by John Bowers
Maybe he just hadn’t recognized her.
At the moment, Hans looked flushed. “You called for me, Major?”
Valyn had no trouble overhearing because no one was trying to hide their conversation. Maj. Marlow always spoke in a loud voice and now it had ratcheted up by several decibels.
“I wanted to be the first to tell you, Lieutenant,” she heard Marlow say; “your idea was right on target. The OCO reprogrammed the towers last night and we have the pocket phone number that set off the mines.”
Valyn’s blood turned to ice. Goddess Sophia!
Her lungs seemed suddenly frozen, unable to breathe.
Hans’s face lit up. “That’s great, Major! Do we know who owns it?”
Maj. Marlow nodded and handed him a slip of paper.
“We have a name and address. It’s Birgitt Norgaard…your mother.”
Hans’s exuberance crashed immediately. He stared at the paper in disbelief, then looked up into Marlow’s cold, grey eyes.
“But—that’s impossible! Mom would never—I-I mean, for goddess sake, where would she get a plasma mine?”
“We’re going to ask her. I have a platoon of infantry on the way to her house right now.”
Valyn bolted for the ladies’ room, clutching her purse. There was still time…
* * *
Erik Norgaard had been on the job exactly ten minutes when his pocket phone rang. He felt tired, his eyes gritty from lack of sleep, but he was still alert. Last night would have stung the bastards hard, because all of Reina had lit up like a nuclear bomb. The SE would triple their efforts to find him and this morning he’d made what might be a fateful decision—he’d stuffed the bayonet and the remaining nineteen mines inside his coat, just in case. If the SE tracked him back home, he didn’t want Karl or Birgitt to be implicated; and leaving the weapons under his bed would surely put a noose around their necks.
Carrying them was equally dangerous in case he was stopped, but he had chosen to risk his life and they hadn’t. He had to protect them at all costs.
The ringing phone surprised him—only Valyn knew he had it and she had only called him once, to meet her at University Café. If she was calling him at work, it must be important. He pushed his stool back from the conveyer belt and held up a hand to stop the line, then answered the call.
It was worse than he thought.
* * *
“They’re on to you, Erik!” Valyn gasped into her phone. “You’ve got to get out of there!”
“What are you talking about? What’s happened?”
“They picked up your phone number last night. They know it was your phone that set off those bombs; right now they’re looking for your mother, but they’ll be coming after you next! You don’t have much time!”
“Valyn, relax, will you? Calm down! How did they get my number?”
“It doesn’t matter, Erik! You’ve got to go, right now! Run! Get out of the city, before they close the rail tubes!”
He was silent for five or six seconds, then, “Okay, okay. Just sit tight. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He must have people around him, she thought. He has to cover himself.
He rang off, and Valyn closed her phone, dropping it back into her purse. Fear surged through her, fear greater than any she had ever known. She stared at herself in the mirror, red-eyed and pasty white. This would never do—she looked guilty as hell. She quickly bent over the sink and began washing her face.
A toilet flushed.
Valyn jerked erect, her heart freezing once again. She stared in helpless horror as a stall door swung open and Jule Zymbal stepped out, staring at her with wide, haunted eyes.
“Valyn!” the older woman gasped. “What have you done!”
Tears flowed down Valyn’s cheeks as she backed against the tile counter, her body rigid as stone. Jule came quietly forward, her own expression stricken.
“Please!” Valyn wept. “Jule, they’ll kill me!”
Jule put a motherly hand on her shoulder, tears leaking from her own eyes. “I know,” she said. “Goddess help me, I know!”
Valyn stared at her, shaking her head slowly, her breasts rising and falling rapidly. “Please!”
“Honey, I don’t have a choice! You’ve put us all at risk! Every girl in the office is on the line because of this. If I try to cover it up, we all go on slave ships!”
“Oh, goddess!” Valyn sobbed. “Oh, Sophia! Help me!”
