The Fighter King

by John Bowers

  Almost five weeks had passed since the Sirian attack at Natalia, and Oliver still marveled that he was alive. He sipped from a cup of lukewarm tea and wondered what would happen next; the last few months had been an adventure he'd never wanted, and it wasn't over yet.

  "Are you still here?" came a voice from somewhere behind him. "I thought by now they would have kicked you out to make room for sick people."

  Oliver sat up and turned to look. Sgt. Sandquist was walking toward him, wearing fatigues and helmet, a rifle slung over his shoulder. He waved a hand as Oliver started to rise.

  "Stay put," he said. "They tell me you aren't quite ready for combat yet." He shook hands and pulled up another lawn chair. "How the hell you feeling?"

  Oliver managed a grin. "I've felt worse," he said. "Lately I've been going stir-crazy. It was nice for awhile, but I'm ready to do something else for a change."

  "Don't rush it. There's plenty of shit waiting when you get back."

  Oliver took a deep breath, his head spinning with questions. Sandquist was the first familiar face he'd seen in a month.

  "So what's been happening, Sarge? Bring me up to date."

  Sandquist laid his helmet aside and crossed his legs, as if grateful to get off his feet.

  "They finally drove us out of Natalia," he said. "Couple weeks after you got hit they came at us again. We fought them off, but two days later they hit us even harder, and they took the ground."

  Oliver frowned. "Was it bad?"

  "Bad enough. The 49th is pretty much fragmented. In all three actions we lost about fifty percent. We've been taken out of the line for replacements."

  Oliver chewed his lip. "I haven't had any news. Did Danmark make it?"

  Sandquist shook his head. "His body was a few yards from you when we found him. Looks like he bled to death. But Gustafsen came through it okay."

  Oliver nodded, feeling the weight of guilt. "Well, that's something."

  "We damn near lost you, too," Sandquist told him. "You lost a hell of a lot of blood. Only thing kept you alive was some Sirian medic that turned up in the middle of the whole mess. No idea how he got there, but he treated several of our wounded for us."

  Oliver laughed at the irony of it.

  "I captured him," he said. "He was working on one of their wounded and I forced him to take care of Danmark instead." He didn't mention killing the medic's patient.

  "Good thing you did. Didn't help Danmark, but it saved your own ass."

  "What's the big picture look like? Are the Sirians winning?"

  "Hell, I don't know much more than you do. All I get are rumors, and you know how reliable those are."

  Oliver nodded.

  "But what I do hear isn't good," Sandquist added. "The Sirians have decided to punch through the mountains, and they're hitting the line hard at several points. A few hundred miles east of here they've gained about fifty miles, but we're still holding out."

  "Any chance we can stop them?"

  Sandquist frowned, as if the thought of losing was unacceptable. But he shook his head.

  "Not without help," he said. "Eventually they'll beat us. But we're making them pay for every mile. Maybe it's our Viking heritage — we'll water the Alps with Sirian blood."

  Sandquist reached into a pocket.

  "Got something for you." He withdrew two tiny envelopes and handed them to Oliver. "The first one is the Purple Triangle, for being wounded. The other is the Queen's Cross. For bravery under fire."

  Oliver opened the envelopes and looked at the medals.

  "I was no braver than anyone else," he said.

  "Well, it's a little more than that. You spotted for the P-guns that night and as a result, we killed a shitload of Sirians before they ever got within range of our lines. And you did it from a very exposed position."

  "I don't — I don't really deserve this."

  "Don't tell me about it. Captain Mendelsohn recommended you. So just accept it and shut up."

  Oliver nodded and slipped the medals into a pocket, feeling suddenly very humble. When he looked up, Sandquist was smiling.

  "Got one more thing," he said. "And you aren't gonna believe this."

  Sandquist handed him a mail chip.

  "You were the only guy in the outfit who never got any mail," he said. "But now you do."

  "From who?" Oliver took the chip and read the attached label. His eyes grew wide with disbelief. "Jesus holy Christ!" he muttered. "How in god's name …"

  "I have no idea how it got through, but it's from your dad."

