The Fighter King

by John Bowers

  "How bad was Natalia?"

  "Pretty bad, I guess, Captain. I was wounded the first night, so I didn't see what happened after that. But I was told it got pretty nasty."

  "You were a sniper?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good. In addition to leading a squad, I may call on you in that capacity as well."

  Oliver nodded. He wasn't too thrilled about it, but would do what he was told.

  "This is a volunteer outfit, just like your last unit. The only regular Guard here are the officers, and most of these guys have only had the briefest training. The Guard is running them through at light speed just to get the numbers in the field to face the Sirians.

  "What you're going to get is a bunch of high school kids. Six months ago most of them were worried about winning the solar ball championship, or trying to get laid for the first time. Now they're fighting for their lives against the deadliest army in the galaxy. Your job is to keep them alive as long as you can. You may also get to play daddy to a few of them, because they're going to see you as a father figure. Think you can handle that?"

  Oliver truly didn't know. He wasn't that much older than the men Ingram was talking about. But …

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good. Your assignment will be First Squad, Second Platoon. Lieutenant Lundgren will be your boss. You'll find him right over there." Ingram pointed. "Good luck, Sergeant."

  "Thank you, Captain."

  Lundgren chatted with Oliver for a few minutes, asking questions and getting a feel for him. He was big and blond, like a Viking, and Oliver liked him immediately. Together they walked to where First Squad was camped and Lundgren stopped.

  "Shall I introduce you, or do you want to take it from here?"

  Oliver gazed at the collection of youths lounging about, then shook his head. "I'll take it," he said.

  "Okay. Come back and see me when you're done."

  Lundgren left and Oliver walked into the squad area. He stopped between the shelters and looked around, silent, waiting for the kids to notice him. It took a few seconds; one or two saw him and nudged the others. In short order, eleven men were standing in a loose formation facing him. No one had yet said a word.

  "My name is Lincoln," Oliver told them. "If you don't recognize my accent, I'm a Fed man. I was born on Terra and I still live there. The only reason I'm here is because the Sirians interrupted my vacation plans and I couldn't get home. That pissed me off, so I decided to fight."

  Some of the boys exchanged glances; and "boys" was the right word. Ingram had been right about their ages. Oliver doubted any of them were over eighteen.

  "In case you're wondering: yes, I've already been in combat. Already killed a shitload of Sirians, already been wounded. I'm not a career man any more than you are. I don't know all the answers, but I'll help you all I can. I figure we're all in this together, but there's one important difference — I'm not fighting to defend my homeland, but you are. So give me the best you've got.

  "Any questions?"

  They shuffled, exchanged glances, then one youth lifted his chin.

  "Any idea when we get to meet the Sirians, Sarge?"

  "What's your name, soldier?"

  "Giordino, Sarge. Marcos Giordino."

  "Well, Giordino, I can't answer that yet. I just got here myself. Soon as I know, you'll know. Anybody else?"

  They all became mute. No one else spoke.

  "All right, I want to meet with each one of you. We need to get acquainted, and I want to know about your skills and your training. I'll start with you, Giordino. Rest of you, this area looks like a Sirian's front yard. Get it cleaned up. Inspection before evening chow. That's all."

  Oliver met with the men one by one, spending ten to fifteen minutes with each. Giordino, Dukakis, Konrad, Rasmussen, Warkentin, Biswell, Mortensen, Norquist, Fenske, Muenster, and Tenty. Like many volunteer units, nine of them were from the same city, seven from the same high school. All but two were seventeen; Biswell and Fenske were eighteen. As Capt. Ingram had said, until the day of the Sirian attack none of these boys had had a care in the universe; few cared or even knew about diplomatic tensions with Sirius. Now they were ready to put their lives on the line to defend Vega.

  "I have three sisters," Norquist told Oliver. "I know what the fucking Sirians will do to them."

  "My aunt was raped by Sirians a few years back," Mortensen said. "She almost died."

  "The bastards might beat us," Giordino declared, "but they'll have to get through me first."

