by John Bowers
"Lemme see some ID."
Oliver reached for his starpass, but the sergeant held up a hand.
"Slow," he advised. "Real slow."
Oliver retrieved the pass and handed it over. The Sirian flipped through it and studied it for several minutes.
"Oliver Lincoln. Why does that name sound familiar?"
Oliver frowned and shook his head. His heart rate was starting to slow. This wasn't going so badly. "I have no idea."
The sergeant peered at him. "Somebody in history. Who the hell was it?"
"Do you mean Abe Lincoln?"
The other man almost smiled. "That's the one! He was a Yankee president, wasn't he?"
"That's right. A couple of centuries before the Federation."
"Durin' the American Civil War. When the Yankees invaded the old Confederacy." The eyes narrowed. "Yew related to ol' Abe, Oliver? Are yew a Yankee?"
"Not as far as I know. I live in Colorado. Anyway, 'Yankee' is a historical term. Nobody uses it any more."
"Is that a fact?" The sergeant gave the starpass back. He stepped around Oliver to gaze at the women. "So what do we have here, Oliver?"
Oliver felt his throat tighten again. "Friends of mine," he said.
"Friends of yours, are they? Mighty fine lookin' pussy, Oliver."
"YEH!" one of the soldiers bellowed, and the rest burst into laughter. Jacquje whimpered and Erika put an arm around her. They both stared with glassy eyes, taut as bowstrings.
"You're a lucky man, Oliver. Two of 'em!"
"Look, these ladies are friends of mine. I insist that you leave them alone!"
The man spun on him, eyes glittering.
"Insist? What makes yew think yew're in any position to insist?"
"Look, as a Federation citizen, I claim protection as a neutral, and these ladies …"
"Are Veggies!" the sergeant finished for him. "Jesus Christ on a surf board! You're a Feddie, out here runnin' around on Sirian-occupied Vega with two sexy whores, and you think your neutral status cuts them any slack?" He shook his head slowly, then glanced at one of his troops. "Search the car."
"Sergeant …"
"Oliver, now don't piss me off. Jist shut the fuck up for a minute, awright? Let me explain somethin' to yew." He cleared his throat as if to make a profound statement. "My men landed day before yesterday, awright? They're all young and full of sap, and they're a long ways from home. Now a good commander takes care of his men, and I sure as hell take care of mine. These boys've been waitin' for their chance to sample some of the local culture, if you get what I mean. And I aim to see they git the opportunity.
"Do we understand each other?"
With a rising sense of panic, Oliver was sure he did. Before he could reply…
"Hey, Sarge! Lookee here!" The soldier who'd searched the car stood there holding Oliver's rifle. The sergeant stared at it for a moment, his face darkening. He snatched it from the other man's hand and popped the magazine. It was fully loaded.
He turned to Oliver once again.
"What the hell is this about, Oliver? Yew goin' huntin'?"
Oliver tried for something glib, but came up empty.
"Yew fuckin' going huntin', Oliver?" He tossed the rifle back to the soldier. "I'm waitin', Oliver! Yew want to explain this to me?"
"It was just for protection," Oliver managed, hating himself for the fear in his voice.
"Protection? Protection? Against what? Against us? Oliver, was yew plannin' to use that rifle against us?"
"Look, I didn't know what we might get into, okay? It was just a precaution." Oliver glanced at the women, who stared back with frozen eyes. "Sergeant, you can keep the rifle. All I'm asking is that you let the ladies go. If you …"
The sergeant gave him a push, then advanced to stand in his face.
"We ain't talkin' about them right now, Oliver! We talkin' about yew! Do yew know what this means? It means I can no longer trust yew to be a neutral. It means yew have declared war on the Confederacy! It means I can shoot your ass if I feel like it's necessary. And maybe that's jist what I oughta do!"
Oliver panted with fear, trying desperately to think. His mind was running in a small circle, and nothing eloquent suggested itself.
"Okay," he said. "I'm sorry about the rifle. If you want to shoot me, you should know that it will piss off certain people in your own government."
"Yeah? Like who?"
"Your Minister of Defense. Harold Baker."