  * * *

  Oliver found a wooden bench in a secluded area of the grounds where he wouldn't be disturbed. He could see the roof of the hotel-cum-hospital, but couldn't be seen from its windows. With more emotion than he would have previously expected, he inserted his mail chip into a portable viewer.

  It was voice-only; whatever route it had taken to reach him, the video had either been corrupted or stripped away. But the audio was clear enough.

  "Ollie, it's your dad. I don't know if this will ever reach you, but I've been told it's possible to send it, so I'm taking a shot.

  "I hope this finds you safe and in good health. We've had no word of your whereabouts since the Sirian invasion. Henry managed to get a list of Fed citizens from the embassy in Reina, but your name wasn't on it, and your starship never arrived. So we're completely in the dark. If you've been captured by the Sirians, they haven't told us, although god knows I've tried to twist their arm.

  "Everyone here is hoping and praying that you're safe, and I'm sure you are. I keep telling your mother and Rosemary that you'll be home when you can, that it's just going to take some time. I believe that. But if there's any way you can get word to us, then let us know what's going on. It's really hard not knowing."

  His dad paused for several seconds, then cleared his throat.

  "Everyone here is doing fine. Henry has been a big help, telling us what he can and encouraging us. Rosemary is really worried, but she's keeping a stiff upper lip. Your mother … Your mother is confident that you're okay. And so am I.

  "Ollie, be careful. Get home as soon as you can. And if … if I never told you this before — I love you, son. I love you a lot."

  The player beeped to signal the end of the chip.

  Oliver sat staring across the lawn. His dad's voice. He'd thought he might never hear it again, and this might be the last time. He took a deep, shaky breath, lowered his head, and wept.

  Friday, 4 December, 0195 (PCC) — Lake Francesca, Sophia Alps, Vega 3

  The next day Oliver recorded a reply to his dad. But when he took it to the communications office for transmittal, the clerk took one look at it and scowled.

  "You want this transmitted to the Federation?" she asked in disbelief.

  "That's right. I'm from Terra."

  "We are not in communication with the Federation. The enemy has control of all subspace repeaters."

  "I know, but …"

  "There's no way to transmit that."

  "What the hell are you talking about? There must be a way! My dad got a letter in to me from the Federation, so there must be a way to get this one out."

  "Maybe, but I don't know how. In any case, it would never clear military censorship."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Anything that is transmitted off planet can be intercepted by the enemy. A letter from a soldier in the Guard would never see transmission."

  Oliver felt a stab of annoyance. "There's nothing sensitive in this letter. I'm just telling my dad that I'm still alive. He hasn't heard from me in over six months."

  "I can't help you, Private. The very fact that you're a Fed man might be useful intelligence for the enemy. I don't make the rules, but I'm telling you that those who do would never let this go." Her eyes softened just a little. "I'm sorry."

  Oliver ground his teeth and turned away.

  An hour later he sat on the lawn, fingering the nitrogen capsule he still carried in his pocket. Wondering
if he would ever see home again.

  Doubting it.

  An explosion in the distance brought his senses alert, and he stood quickly, turning toward the sound. He could hear jet engines approaching at high speed, and the rattle of auto-cannon. Before he could decide whether he was in danger, a Vegan spacecraft burst into view a quarter mile to the west, perhaps two thousand feet up. Oliver watched anxiously as it banked left, right, then left again. Smoke trailed from a starboard engine pod. Then he saw a second ship, a Sirian SolarFighter; it appeared exactly where he'd first seen the Vegan, and it matched the Vegan's movements turn for turn.

  Oliver hardly dared breathe as the two fighters twisted across the sky above him. For a moment he thought the Vegan might escape, but just as it banked sharply and began to climb, the Sirian cut inside its turn and opened fire again. Streams of tracer reached for the Vegan, and Oliver saw flame blossom from it. As the sound of auto-cannon reached him again, pieces began to fly off the Vegan ship.

