The Fighter King

by John Bowers

  "Jesus fucking Christ!"

  "If you're so certain he's alive, then what are you doing about it?"

  Here it came, Lincoln thought. They'd fought this battle at least once a week since Ollie's disappearance.

  "What the hell can I do? I'm not there! I can't even talk to anyone there! The State Department ignores me, the Sirians won't talk to me — the only person I can talk to is Henry Wells."

  "And what is Henry doing about it?"

  "Everything he can. Christ, Maxine! Ollie can't get a message to us, but he's perfectly safe. We have thousands of citizens on Vega, and the Sirians aren't going to harm them. It's in their own best interest to protect them. We just have to be patient."

  Tears slipped from her eyes and her mouth twisted again. She pushed her plate away, threw her napkin down, and pushed back her chair.

  "Fine. You be patient. Go to your stupid company party. I can't go. I loved my children!"

  Natalia, Sophia Alps, Vega 3

  Oliver and the two Vegans with him had used all their grenades. Oliver still had several magazines for his rifle, but given the vulnerability of his position, was reluctant to fire unless he had to. The battle on the hillside seemed to go on forever, but time was relative. Perhaps a half-hour after changing his position, Oliver became aware that Sirians were returning from their assault, some moving down the trail below and others climbing the finger. He watched them through his starlight scope, ready to fire if they approached too closely. They seemed scattered, disorganized, and most continued on over the finger and disappeared down the other side.

  Gustafsen sat in the darkness as if frozen, watching the hillside, his laser rifle ready. Danmark remained unconscious, his breathing labored. Oliver waited and watched.

  He heard a sound behind him and turned, swinging his rifle to meet any new threat. He saw movement twenty yards away, and drew a bead through his scope. A Sirian soldier was kneeling on the ground, bending over something. Oliver placed the crosshairs on the outline of his head, began to squeeze the trigger. Then a flash on the hillside briefly illuminated his target, and he saw the Red Cross on the Sirian's helmet. A medic!

  "Damn!"

  Gustafsen was beside him in an instant. "What is it?"

  "Cover me. Don't shoot unless something happens to me."

  Oliver crawled out of the hole and began worming his way over the uneven ground toward the Sirian medic. His heart pounded as he drew closer — fifteen yards, ten, five. The Sirian was facing away from him, working feverishly. Oliver peered through his scope and saw a wounded man lying at the medic's feet. Oliver got to his feet and covered the last five yards in a crouch. He pushed his rifle against the Sirian's head.

  "Don't move!" he ordered.

  The Sirian froze. Oliver dropped to one knee, still holding the rifle to his head. "Are you carrying a weapon?"

  "I'm a medic, pig fucker!" the Sirian snarled. "Medics don't carry weapons."

  Oliver frisked him briefly, but found nothing.

  "Look, buddy, if you're gonna shoot me, then shoot me. Otherwise, I got a wounded man here."

  "Well, I got news for you, asshole. I got a wounded man over there, and he needs you more than this guy does."

  "Okay, I'll do what I can. After I finish here."

  "Fuck that! You're coming with me now!" He grabbed the Sirian's collar and pulled him off balance, sprawling him onto his back. "Unless you want to die right here, and then your friend won't be any better off."

  Oliver could see the Sirian's eyes glittering in the shifting light. He could feel the man's hatred wash over him.

  "Yew bastard!" the Sirian said. "That man will die if I don't finish what I'm doing."

  Oliver glanced at the wounded man, who lay quivering with shock.

  "Looks like he's about gone already."

  "I can stabilize him. All I need is five minutes."

  Oliver wavered, then thought of Danmark. Danmark had wanted to get out of the shell crater, but Oliver had refused. Now he was dying. Rage welled up in him, overpowering the guilt. Without a second thought, he swung his rifle toward the wounded man and shot him through the chest, the rifle bucking in his grip.

  "He's stable," Oliver said. "Get moving!"

  The medic sprang up off his back, outraged. "Yew bastard!"

  Oliver slugged him and knocked him back down, grabbed his collar and pulled him up again.

  "The next round is for you, cocksucker! Now get moving!"