* * *
Col. Paul Royer had come out of his office and joined the conversation. His steely eyes bored into Hans Norgaard as he was brought up to date on the situation.
“Your mother?” he demanded.
Hans flushed and gulped. Brandon Marlow almost felt sorry for him.
“Colonel, I assure you—”
But Royer was on a roll. “You’re wearing a uniform that looks almost exactly like mine, and your mother is blowing up Confederate troops?” He leaned into the younger man’s face. “Did you or did you not take an oath to defend the Confederacy? Answer me!”
Hans shook his head jerkily.
“No, sir, it was to defend Vega—”
“Vega is now part of the Confederacy!” Royer bellowed. “They are now one and the same! Did you know anything about this?”
“No, sir! Colonel, I swear!”
“If I ever find evidence to the contrary, Lieutenant, I will shoot you myself. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!” Hans looked pale, drained.
A movement from the edge of the room caught Brandon’s eye, and he turned to look. Jule had come out of the ladies’ room; ahead of her, sobbing brokenly, was the new girl, Valyn Kristensen. Every woman in the office was watching them, and Brandon instantly realized something was up. The look on Jule’s face confirmed it.
Royer spun around, his eyes opaque with rage.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
Jule stopped six feet away, the sobbing girl two feet in front of her. Jule cleared her throat, and spoke with difficulty.
“Colonel Royer,” she said quietly, “the terrorist’s name is Erik Norgaard. He works at the NordTek Corporation. I caught Miss Kristensen in the ladies’ room, warning him to run.”
For six seconds the room was silent as death. Not a soul breathed.
Hans Norgaard stood with his mouth open, horror in his eyes.
Brandon Marlow felt the blood pulsing through his temples, and waited for the explosion. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Kristensen?” Royer breathed, as if the name itself were a curse. “Kristensen!”
He took a step toward her, then another. The terrified blonde sobbed uncontrollably, her eyes narrowed, watching him approach as if he were a carnivorous predator, turning her head from side to side. “You warned him?”
“Valyn,” Jule clarified, her face frozen in stone, “has been feeding him information from this office. She just admitted it to me.”
Royer stopped his advance, now one foot from Valyn’s face. He glared down at her with absolute hatred in his eyes.
“Thirteen hundred Confederate soldiers are DEAD!” he roared. “And you fucking WARNED HIM!?!”
As the decibels washed over her, Valyn’s sobs subsided slightly, and she clamped her bottom lip in her teeth. She lifted her chin and gazed at the ceiling, as if peering into a portal of Heaven, where she would be going any minute. Tears still streamed down her face, but her breathing had steadied, as if she were bracing herself for what came next. She had clearly recognized—and apparently accepted—her fate.
Royer stood there another thirty seconds, letting his rage metabolize. Suddenly he reached for the neckline of her dress with both hands, took a firm grip, and ripped it right down to her waist. Due to the SE dress code for women, Valyn was not wearing a bra, and her plump pink breasts were suddenly visible to everyone in the room. Royer walked around behind her and ripped the back of her dress as well, leaving her totally nude from the waist up.
“Major Marl
ow!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Draw your sidearm!”
Brandon blinked in surprise, but drew his pistol, a slug automatic. Royer stepped away from the girl.
“Major Marlow!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Execute the traitor!”
Brandon’s eyes widened and his heart suddenly raced. Adrenaline surged into his blood and his arteries expanded. He found himself trembling. The girl stood before him, half naked and defenseless.
Resign from the SE and I’ll go home with you tomorrow.
Valyn Kristensen lowered her chin and pulled her gaze off the ceiling. She had stopped sobbing, and now looked into Brandon’s eyes with an aura of calm, yet with more hopelessness than he had ever seen. Brandon stared at her, and hesitated.
“Major Marlow! I said shoot the goddamn traitor!”
The girl stared at him without blinking, her blue eyes wide with fear and acceptance. For the first time Brandon realized how beautiful she truly was. Not that it mattered…
“Colonel, allow me to point out that she is the Regent’s daughter. There could be a political backlash—”
“The goddamn Regent works for us, Major! Now carry out your order!”