  The Sirian climbed to avoid the rapidly spreading wreckage, then did a victory roll, made a sweeping turn to the south, and disappeared over the horizon. Oliver followed the Vegan as it spiraled toward the ground, but never saw it hit. Moments later he heard a distant explosion. He felt a mixture of emotions then — disappointment, even despair, at the loss of the Vegan ship — but at the same time, a quiet sense of pride that the SolarFighter had won the battle.

  If only Vega had Lincoln fighters!

  Saturday, 12 December, 0195 (PCC) — Colorado, North America, Terra

  Rosemary and Jeremy went skiing in early December — if one could call it that. Despite growing up in Colorado, Rosemary had never skied in her life, and neither, apparently, had Jeremy. They spent the day on the beginners' slopes, crossing their feet, falling repeatedly, and laughing hysterically as a pair of disdainful six year-olds glided confidently past them. It was one of those throwaway days of which memories are made, and they finally resorted to simply throwing snowballs at each other.

  They closed out the day with an early dinner at the ski lodge buffet, seated by a window with a grand view of the slopes as heavy snowflakes began to swirl outside. A bright log fire burned in a huge stone fireplace on the opposite wall, and the atmosphere was warm and cozy even with the hum of voices and the clatter from other diners.

  "What are your plans for Christmas?" Jeremy asked, taking a sip of coffee.

  Rosemary avoided his eyes; Christmas was a painful time for her, as it always reminded her of the family she no longer had. She managed a smile.

  "I'll probably have dinner with the Lincolns," she said.

  "Maybe you'd rather spend it with me?" he suggested.

  She glanced up. "Aren't you spending it with your family?"

  His eyes hardened for an instant, then he blinked and shook his head.

  "No. My folks live on the Coast, and I don't get out there much."

  "I'm sure they'd like to see you."

  "I usually call them." He laid a hand over hers. "I'd really like to spend the holiday with you," he said. "What d'you say?"

  She hesitated, though she wasn't sure why.

  "I have a tree." He smiled conspiratorially. "And I already put a present under it with your name on it."

  Her eyes gleamed. "Really? What did you get me?"

  He laughed. "Not so fast! You have to wait for Santa."

  She took a bite of vegetable and sipped her wine, delaying her response long enough to chew and swallow. For some reason she was reluctant to get too intimate with Jeremy too quickly. She just didn't know him well enough yet. But how did she turn him down without hurting his feelings?

  "Gosh!" she said finally. "If I'm going to get my present, then I guess I'd better say yes."

  London, Europe, Terra

  Federation Intelligence Agency

  Interagency Distribution

  CLASSIFIED

  Update on Vega 3

  21 December, 0195

  The Vegan Guard has retreated some 20 miles from its original position near the alpine village of Natalia. Sources report that Natalia was overrun in mid-November with heavy losses to the 49th Vegan Volunteers. Sirian forces have concentrated at four critical mountain passes in the Sophia Alps with the apparent intention of battering their way through the mountains. Internal strife among the Sirian Command structure suggests confusion regarding the conduct of the war; one faction favors direct assault and the other favors a siege. The sniping of SE personnel has apparently tipped the scales in favor of assault.

  Casualty figures for the Natalia operation are estimated as follows: Vegan Guard — 1900 killed, 3000+ wounded, 900 captured; Sirian Infantry — 2600 killed, 4300 wounded.

  Such heavy losses for Sirius brings into question the wisdom of direct assault. Clearly an airdrop in the north would be the most direct route to ending the war, but Sirian Command has chosen to avoid civilian casualties in densely populated areas. The dual purpose of this invasion is to 1) provide a steady source of female slaves, and 2) spread Sirian ideology throughout the galaxy. To this end, Sirius appears to favor the avoidance of unnecessary civilian loss.

  The problem with direct assault, as demonstrated at Natalia, is the high rate of military loss. It seems unlikely the Sirian people will be patient with such losses during an extended campaign through the Alps. This appears to have been addressed by the introduction of serf troops at Natalia. The third and final assault was conducted by the 4th African Serf Division. At least four other serf divisions have also arrived on Vega, and outside sources indicate that troops from Beta Centauri are currently en route. The Sirians seem to have no qualms about wasting lives as long as they are not Sirian citizens.

