by John Bowers
"My condolences on your loss, Mr. Lincoln," he said. "Have you made arrangements here, or do you wish to ship the remains back to Terra?"
Oliver grimaced. Remains? What the hell were they talking about here, the leftover clippings from a sewing contest? Why not "remnants", "wreckage", or "droppings"? Was his sister's body just so much garbage in a bag?
With an effort, he suppressed his irritation and answered the question.
"Back to Terra," he said. "She'll be buried at home."
"Very well, sir." The clerk reached for a stack of forms and spun them around for Oliver to see. "I'll need you to complete these documents and return them tomorrow. The fee will be twenty-four thousand sirios, payable in advance. Unless you prefer to arrange shipping yourself, whereupon you will need to provide me with —"
"Excuse me." Brandon nudged Oliver aside. "I think we can shortcut some of that."
He slipped a plastic card to the clerk, who glanced at it, then looked at Brandon with widening eyes. He scanned the card in a reader and handed it back.
"Thank you, Captain." His voice was almost a whisper. He looked at Oliver. "Everything is taken care of, Mr. Lincoln. Simply give me the address to which you'd like the remains shipped. Transit to Terra will require approximately ten days."
Oliver had been about to explode; now he just stared at the man in dismay.
"I don't know the address," he said. "Denver, Colorado, North America. Any funeral home, and have them notify Lincoln Enterprises when the body arrives."
"Very good, sir."
Oliver glanced at Brandon, then back to the clerk. "Is there going to be an autopsy?"
The mole man shook his head. "Apparently the cause of death is quite obvious. In any case, there isn't much left to autopsy."
"What the hell did you just do in there?" Oliver asked when they were back on the street. "That credit card of yours worked like magic."
Brandon shrugged. "I just tried to expedite things."
"I'll reimburse you."
"Not necessary." Brandon hailed a hover cab.
"He called you 'captain'," Oliver said. "What the hell is going on?"
A cab settled to the street beside them. Brandon opened the door but didn't get in. He met Oliver's eyes squarely.
"All expenses will be paid, Ollie. To answer your next question, it wasn't a credit card. It was my ID card. I'm a captain in the Guards."
The numbness Oliver had been feeling all day intensified. He suddenly felt as if the universe was spinning him around with it.
"Why would the Confederate Army pay for Victoria's — transit?"
"I'm sure I'll be questioned about it," Brandon said, "but by then your sister will be home. I'll promise never to do it again and that will be that. You're my friend, Ollie. It's the least I can do."
"But …"
"Just accept it. Okay? As a friend."
They got into the cab.
After a late lunch, Brandon accompanied Oliver back to Victoria's building. The manager took them up the security lift and let them into the suite. Oliver entered with a sense of dread, holding his emotions in check with an effort.
He half expected the place to be trashed by the KK, but everything was neat and orderly. The furnishings mostly belonged to the building, very few personal touches in evidence. Only when they entered Victoria's bedroom did Oliver sense his sister's presence: her clothing in the closet, her cosmetics, a lingering trace of perfume in the air; two holographs — one of his parents, the other of him — three portable journalism computers, a small camera.
Other than that, there were very few personal effects to be recovered. He remembered her as a pack rat, somewhat sloppy and disorganized, but saw none of that here. She'd been on Sirius a year and a half, but her room looked as if she'd just moved in. Yet there was no sign that anything had been tampered with.
In twenty minutes he had everything packed. Brandon watched in silence.
As they stepped out of the apartment, Oliver stopped. He stared at the anti-grav lift thirty feet from Victoria's door. He felt his head throb at the sight of it. For just a moment he hesitated, then walked toward it.
The door was closed, but flashing lights indicated that it was in use. Oliver watched it for a moment, feeling his heart beat wildly.
"What's wrong?" Brandon stood beside him, watching his face.
"This is it," Oliver said. "This is where she died."
Brandon was silent, looking at the lights.