"Yew know Minister Baker?"
"Yes, I do."
"Bullshit."
Oliver produced the starpass again. "Take another look. I work for Lincoln Enterprises. We build the fighters for your space fleet."
The sergeant slapped the starpass out of his hand.
"I don't give a shit, Oliver! Yew done went and pissed me off! I told yew not to do that!"
He turned toward his men and issued a single command.
"Strip 'em!"
Chapter 18
Southern Plain, Reina, Vega 3
It was like a nightmare.
It was worse than a nightmare.
To Oliver it seemed to happen in slow motion, as if the horror were not bad enough, but had to be prolonged as long as possible.
The soldiers nearest the two girls sprang on them like lions on antelope. Erika and Jacquje were ripped apart, spun around, and stripped nude within a matter of seconds. Jacquje screamed in panic. Erika managed to avoid hysteria, but her silver eyes reflected her horror. She and Oliver locked gazes for the last few seconds of her disrobing, then two men twisted her around and forced her face-down over the boot of the convertible.
Jacquje was similarly positioned, facing Erika, her small breasts flattened against the smooth metal. Eyes tightly shut, she shrieked in mindless protest as the line formed behind her.
The next fifteen minutes were the longest of Oliver's life. He stared in frozen disbelief as both girls were raped; as each man finished, he stepped aside for the next. Jacquje seemed to suffer the most, screaming helplessly until she lost her breath, her long nails scratching frantically at the convertible's polished metal. He could hear Erika, too, but less clearly.
Oliver's mind went into a loop, as if his mental processor wanted to shut down. Tears spilled unnoticed from his eyes, his heart felt paralyzed, his lungs barely moved. For how long, he didn't know.
Then the man on Jacquje backed away for a replacement, and she caught her breath.
"Uh— Uh— OLIVER!!! HELP ME!!!"
The words penetrated him like a javelin. For one long second he stood there, mentally shaking himself. Then he knew he had to act.
If he ever wanted to live with himself.
Even if it killed him.
With no plan in mind, he lunged at the nearest Sirian, who happened to be the sergeant, and felled him with a hard right uppercut, then lunged toward the men surrounding the girls. Someone yelled, laser rifles came up, but no one had a clear shot without hitting fellow Sirians. Oliver attacked the man raping Erika, drove a fist into his kidney, and jerked him free of her, spinning him into the dirt. He lunged toward the man bending over Jacquje. A laser rifle chirped, but the shot was high. Oliver continued his suicidal charge, but men were moving now to stop him. Before he reached Jacquje, three soldiers hit him broadside and drove him the ground.
He struggled, mouthing obscenities, and landed at least one more punch, but the fists coming in his direction were too fast and too many.
Then the soldiers pulled back and the sergeant stood over him, blood dripping down his chin, murder in his eyes.
"Yew goddamn pig fucker!" He kicked Oliver in the ribs, driving the air out of him. Again. And again. A hard kick to the groin sent a sheet of flame through Oliver's belly, making him gag. He rolled over and drew his knees up, struggling for breath.
But the sergeant hauled him to his feet and leaned him against the boot of the car. Slapped his head from side to side, peering into his eyes from inches away.
"Look at
me, Oliver. Look into my eyes, you fat Feddie fuck!"
Oliver tried. His vision was blurred, but he concentrated, and managed to focus. The sergeant's breath washed over him. Never in his life had he seen such absolute malice in another human's eyes.
"I told yew not to piss me off, Oliver," the sergeant hissed, his right hand going for his sidearm. "Didn't I tell yew not to piss me off? Huh? But yew did it anyhow, didn't yew?"
Oliver tottered, started to fall, but the sergeant gripped his collar and jerked him upright again.
"Now yew done it, pig fucker! Yew really pissed me off, Oliver! And now I'm gonna have to use this." He held up a laser pistol for Oliver to see.
Oliver looked at it, and for half a second reflected that the Sirians would now be two for two — first Victoria, and now him. But at the moment he was beyond fear.
He looked back into the Sirian's eyes.
"Fuh— Fuh— Fuck you!" he mumbled.