“Colonel—she has an exemption, sir!”
“An exemption from street rape, an exemption from enslavement—but she is not exempt from execution for treason!”
Brandon stood there another few seconds, his pistol hanging at his side. Royer took a step in his direction, his face turning purple.
“Major Marlow, I gave you a direct goddamn order! Execute the traitor or find yourself under arrest!”
I don’t beat women, I don’t whip them, and I don’t shoot them in the head…
Brandon swallowed hard and raised his pistol. He pointed it at the girl’s forehead and took careful aim; for ten seconds he stood there, gazing into her streaming eyes—she maintained eye contact the whole time, lips parted, breasts heaving. Abruptly he raised the pistol toward the ceiling—with his thumb he triggered the eject button and the clip slid out of the handle onto the floor. With his left hand he pulled the slide to eject the chambered cartridge, then threw the pistol on the floor at Royer’s feet.
Furious and almost foaming, Royer was in his face one second later.
“You are an officer in the Sirian Elite Guards! What is your fucking malfunction!”
Brandon snapped to attention.
“With respect, Colonel, I have never in my career executed an unarmed prisoner. In good conscience, I cannot do so now.”
Royer’s mouth dropped open an inch in disbelief, but he took a step back.
“Captain Croswell!”
“Sir!”
“Place Major Marlow under arrest!”
Looking stricken, Croswell quickly complied, pulling Brandon’s arms behind him and snapping on E-cuffs. Brandon offered no resistance; instead he looked at Valyn Kristensen again. She was gazing at him calmly, and for just an instant he thought he saw gratitude in her eyes. Then her head exploded as Hans Norgaard drew his own sidearm and shot her dead.
Screams reverberated inside the SE office as the women exploded into a cacophony of panic. Jule Zymbal spun around in horror, both hands over her mouth, then dropped to her knees. Others shrieked, one fainted, and all voiced their shock in one way or another, utterly incapable of suppressing it. It took several minutes for the noise to subside. Only Norma Teasdale remained silent, taking it all in stride.
Royer turned to a somewhat shaken Hans Norgaard, who fumbled as he holstered his pistol, his face pale as he stared at the dead blonde on the floor.
“Well, Lieutenant, I’m glad to see someone in this office has the presence of mind to do his duty!” Royer was actually calm now, his voice steady and reasonable. “I assume you know this Erik Norgaard?”
Hans swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir. He’s my brother.”
“Your brother!”
“Yes, sir. And it all makes sense now. He was Regular Guard before the war. He fought the Confederacy and spent three years in prison camp after the surrender. I’m sure he thinks he’s doing something patriotic.”
“Do you know where to find him?”
Hans swallowed again, slowly regaining control.
“I know where he works, sir, but if she warned him, he’s probably on the run. I can probably find him easier than anyone else can.”
Royer took another step forward, now nose to nose.
“You find him,” he said quietly. “You fucking find him! And bring him to me. Do you hear me? You bring him to me! Alive…or dead.”
Hans nodded unsteadily. “Yes, sir.”
“If you fail, Lieutenant…every woman in this city named Norgaard, related to you or not, will be boarding a slave ship by the end of the week. And that includes all your female blood relatives who are not named Norgaard. Sisters, cousins, aunts, grandmothers, nieces—all of them.”
“I won’t fail, Colonel.”
Hans saluted, then spun on his heel, and left the office, Norma Teasdale in his wake.
Royer turned to Brandon Marlow and eyed him stonily, as if he had suddenly been stricken with a flesh-eating disease. Brandon stared right back, as dispassionately as he was able.
“Tell me, Major, which do you prefer—a court-martial, or immediate resignation?”
Brandon frowned slightly. “Colonel, I’ve been in the SE for ten years. I served in the war. I have a spotless record and commendations to go with it.”
