The Fighter King

by John Bowers

  He could see their faces clearly. These weren't holo targets or anonymous game animals. These were men, human beings, and had he known them he could have recognized them easily. The SE man had a mole on his chin, the grey-clad officer a tattoo on his neck.

  I could never kill a human being. It just isn’t in me.

  Oliver chambered the first round; the rest would feed automatically.

  "Pick your targets," Wulf said quietly. "Lincoln, take the SE officer. Hoffmann, get the prick next to him."

  Bjorn Hoffmann was also ready, breathing heavily. Oliver planted his crosshairs on the SE officer's face, then lowered them gently until they rested in the center of his chest. He closed his left eye and began taking shallow breaths. His tongue curled upward to touch his top lip.

  "Fire when ready," Wulf said.

  Bjorn's rifle roared at once, almost dislodging Oliver's concentration. But he waited another half second, then squeezed the trigger.

  "A miss!" Wulf called.

  Oliver saw the spark from the ricochet, and for an instant couldn't believe he'd missed. Then his target jerked — shock spread over the man's face, and blood spurted from his chest. He began to sway, and the SE man next to him lunged forward to catch him. Oliver fired again, then swung his rifle slightly left and fired a third time. He swung back in time to see his second target spin wildly around, his head flopping like an axed chicken. Hoffmann fired again, and this time scored a hit.

  Oliver traversed the scene with his scope and saw four SE men on the ground — three of his, one of Bjorn's. The rest had scattered for cover, leaving the army officer standing alone. Spattered with blood, he seemed stunned and indecisive. Before he could decide to run, Oliver fired his fourth round, waited to see the result, and then cleared his rifle. No more targets were in sight.

  He turned away and sat down against the side of the nest, breathing deeply against the indescribable emotions coursing through him. Six feet away, Wulf was calling the score.

  "Sophia scorn, that's five down! Goddess! I guess that showed the fuckers, eh?"

  Oliver closed his eyes and began to tremble; even so, he felt a deep satisfaction.

  Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  "Mr. Lincoln, I don't know what you think we can do at this point." Gerald Brewster, from the State Department, looked both sympathetic and annoyed as he peered out of the vidphone. "We've made repeated inquiries, but the Sirians simply haven't told us anything."

  "Dammit, they've got to be holding some of our citizens. Surely some of them were in the area where the Sirians landed."

  "I agree, but so far we haven't been able to confirm that."

  "Then I suggest you take a harder line. My son is missing and I want to know where the hell he is!"

  Brewster sighed. "The odds are that your son is all right. According to our best information, the Sirians are sitting on the Southern Plain. Not much tourism down there. The heavy population centers are north of those mountains, and that is still unoccupied."

  Lincoln stood up and paced to the window, his face lined with worry. He turned back.

  "Can you at least ask them if they have him? I'm not worried that they'll hurt him — he's a Federation citizen and he's done nothing to provoke them — but at least I'd know where he is. Can you do that?"

  "For the third time, Mr. Lincoln, we already have. We've asked for names of any and all Fed citizens in Sirian hands. They simply have not responded."

  "Goddammit, twist their arm!"

  "And how do you suggest we do that, sir?"

  "Take your pick: threaten a trade embargo, freeze Sirian assets on Terra, start deporting Sirian students — you have options!"

  Brewster's expression hardened. "Do you have any idea how much trade we do with the Confederacy? Any idea what a trade embargo would do to our own economy? We’re already feeling the pinch from losing trade with Vega 3."

  “There must be something you can do!”

  “We’re doing everything we can. If you want to apply pressure to the Sirians yourself, go right ahead. I understand you do business with them; perhaps you should take advantage of your own contacts to see about your son."

  "I thought about that, but I didn't want to interfere with diplomatic efforts."

  "You have my permission, sir. And if I get any news about your son, I'll contact you."

  Brewster blinked off, and Lincoln stood there staring at the screen. After a moment he killed his own line and returned to stare out the window, trembling.

  "Fucking bureaucrats!"

