by John Bowers
"So he holstered his weapon and climbed up onto the roof where he'd seen the suspect. At that moment, as the officer was trying to reacquire the suspect, he paid a great personal price for his courage. The suspect fired again, and the police officer was hit. His left leg was blown off at the knee."
Cedarquist held up the award and smiled for the first time.
"For placing the public safety above his own, the Police Officer of the Year is… Patrolman Jeremy Mason!"
Thunderous applause. Jeremy Mason winked at the sultry raven-haired beauty sitting across from him and pushed himself to his feet — more correctly, his foot. Supported by a crutch, he hobbled slowly toward the dais and stood next to Sgt. Cedarquist. He took the award and the two men shook hands. The audience came to its feet, people cheered and whistled and hooted. Jeremy basked in the thunder for as long as it lasted, then hopped up to the microphone as they quieted. He graced them with his broad, handsome smile.
"Thank you," he said humbly. "I just want to say that I have no regrets. If it was necessary, I'd do it again tomorrow."
He nodded, smiled again, and turned to leave the stage. Once more they came to their feet, even louder than before. Jeremy got back to his table and sat down heavily. As the thunder began to wane, he met the brunette's eyes again. She was smiling as she continued to clap her hands, but now he saw tears in her eyes.
Ah, humility! Worked every time.
Chapter 12
Reina, Vega 3
As dawn crept slowly over the capital of Vega, Oliver Lincoln III stood outside his hotel and watched Sirian fighters streak to and fro above the city. The sounds of bombing had ceased, but that was little consolation. Fires were visible in every direction, the morning breeze was acrid with smoke. The streets appeared deserted except for occasional Constabulary vehicles that cruised overhead with flashing lights, broadcasting a warning to those on the ground to remain under cover. Oliver stood in the open, paralyzed with indecision. Somehow, he had to get off this planet. Failing that, he had to get a message back to his dad.
He had to do something.
And time was running out.
He spotted a line of hover taxis in the parking lot and hurried toward them. Most were deserted, but he did find one pilot sitting in his vehicle.
"Can you get me to the Federation embassy? It's an emergency!"
The elderly Vegan laughed out loud.
"Emergency, is it? You must be a genius, young man! I would not have guessed."
Oliver flushed angrily. "Never mind the sarcasm, okay? I need to get to the Fed embassy. Right now."
But the pilot was shaking his head.
"I've been grounded," he explained. "The Constabulary has ordered all air taxis out of service. The Sirians are shooting them down."
"Look, I'll give you fare plus a hundred crowns! Or you can name your price!"
"And where will I spend it, eh? In prison? Or in hell?"
Oliver slammed his palm against the side of the taxi.
"God dammit!"
"Look, friend, if it's that important to you, you can walk there. It isn't that far."
"How far?"
"Maybe a mile or a little more."
Oliver got detailed directions from the man and set out on foot, ignoring the Constabulary cars that he encountered. He was more cautious of fighters that still shrieked overhead every few minutes, but none seemed to be shooting at ground targets. As he half walked, half ran toward his destination, he wondered idly when the Space Guard would put in an appearance. Or if they would.
Twice he had to detour around broken, blazing buildings. Just as Vega appeared on the horizon, he reached the embassy. It was a tall, dignified building faced with white marble and surrounded by a forcefence. But as he approached it his heart sank. Two Star Marines stood in the gate, holding off a crowd of at least a hundred. Twice as many had already crowded into the courtyard, and more were arriving.
It was a fucking zoo. Most of these people looked like tourists; they had their families with them, and were all very close to panic. Like Oliver, they had one thing on their minds — how the hell did they get off the planet?
Oliver tried to elbow his way forward to at least speak to the Star Marines, but his efforts quickly drew the wrath of those around him.
"Hey, back off, buddy! We were here first!" a pot-bellied man snarled. "Who the hell do you think you are?" He looked about forty. Disheveled, bloodshot, unshaven — Oliver saw something close to hysteria in his eyes.
