The Fighter King

by John Bowers

  Danmark fell silent. The men from Rabbit 4 had last been seen running away, but how far they'd got was anybody's guess.

  "Maybe we could at least get off this trail," Gustafsen said. "Just climb a couple hundred feet up the slope and get under some kind of cover."

  Oliver had considered that too, but shook his head.

  "This trail is the only thing I know for sure isn't mined," he said. "The engineers have been setting up a surprise party for the Sirians, and I don't want to spoil it for them — or for us."

  Smoke drifted over them from a fire the artillery had started along the finger ridge. Oliver swallowed water from his canteen and checked his watch. It was barely 2100.

  "Tell you what," he said, "you guys crawl into a corner and get some sleep. I'll wake you when the fun starts."

  "What about you, sir?"

  "I'll sleep when the war's over."

  In spite of their stress, or perhaps because of it, both men were soon dozing. Oliver swiveled every minute to check in all directions. He saw nothing.

  "Lincoln!" Sandquist said in his helmet radio. "Where are you?"

  "Same place, Sergeant. We took cover in a large shell crater right alongside the trail."

  "All right. Stay put for a while. We sent out more spy drones and the enemy is moving an even larger force this way, just across the finger from you. We think they'll make their main move within the hour."

  "What do you want us to do?"

  "Report whatever you see, but use your own judgment about engaging them. Three of you can't do much good from where you are now, except as spotters. Don't try to be heroes."

  "Don't worry, Sergeant. I don't have a heroic bone in my body."

  Barely ten minutes later, Sirian artillery began to hammer the hillside again, falling in and around the trenches. Oliver heard the shells passing overhead, a rustling sound with an almost metallic quality that reminded him of a rail-sled. Explosions blossomed hundreds of feet above his position, and he realized the barrage was probably intended to cover the approach of Sirian infantry. He gripped his rifle tighter and waited. Watching. Listening. The crack of explosions drifted over him like the shock waves of an electrical storm.

  Minutes crawled by. Oliver waited, wondering where the Sirians were now. Was an attack wave poised just to his right, about to sweep over him en route to the Vegan trench?

  A sudden swoosh startled him, and he turned to see a salvo of rockets streak away from the position recently known as Rabbit 4. Seconds later, a second wave of rockets flashed and shrieked, and Oliver watched as they flew right into the side of a bunker and exploded. A third salvo cooked off and the targeted bunker suddenly erupted as the ammunition stored inside exploded.

  "Sergeant!" Oliver gasped, "this is Lincoln!" He was already in firing position, his rifle to his shoulder as he peered through the scope at the top of the finger. "The enemy has rocket launchers on Rabbit 4. Hit 'em with everything you've got!"

  A fourth salvo was released, and Oliver saw what looked like an officer outlined in the glare. He had glasses to his eyes and was watching the progress of the rockets. The glare died away, but Oliver reacquired the officer with his starlight scope. He was about to fire when he remembered that doing so would give away his position. He waited until the next salvo was released, and when he fired, the shriek of the rockets drowned his rifle shot.

  The officer was flung off his feet as the heavy slug struck him in the chest. Oliver picked up another target, but before he could fire, the first salvo of P-gun shells crashed into Rabbit 4.

  "On target!" Oliver said. "Let 'em have it!"

  Another salvo of rockets blazed toward the trench, but then the P-guns began a steady rhythm of death, and within three minutes the threat had been eliminated. Oliver looked upward to his left and saw a second bunker on fire, but it hadn't been destroyed.

  Then, suddenly, he heard hundreds of running feet, and with a surge of terror realized that an assault wave was flowing past his crater, dark shapes of men stampeding past like so many cattle in the night. He quickly lunged toward Gustafsen and Danmark, dropping between them and clamping both hands over their mouths. They woke with a start, but he held them down.

  "Don't move!" he rasped. "They're all around us. If they see us, we have to look like we're dead!"

  For almost a minute, Sirian infantry streamed past the shell crater. One man stumbled and fell into the hole, but picked himself up and scrambled up to join his unit. Oliver's heart throbbed as he waited for them to pass.