"If a piece of equipment failed at LincEnt," Oliver said, "and somebody was hurt, we'd take it offline for days until we figured out what happened and why."
"What are you getting at?"
"The lift is still running."
Sunday, 31 May, 0195 (PCC) — New Birmingham, Missibama, Sirius 1
"You sure you're going to be okay?" Brandon asked as they walked into the shuttleport terminal. "You look a little pale."
Oliver nodded. "It hasn't really hit me yet. It's all like a bad dream. But I'll handle it."
"If there's anything I can do …"
"You've done a hell of a lot already. You don't know how grateful I am."
They crossed the main concourse toward Brandon's gate. They'd gotten shit-faced the night before, and Oliver's head still pounded.
"You're welcome to come back to my place for a few days."
"Thanks. But I need to get Victoria home. I need to see my family."
They passed a security checkpoint. The Confederate soldier on duty checked Brandon's pass, then handed it back and saluted. Brandon returned the salute as naturally as if he did it every day.
"How did he know you're in the army?" Oliver asked as they rode the slide walk through the tunnel to the gate. "You're not in uniform."
"He saw this." Brandon touched the pin on his lapel.
Oliver had seen it earlier without much interest. Now he took notice of the ebony surface, and the lightning bolt slashing across it.
His headache intensified, and he closed his eyes briefly, forgetting the pin.
"Well, this is it," Brandon said as they reached the gate. Through a broad window they could see the shuttle already loading. "Take care, Ollie. Come back and see me when you get the chance."
Oliver accepted the firm handshake and nodded.
"I will. You know where I live, too, so …"
"I'll find a reason."
Brandon grinned at him, then embraced him briefly. Oliver watched with mixed emotions as his friend turned and walked through the gate to board the shuttle.
The following morning, Oliver went home.
Chapter 7
Wednesday, 10 June, 0195 (PCC) — Denver, CO, North America, Terra
Victoria was buried in the Lincoln family plot, a small private cemetery located a hundred yards behind the family home. It was a pristine area guarded by a jagged mountain peak several hundred feet higher than the surrounding terrain. Songbirds and Mountain Jays chased each other through tall pines surrounding the plot. It was a clear summer morning, sunny but not hot, the sky a gorgeous blue with no trace of cloud.
In addition to family and friends, several dozen LincEnt employees were present, as well as Tony Colombini and two executives from North American HoloNews. The graveside service was short and solemn, presided over by a Christian minister Oliver had never met. He hardly heard what the man was saying as he sat woodenly beside his mother, wondering when his grief would overtake him. Since Victoria's death twelve days earlier he had yet to shed a tear, but felt as if his insides were filled with fractured ice.
Beside him, his mother wept loudly, inconsolable, making everyone uncomfortable. Rosemary Egler sat on his other side, dry-eyed but biting her lip. Tall and brunette, at twenty-three she carried herself with a grace that could only be described as regal. Her hair was the color of roasted coffee beans, and she wore it in a sweeping upward coif that made her look several years older.
Afterward Oliver stood with his dad, receiving guests who generally all said the
same thing; he shook hands and muttered his thanks, hardly noticing who was talking to him.
The last man in line was Henry Wells, Oliver's best friend. Shorter than Oliver, even shorter than Rosemary, Henry was neat and impeccable, his hair blond, his eyes blue. He wore an expensive three-piece suit, dark grey with a pinstripe; his tie bore the seal of the United Solar Federation Congress.
He embraced Oliver without a word, then shook hands grimly, blinking back his tears.
"When did you get in?" Oliver asked.
"Just an hour ago. I barely got here for the service."
"How long can you stay?"
"Have to go back tomorrow."
"We need to talk. Can you stay here tonight?"
Henry nodded. "No problem."
Rosemary suddenly appeared beside them. She'd led Maxine Lincoln back to the house, but now walked up to Oliver and put her arms around his neck. She kissed him on the cheek, then gazed into his eyes a moment, blinking back her own tears.