"Sorry."
"Just wait your turn, pal. We got little kids here!"
"I said I was sorry."
The man turned to face him, eyes narrowed. "What is your problem!" he demanded. "Think you're better than the rest of us? Huh? Big shot?"
Oliver's fear and uncertainty quickly distilled into rage.
"Back off!" he said. "I said I was sorry."
The man gave him a shove, and without a conscious thought Oliver swung a roundhouse that knocked him sideways. The wife screamed, the two children clung to her legs in terror. Oliver took a step back, shocked at what he'd done; the man regained his balance, wiped blood from his lip, and lunged.
Oliver hit him again, and he went down to his knees. Oliver stepped back again as the crowd parted around them.
The other man struggled to his feet again, mouthing curses, but before he could do more, one of the Star Marines burst out of the crowd and seized Oliver by the arm. He thrust a baton into the other man's chest to hold him off.
"Sir!" he ordered, "get back in line!"
"That son of a bitch attacked me!" the man snarled. "I'll kick his —"
"You'll do nothing!" the Star Marine snapped. He turned to Oliver. "You come with me."
He shoved Oliver completely out of the crowd and pushed him against a guardhouse wall.
"Sir, we have enough trouble here without you starting a riot. Ordinarily I would arrest you for assault, but today I have other problems. So I'm going to ask you real nice —"
"Hey, hold on!" Oliver protested. "I was just defending myself. He was the one who —"
"I don't give a fuck!" the Star Marine snapped. "What's your name?"
Oliver seethed with rage, but forced himself to take a deep breath.
"Oliver Lincoln III," he said. "Denver, Colorado. I was supposed to go home today. I came here because I don't know where else to go."
"Starpass."
Oliver handed it over. The Star Marine examined it briefly, then returned it.
"All right. Why don't you wait right here. The ambassador is going to address this crowd in a few minutes. But stay away from our friend over there. Okay?"
Oliver rubbed his knuckles and nodded.
"Sorry," he said. "I'll wait right here."
The Star Marine returned to help his colleague with the growing mob that crowded the gate. Oliver sat down beside the guardhouse and waited.
It was over an hour before a man emerged from the embassy and stood looking with some bewilderment at the crowd. He had the look of a diplomat about him, but was coatless, his wrinkled white shirt open at the collar, no tie. Immediately a barrage of questions and demands assailed him. He held up his hands for silence.
"My name is Horst Obermeit," he said with a heavy German accent. "I am the assistant to the ambassador. I will tell you what I know, and perhaps I can answer some of your questions."
A SolarFighter screamed overhead at five hundred feet, causing some to duck, and Obermeit waited until the roar had died away. He spoke for about three minutes, and the news wasn't encouraging.
"We have been in communication with the Vegan Monarchy," he said. "They tell us that the bombing was conducted by the Sirian Confederacy. Vega is now at war with Sirius …"
A gasp of fear rippled through the crowd, and someone began to weep.
"All interstellar transportation is halted," Obermeit continued. "No starships are leaving the planet at this time. Many communications satellites have been disabled or destroyed,
and we are unable to communicate with the Federation.
"However, Sirius is not at war with the Federation, so you are all neutrals. If the Sirians land troops, you should have nothing to fear from them. It is important that you remain in your hotels or other accommodations until we can contact you. None of the targets the Sirians bombed this morning were hotels."
"Can't we stay here?" a woman asked fearfully.
"We have very limited space at the embassy. But we will make a list of your names and where you are staying. We will try to remain in contact with all of you, and arrange transportation off the planet as soon as possible."
A dozen voices began shouting questions at once, and Horst Obermeit patiently tried to answer them. The crowd grew even more desperate as none of the answers were what they wanted to hear. Oliver stood up slowly, looked at the growing mob, and mentally shook his head.
"Fuck this!" he muttered.