  The frenzied recruiting and training of Vegan troops has increased. As of this report (19 December) the number of hastily trained volunteers has risen to 54,000 men. On 1 December, Queen Ursula ordered the Vegan Guard to accept female volunteers as well.

  Notably absent during most of this conflict has been the Vegan Space Guard. Sources indicate that 90 percent of the Space Guard was destroyed at the outset of the conflict. What little remains of Space Guard assets has been carefully hoarded and used only sparingly. Sirius essentially owns the skies over Vega 3.

  SE activity over the past 30 days seems to have increased; unofficial sources report that an estimated 9000 women were transported to Sirius for the slave markets. Since the invasion, an estimated 5000 to 6000 women have been taken each month.

  Wednesday, 23 December, 0195 (PCC) — Lake Francesca, Sophia Alps, Vega 3

  Oliver was in the exercise room doing his physical therapy when two officers entered. After a brief look around, they headed in his direction.

  "Private Oliver Lincoln?" The speaker was a captain, the other man a lieutenant. Oliver snapped to attention.

  "Yes, sir!"

  "At ease. I'm Captain Jensen and this is Lieutenant Apollos."

  Oliver relaxed slightly, wondering what they wanted.

  "I have your orders, Lincoln," Jensen said. "You're out of here tomorrow." He handed Oliver an envelope. "This contains your transfer papers and data chip. It also contains a pair of chevrons. You're being promoted to sergeant."

  Oliver was nonplussed. "Sergeant! I don't know if I'm ready for that."

  "These are stressful times, Lincoln. The Vegan Guard is experiencing a shortage of experienced leaders. You've been in combat and you've been decorated for bravery. You are to report to the 77th Volunteers at Contessa Peak. There you will report to Major DuPont of Third Battalion. He will assign you to a line company, where you will serve as a squad leader. Any questions?"

  Oliver had plenty, but his head was reeling. He shook his head slowly.

  "No, sir."

  "Good!" Jensen smiled and shook his hand. "Congratulations, Sergeant."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Sophia's tears."

  Book Four: Lake Francesca

  Chapter 31

  Thursday, 24 December, 0195 (PCC) — Contessa Peak, So
phia Alps, Vega 3

  Contessa Peak stood some two hundred miles east of Lake Francesca. Oliver caught a ride with a medical unit and arrived in the early afternoon of 24 December. During the trip he was acutely aware that, back home, tomorrow would be Christmas. It would be the first time in his life that he'd ever missed the holiday at home. That, and the uncertainty of his own future, left him feeling somewhat morose.

  He found Third Battalion of the 77th Volunteers bivouacked in a small wood two miles east of the village. Major DuPont was a short, businesslike man in his late thirties. After returning Oliver's salute, he checked the paper orders then looked into Oliver's eyes.

  "Fed man, huh? What in Sophia's name you doing here? This isn't your war."

  "It is now, sir."

  "Well, looks like you've already got your feet wet. We need all the squad leaders we can get." He shouted over his shoulder. "Corporal!" An enlisted man appeared at his elbow. "Show Sergeant Lincoln where to find Captain Ingram."

  "Yes, sir! This way, Sergeant."

  Oliver saluted again and hefted his pack. The corporal set off at a half trot down a steep trail toward what looked like a ravine. Neither man spoke; by the time they arrived, Oliver was winded. Too much time in the hospital, he decided. He'd have to correct that in a hurry.

  "Captain Ingram is the one sitting down," the corporal said. "Good luck, Sergeant." Before Oliver could reply, he was gone.

  Ingram was seated in front of a portable shelter, studying a data book.

  "Private — er, Sergeant Oliver Lincoln reporting for duty, Captain."

  Ingram looked up and returned Oliver's salute. He took the orders without a word and studied them, then put them down beside the shelter.