that was out of view of all the cams. You see people coming and going around the time of the assault, but you can’t tell which one was the victim or the perps.”

  “Did the consties interview the rape victim?”

  “Couldn’t find her. With all that bogus information she just fell through the cracks. So did our boy, the Sword.”

  “They must have left at the same time.”

  Brandon nodded. “I’m guessing he drove her home, or at least out of the parking structure. They both must have been soaked in blood, from the look of that crime scene, so if you find a vehicle with massive bloodstains on the upholstery, you probably have the victim’s car. Anything else?”

  Hans shook his head slowly. “Nothing else comes to mind at the moment.”

  “Okay, get cracking. Meet back here tonight at six, tell me what you find.”

  Hans nodded. “Yes, sir. Which
angle do you want me to pursue?”

  “The VE assigned you to the case, so that’s your call. The SE will pursue its own angles—maybe we’ll meet in the middle somewhere.”

  Everyone stirred as if to leave.

  “Can I report the v-mail?” Erika demanded, unwilling to leave without an answer. Brandon stared at her for ten seconds, then nodded briefly.

  “Run it,” he said. “Run everything he sends. I’ll take point with Royer.”

  Chapter 28

  Wednesday, 2 April 0200 (PCC) – Reina, Vega 3

  Hans Norgaard and Norma Teasdale visited the crime scene, which was still roped off by yellow tape that threatened any trespasser with Sirian Elite Guards. In daylight it looked like a slaughterhouse. Hans was no forensics expert, but it was clear the two Vegans had been butchered without mercy. His jaw clenched in anger as he thought of boys he still knew at Camp Martin Vaughn—it could have been any two of them, though he didn’t recognize the names of these particular individuals.

  Hell, but for the solace of Sophia, it could have been him!

  One thing was clear, however—there had indeed been a car, as if there was any doubt. A clear blood trail led from the scene of the slaughter to a parking space less than fifteen yards away; there the blood had pooled as it dripped off the woman and her savior while they paused long enough to get into the vehicle. The man had helped the woman in first, then walked around the back of the car to get into the pilot’s seat. Two clear blood trails made that obvious; but once the vehicle left the parking garage, there was no more blood trail. So clearly, the terrorist had left with the woman. Where they went, or what he did next, was an open question.

  Hans would give his left thumb to talk to that woman, the attempted rape victim. But no one seemed to know who she was.

  Forensics had already taken blood from the scene and were running the DNA databases, but Hans thought it likely they would find matches only with the two dead boys…unless the woman had left hair follicles behind. It was a thin hope, but if she had, they would find her—every woman on the planet had been forced to surrender DNA and other biological samples to the SE.