"Oliver, you're going to be all right," she told him in a quiet, husky voice. "I know exactly what you're going through. If you need to talk, I'll be here for you."
Oliver took a deep breath, inhaling the faint scent of her perfume. He nodded uncomfortably.
"Thanks. I know you will."
* * *
Guests milled about the house all day, dispersing slowly. Oliver didn't get a chance to talk to Henry until late in the afternoon. As the sun disappeared behind the mountains they settled into patio chairs. Oliver poured scotch and for a moment they drank in silence.
"How are things in Congress?" Oliver asked finally.
Henry only stared at him. "Is that what you wanted to talk about?"
"No."
"I didn't think so."
Oliver took a deep breath, rotating his shot glass with his fingers.
"I want to know about Sirius and Vega," he said.
"What about them?"
Oliver met his eyes. "There's going to be a war between them. But you probably already know that."
Henry leaned forward, frowning. "Where did you hear that?"
"You've heard it, too?"
"Where did you hear it?"
"Victoria told me."
Henry sat back with an explosion of released breath. "Good god in heaven, how did she find out?"
"She was working on some story. One of her street sources told her. And the KK killed her for it."
Henry's face went pale. "Do you know what you're saying?"
"I know exactly what I'm saying."
"Can you prove it?"
"Of course not. They made it look like an accident. But in my entire life I've never heard of an anti-grav lift failing."
"Aside from that, what makes you think they killed her?"
"They visited Tony Colombini the night she died, and they beat the living snot out of him. Tony called Vic and she told him she also had a visit. She was on her way down to help Tony when the lift failed."
"When did Vic tell you about the Sirian invasion plans?"
"That same night. We had dinner together just an hour before her death."
"So… If the KK knew that she knew, they also know she told you."
"Probably." Oliver nodded, though he hadn't put that piece together yet.
"Why didn't they kill you?"
Oliver thought about that for a long moment, then shook his head slowly. "I don't know. Until this moment it never occurred to me." He shook his head again. "I just don't know. But right now, Henry, I want to talk about Sirius and Vega."
"You mean the possibility of war?"
"Yes. What do you know about that?"
Henry sat immobile for ten seconds, his expression strained. Finally he shook his head.
"I do have access to certain information," he admitted, "but most of it's classified. I really can't tell you much."
"Then tell me a little. It's obvious that you already knew the Sirians are going to attack Vega. You probably got that from the FIA." The Federation Intelligence Agency had replaced the CIA when the Federation was first formed.
"The FIA does keep us informed on certain matters."
"What's your take on the Sirius-Vega crisis?"
"It's been building for a long time. Sirius has been leaning on the Vegan government to sell them slaves. Obviously the Vegans refuse, and that's really the bottom line. Everything else that's been going on is real enough, but not enough to go to war over."
"I heard it was about Vega executing Sirian criminals."
"That's just window dressing, a banner the Sirians wave for their own people, and to justify their actions to the rest of the interstellar community. The simple fact is that a significant percentage of the Sirian economy depends on the slave trade. Slave sales have been sagging in recent years and they need a new source for imports. Vega has the most exotic women in the galaxy, and Sirius wants some of them. If they can get Vegan women, they can charge exorbitant prices and that will stimulate their economy for years to come. Pure and simple."
Oliver let his breath out in a long sigh. "So it's true. Sirius is going to attack Vega."
"Looks that way."
"And they're going to use Lincoln fighters to do it."
Henry only nodded.
"Do you have any idea when?" Oliver asked. "How long before the invasion is scheduled?"
Henry shrugged. "Hard to say. It could be a few weeks away or as long as a year. Our information isn't that detailed."
"No more than a year?"
"Probably less, but I can't see the Sirians being ready for another six months at least."
Oliver poured Henry another drink, then refreshed his own.
"Tell me about the Vegans," he said. "You lived there for awhile."