“That might cut you some slack in the Army,” Royer told him, “but it won’t help you here. You disobeyed a direct order to execute a traitor to the Sirian Confederacy. Thirteen hundred men are dead because of that Vegan bitch and you did nothing about it. Normally I wouldn’t even give you a choice, but as you said, you do have a pristine record; for that reason and that reason alone, I’m willing to let you go home as a civilian and not spend twenty years in the stockade.
“Think it over, Major. You have until tomorrow morning to decide.”
Royer looked at Croswell.
“Take him to Nord Gate barracks and lock him up. And hope that fucking terrorist doesn’t blow it up before he makes up his mind.”
Chapter 30
Thursday, 3 April 0200 (PCC) – Reina, Vega 3
Erik Norgaard closed the phone and slipped it into his pocket. His nerves hummed throughout his body, exactly as he remembered from combat, the moment before the enemy came into view. He’d felt the same electricity dozens of times, in battle after battle, and he felt it now. It was a type of fear, a galvanizing emotion that demanded a clear head and sure reflexes. At this moment he needed both if he stood any chance of survival, and his body trembled slightly as adrenaline coursed through him.
He looked up and saw the other assembly line workers watching him. He had stopped the line to take the call, and now they waited on him. He pushed his stool back and stood up, reaching for his coat.
“I’m sorry, Lars, but I have to go. Family emergency.”
He headed for the door.
“Hope everything will be all right!” Lars called, but Erik didn’t hear.
He used the side door, the employee entrance, and stepped into the parking lot, scanning in all directions. No sign of anyone yet, but that meant nothing—Valyn had made it sound as if he might have a little time, minutes maybe—he dared not linger. The street was only a few yards to his right, but he turned left instead, toward the river. The pedestrian path was less traveled, less likely to be patrolled. He put his head down and walked quickly.
It had started to snow again. The flakes were coming down fast, thick and fat, swirling slightly in a light wind. The freezing air stung his cheeks, his breath fogged and drifted behind him as he walked. He hit the river path and turned right, maintaining his pace. The river’s smell filled his nostrils, that same pungent odor that he remembered the day he came home. It seemed ominous now, almost threatening.
As he walked, he attempted to appear unconcerned,
but he sneaked glances to right and left, and kept a sharp eye ahead for patrols. The snow was falling like a blanket now, limiting visibility to fifty yards. He saw one or two other pedestrians at a distance, just dim shapes in the white gloom. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he had to get away from NordTek. He didn’t dare go home, because Valyn had said they were looking for him there. Valyn’s apartment was out because it would put her in even more danger than she already faced; Sallje might take him in, but he didn’t even know where she lived, and he would be risking her life unfairly. So…he just kept walking.
* * *
“Goddess Sophia!” Erika Sebring stared at the dead blonde on the floor with horror in her silver eyes. “Who did this?”
“I ordered her execution,” Col. Royer told her matter-of-factly. “She was a traitor to the Confederacy and the new Vega. I want you to report this on the air right now! Break in on regular programming and put it out. I want that terrorist son of a bitch to know his girlfriend is dead, and we’re coming after him next.”
Erika stared at Royer’s cold, lifeless eyes, barely able to hide her contempt.
“What makes you think he won’t come after you?” she said, too shocked to be diplomatic.
Royer smiled coldly. “I invite him to do exactly that.”
* * *
Erik spotted the River Pub emerging out of the snow. The building was quiet for a change—it was only nine in the morning and the pub didn’t open until eleven. As he strode closer, a jumble of thoughts raced through his mind. The Sirians were after him, and they knew who he was. By now they would have his image, and even if they didn’t, his own brother was one of them, so they knew what he looked like.
The jig was up—the Sword of Sophia had had one hell of a run, although a short one. He knew full well he couldn’t win this battle, had known that when he started. Valyn had warned him, but he’d gone ahead anyway, acknowledging the consequences in advance and accepting them. Very likely this would be the last day of his life, his final round with the invader. They would get him, that was as sure as the snow, but he wouldn’t go out quietly.
