The Fighter King

by John Bowers

  Autumn seemed to drag on forever. Oliver marveled at the weather as the weeks crept by — not that he got much chance to enjoy it. Through the month of January, the Sirians pounded the Ginastad sector day after day, hammering it with artillery, rocketry, and space strikes. Between barrages, serf infantry surged against the Vegan positions. Losses mounted on both sides, and gradually the Vegans fell back, one mile at a time. By the second week of February, the front line passed through Ginastad itself.

  The village had long since been evacuated, and on a cold, stormy February night, hover tanks roared in at rooftop level and slashed the Vegan defenders at point-blank range. What followed amounted to a rout. With no armor of their own, Guardsmen fell back in panic, leaving the town to the enemy. The line reformed six miles to the rear, but a critical crossroad had been lost, and the Sirians were quick to exploit it.

  What followed would become the most famous battle of the entire war.

  Just north of Ginastad, a high plateau extended almost five hundred miles northwest. At the other end of the plateau, the terrain descended swiftly into rolling farmland that offered access to Reina and the northern cities. The plateau extended past the foot of Mt. Sophia, the highest peak on the planet. At that point it narrowed dramatically, never more than a half-mile wide, and was guarded on both sides by high peaks. This area was known as Royal Meadows.

  Most Vegan Guard defenses had been positioned on the southern approaches to the Alps, with the intention of preventing the Sirians from crossing them. A number of small and untried units were bivouacked in the Royal Meadows area, but most of the Guard's muscle was out of position for what happened next.

  The 4th Serf Division fortified Ginastad against any attempt to recapture it, and while the Vegan Guard licked its wounds a few miles away, infantry and armor flowed through the town and bypassed them. Three infantry and one armored division poured onto the plateau and turned northwest at full speed.

  Nothing substantial stood in their way. Small units were quickly overrun and panic reigned in Guard command centers. Unhindered, the Sirian thrust could reach Reina within days; at the very least, their presence in the north could open the way to airdrops that would leave the Vegan Guard essentially trapped in the Alps, where they would, if so isolated, be no trouble at all.

  The war could be over in a week.

  * * *

  Oliver learned of the Sirian breakout when Major DuPont called a meeting of all company commanders and platoon leaders. Lundgren took Oliver along as his aide. When DuPont delivered the news, the assembled officers and noncoms looked stunned, and stood silently trying to absorb the information.

  "What does this mean, Major?" Capt. Ingram asked. "If they break out in the north, is that the end of the war?"

  DuPont shook his head grimly. "Could be, Captain. I don't know."

  "Is there anything we can do?" another officer asked. "Are we going to try to cut them off?"

  "No. Our mission is to hold right here; we have plenty of opposition in front of us, and we have to assume that the enemy will be stopped. Our job is to prevent the Sirians in Ginastad from taking any more ground."

  DuPont really knew nothing else to tell them. Oliver and Lundgren returned to their unit filled with questions, but the only answers were speculation. Nobody knew if the Sirian thrust could be stopped, or how, or by whom. The 77th Volunteers was already out of position; anything they might attempt would be too late and too far away.

  "Fuck!" Lundgren said, and then fell silent.

  Oliver wondered if it was all over. If the Sirians reached Reina, or occupied the north, or captured the Queen, or — anything — the war might be over. That idea troubled him, until he realized it might not be the worst thing that could happen to him personally. If the war ended in the next few days, he might be going home after all.

  Sunday, 14 February, 0196 (PCC) — Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  New Year's had been fun. Rosemary had been a little wary after the Christmas incident, but Jeremy was the perfect date. They dined, danced, and ushered in 0196 at a huge downtown street party while fireworks (real ones, not holograms) exploded above the city and drunken crowds sang traditional songs.

  They had two more dates in January, both casual and fun, and on February 2 Jeremy sent flowers to Rosemary's desk with a card that said Happy Groundhog Day! Ten days later he made a date with her for Valentine's Day.