  Their training had been short — only nine weeks — but they were physically fit and determined. None had seen action yet, but all were eager to fight. When he finished the interviews, Oliver was left with a mixture of feelings; these kids might not last long against the Confederate army, but they had heart. They were ready to give it all they had. His biggest regret was that their sacrifice was necessary.

  Lt. Lundgren was chewing a carrot when Oliver reported to him later that afternoon. He offered Oliver a cup of coffee and they sat down to drink it.

  "So, what's your evaluation?" Lundgren asked.

  "Green as grass," Oliver replied, "but their hearts are in the right place. If they live through the first fight, they'll be okay."

  Lundgren nodded. "I concur. Just so you know, this entire battalion only came together over the past ten days. Your squad hasn't had a leader during all that time, but they've kept themselves together and their noses clean. You're their missing ingredient."

  Oliver nodded.

  "You have any questions for me?"

  "Yes, sir. When I was with the 49th it seemed to me there was a lot of equipment we needed but didn't have. Vests in particular. The Sirians used a lot of laser against us, but we didn't have reflective vests. We didn't have body armor or helmet shields, either. I know the Guard has them because I used them in training."

  Lundgren grimaced. "I asked the same question. I was told there's a shortage of vests. The Guard has been growing so fast the past few months that there aren't enough to go around. Regulars get 'em, we have to do without."

  "Is anyone doing anything about it? Manufacturing new stuff?"

  Lundgren shrugged. "A lot of industry has been bombed by the Sirians, so possibly those factories are no longer there. One thing we do have is plenty of ammo. The Guard keeps huge stockpiles, so there's no shortage. Anything else?"

  "What about a training schedule? Since we're not fighting, it would be nice to run these kids through some field problems and see what they can do."

  "I agree, but I don't think that's going to happen. The word I get is that we're going into action any day now."

  "How long ago did you hear that?"

  Lundgren laughed. "Over a week. But we were waiting for more bodies to fill some vital positions, such as yours. We do have a rifle range about half a mile from here. You can at least give your squad some target practice. Keep them sharp."

  Oliver did exactly that the following morning. He watched the squad shoot for twenty minutes and wasn't impressed with their skill. They were all armed with the Vegan Guard's standard weapon, the Stockholm 12mm. They did well enough in rapid-fire mode, but only mediocre in single-shot. Oliver gathered them around, took one of their rifles, and showed them how to do it. At one hundred yards he fired twenty rounds at random targets, hitting every one dead center. All eleven men looked impressed.

  "Goddess, Sarge, you sure you aren't regular Guard?" Giordino asked.

  "No. I got nine weeks of training just like you did." He handed the rifle back to Biswell. "But I already knew how to shoot. From now on until we leave this place, I'm going to instruct you guys. In a few days you should be able to do almost as well."

  Most of them exchanged glances, and Oliver was gratified to see a look of hopeful anticipation in their eyes.

  Oliver Lincoln III had no Christmas that year. It wasn't a Vegan holiday, so he spent the day teaching his squad how to shoot. After four days he saw a marked improvement in their scores, and Lt. Lu
ndgren suggested he hold a school for the rest of the platoon as well. But three days later their orders came through. On New Year's Day, 0196, Oliver found himself back in action.

  Friday, 25 December, 0195 (PCC) — Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  Jeremy hadn't been kidding about his Christmas tree. It was a nine-foot Noble fir that reached almost to the peak of the cathedral ceiling in his apartment. Rosemary Egler gazed at it in awe, for Jeremy had trimmed it beautifully. Her own tree was a hologram, but this one was gorgeous; colored lights rippled in waves and glass balls reflected the light across the dim room. It was a real, traditional tree and the room smelled heavily of its perfume.

  "It's gorgeous!" she breathed. "I haven't seen one like it since I was a kid!" Actually, the Lincolns always had a real tree, but for some reason she didn't want to mention that.

  Jeremy handed her a Tom Collins and smiled.

  "I cut it myself. There's a fellow south of town has a tree farm, and you can pick your own. I guess I'm just a little old-fashioned about some things."