  And then they were gone, running toward the slope that led to the Vegan trench line. Oliver raised his head warily, peering after them, but saw nothing. The two Vegans also sat up and looked around. Artillery still pounded the first of the trench lines, and would continue until the Sirian skirmish line was within striking distance of the trench.

  It occurred to Oliver that, if the Vegans were able to repulse the attack, the Sirians might be coming back in his direction. If not, he'd be stuck behind enemy lines.

  Either way he looked at it, he was trapped.

  Chapter 28

  London, Europe, Terra

  Henry Wells smiled at the applause and got to his feet. Howard Nieters had just announced his retirement and named Henry as his successor. It was an historic moment for both of them.

  "Thank you," Henry said as the congressional applause began to fade. "Thank you."

  He cleared his throat. He had two minutes, then the Senate would get back to its normal business.

  "Mister Chairman, distinguished colleagues — I am honored and humbled to accept Senator Nieters's appointment as his successor. To be honest, I was shocked to the core when he told me his intentions, as I could think of a number of other aides who are, in my opinion, more deserving than I of this honor. But the Senator threatened to expose my private life if I didn't accept, so what could I do?"

  Laughter.

  "Although Senator Nieters and I are from opposing parties, and therefore share a different political ideology, I feel honor-bound to support the causes he has championed, voting as I believe he would have voted, until those issues have been resolved." He grinned. "And if there's any question as to how he would have voted, I'm certain he will keep me informed."

  More laughter.

  Henry let his smile fade.

  "However — once those issues are settled, I do have a cause of my own to champion. I won't go into the details today, but as the most junior of senators in this august body, I feel it only prudent to make my position clear.

  "Almost twenty-seven light years from where we sit, a civilization is fighting for survival. The Sirian Confederacy has invaded the peaceful Monarchy of Vega. From the information at my disposal, it seems unlikely that Vega can throw off this invader, which means that, like Beta Centauri twenty years ago, Sirius will strangle Vega 3 into submission.

  "There isn't much we can do about that. We have neither the will nor the military power to intervene.

  "However, there is one thing we can do, and as a member of this governing body, this will be my mission." Henry raised his chin and surveyed the packed gallery. "I believe that the Sirian Confederacy is a threat to the survival of the Federation …"

  He waited for the inevitable guffaw or boo, but it didn't come. As a newcomer, he was entitled to a "honeymoon" period, which likely wouldn't last beyond his current speech.

  "The Confederacy has strangled several national entities on Sirius, has invaded and defeated Beta Centauri, and is now doing the same to Vega. About every twenty years, the Confederates take on a new victim. So far they've tackled only weak or defenseless enemies, but with each conquest they grow stronger. Eventually they will run out of weaker opponents."

  He paused and looked from side to side, letting the moment build.

  "Perhaps ten or twenty years from now — they'll come after us."

  Still no boos or groans of protest.

  "My mission as a Federation Senator," Henry said, "will be to make sure they can'
t defeat us.

  "Thank you."

  Natalia, Sophia Alps, Vega 3

  A hundred yards up the slope, the Sirian skirmish line blundered into a strip of plasma mines. The darkness vanished in a series of flashes so brilliant they almost seemed nuclear. Dozens of men writhed in agony and their screams drifted back down the hillside. Immediately the first trench line opened fire, sending a withering blast of lead and laser down the slope. Oliver and his companions buried their heads as thousands of ricochets whizzed about them like a swarm of heavy insects. This was the worst of being caught in the middle, Oliver thought — if the Sirians didn't kill them, the Vegans might.

  The light from the plasma faded, but the gunfire didn't. The Sirians were still climbing the hill, and now traded fire with Vegans in the trench. Heavy stuff now flew from the bunkers to reinforce the small arms, and Oliver almost pitied the Confederates on the slope. But another battery of Sirian rockets opened up from across the valley and the Vegan trench began to take hits again.

  "Goddess!" Gustafsen whispered. "How long can this go on?"