  This time Rosemary was ready. She'd had a month or two to think about it, and came to the conclusion that Jeremy did have a point: they were both adults, and they both had needs. The truth was that she wasn't getting any younger and had no romantic interest in her life. Jeremy wasn't what she would call a keeper, but he was fun, attractive, and he was interested in her. She made the appropriate purchases and told herself she was ready for whatever might come.

  Their February 14 date was quiet and intimate — they never left his apartment. After exchanging Valentine cards, they danced to quiet music and eventually settled on the sofa where their petting became increasingly heated. Rosemary felt flushed and dizzy, but she'd made up her mind to be an adult about it. It was her first time, and she let Jeremy set the pace.

  She enjoyed it a lot more than she'd expected.

  Because she had to work the next day, she went home an hour later. Jeremy escorted her to her car, hugging her possessively, kissing her deeply before she drove away. He stood and watched until she was out of sight, then looked up at the cold, cloudy sky and heaved a contented sigh.

  "Touchdown!"

  London, Europe, Terra

  Federation Intelligence Agency

  Interagency Distribution

  CLASSIFIED

  Update on Vega 3

  21 February, 0196

  Sirian forces captured Ginastad on 12 February after several weeks of sustained assault. Sources say the main effort was made by the 4th African Serf Division, with losses upwards of 10,000 killed and wounded. Vegan losses estimated at 2200 killed and wounded.

  The capture of Ginastad opened the way for a Sirian drive toward the northwest. This option was quickly taken. Four divisions (11th Armored, 21st Star Infantry, 23rd Star Infantry, 9th Beta Centauri Rifles) raced into the plateau and made a rapid advance toward the population centers in the north. Sirian space power cleared several strong points in their path.

  The Vegan Guard reacted with admirable swiftness. The 9th Guard Division moved south from the Washboard Mountains to interdict but was too late. The 84th Guard Infantry Division moved in from the northwest, and at least twenty brigade-sized units were airlifted to the vicinity of Royal Meadows. By the time the Sirian offensive reached the foot of Mt. Sophia on 14 February, most of these units were in place, and two more divisions were en route (they arrived on 15 February). Some Vegan artillery and rocketry was also available, and two squadrons of carefully hoarded Space Guard also put in an appearance.

  In what is already being considered the battle of the century, sources indicate that the Sirian thrust was stopped cold. Infantry, armor, and artillery were sited along the ridgelines, and the Sirians found themselves overextended in the narrow Royal Meadows area. Sirian space power attempted ground support, but the battle area was very small and the spacecraft were too fast to be effective. The four Sirian divisions were bottled up and unable to break out (the peaks are too high to support armor and hover vehicles). Fighting continued from 14-15 February, and the Sirians were effectively destroyed as a viable military force. Casualty counts are not complete, but initial Sirian losses are estimated at 45,000 dead, 9000 wounded, 1450 captured. Vegan losses are placed at 900 dead and wounded.

  The Battle of Royal Meadows has already become a Vegan legend. Locals are calling it "The Slaughter Pen".

  What is significant is that the units destroyed at Royal Meadows were not serf units, but first-line infantry and armored divisions. Except for the Beta Centauri Rifles, the casualties are Sirian citizens; this is certain to have an adverse affect when made known to the Sirian publi
c. What ultimate effect this may have on the outcome of the Vegan conflict is uncertain, but what is certain is that a rapid Vegan collapse was averted. This war is destined to continue for some time yet.

  Chapter 33

  Monday, 11 April, 0196 (PCC) — Sophia Alps, Vega 3

  Two moons hung high in the autumn sky, throwing a surprising amount of light across the mountainscape. Oliver Lincoln III trudged tirelessly along the mountain trail, his 12mm slung over his shoulder. The wind was to his back, and cold. Winter was officially two months away, but he could feel it biting through his jacket. Before long, the first snows would come, and if the fighting continued, it would be a miserable experience.

  It was a beautiful April night, the kind poets dream of. Silvery rays of moonlight from different quadrants of the sky cast different intensities of light onto the mountain slopes, illuminating the snowcaps and turning them into fairylike images. Ahead and to his right, flanked by lesser peaks, Oliver saw Mt. Sophia, the highest peak on the planet, a towering giant that jutted forty-three thousand feet into the atmosphere — the finest mountain he'd ever seen. It kept its snowcap year round, and tonight looked almost like a mirror for the goddess herself.