  He shoved the Sirian ahead of him to where Gustafsen and Danmark waited. Once inside the shell crater, Oliver pointed to Danmark.

  "Do what you can for him," he said. "If he dies, then so do you."

  The Sirian didn't reply, but bent over the unconscious man. After a brief examination, he began administering drugs and attached a plasma pack to replace lost blood.

  "How is he?" Oliver asked after a few minutes.

  "Not good," the Sirian said. "The good news is it was a laser, which makes a clean wound. Doesn't bounce around like a bullet, and it doesn't introduce sepsis. But his peritoneum has been ruptured, which is worse than sepsis. He'll die if he doesn't get into surgery in the next few hours."

  "How many hours?"

  "I can't say." The man shrugged. "Four to six at the outside. He needs evacuation."

  Oliver grimaced. How much longer would this battle last? Would the Sirians withdraw at daybreak? For that matter, who was winning?

  "You stay with him," he told the Sirian. "If you even look like you're leaving, I'll shoot you."

  Over the next few hours the battle waxed and waned. Another missile battery opened fire from the direction of Rabbit 6, and Oliver called in P-gun fire to silence it, but heavy stuff from farther south plastered the Vegan trenches again. Immediately afterward, another surge of Sirian infantry swept up the slopes, supported by laser-firing gunsleds, but it was the last gasp of a dying effort. As the first light of dawn began to paint the sky, the Sirians began to withdraw. Here and there, single squads of Vegans pursued them.

  Oliver suddenly became aware of gunfire just a hundred yards away, followed immediately by running feet. He looked up to see perhaps forty men racing down the finger in his direction, their helmets in stark silhouette against the brightening sky. Sirians!

  At least a dozen were going to run right over his shell crater.

  "Gustafsen! Fire!"

  Oliver rose to his knees and began popping away, his heavy calibre slugs taking the Sirians by complete surprise. Confused, some of them tried to turn back, but the Vegans had them cold. Caught in the crossfire, most of the Sirians were gunned down, but before it was over, something hit Oliver in the chest and spun him in a circle. As he went down hard, he had no idea which side had fired the shot.

  Chapter 29

  Thursday, 19 November, 0195 (PCC) — London, Europe, Terra

  A week before Thanksgiving, Henry Wells told his secretary to hold his calls, turned on his E-shield to prevent eavesdropping, and opened the most recent intelligence report from FIA. A nervous anticipation tingled his scalp as he peered at the cold, official words of FIA analysts. It was like reading an encyclopedia account of things that had happened centuries ago. As always, Henry hoped, in addition to gleaning official intelligence he could use in the Senate, to find some clue as to what might have happened to his best friend.

  As usual, he saw nothing that related in any way to Oliver Lincoln III. The list of Federation citizens trapped on Vega had been amended to include a few dozen newly identified Federation citizens, but Oliver's name still wasn't on the list. Henry turned to the section that detailed the progress of the invasion.

  Halloween Assault

  Sources on Vega indicate that on 31 October, the Sirians made their first full-scale assault against entrenched positions in the Sophia Alps. Probably incited by the sniping of SE officials, the attack was the first of its kind in this war. Some 9000 Sirian infantry assaulted a fixed Vegan position three miles south of the Alpine village of Natalia. In a bat
tle that lasted most of the night, the Sirians failed to dislodge the Vegans. Sirian losses are estimated at 1200 killed, perhaps 3000 wounded. Vegan losses are set at 250 dead, 900 wounded. No further assaults have been made, although sources indicate dissention among the Sirian Command on this point. As of this report (12 November), Natalia is still under Vegan control.

  Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  Rosemary Egler logged off her terminal and shut the power off. It was almost six o'clock, and through the window at the end of the room the daylight was fading. Mrs. Waterbury had already left, and Rosemary slipped into her coat and picked up her purse. She leaned over the desk and touched the intercom.

  "Mr. Lincoln, I'm getting ready to head out. Do you need anything?"

  "I'm about to wrap it up myself," Lincoln replied. "Have a good evening, Rosemary."

  "You, too, sir. Good night."

  "G'night."

  Rosemary set the comm system to automatic and turned off her desk light. Past the waterfall to the gravity lift, thinking about what to make for dinner.