  Sophia Alps, Vega 3

  It took nine minutes. According to Wulf, still watching the village, the five Sirians were still lying in the street. A woman wearing a Red Cross helmet had checked them, then left. No one else was visible.

  Oliver sat with his eyes closed, his trembling starting to fade. Bjorn Hoffmann sat next to him, eyes closed, catching a nap while he had the chance.

  Oliver didn't hear it coming. Suddenly a giant fist slammed him across the nest and something wet slapped his face. The concussion punched the breath out of him and his head swam; he lay dazed, staring at the sky, which had filled with smoke and flying dirt. A second shell exploded fifty feet away and shrapnel sang over his head. Someone was screaming; aching for air, he tried to roll onto his stomach.

  Two more shells landed, then two more; the day suddenly turned dark as dirt and rocks and vegetation rained down on him. He caught his breath at last, heaving for oxygen, and saw that Wulf was gone, the tripod shattered, the bottom of the nest awash with blood. Hoffmann was still there — his legs, anyway.

  "Over the side!" It was Meier, now hanging onto the side of the ravine, gesturing to Oliver. "Goddess Sophia! Hurry!"

  Oliver scrabbled toward the edge, still clutching his rifle. Another shell landed across the ravine and the concussion jarred him, but he tumbled over the side where Meier caught him and began dragging him toward the bottom. As they slid downward, two shells landed directly inside the nest, destroying whatever might have remained. By the time they reached the bottom of the ravine, the shelling had stopped.

  "Didn't take the fuckers long to figure it out," Meier panted. "I should have guessed what they'd do."

  Oliver lay on his side against a rock, pain raging through his body. His face felt gory and something was stuck to his cheek. He reached up and dislodged it, peeling it off like a scab. He held it up to see…

  "FUCK!!!"

  It was a human tongue. He flung it away in horror, then bent over and vomited.

  When he finished, Meier and two others led him back up the ravine toward Vegan lines.

  Chapter 26

  Monday, 28 September, 0195 (PCC) — Sophia Alps, Vega 3

  Two days later and thirty miles to the west, Oliver, Meier, and two other men picked their way through a pine forest just below the crest of a ridge. They were more than a mile beyond the last Guard outpost and no one knew exactly how far the Sirians had penetrated. Once again they took up a position overlooking a small town, this one nestled against the foot of the hills.

  According to the briefing, the Space Guard had sent up spy drones no larger than bumblebees; the data indicated that Confederate troops were inside the town, and the SE had also been sighted. Oliver settled between two trees and checked his rifle. Meier held a sensing device to detect the presence of enemy spy drones.

  "I wish I'd had this the other day," he said as he gazed at the meter. "I think that's how they pinpointed us." He studied the instrument for a moment, turning it in all directions. "Looks clear."

  Oliver sucked a deep breath and hefted the rifle, peering through the scope as he tried to pick out the streets just a half-mile away. Meier joined him, using binoculars. Most of the buildings were single-storied, the roofs flat and tiled. Here and there the view was obscured by ornamental masonry, but most of the main street was visible.

  Oliver panned slowly; some Vegans were on the streets, as if it were a normal workday. Then, parked near an intersection,
he spotted a hover tank. Two grey-clad Sirians sat in the shade of a building facing him, one smoking a cigarette, the other reading a data book.

  "Anything?" Meier asked.

  "I see a tank and two Sirians so far."

  "Where?"

  "Intersection, just left of the building with the dome."

  Meier nodded. "Got 'em. I don't see any SE."

  "Not yet."

  Oliver worked up and down every visible street, saw three more Sirian soldiers, but no one wearing ebony. He lowered the rifle and shook his head. Meier continued to scan.

  "Got to be more than just five men," he said.

  Oliver shrugged. "Maybe they aren't taking slaves here."

  "I wouldn't bet on it."

  It was already mid-afternoon. Oliver didn't relish the idea of spending the night on the mountainside, especially this close to the enemy. They hadn't brought any sleeping gear.

  Meier checked the town again every few minutes. Almost two hours later, he tensed.

  "Bingo," he said softly.

  "What is it?"

  "SE. Coming out of a shop."