  In spite of the moonlight, he kept his eyes on the ground to prevent stumbling on the rocky trail. Men were strung out for miles ahead and behind him, moving west, away from the Sirian advance. The 77th had been in action for almost four months, with moderate to heavy losses. They would take on replacements and fresh provisions and be assigned to another sector.

  The man ahead was a dim figure, the one ahead of him just a shadow. The only sound was the tread of combat boots, the creak of equipment, a muttered curse as someone stumbled. Oliver saw a man standing beside the trail, rifle slung, and as he drew closer, recognized Lt. Lundgren. As Oliver came abreast, the lieutenant fell into step beside him, matching him stride for stride.

  "How's it going, Lincoln?"

  "Okay, sir."

  "Your men holding up okay?"

  "Yes, sir. We got six hours sleep this morning. We're great."

  "Morale?"

  "They're fine. Good kids."

  Oliver had lost four of them. In the weeks after Biswell lost his leg, Warkentin and Muenster had been killed, and Tenty evacuated with critical wounds. Only seven remained, and they had aged ten years since he'd met them.

  "Good. We've got a few more miles to cover. We need to get there by daylight."

  "Would be a lot easier if we had transport," Oliver complained. "I liked it when we rode into battle."

  Lundgren grunted. "The Guard has its priorities," he said. "Getting us into battle is more important than getting us out of it. Transportation assets are limited, and I hear fuel is becoming a problem."

  "Attrition."

  "Exactly."

  They walked on for some minutes. Finally Lundgren broke the silence.

  "A few replacements are waiting for us at the next stop, but not many. I can give you one. I have to spread them out to fill as many holes as I can."

  "I appreciate the one, sir."

  "Well … you may not thank me when you see her."

  Oliver's head jerked around. "Her?"

  Lundgren nodded. "The replacements are mostly college girls.”

  "You're going to give me a girl? How do I keep my squad from trying to screw her?"

  Lundgren laughed. "As long as she doesn't mind, why should you?"

  "Whose bright idea was it to put college girls in the infantry?"

  "Queen Ursula's," Lundgren said, shaking his head in wonder. "From what I hear, close to five thousand girls from the universities tried to join the infantry and got turned down. Some of them appealed directly to the Queen and she ordered the Guard to take them. Said it was the girls who would pay the price if Sirius wins, so they should have a chance to defend themselves now."

  "Right," Oliver grunted, "and the girls who survive will be the first ones on the slave ships when it's over."

  Lundgren shrugged. "Can't argue with the Queen."

  "I guess not."

  "Okay, Lincoln. Sophia's tears."

  "You, too, Lieutenant."

  Lundgren stepped off the trail to wait for the next squad leader. Oliver walked on.

  Tuesday, 12 April, 0196 (PCC) — Sophia Alps, Vega 3

  They reached a small mountain village — Oliver never knew its name — sometime before dawn. A field kitchen was waiting, and fourteen hundred men lined up for steaming hot food. It had been days, and Oliver ate three helpings before he stopped. His kids ate just as heartily, then the squad sat around waiting for orders.

  Oliver was resting against the side of a building when Lundgren walked up with twelve soldiers in tow. Oliver stood and Lundgren nodded.

  "Sergeant Lincoln, got a new man for you, in a manner of speaking." He turned to the replacements and nodded. "Take your pick."

  Oliver looked at them with rising interest. They all looked slightly ridiculous in their fatigues with rifles slung over their shoulders. Several had long hair extending from under helmets that were too big for them. In spite of that they were Vegan girls, and Oliver felt a stirring in his groin — he hadn't been this close to a woman in months.

  He was about to pick a girl at random when one stepped forward. She had red hair, and her eyes, barely visible under the brim of her helmet, were black as space, her skin white as porcelain. She stared into Oliver's eyes and her beauty pierced his soul.

  "Lieutenant," she said huskily, "may I volunteer for this squad?"

  Oliver felt his scalp tingle. Staring at her, he almost lost his breath.