  Rosemary noticed several wrapped presents under the tree. She'd brought two for Jeremy, and she added them to the others. She settled down on the sofa to sip her Tom Collins, listening to the holiday music that came from hidden speakers.

  "I thought we'd eat first," Jeremy told her, "then exchange gifts later. That okay with you?"

  "Yes, that's fine."

  They spent the afternoon playing a board game, until the door announced a visitor. Jeremy answered the door to admit a caterer with their dinner. Rosemary was speechless — Christmas dinner for two — catered?

  It was a hearty meal, far more than two people could eat. Roast turkey and dressing, salad, mashed potatoes, gravy, sautéed mushrooms, pickled artichoke, green and black olives, sweet potatoes, fruit salad, and cranberries.

  "Gosh!" Rosemary declared finally, "I can't eat another bite! What are you going to do with all this food?"

  "Don't worry," he laughed, "it won't be wasted. I'll be making sandwiches for a week."

  A short time later, over wine, they exchanged presents. Rosemary opened a small box containing a gold neck chain with a pendant attached. Jeremy helped her put it on, fastening it behind her neck, then kissed her gently on the lips.

  "Merry Christmas, Rosemary," he said.

  Next he opened a package containing a tastefully woven scarf.

  "You spend a lot of time outdoors in cold weather," she told him. "This is for those long walks around the plant."

  Her next present was a gift certificate for the ski lodge.

  "So you can learn how to ski properly," he told her with a wink. "I got myself one, too. Next time we go skiing we won't look like a pair of goobers!"

  They both laughed, then Jeremy opened a gift that turned out to be an automatic pistol, a 9mm with two spare clips and a box of ammunition. He gazed at it in amazement, hefting it carefully, then turned to her with a sense of wonder.

  "This must have cost a fortune!" he said. "You didn't have to do this!"

  She shrugged. "I know you need a good weapon for your work," she said. "I'm sure the one you have is just fine, but I actually found this on sale, and it looked like something you might be able to use."

  "God, yes! It's fantastic! Thank you, so much!"

  He handed her the third and final present. She took it, but looked up at him a little sadly. "I only got two gifts for you," she said.

  "It's okay," he said. "There's only one more thing I want, and I'll tell you what that is in a minute."

  Rosemary tore off the wrapping, opened the box, and stared in shock. Wrapped in tissue paper inside the box was a skimpy red negligée. Her heart pounded in confusion, and she dared not meet his eyes. She covered her discomfort by picking up the negligée and holding it in the air. Jeremy's eyes were almost glazed.

  "I can't wait to see you in it," he said.

  "Jeremy…"

  "You like it?"

  "Well — yes, it's very pretty, but —"

  "Now you know what I want for my third present," he said. "I want to see you wearing that, and I want to make love to you."

  She met his eyes at last, and swallowed. Her face felt hot.

  "Jeremy, this is only our third date. I'm not sure I'm ready for this."

  "Hey, we're both adults, aren't we? Sooner or later you knew it would come to this."

  "Jeremy, I hope I didn't mislead you, but I'm not ready for a commitment yet."

  "I'm not asking for one," he assured her. "But we're good friends and we both have needs. What's the harm in a little casual sex? You must know I'm crazy about you."

  Her head swam. She didn't want to offend him, didn't want to hurt him, but this was moving at light speed. Slowly she placed the negligée back into the box and put the lid on. She looked at him with sadness in her eyes.

  "I can't accept this," she said. "Not right now. I'm sorry."

  He blinked in surprise, then sat back and stared at her. For nearly a minute he didn't speak, and when he did his voice was hard.

  "I thought you were different," he said. "I didn't take you for a tease!"

  Her warning flags went up.

  "I'm not a tease. All I'm saying is that this is a little fast for me."

  He stood up and took the box from her, flinging it under the tree.

  "Tell you what," he suggested, "why don't you go home? If you stay, I'm afraid I'll say something we'll both regret."

  Rosemary stared at his seething eyes with a combination of astonishment and alarm. She didn't hesitate to get to her feet and reach for her coat. He opened the door for her and she walked through, her skin feeling numb. How could such a perfect evening turn sour so quickly?