  Oliver lifted the rifle again and peered through the scope. "Where?"

  "The main street. About fifty meters to the right of the intersection."

  Oliver found them. He'd scanned the same street several times, but this time saw a man in distinctive SE dress on the sidewalk. Another was just emerging from what might have been a restaurant, or maybe a small hotel. A third man also stepped into the sunlight, his face hidden by the brim of his hat.

  "Looks like they're officers," Meier said.

  "Looks like."

  Meier lowered the glasses. "You have a clear shot?"

  "Yep."

  "Can you get 'em all?"

  Oliver checked the wind, which was across his trajectory at about three knots. The range was just under 900 yards. "I think so."

  "Take 'em out. We gotta get back before dark." He raised his glasses to watch.

  Oliver took two deep breaths, released them, then went into shallow breathing mode. Twisted the strap, clicked the safety off, and steadied the rifle against his shoulder. He pulled the first Sirian into his crosshairs and held his breath. Four seconds later he squeezed the trigger. The Scandi bucked with a roar. He swung smoothly to the right and, before the first bullet arrived, squeezed off a second. Instantly he targeted the man in the center, whose face was obscured. He centered the crosshairs on the middle of the face and began to squeeze…

  The Sirian looked up, as if to check the weather. His face leaped into view, and Oliver's blood ran cold. He gasped, feeling all the energy drain out of him.

  I'm a captain in the Guards.

  The Sirian on the left staggered as the first bullet arrived. Barely a second later, the one on the right did the same; both hit the sidewalk hard in a spray of blood and bone. The center man spun in surprise, then quickly dropped into a combat crouch and drew his sidearm, scanning the street for the source of the attack. Oliver kept his face in the scope.

  But he didn't fire.

  "Two down!" Meier shouted.

  Oliver continued to stare through the scope; five seconds drifted by. Six. Meier turned on him.

  "What are you waiting for? Kill him!"

  Oliver flinched, blinked, and began to squeeze the trigger again. The Sirian was still in a crouch, backing away toward the door of the building. Oliver gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, and tried to concentrate. Meier had his glasses up again, watching.

  "Kill him!"

  The Sirian reached the doorway and quickly dived through it. Meier swore.

  Oliver swung his rifle skyward, trembling slightly.

  "That's it," he said. "We gotta go."

  Meier grabbed Oliver's shoulder and jerked him forward. "What the fuck is the matter with you! Sophia scorn!"

  Oliver knocked his hand away. "He ducked for cover. I couldn't get him."

  "You had ten seconds! Maybe more!"

  Oliver averted his eyes. "Let's get the fuck outta here! Before they send their drones after us."

  Meier hesitated.

  "Let's go!" Oliver insisted. "I got two of them. They're dead. Let's get the fuck moving!"

  The other Vegans were on their feet, anxious to leave.

  "Goddess!" Meier hauled himself to his feet and followed as they ran back the way they had come.

  They reached the last Vegan outpost an hour later. Oliver sank down inside a bunker and leaned his rifle against the wall, struggling with his emotions. A moment later Meier stood over him with an accusing glare.

  "You want to tell me what the hell that was all about?" he demanded.

  Oliver looked up and let his breath out slowly. He nodded, but didn't speak.

  "Well?"

  "I know the guy."

  Meier looked confused. "The Sirian?"

  Oliver nodded.

  "What d'you mean, you know him?"

  "We were roommates in college. He did graduate study on Terra."

  Meier only stared at him. Oliver rubbed a hand over his face.

  "His name is Brandon Marlow."

  Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  Rosemary Egler had taken her employer's advice; she'd forced herself to eat, and sheer exhaustion had finally forced her to sleep. Although still concerned about Oliver, she'd returned to almost normal.

  The same could not be said for Oliver Lincoln II. As the days dragged by with no news, Rosemary noticed the growing circles under his eyes, the deepening worry lines in his face, and a general decline in his energy. Not to mention his increasingly short temper.

  One afternoon in late September she heard something smash behind the executive door. She and Mrs. Waterbury exchanged startled glances, but before either could speak something else crashed against the heavy oaken door. Mrs. Waterbury activated the intercom.