The sergeant's eyes narrowed with hatred. Still holding Oliver by the collar, he thumbed the charge button on the pistol, waited three seconds, and then took aim.
He shot Jacquje through the side of the head.
* * *
Oliver regained consciousness slowly. Disoriented and moaning, he tried to sit up, but his stomach and ribs ached hideously. His genitalia felt as if they'd been flattened by a hover tank, and he hurt all over. He was covered with dirt, his vision was blurred, and for a moment he couldn't remember where he was or how he got there.
It was quiet. He heard birds and insects and a gentle breeze through the trees at the edge of the field. He shook his head to clear it, and gingerly examined himself to determine what might be broken. Memory returned slowly, and he felt his heart clutch as he remembered Jacquje.
He pulled himself painfully to his feet, leaning over the car. Jacquje was there, on the ground, a small hole in her temple, the side of her head stained with blood. She was still nude, her lovely body now sprawled like a bag of garbage.
"Jacquje," he moaned, and managed to kneel beside her, bracing a hand against the ground to combat his vertigo. She lay quite still, her eyes partially closed. He bent closer, felt for her carotid artery, and waited. Hoping. Praying.
A tiny flutter of a pulse, so slight he wasn't sure it was real. He placed his hand between her breasts and held it steady, hardly daring to breathe. Hope surged through him — he could feel a heartbeat!
He staggered to his feet and looked around, trying to decide what to do. The Sirians were gone, and — so was Erika. He searched the area quickly, but she wasn't there. No doubt they'd taken her with them, which meant she was probably still alive, at least for now.
But he felt no relief. Jacquje was also alive, barely, and he had to do something. Find help, and fast.
He tried to start the convertible, but after two frustrating minutes realized it was finished. He looked toward the road, but saw no traffic there, nor had any passed by since he woke up.
Jesus! What the hell did he do?
He scanned the horizon. Nothing but fields, crops, an occasional tree line, and — there! A farmhouse, not more than a half-mile away! Straight across the plowed field from where he stood.
With some effort, he rolled Jacquje onto her back, folded her arms over her stomach, and managed to lift her. She wasn't that heavy, but he wasn't in great athletic shape. Further, his body was bruised and hurting, so when he lifted her he felt all manner of muscles protesting.
But he set out walking, aiming for the farmhouse.
The plowed ground made walking difficult. He stumbled frequently, but with dogged determination kept going. Within minutes his lungs felt squeezed, his arms burned, his back was on fire, but he kept going. Several times he had to stop and reacquire his load; Jacquje was dead weight, difficult to carry.
He kept going.
It was fifteen minutes or a little longer, but seemed like half a day later that he stumbled into the yard surrounding the farmhouse. A pair of dogs barked wildly, circling him, but he ignored them and stumbled the last few painful yards toward the rear door. Before he reached it, the door opened and a woman emerged, alerted by the dogs.
"Goddess!" she exclaimed, and rushed toward him. "What happened?"
"Confederate troops!" Oliver gasped. "They shot her. Please! Can you help us?"
The elderly couple who owned the farm lived alone with their dogs. Their name was Janssen, and being farmers, they were not prone to panic. Mrs. Janssen helped Oliver place Jacquje on a bed, then quickly paged her husband, who was in the equipment shed. As Oliver sank wearily onto a wooden chair to let his trembling arms re-oxygenate, a call was placed for an emergency medical team.
"How far do they have to come?" Oliver asked as he stared at the brunette's still form.
"It's about thirty-five miles," Mr. Janssen told him. "Won't take them long. Where did all this happen?"
Oliver pointed out the window, across the field. "Beside that road over there."
"Goddess! That's my property! I didn't know the heathen bastards were anywhere nearby!"
Mrs. Janssen bent over Oliver with a hot, soapy cloth and began washing blood off his face. She was well over sixty, lined and weathered, but for all that was amazingly beautiful. She had silver eyes.
"Can I ask you something?" Oliver asked as she began putting disinfectant on his cuts.
"Of course."
"You're the second woman I've seen with silver eyes. Is that genetic here?"
She stopped and looked at him. "I wasn't going to say anything, but you aren't Vegan, are you? You have a different accent."