He turned and walked back out to the street. He had no idea where to go or what to do next, but he wasn't going to give in to helpless hysteria. He had to do something!
Oliver returned to his hotel. He tried another subspace call, but it was hopeless — no calls were leaving the planet. Likewise, a call to the spaceport confirmed that no shuttles were leaving, either. His bags were packed to go home, but clearly he wasn't going anywhere.
After some mental debate, he carried his presentation portfolio and the contract signed by General Montenegro down to the hotel office, where he paid to have them kept in the vault. If he should run into some Sirians, he didn't want them knowing his true mission to Vega.
That done, he shoved a change of clothing into his carry-on space bag and set out walking again.
As the morning waned, he noticed the change in atmosphere. Normally a vital, bustling city, today Reina was subdued, under a cloud of fear. The only vehicles in the air were Constabulary, and very few surface cars were on the streets. The few people he encountered spoke almost in whispers, as if the Sirians might hear them. The rumor mill was already at work: the Sirians were landing troops on the Southern Plain, the Sirians had captured Sophiastad, the Sirians were in the suburbs …
No one really knew anything, except that an occasional fighter still patrolled the skies over the city.
He found a sidewalk café and took time for a light meal, his first food of the day. His initial fear had subsided to the point that he wasn't consciously aware of it. Now he merely felt cold, as if his blood had congealed; a feeling of dread, of not knowing what his future held.
He set out walking again, no clear destination in mind. A half-hour later he found himself approaching Vegan Guard headquarters, but from two blocks away he could tell the building had been hit. He frowned and picked up his pace. Emergency vehicles were parked nearby and rescue workers crawled over the rubble. Oliver felt his heart chill at the sight of more than twenty still forms stretched out side by side, covered by plastic sheets.
He stopped, unwilling to go any closer. He looked around, and saw a surface van half a block away. On its roof rested a satellite antenna; two young women stood nearby. One of them looked vaguely familiar …
As he came within earshot, he recognized the one who was talking. The other stood facing her, a holocam resting on her shoulder.
"… little else is known at this time. Stay tuned to Royal Holo News for the latest news as it happens. Erika Sebring, outside Vegan Guard Headquarters."
Erika Sebring! The girl with the silver eyes. Oliver stared at the van, then back at the women. He felt a surge of hope.
"Excuse me," he said. "Erika Sebring?"
The blonde turned to look at him, her face incredibly weary. The silver eyes looked like diamonds in her face.
"Who are you?" she asked bluntly.
"I'm a Federation citizen," he said. "Does your holocast reach outside of Vegan space?"
"It used to," she said. "I don't know if it still does after last night."
"How would you like to do a story about me?"
"Why would I want to do that?" She picked up some equipment and walked toward the van. Oliver followed.
"Human interest," he said. "Several thousand Federation citizens are stranded here by the attack."
She stowed the gear and turned back to look at him.
"Federation citizens, Altairi citizens, Centauri citizens — hell, Sirian citizens! So what? The Vegan people are looking slavery in the face, why should they give a fuck about a few thousand neutrals?"
"Why don't you run the story and find out? Doesn't RHN care about balance? You can't report nothing but disaster every minute, can you?"
The blonde's silver eyes blazed at him.
"Look, Mister …"
"Oliver. My friends call me Ollie." He grinned engagingly.
"Fuck your friends, Oliver. And fuck you, too! You see that building across the street? A lot of the people in there were friends of mine. So don't try any charm on me, because I am immune. Do we understand each other?"
Oliver lost the grin and nodded soberly. "Sorry."
She glared at him another moment, then wilted.
"I'm sorry, too. This is all just … well, it's too much. I don't know if you can understand, not being a Vegan, but …"
"I do understand. I know all about the Sirians. And I know what you're afraid of. But I have problems, too, and if you could just beam two minutes of interview toward Federation space, maybe my family would find out that I'm alive. That's all I want."