"Nine years." Henry's father had been ambassador to Vega when Henry was a boy.
"Can the Vegan military fight off the Sirians?"
"Not a chance. The Vegan Guard was originally formed with the help of Sirian advisors. At first the two worlds were allies, until about ten years ago when Queen Ursula took the throne and canceled the alliance. Since then the Vegans have fallen behind in military hardware and technology. They'll fight, certainly, but they won't win. Especially with the Sirians flying Lincoln fighters — they won't stand a chance."
Oliver's eyes lost their focus for a moment. His family's fighters would be used to start a war of aggression, to subjugate a free society. Perhaps an arms manufacturer shouldn't care about such things, but he'd always assumed that Lincoln fighters were built for defense only.
"What are the Vegans like?" he asked.
"Cultured. Artistic. A gentle people. The original settlers were from Scandinavia, France, Italy, and Greece. They have a sort of national conscience, nothing like you see here. About half are members of the Cult of Sophia."
"What's that?"
"Sophia is their goddess, named after their first queen. She's the mother of life, the lawgiver — typical religious stuff. The cultists are extremely moral and very rigid in sexual matters — prohibitions against adultery, premarital sex, and sexual liberation. The nonreligious are just the opposite — sexually liberated, live and let live.
"With very few exceptions, the entire population venerates their queen. They worship beauty, they obey the law — as a civilization, I've never seen anything like them."
"What will happen to them after the Sirians invade?"
"You mean, aside from the rape and slaughter the Sirians will commit?" Henry shrugged helplessly. "That will all disappear."
Thursday, 11 June, 0195 (PCC) — Denver, CO, North America, Terra
Lincoln Enterprises was located about halfway between the Lincoln home and the city of Denver. Sprawling across forty acres of land, the complex had been built a half-century earlier by Oliver Lincoln III's grandfather. The original product had been an orbital fighter used by the UFF Space Force as a tool of law enforcement, primarily to interdict smugglers and intimidate pirates. Two more models had been sold in limi
ted quantities before the Federation Congress bowed to activist pressure and placed a moratorium on military expenditures.
LincEnt had then expanded its product line to build luxury space yachts and deep-space lifeboats, adding a plant in Arizona and another in Florida. The Fighter Division had languished for over a decade, until the Sirian Confederacy placed an order in 0181. Since then, the Denver facility had done a booming business.
The morning after the funeral, Oliver took a hovercar down to the plant and settled onto a parking lot a dozen yards from the Executive Tower, a slender five-story building that housed the corporate offices. At the top floor he stepped off the lift into a spacious reception area. The décor was pretty standard — small pines with holographic birds flitting among them. The ten-foot waterfall was real enough, but the room was too cramped for anything more elaborate.
Oliver stopped in front of two desks and looked at the women behind them. One was Rosemary Egler, who eyed him with cautious curiosity; the other was Mrs. Waterbury, the executive secretary.
"I'm terribly sorry about Victoria, Oliver," the older woman said, her eyes reflecting her sincerity. "And I'm glad you're home safe."
Oliver nodded solemnly. "Thanks. Is Dad busy?"
"He's always busy. But I think you can go on in."
He nodded and started toward the heavy oaken door to his father's office. Rosemary's voice stopped him.
"Are you okay, Oliver?"
He looked at her a moment, nodded weakly, then shook his head. "No, I don't think so. But I'm dealing with it."
"It takes time. If you need to talk, don't be shy."
He nodded grimly, then knocked once on the door and pulled it open.
Oliver Lincoln II wasn't busy at all. He was staring out the window when his son entered. He didn't move as Oliver approached and stood beside him. Gazing out at the squat factory buildings, solar collectors, water towers, hover cranes, and runways.
"You didn't have to come in today," his dad said without looking around. "Take a few days off, as many as you'd like."
Oliver shook his head. "I can't sit around any more than you can. But I need to talk to you." Since returning home, he hadn't had five minutes alone with his dad.