  * * *

  The air was crisp and cold, the sky overcast; winter would be early this year. Jeremy Mason's breath crystallized in front of his face as he strolled across the manufacturing complex. Lincoln Enterprises. His own personal domain. That was how he thought of it — it might belong to somebody else, but in very real terms it was his. No chief of police here, no ungrateful city council to kick a man when he was down. Jeremy was the man in charge, the Chief of Security, the big cheese. He answered only to Old Man Lincoln, and Lincoln liked him. In the few short weeks he'd been here, Jeremy had solved the theft of expensive high-tech tools and uncovered a plot to sell patented hardware designs to a competitor. Jeremy's star was rising.

  As twilight faded toward darkness, Jeremy walked unhurriedly toward the security office near the main gate. Two hundred yards to the south he heard the distinctive whine of jet engines; that Vegan pilot was probably going up again. The son of a bitch flew the SolarFighter day and night, as if he might actually get a chance at the Sirians some day. Jeremy had met the man and had to admire his dedication, but privately thought him a fool. Whatever was happening on Vega wasn't going to change because of anything that happened in Colorado.

  Who gave a shit anyway?

  As Jeremy approached the main gate, he saw a hovercar approaching. He reached the guard shack just as it arrived at the exit, and with a pleasing sensation in his groin, recognized the driver. Rosemary Egler, the assistant executive secretary. She halted at the gate with her keycard extended, but before she could use it, Jeremy leaned over and peered into her window.

  "Evening, Miss Egler!" he grinned, turning on the charm.

  The pretty brunette returned his smile. "Good evening, Chief Mason."

  He managed to look embarrassed. "Hey, call me Jeremy, won't you please? 'Chief' makes me feel really old."

  Rosemary laughed politely.

  "Okay. Jeremy."

  "So tell me — what exactly do you do up there in the Tower all day? Do you hear all the secrets that keep this place running?"

  "Mostly I answer the comm and make coffee," Rosemary told him. "You probably know more secrets than I do."

  Jeremy shrugged modestly.

  "Mr. Lincoln was very impressed when you uncovered that industrial espionage thing," she added.

  "Well, Miss Egler, that's what I'm paid to do. I take the job seriously."

  "Mr. Lincoln knows that."

  Secretly pleased that she'd complimented him, Jeremy changed the subject.

  "Tell me, Miss Egler — do you have a boyfriend?"

  Rosemary looked shocked for a moment, then laughed at his boldness.

  "That has got to be the most un-subtle approach I've ever heard!" she told him.

  He grinned. "But you didn't answer the question."

  Rosemary seemed to consider it for a moment, as if weighing her response. "No," she said finally. "I don't have a boyfriend."

  Jeremy grinned his most engaging. "Want one?"

  She laughed again, even harder than before.

  "Gosh!" she exclaimed. "You are positively shameless!"

  Still grinning, he shrugged disarmingly. "Well, Miss Egler …"

  "Rosemary."

  He nodded in acquiescence. "Well, Rosemary, sometimes I find the direct approach to be the most … direct."

  She smiled. "Are you asking me out?"

  "Yes, I am. How about dinner tomorrow?"

  Rosemary's smile disappeared, and for a moment she stared through her windscreen. Finally she nodded.

  "All right. Tomorrow it is. Tell me when and where."

  "Right here, when you get off work. I'll be waiting."

  He straightened up and opened the gate. With a wave, Rosemary drove through. Jeremy watched her go, a satisfied feeling in his bones. This one was a real beauty, and worth whatever it would take to get next to her.

  He turned and headed toward the security office.

  * * *

  Oliver Lincoln II stood on the parking apron in his overcoat and watched as the SolarFighter approached from the east. Full darkness had fallen and the factory was largely shut down; only one shift was in operation at the moment and it had gone home. Almost the only people left in the facility were security and maintenance personnel.

  The SF was still six miles out, coming fast in a computer-controlled glide that would put it on the runway a quarter mile from where Lincoln stood. He watched the landing lights approach, feeling a deep sense of pride at the engineering that had gone into the spacecraft. He also felt a deep admiration for Lars Sorensen, the Vegan pilot who had, since his arrival at LincEnt, immersed himself in the fighter and its technology.

