The Fighter King

by John Bowers

  Oliver Lincoln II covered his face with one hand. "Dear god!"

  "Sir, that really doesn't mean …"

  "I know. He probably didn't even get on board. But where the hell is he?"

  Henry was silent for ten seconds.

  "I don't know. I'm sorry."

  Wednesday, 12 August, 0195 (PCC) — Washboard Mountains, Vega 3

  The mountains ringing the little valley loomed high and black, jagged silhouettes against the dawning sky.

  Wearing only shorts and a thin, sleeveless shirt, Oliver Lincoln III shivered in the frigid dawn as he stood in formation with seventy other recruits. His body ached with fatigue; he'd slept barely four hours since yesterday's cruelty. His limbs ached to the bone, his feet hurt, his stomach hurt — his entire body felt abused.

  Including his heart. At this particular moment he was absolutely sure he'd made the biggest mistake of his life. What was wrong with hiding in the Federation embassy until after the war? Where was the shame in that? He was a Federation citizen, not a Vegan.

  Drill Sergeant Amundsen prowled the perimeter of the formation like a hungry hypercat, a murderous gleam in his eye as he searched for victims. Oliver swallowed hard and tried to keep his eyes focused straight ahead. Amundsen was more brutal than any Sirian he'd ever met. Right now he'd rather face the SE.

  "Pappas!" Amundsen screamed, his voice cutting through Oliver's nerves like a lasersaw, "what the fuck are you doing!"

  Oliver dared not look. Pappas stood at the far end of the formation, a seventeen year-old straight out of high school. He was a favorite target of Amundsen's abundant rage; Oliver was another.

  "I-I don't know, Drill Sergeant!" Pappas yelled at the top of his lungs.

  "What the goddess do you mean you don't know? Are you blind as well as stupid? You're shivering, Mister! Did I give you permission to shiver? Did I give you permission to shiver?"

  "No, Drill Sergeant! I'm sorry, Drill Sergeant!"

  "You're sorry. You're sorry? I don't give a fat flying fuck if you're sorry! I did not give you permission to shiver, Pappas! Why are you shivering?"

  "I'm c-cold, Drill Sergeant!" Oliver could hear the kid's voice crack as he delivered the expected reply, which would be wrong no matter what he said.

  "You're cold. You're cold? You think you're cold, is that it, Pappas?"

  "Yes, Drill Sergeant!"

  "Well, I think you're a liar, Pappas!" Amundsen was nose to nose with the recruit, his cold blue eyes far more chilling than the August dawn. "I don't think you're cold at all, Pappas. Do you know what I think?"

  "No, Drill Sergeant! What — what do you think, Drill Sergeant?"

  "I think you're scared, Pappas! What do you think of that? Are you scared, Pappas?"

  "N‑no, Drill Sergeant! I'm not scared, Drill Sergeant!"

  "Then why are you stammering, Pappas!"

  "I‑I don't know, Drill Sergeant!"

  "Because you're scared! That's why! Tell me again, Pappas — are you scared?"

  The kid gulped in helpless terror, blinking back tears.

  "Answer me, you worthless fuck!"

  "Y‑yes, Drill Sergeant! I'm scared, Drill Sergeant!"

  Amundsen took a step back, his face lined with cruelty.

  "I DID NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO BE SCARED, PAPPAS! On the ground, you goddess-scorn! Give me a hundred! And if you're still scared when you get done, give me another hundred! Hit the deck, Mister!"

  Oliver closed his eyes in sympathy, but opened them quickly, for Amundsen was on the move. He could hear Pappas grunting with exertion as he did the pushups, but no one moved. No one dared breathe. It had been like this for fourteen days, these early morning formations. Longer, more punishing days and nights than Oliver had ever imagined in his life. Calisthenics, exercise, verbal abuse. Humiliating, degrading, heart‑ sickening. Whoever had told him the Vegans were a gentle people?

  "What about you, Lincoln! Are you scared, too?"

  Amundsen was behind him, a foot to his right. Oliver flinched as the command voice cracked across him like an electro-whip.

  "No, Drill Sergeant!" he bellowed. "I'm not afraid of you, Drill Sergeant!"

  Amundsen was in his face one second later, his jaw muscles clenched and trembling.