  Oliver began to wonder how anyone ever survived this kind of thing at all. Minutes later, a quarter-mile to the north, more plasma mines fired, and soon after that, still more. The sound of gunfire swelled and faded, like the roar of a crowd in a huge stadium, as individual battalions of Sirians approached the Vegan positions in a loosely coordinated assault. P-guns scattered salvoes all over the hillside, shifting frequently as new situations developed. Laser, tracer, and explosives punctured the darkness. It was curiously beautiful, Oliver thought, almost artistic, yet so very deadly. Acrid smoke washed over him on a gentle breeze, leaving a chemical taste in his mouth.

  "Sir," Danmark said, "is there any chance we can get the hell out of here? Maybe we …"

  "No! Where the fuck you think we can go? Just keep your head down."

  Directly above them, the Sirian rocket barrage stopped and almost immediately the intensity of small arms fire increased. Oliver heard a ragged yell as the Sirians charged the trench, and in the pandemonium that followed, the clang of metal and the roar of grenades. He tried not to think of what the carnage must be like at that moment.

  Danmark suddenly lunged against the edge of the crater, peering down the trail toward Rabbit 6. "Sirians!" he yelled, and before Oliver could stop him, opened fire. Brilliant laser bolts leaped from his rifle, and in the flash Oliver caught a brief glimpse of massed troops. Through his IR contact they looked like a writhing mass of red-green signatures, not more than twenty yards away.

  "Shit!"

  The last thing Oliver wanted was to draw attention to their shell crater, but Danmark had already done that. Oliver raised his rifle and, aiming at knee height, fired six quick rounds through a forest of legs. Men with shattered limbs fell screaming as he ripped two grenades off his belt and jerked the pins loose. As return fire blew holes in the dirt around him, he flung both frags against the ground so they would bounce into the nearest Sirians. He shoved Danmark and Gustafsen down just in time; fragments whined over them as twin explosions ripped the night. Danmark began firing again, and Gustafsen joined in. Oliver unpinned another grenade and hurled it high; it burst ten yards beyond the first two. Oliver fired the last four rounds of his magazine toward ghostly heat sigs, then slapped the two Vegans on their helmets.

  "Let's move!" he shouted.

  Return fire was getting close. Laser bolts flashed past their position, chirping like drops of water on a hot skillet. Oliver had no idea which way to run, but they had to move. He lunged out of the crater toward the finger and Rabbit 4. Danmark came next, but grunted and staggered as a laser burned through his lower stomach. Gustafsen stumbled over him, and together he and Oliver hauled Danmark with them as they scrambled across the trail and into the deep grass at the foot of the finger. There, momentarily hidden from view, they dropped to the ground.

  "Goddess!" Danmark gasped. "Hurts!"

  Oliver bent over him, feeling helpless and a little annoyed — his brief weeks of training had included very little first aid. He probed Danmark's sides, drawing gasps of pain. Danmark's shirt was soaked with blood. Sweating with fear and frustration, Oliver tore the shirt away and pulled a vacuum plaster from a pouch on his belt. He got another from Gustafsen and applied one to each of the wounds; the plasters sealed themselves to the skin and stopped the external bleeding, but did nothing for the internal hemorrhage. Danmark needed a surgeon.

  "Just keep still," Oliver said. "We'll get you to a medic as soon as we can." He chinned his helmet mike. "Sergeant, this is Lincoln. What's happening up there?"

  Sandquist came back immediately. "Lincoln, you have targets for us?"

  "Not right now, but I've got a wounded man here. He needs evacuation."

  "Goddess, Lincoln! What the hell do you expect me to do? We're up to our ass in hypercats here!"

  "Well goddammit, I can't just let him die!"

  "Then don't let him die! There's a million Sirians on these slopes and nobody can get to you now. So stay off the radio unless you have something I can use!"

  Sandquist clicked off and Oliver swore again. From this new vantage point he had a better view of the battle on the slopes, but it was difficult to interpret. In the steady flicker of laser fire, he saw masses of men moving in undulating waves, some up the hill, some down, and what looked like hundreds of casualties scattered like matchsticks across the landscape. Bunkers and trenches still spewed death, fires glowed from gullies and fallen trees, P-gun shells cracked across the hillside.