  She turned and made one final appeal.

  "I'm sorry, Jeremy. I never meant —"

  He closed the door in her face without a word.

  Friday, 1 January, 0196 (PCC) — Ginastad, Sophia Alps, Vega 3

  Three hundred miles east of Contessa Peak, the Sophia Alps gave way to a spread of lesser mountains that fanned out in three directions. The largest town in the region was Ginastad, named for the daughter of Vega's first queen. The Sirians had advanced to within a few miles of the town; if they could capture Ginastad, they'd be able to drive a wedge hundreds of miles behind the main line of Vegan resistance. Two Guard divisions were entrenched in the area and the 77th Volunteers were ordered to reinforce them.

  They made the trip at night, using hover transports for speed but keeping near the surface to reduce the threat from Sirian fighters, which could arrive quickly if the troop convoy was detected by overhead satellites. As dawn arrived on 1 January, Oliver and his squad stood in the woods with six hundred other men waiting for orders. The morning air was crisp and cold. Oliver's kids — he was already getting attached to them — looked wide-eyed and nervous.

  Things were stalled for two hours, then Capt. Ingram and Lt. Lundgren strode quickly toward Oliver.

  "Sergeant," Ingram said briskly, "do you have a Scandi?"

  "No, sir."

  "Scorn!" He looked at Lundgren. "Any idea who might have one?"

  "No, sir."

  "Well, never mind. How are you with the Stockholm?" he asked Oliver.

  "Expert, sir," Oliver replied modestly.

  "I have a mission for you. Gather your squad."

  A minute later, with eleven wide-eyed rookies looking on, Ingram explained the situation.

  "Just an hour ago one of our drones spotted a Sirian SE unit about six miles from here." He pointed on a paper map. "There's an infantry unit at that location and it looks like the SE is bringing Vegan women in to them." He scowled angrily. "I don't have to tell you what they do to our women, do I? Command wants you to go in there and kill those SE bastards. They think they can get you in there with a hoversled, at least within sniper range. But without the long rifle …"

  "You get me on the ground and I'll get close enough," Oliver said, feeling his blood race.

  "All right. There are
defensive positions here, here, here, and here. You'll have to work your way past them without being spotted. This creek bed should help, although they may have electronic sensors set up. Use your best judgment."

  "How big is the infantry unit at the objective?"

  "Not sure. Platoon size at least, probably less than a company."

  Oliver stared at the map. If he could get in, he might have trouble getting out.

  "Artillery?" he asked.

  "If you need it, but make sure the Vegan prisoners aren't in the way."

  Oliver nodded, frowning. Finally he looked up. "Okay."

  "Pick four men and be ready to move out in ten minutes. When you get down there, do not use your helmet radio until you really need it. The enemy can pinpoint your location if you do. Got it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Two of Oliver's men — Giordino and Warkentin — were corporals. He chose Giordino, Dukakis, Konrad, and Biswell. By the time the hoversled arrived they were almost dancing with anticipation.

  The sled pilot seated them in such a manner as to balance the load, then gave Oliver his own instructions.

  "I'm gonna put you in as close as I dare and that's as far as I go. I'll shut down and wait for you, but I don't leave this sled. Okay?"

  "Fine."

  As the sled lifted off and skimmed slowly south between the taller trees, Oliver's adrenaline rush began to fade. He felt the familiar background of fear, but all in all it felt good to be doing something again.

  The sled was almost silent, making barely a whisper, but to Oliver it sounded as loud as a cargo hover. Hopefully the Sirians wouldn't detect it.

  Ten minutes later the sled pilot put down in a clearing and began shutting down. He nodded at Oliver and gave him a thumbs-up. Oliver and his men hopped down.

  "From here on in," he told them quietly, "no talking. Hand signals only. No firing unless fired upon, in which case the mission is a bust and we give them everything we've got. If you get separated, find a place to hole up until dark, then work your way back to our lines. When we reach the objective, we'll evaluate the situation first, then I'll give you new orders. Any questions?"