  "Did I ask if you were afraid of me, Lincoln? No, I did not ask if you were afraid of me! I merely asked if you were scared! Why did you say you are not afraid of me, Lincoln? Are you trying to tell me something?"

  Oliver gulped. A careless phrase, not thinking how it sounded. Amundsen used everything, no matter how innocent, against them.

  "No, Drill Sergeant! I meant nothing by …"

  "Shut up!" Amundsen screamed. "Shut the fuck up! I will not have you talk down to me! You are the most repulsive puddle of puke in this collection of puke puddles! Who the fuck do you think you are, talking down to me? Sophia scorn you, Lincoln! Give me two hundred pushups! Right now, you fat Fed fuck!"

  Oliver hit the ground as quickly as he could and began straining against the agony that flamed up and down his arms. His muscles were already wasted from previous days, and doing even one pushup was torture. He closed his eyes and tried to divorce his mind from his body, but it was impossible. He tried to think of Victoria, but at the moment couldn't even remember what she looked like. Jacquje, Erika …. He couldn't feature them, either.

  He pumped against the cold ground, his body trembling with exertion, arms and shoulders screaming with pain. His stomach churned, and he tried to count. He didn't know how many he'd done, so he started over. It was impossible to think — his entire body seemed a mass of pain. Goddamn that Amundsen!

  He'd reached forty on his second count, listening to Amundsen berate another unfortunate recruit, when a combat boot landed in the center of his back, shoving the air out of him as he slammed to the ground.

  "What the fuck do you call that, Lincoln? You call that a pushup? What the fuck are you, a pussy? On your feet!"

  Trembling, Oliver struggled to his feet, tried to come to attention. Heaving for air, he couldn't hold the position correctly.

  "You're pathetic, Lincoln!" Amundsen hissed in his face. "The Sirians are gonna kill you, Lincoln! They're gonna cut off your balls, you fat Fed fuck! They're gonna fry your balls over a campfire and serve them salted and crispy with Sirian beer! And you know what, Lincoln? It's no loss. The Vegan Guard won't even miss you. Do you know why the Vegan Guard won't miss you? Because you have no balls, that's why! You don't deserve to live, Lincoln! You're worthless! You should have stayed home! You should have stayed back in the Federation where it's safe! Fed men have no balls! None of them! Especially you!"

  Oliver's teeth ground together. Weak though he was, in spite of his trembling and lack of oxygen, he shuddered with unreasoning rage. Hatred boiled up in him like bile, and he felt a sudden compulsion to rip the Vegan's eyes out.

  "Two steps forward, Lincoln!"

  His eyes smarting with tears, Oliver took the two steps. Shaking now with fury, he did his best to remain at attention. Amundsen stood at his side.

  "Get the fuck out of the Guard, Fed man!" Amundsen said in a quieter voice. "You've got no place here. You can't take it. And we don't need you."

  Oliver said nothing, but continued to shake, breathing deeply for the oxygen to fuel his adrenaline. Amundsen stared at him for a long moment, then slowly circled him, stopping directly in front.

  "Did you hear me, Lincoln?" he screamed.

  "I heard you, Drill Sergeant!" Oliver bellowed.

  "Then answer me! I said get the fuck out of the Guard! We don't want you here!"

  "I heard you, Drill Sergeant!"

  "If you heard me, then why are you still here? You can leave at any time! We don't want fat Fed fucks in the Vegan Guard!"

  It took every ounce of restraint Oliver could muster to keep himself from attacking his tormentor. The urge was overpowering, but it would only make matters worse — never mind that Amundsen was in top physical condition and would likely beat
him to death.

  "I can't hear you!" Amundsen's eyes bored into his skull like blue lasers.

  "I'm not going to quit, Drill Sergeant!" Oliver shouted.

  "Why not, Lincoln? Why do you want to put yourself through this?"

  "I want to fight the Sirians, Drill Sergeant!"

  "No, you don't want to fight the Sirians. They'll eat your balls, you fat Fed fuck!"

  "I want to fight the Sirians, Drill Sergeant!" Oliver repeated at the top of his lungs.

  "That's not good enough! You have to give me a better reason than that! If you don't give me a good reason, I'm going personally kick you out of the Guard! We don't need fat Fed fucks in the Vegan Guard! Why don't you quit?"