"Terra," he said. "I've only been here a few days."
She resumed her work on his face. "It looks like you picked the wrong time to visit Vega," she said. "The eyes are the result of genetic engineering. My grandmother had them done, and passed them on. My mother had them. So does my daughter, and one of my boys."
They heard the warble of an approaching siren, and moments later an air ambulance settled down in the yard. Mr. Janssen opened the door and two young Vegan men hurried inside. Oliver stood shakily, still not fully recovered, but could only watch as the medics went to work.
It didn't take long.
"She's still breathing," one of them reported a few minutes later, "but she's brain dead. For some reason, her motor functions are still active, but they won't last long. Her heart could stop at any minute."
Oliver felt a lump in his throat, and for a moment could hardly breathe.
"Is there — anything …?"
"No. I'm sorry. The laser went straight through her frontal lobe. Everything is scrambled."
Oliver stared at him without reply. He'd known, of course, but until someone said differently, he had reason to hope.
"My fault," he whispered hoarsely. "My fault." He sat down heavily.
The other medic was still bending over Jacquje, running a subdural sonic scan. He turned around. "Say, Treg? Take a look at this."
The first medic returned to the dying girl. Oliver sat with his head in his hands. The Janssens stood looking miserable. A moment later the medic returned.
"Sir," he said to Oliver, "did you know this girl is pregnant?"
Chapter 19
Wednesday, 15 July, 0195 (PCC) — Denver, CO, North America, Terra
Oliver Lincoln II spun in his chair to face the vidphone.
"Line 2 active," he said, and immediately saw the young man on the other end. "Henry! I appreciate the call. What's up?"
Henry Wells smiled tentatively.
"It isn't much, Mr. Lincoln," he said, "but …"
"Bullshit! News is news. What do you have?"
"Sir, this is not exactly classified, but it isn't public knowledge, either, so …"
"My lips are sealed."
Henry nodded. "The Sirians have apparently captured or destroyed all subspace repeaters on Vega, but the Federation is in subspace contact with an Altairi freighter that is lying about two light days outside Vegan space. They were inbou
nd to Vega when the invasion took place, so they canceled warp and since then have been monitoring normal communication bands throughout the Vegan system."
Lincoln felt his anticipation rise — maybe Henry really had something.
"They relayed a list of Federation citizens who showed up at the embassy in Reina after the invasion."
Lincoln closed his eyes. "Is Ollie on the list?"
"No, sir, he isn't. But his name did appear on the passenger list of a starship, the RVS Princess Gina."
"That's right! Ollie mentioned that ship the last time I talked to him."
"Well, Princess Gina warped ahead of schedule. She was already boarding passengers when the Sirian fleet arrived, but the boarding wasn't complete. The captain made a judgment call and got the hell out of there. Just in time, apparently, because a couple of other liners were destroyed. Anyway, Ollie was booked, but we have no way of knowing whether he actually got on board."
Lincoln blinked at the screen, disappointment in his eyes. "Anything else?"
"No, sir. I'm sorry. Like I said, it isn't much…"
"Well, we know where he isn't, anyway. He isn't at the Fed embassy. But he might be on that starship. It's possible, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir. It's possible."
"Any chance of contacting the starship itself?"
"The State Department did that, but the ship refuses to release any names. From their point of view, it's a security issue. No one outside Vega knows the company security codes, and without them, Gina's captain is assuming that any foreign communication is potentially hostile."
Lincoln nodded. He might have done the same thing.
"Thanks, Henry. I owe you."
"No, sir. You don't owe me anything. I'll keep in touch."
After breaking the connection, Lincoln stared out the window at his factory. Where the hell was Oliver? The war had started a week ago, and there'd been no word from him. Princess Gina wouldn't reach Federation space for another two weeks. Pray god Oliver was on board.
His desk comm buzzed and Rosemary's face appeared.
"Mr. Lincoln, I have a Lars Sorensen here to see you."
Lincoln frowned. Who the hell was Lars Sorensen?
"Does he have an appointment?"
"No, sir, but — he says he's a pilot in the Vegan Guard."