She turned to packing equipment again. "I have to get authorization for that. Anyway, I don't know if our subspace repeater is still functioning. The Sirians have killed most of the satellites."
Oliver grabbed the last piece of equipment and handed it to her.
"Who do we see about authorization?" he asked.
"My producer. And he isn't in a good mood today."
"Do you mind if I talk to him?"
"I don't mind, but he might."
"I'll take the chance. Mind if I hitch a ride with you?"
She sighed and wiped strands of hair out of her face.
"Why did I know you were going to ask that?"
Chapter 13
Reina, Vega 3
Royal Holo News headquarters was frantic. Oliver marveled that anything at all was being accomplished in view of all the shouted orders, scrambling people, and general uproar. He followed Erika Sebring and the cam girl, who'd been introduced as Jacquje Norgaard, into a basement office. The news director was a plump man of about forty-five who looked as if he hadn't slept in a week. Rumpled and harassed, he was shouting into a desktop vidphone.
"Sophia scorn! I don't want rumors, all right? Find out what's happening! Have the bastards landed or not? Get me some video! Find somebody who knows!"
He slammed the console to break the connection and turned his beefy face on the two newsgirls.
"What're you doing back here? I sent you to cover the Guard building bombing."
"No one there will talk to us," Erika reported. "They made us wait across the street. They're afraid the Sirians are listening in. I'm not going to stand around on the sidelines, Viktor."
Viktor grimaced. "Just as well. I've got another assignment for you. Have you had anything to eat?" He pointed to a table in the corner piled with sandwiches.
The girls quickly turned to. Viktor the news director turned red eyes on Oliver.
"Who the hell is this?"
"Oliver Lincoln III." Oliver stuck out his hand. Viktor ignored it.
"Am I supposed to recognize you?"
"He's a Fed man," Erika Sebring said around a mouthful of bread and cheese. "He wants us to do a story about him."
"Why? Are you somebody special?"
Oliver understood the man's frustration, but felt irritation rising.
"I need to get a message to Terra," he explained. "To let my family know I'm alive. I was hoping …"
"I can't do a personal holocast for every foreign national that wants one. Even if I could, our subspace re
peater is offline, and I don't know if it's even still there. Sirians could have destroyed it. Normal radio waves will take about twenty years to get to Terra."
"Twenty-six," Oliver said absently. "Well, is there another repeater you can use? Or maybe …"
"Forget it. I have too many other issues to deal with."
Oliver felt a touch of desperation. "If you get your repeater back," he said, "it doesn't even have to be an interview. Just send out a short message that Oliver Lincoln III, of Denver, Colorado, is alive and well. That's all I'm asking. It's very important. I'll pay for your trouble. Just name the amount."
"Mister Lincoln, right now money doesn't mean a hell of lot to me. I'm sorry you got caught in this mess, but there's nothing I can do for you."
Oliver started to protest, but Viktor was already talking to the girls.
"I need you two in Sophiastad as soon as you can get there. We're getting panicky and conflicting reports about Sirian landings on the Southern Plain. We need to find out what's really happening."
"Sending us into the hypercat's den, Viktor?" Erika Sebring took another bite and spoke around it as she chewed. "I'm not going down there unarmed. I've heard the rumors, too, and if the Sirians are there I want to be able to shoot back."
"You'll be a lot safer without weapons," Viktor replied. "If you shoot at them, they'll kill you. If you're unarmed, they'll have no reason to harm you."
"Goddess Sophia!" Jacquje Norgaard spoke for the first time. "They'll rape us, Viktor! Erika's right. I'm not going unarmed, either."
"What's wrong with the local affiliate down there?" Erika demanded. "They have reporters, don't they?"
The news director's voice softened for the first time. "They don't have you, Erika," he said. "You were voted People's Reporter of the Year four times in a row. The viewing public trusts you. And so do I."
She nodded tiredly. "Okay. But give me a gun."
"I can't authorize you to carry weapons. You know the law."