  It was too much, had been going on too long. Oliver's control short-circuited and he dropped his gaze to meet Amundsen's eyes. Shaking harder than ever — from cold, humiliation, or fear — he took his life in his hands and shouted directly into the drill sergeant's face.

  "You can't win this goddamned war without me!" he screamed.

  Amundsen's eyes widened in amazement, and he bared his teeth in a vicious grimace.

  "Oh, you think so? Is that what you think? You fat Fed fuck!"

  Oliver's fists clenched; for a bare instant he started to reach for the other man's throat, but somehow regained his motor control. Strangely, his fear suddenly evaporated.

  "That's right, Drill Sergeant!" he whispered hoarsely, hate dripping from every syllable. "That's what I think. And I'll tell you something else, you Vegan pussy son of a bitch! I'm going to kick your goddamned ass so hard you'll have to take off your shirt to shit! Maybe not today, but before this is over, I'm gonna rip off your dick and shove it down your throat!"

  He blinked, suddenly horrified at his own words. But Amundsen just smiled, an animal joy in his eyes that frightened Oliver more than all the obscenities and threats combined.

  "You think so?" he asked in a voice so low Oliver could barely hear it. "I look forward to it, Fed man. Get back in line."

  Chapter 23

  Thursday, 10 September, 0195 (PCC) — London, Europe, Terra

  Henry Wells knocked once on the senator's door and entered. Howard Nieters sat peering down at papers on his desk, his tousled grey hair bunched over his forehead. Almost eighty, he still wore old-fashioned eyeglasses for reading; they sat perched halfway down his nose.

  "You called for me, Senator?" Henry said, standing almost at attention.

  Nieters looked up, his crinkled face relaxing into a smile. He sat back in his chair and removed the glasses.

  "Sit down, Mr. Wells," he said, massaging the bridge of his nose. "I didn't mean to ignore you. Just catching up on some financial reports."

  Henry took a chair directly opposite, feeling slightly ill at ease. Nieters had never said a cross word to him, but he still felt a little awed by the man.

  "How long have you been here, Mr. Wells?" Nieters asked.

  "Two years and four months, sir."

  Nieters smiled indulgently. "I've been here fifty-one years and change. I was just about your age when I first took this job."

  Henry nodded, wondering where this was going.

  "Do you know how I got this job? Originally?"

  "No, sir." Henry did, but Nieters loved to tell war stories.

  "I was an aide, just like you. My mentor — his name was Senator Falcinella — he died suddenly. It turned out he'd named me as his successor. I finished his term of office and then ran for my own. The rest, as they say, is history."

  "Yes, sir." It sounded implausible, but the Federation Constitution provided for just such a scenario; rather than conduct special elections, which could be costly and time-consuming, every senator was obliged to name a successor in case he or she might not be able to fulfill a term of office. The successor had to be a staff member and would be accorded full membership in the Senate until the end of the term.

  "Mr. Wells, I have forty-four months left in my current term."

  Henry nodded.

  "It's been a wonderful career, and I've had a lot of fun. I hope I've also done some good, and not too much harm. But I see things on the horizon that I don't like, things that will require the judgment of a Solomon and the stamina of an Atlas. Things that will require men and women of youth and vigor." He closed his eyes and sighed. "Mr. Wells, I never was much of a Solomon, and I surely don't have the stamina of an Atlas."

  Henry shifted in his chair. Nieters opened his eyes and peered directly at him.

  "I'm retiring, Mr. Wells. Effective immediately."

  Henry was stunned. "Sir? Do you think that's wise?"

  "Of course I do, or I wouldn't do it. I'm an old man, Mr. Wells. I'm tired. This thing with Sirius and Vega is going to get ugly, and it isn't going to end with Vega. The Sirians have an agenda, and they won't stop there."

  Henry nodded slowly. He'd concluded much the same thing.

  "I'm naming you as my successor," Nieters said bluntly.

  Henry almost fell out of his chair. His mouth sprang open.

  "Belay the objections, Mr. Wells. I've already considered them. You're younger than some of the others, you don't have the experience of some of the others, et cetera. I know. But you understand Vega, and you understand Sirius. Right now that's the most important thing of all."

  "Senator — we belong to different parties! I'm a Solar Conservative."