  A wave of choking heat washed over him as a plasma grenade burst with a blinding flash in the crater he and the others had recently abandoned. Oliver and Gustafsen pressed themselves lower in the deep grass and watched as the Sirians from down the trail advanced once more. Oliver felt his heart pounding and sweat trickled down his face. He placed a hand over Danmark's mouth to keep him quiet as the Sirians approached to within ten yards of their position. It was impossible to tell how many there were, but once they satisfied themselves the crater was empty, the Sirians continued to move. They walked quickly past in a ragged file, just dark shapes against the flicker of light from the battle. The line seemed endless.

  "Sergeant, this is Lincoln," Oliver whispered into his helmet radio. "I've got at least a company of Sirians on the trail approaching Rabbit 4. I estimate two hundred or more. If you start hitting the trail below Rabbit 4 and work your way back toward Rabbit 5, you'll be right on target."

  "What about you, Lincoln? What's your position?"

  "We're at the base of the finger, but we're gonna climb up toward Rabbit 5. Keep off the finger and you won't hit us."

  "I'll give you thirty seconds. Get the hell out of there!"

  Oliver slapped Gustafsen on the helmet, and together they grabbed Danmark under the arms to begin their climb upward. The finger was only fifty feet high, but the ground was soft from the artillery pounding it had taken earlier. Grunting and sweating, hoping the Sirians didn't spot them in the indistinct light, they pulled Danmark toward the top. Ten feet from the crest they tumbled into a fairly deep shell crater and buried their heads as the first P-gun salvo crashed into the trail two hundred yards away.

  Oliver peered over the side as a second salvo landed, then a third, and as he watched, a cascade of shells walked down the trail toward him, bursting in rapid succession even as the Sirians dived for cover. A few stray shells hit the side of the finger and Oliver heard fragments sing over his head, but nothing came any closer. The shells rained down for two minutes, then shifted somewhere else.

  Rolling over onto his back, Oliver took a moment to catch his breath. They were as safe here as they could reasonably expect to be. At least for the moment.

  "You okay?" he asked Gustafsen.

  "Yes, sir."

  Oliver checked Danmark. He was unconscious.

  Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  Dinner was quiet in the Lincoln mansion. Seated at one end of an eight-place Queen Anne dining t
able, Oliver Lincoln II had little appetite, but forced himself to eat at least part of what was on his plate. Maxine Lincoln faced him across the cherry-wood table. She sat in her bathrobe, her pasty features lined with distress, her silver hair unbrushed. Lincoln found her presence depressing.

  "What did you do today?" he asked, well aware of the answer, but hoping for a surprise.

  "What do you think I did today?" she replied bitterly without looking at him. "I spent the day in bed. I'm not a well woman."

  He chewed a bite of potato listlessly, scowling.

  "You aren't ill," he told her testily. "The doctor said you're in good physical condition."

  "So it's all in my head, is that it?" Her ice-blue eyes pinned him to his chair. "Crazy Maxine, right? I'm just a hypochondriac!"

  "I didn't say that! All I meant was that your physical health is affected by your mental state."

  "Crazy Maxine!"

  He slammed his fork down. "I didn't say that!"

  "Maybe it's time you say what you mean, Oliver," she said, her mouth twisting in anger. "Why don't you just say it? Crazy Maxine!"

  "Jesus Christ! You're not crazy! You're self-obsessed. You need to get out of this house once in a while and see what's going on in the world! See your friends, get involved again."

  "Like the goddamn Halloween party tonight? I'm sure that would solve all my problems!"

  "I only asked if you wanted to go, I didn't try to force you."

  "My children are dead, Oliver! And you want me to dress up like a clown and prance around among strangers?"

  "You went last year!" he stormed. "You went the last fifteen years! Don't act like it's something abnormal. And for god's sake, your children are not dead!" He caught himself as a lump sprang into his throat. "Not all of them," he amended.

  "At least I know where Victoria is buried," she said as if he hadn't spoken. "But I'll never know what happened to my son. His body is rotting on Vega and I don't even know where!"

  "God damn it!" Lincoln raged, slamming his fist on the table. "Ollie is not dead!"

  "He's dead," she insisted, her eyes filling with tears. "I'm his mother, and a mother knows."