  The landing lights merged with the ground and Lincoln heard reverse thrust kick in. Even so, the ship streaked down the runway like a rail-sled until it slowed to taxi speed. It turned off the runway toward him and moments later drew to a jerky stop twenty yards away. A ground crewman plugged an audio line into an external jack and began talking to the pilot. Minutes later the engines shut down and the fighter began making cooling sounds.

  Sorensen crawled out of the cockpit and hopped onto the wing root, then swung to the ground. Hoses and cables dangled from his flight suit as he walked toward Lincoln. With a grin, he feigned a salute.

  "Lieutenant Sorensen. How was the mission?"

  The boyish grin widened. "It was beautiful, Mr. Lincoln. I love flying on this planet."

  "Is it so different from Vega?"

  "Yes … and no. It is difficult to explain."

  Lincoln nodded, not really interested. He wasn't even sure why he was here, except that he hadn't spoken to the Vegan in several days.

  "The ship performing well?"

  "Excellent! It is far more than I expected. If we had this fighter on Vega … well, I wish the Sirians had waited just one year. This ship is far superior to anything we have."

  "I've been getting good reports about your progress. Hatley tells me you're one of the best he's ever seen." Lee Hatley was LincEnt's premiere instructor and test pilot.

  Lars dipped his head. "Thank you, Mr. Lincoln. But sometimes it is difficult."

  "Difficult? How?"

  "Three days ago — I was doing docking practice at one of the orbital stations. I saw a Sirian ship there. A cargo ship, unloading." The grin faded completely. "It is a good thing I was unarmed. The temptation would have been quite terrible."

  Lincoln's life passed before his eyes. His skin seemed to crawl.

  "Lars, you know you could never do that here, don't you? Not only would you end up in prison, but I would be ruined! LincEnt might never recover from something like that!"

  The grin returned, but only slightly.

  "Yes, I know. I am a Space Guard officer, Mr. Lincoln. I have the discipline. But the temptation — I cannot deny that I would love to blow one of those fuckers out of space."

  Lincoln nodded, his blood pressure easing a little. "I certainly under
stand. One of these days, if I don't find out what happened to my son, I might be tempted to let you 'steal' this thing and go follow all the temptation you want."

  Sorensen frowned. "You still have not heard from your son?"

  "No. Nobody seems to know what happened to him."

  "Have you sent him a letter?"

  Lincoln looked at him curiously. "How can I do that? Vega is completely blockaded. Nothing gets in or out."

  "I have sent several letters to my family. And received letters in reply."

  Lincoln felt his pulse quicken. "How in hell can you do that?"

  "I send them to the Vegan embassy in London. They have means of communicating with Vega. I am not sure how they do it, but I have heard there are ships lying one or two days from Vega that can relay transmissions both ways."

  Lincoln remembered. Henry Wells had mentioned those ships. "Pirate ships", he'd called them.

  "Jesus Christ! You mean the Vegan embassy is in contact with those ships?"

  "They must be. I have received two letters from my wife, and she has received my letters as well."

  Lincoln's heart thundered in his chest. The sudden possibilities left him almost dizzy.

  "Is your family all right?" he barely remembered to ask.

  "So far, yes. Thank you."

  Lincoln slapped him on the shoulder.

  "Lieutenant, keep up the good work. Keep on training as long as you want. Hopefully one of these days you'll get the chance to put all of this to use."

  "I hope so, sir. Goddess, I hope so."

  * * *

  Lincoln sat down at his desk and stared into the video-chip recorder. His nerves hummed as he considered Lars Sorensen's words. The Vegan embassy in London was apparently in contact with the "pirate" ships lying just outside Vegan space. If Lars could get a message to Vega, then so could he.

  But how did he address it? To the Federation embassy? Henry had seen the lists of Fed citizens released from there and Ollie's name wasn't on them. The Sophia Hilton Hotel? Maybe — that was where Ollie had been staying. Monarch Starlines? Not likely — Princess Gina had already left Vega and then disappeared; unless Ollie had been on board, they would have no further record of him.