  Nieters smiled almost sadly. "Yes, and more's the pity. You would have made such a fine addition to the Human Liberty." He cleared his throat and lost the smile. "Survival isn't a partisan issue, Mr. Wells. When the Federation is threatened with invasion, your party affiliation or social philosophy no longer has much meaning.

  "For most of my career, I've battled against the military budget. Hell, why spend billions of terros on the military when there really aren't any enemies out there? We've had some wars inside the Federation, but they were more like family squabbles; regional military forces were adequate for the job.

  "But now — this thing with Vega won't end when Vega surrenders. The Sirians will move against another system, and another, and eventually they'll come after us. I see that as clearly as I see you sitting in that chair. Do you agree?"

  "Yes, sir. This isn't their first act of aggression, and it won't be their last."

  "Exactly. But if they came after us tomorrow, who do you think would win?"

  "Are you kidding, sir? It wouldn't even be a fight. They could defeat us in less than a week."

  Nieters nodded soberly.

  "It's time, Mr. Wells, to start spending those billions on defense. We have a little time — ten years, maybe. Not much more. But the first hurdle is to get the appropriations. I'm afraid I'd look pretty foolish playing the role of a hawk, don't you think?"

  "No, sir! Not at all. If anything, your past position would make the effort more dramatic by contrast. Howard Nieters wanting to spend money on defense? It would get everyone's attention.”

  "Mr. Wells, I told you — I don't have the energy for this fight. But you do. You have the courage and the conviction and the youth and the energy."

  "I'm only one man, sir. A junior senator isn't going to attract much more than ridicule."

  "You'll find plenty of support on the conservative side of the aisle. And, Mr. Wells, you might find that, when you need it most, there'll be an occasional liberal turncoat who will vote on your side as well."

  Henry shook his head slowly. "I don't see that at all, sir. What makes you think—"

  Howard Nieters leaned forward slightly.

  "Mr. Wells, I said I'm going to retire. But I don't plan to die for quite some time yet." He smiled conspiratorially. "And I still know how to twist a political arm or two. When you need a crucial vote, you'll get it."

  Henry blinked.

  "Will you accept the job, Mr. Wells? Or do I need to leak something embarrassing to the press?"

  Henry laughed. "If you can find anything, be my guest. In the meantime, well — I'm honored."

&n
bsp; Nieters clapped his bony hands together.

  "Good! Let's seal the agreement with a drink."

  Washboard Mountains, Vega 3

  "Okay, you fat Fed fuck, let's see what you can do!"

  Drill Sergeant Amundsen thrust a slug rifle into Oliver's hands and pointed to the starcrete firing position at his feet. Oliver glared at him and dropped to one knee, hefting the rifle to his shoulder and testing its weight. The firing range was located in a streambed, overhung by trees and foliage, which effectively screened it from orbital surveillance. About twenty firing posts sat side by side, and four other instructors worked with the recruits as they learned to use a variety of weapons.

  "Have you ever fired a rifle before, Fed man?"

  "No, Drill Sergeant," Oliver lied.

  "City boy, huh?"

  "Yes, Drill Sergeant."

  "Well, I hope to hell you were paying attention. Take a shot, let's see how you do."

  Oliver wrapped the sling around his wrist and pulled the stock up tight against his shoulder. The rifle had no magnification, but it hardly mattered. The target was fifty yards away, a holograph of a man from the waist up. Amundsen watched distastefully as Oliver sighted along the barrel and squeezed off the first round. The rifle bucked and roared, and the holograph flashed red where the heart would have been, remaining for five seconds before returning to normal for the next shot. Amundsen's eyes narrowed.

  "Do that again," he said.

  "Yes, Drill Sergeant."

  Oliver checked the load meter — he still had nine rounds. He quickly aimed and squeezed off another shot. This time the red splotch appeared in the center of the head. The drill sergeant glared at him suspiciously.

  "Again!" he ordered.

  Oliver put another round through the head.

  "Okay. Finish the magazine. Wait for the red to clear after each shot. Keep it up until the rifle is empty."

  Oliver nodded, snapped the rifle to his shoulder, and fired. The head blazed red again, then faded. He fired again, with the same result. Then he fired five rounds into the heart. That finished the magazine. Oliver stood abruptly, cleared the weapon, and held it upright for inspection.

  Amundsen stood silently before him, his eyes hard and cold. Oliver waited, the picture of innocence.