  "Mr. Lincoln? Is everything okay?"

  "No! Everything is not okay!" he thundered in reply. Then, before she broke the connection, "Send Rosemary in here!"

  Rosemary felt her nerves hum as she stood up and approached the door. She opened it tentatively and stepped through, her shoes crunching on broken glass. Lincoln was staring out the window.

  "Get someone to clean up that mess, will you?" he asked gruffly, his voice not quite as volatile as a few seconds earlier. He turned and glanced at her. "I guess I lost my temper."

  She stood staring at him, not certain what to say, or whether she should speak at all. He noticed.

  "Sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to dump on you."

  "Do you … want to talk about it?" she ventured.

  He looked back out the window and shook his head. Then abruptly sat down at his desk.

  "I've been doing business with the Sirian Confederacy for ten years," he said angrily, his face contorted. "But when I need a favor, do you think they remember that? Hell, they used my fighters to launch their goddamn invasion! And my son is right in the middle of it, missing in action, and the fuckers won't even talk to me!" He slammed his palm flat on his desk with a loud noise. "That bastard Baker — you'd think I was ten years old, the way he talked to me!"

  "Is there anyone else you can talk to?"

  "I went up and down their cabinet, talked to all their ministers. They're all either tongue-tied or have amnesia. They won't even admit they have troops on Vega." He heaved a deep sigh. "I even called that friend of Ollie's, Marlow somebody. He isn't home and no one seems to know where he is or when he'll be back. Like he dropped off their fucking planet!"

  Rosemary shared his concern and could feel his frustration. She stood still another ten seconds, then turned toward a wooden liquor cabinet in the corner. Without bothering to ask his permission, she drew open the glass door and pulled down a bottle of cognac. She turned and set it down on the desk in front of him.

  "Mr. Lincoln," she said firmly, "I may be out of line, but — I think it's time you got drunk."

  Tuesday, 6 October, 0195 (PCC) — London, Europe, Terr
a

  Henry Wells sat in his London office and activated the electronic lock on his door. Tomorrow Senator Nieters would announce his retirement and name Henry as his successor — it would be a big day in Henry's life — but tonight he had more important matters to consider.

  In his hands he held an intelligence report from the FIA, marked HIGHLY CLASSIFIED. This was information approved for members of the Senate, but which he could never divulge to even his closest friends. The report ran close to a hundred pages, but the data was summarized on the first two pages of the document. Henry read through them quickly.

  Estimated Sirian military strength on Vega revised downward to 600,000 men, including armor and infantry. Roughly 30% of this strength consists of serf troops. Space power now estimated at 14 capital ships and 30 fighter squadrons.

  Estimated strength of Vegan Guard revised upward to 200,000 regulars. Massive recruiting/volunteer effort increasing daily. New recruits receive abbreviated training (9 weeks instead of 16) and are formed into irregular Guard units. Current estimate of irregulars (as of 2 October) set at 22,000 men and growing.

  Local intelligence indicates Sirians surprised at the quality of resistance during battle of Soderstad. Sirian losses in that action estimated at over 1000 dead and 2500 wounded. Guard losses uncertain; estimated 16,000 Guardsmen involved in that action; lacking armor and air support, an estimated 50% were killed or wounded, the rest taken prisoner.

  Conclusion: It would appear the Confederacy seriously underestimated Vega's capacity for resistance. It is suggested they are reluctant to assault the Sophia Alps until more assets are available. As the majority of Guard strength lies in the north, a space-drop in the north to capture Reina and Queen Ursula appears unlikely at this time.

  Addendum: During the past week, the Vegan Guard has made a concerted effort to impair the Sirian Elite Guards (SE) as they conduct slave-taking operations. To date (2 October), 37 SE officers and 6 enlisted men have been killed or wounded by Vegan snipers. (This appears to be an assault solely on the SE, as only four regular army soldiers have been sniped.) Whether this is a determined assault or only a token statement remains to be seen; however, reliable sources report a growing frustration within the Confederate command structure. Certain command factions are pressing for a full assault against the Alps.