  "Is that all right with you, Sergeant?" Lundgren asked with an amused expression.

  Oliver nodded.

  "Good enough, then," Lundgren said. "Carry on." He turned and led the remaining eleven girls down the street toward the next squad.

  Oliver blinked, still at a loss for words.

  "Private Olga Pedersen, Sergeant. Reporting for duty."

  "Jesus Christ!" Oliver said.

  "You do remember me, don't you?" she asked.

  "I could never forget you," he said quietly. "I just never thought I'd see you again. Especially not here, like this."

  "I told you I was going to fight. I'm an expert shot."

  He nodded, still recovering. "I hope so."

  Oliver introduced Pedersen to the squad. They stared at her as if she were the incarnation of Goddess Sophia herself. Not one of them spoke to her, but each nodded self-consciously. She was at least two years older than they, and seemed slightly amused at their reaction, though she never quite smiled.

  Oliver led her a few yards away and they sat down. He felt awkward in her presence.

  "When did you enlist?" he asked.

  "As soon as they would let me. At first the Guard didn't want to let girls into combat, but the Queen ordered them to take us. That's when I signed up."

  He nodded.

  "Oliver …" She hesitated. "Is it all right if I call you that?"

  He shrugged. "When it's just the two of us, I guess."

  "Oliver, what are you doing here? I thought you were going back to Terra."

  "They came a few hours too soon," he said. "I was leaving that morning, but it was already too late."

  "So you joined the Guard? Why?"

  Oliver sighed. "It's a long story. Short version — I saw the Sirians doing things that made me mad. I decided to fight."

  "Have you seen any action?"

  "Enough to last a lifetime." He changed the subject. "How's your brother?"

  "Very busy. Turning out munitions for the Guard."

  "Why isn't he building fighters?"

  "The factory was bombed. Almost half of it was destroyed, but there's enough left for what he's doing."

  "And Marie?"

  "She's fine."

  "What did Adam think about you enlisting?"

  She shrugged, her mouth curving into a half smile. "You know how big brothers are." She looked him up and down. "You a
ren't fat any more, Oliver. You look very handsome."

  He didn't know what to say to that. His weight was down to 162 Terra pounds — he was actually underweight for his height.

  "You look like a million crowns yourself," he said.

  The 77th rested all day and resumed the march late in the afternoon. The route took them west, toward Sophiastad. Oliver had no idea where they were going, but at least no one was shooting at them.

  That changed several hours later.

  Night marches were preferred, to reduce the risk of enemy detection, but with overhead satellites and infrared scanning equipment, there was no such thing as invisibility. Shortly after two in the morning, a shrill warning sounded in the helmet radio of every man in the column.

  "Enemy spacecraft sighted! Take cover! ASC units prepare to engage — bearing 274 degrees!"

  Officers and noncoms began shouting and thousands of men scattered into the rocks and gullies alongside the trail. Oliver ordered his squad into the dirt and ran forward.

  "Giordino! Give me that rocket launcher!"

  Cpl. Giordino had dropped to his knees and was scanning the night sky to the northwest. He reluctantly surrendered the weapon.

  "Get down!" Oliver told him. "Keep an eye on Pedersen!"

  Giordino scrambled back down the trail toward the redhead. Oliver peered through the viewfinder and began adjusting the range. The only anti-spacecraft weapons available to the column were shoulder-fired weapons, but they could be deadly in the right hands. Oliver was no expert with them, but felt confident he could hit a target.

  Even in the moonlight, they were impossible to see with the naked eye. They streaked out of the sky at well over Mach 1, six of them, and began launching missiles into the serpentine column of Guardsmen. Oliver heard their whine long before he saw them, the rending sound of tortured atmosphere, like a lasersaw through wood. He spotted the exhaust from their missiles, and tracked the nearest one as it shrieked past on his left, more than a mile distant. Far ahead, explosions blossomed along the mountain trail and the ground rocked under his feet.

  Oliver fired, but with a sense of futility saw his rocket fall behind as the fighter streaked to safety. Dozens of others were also firing as the Sirians made their pass, but only one fighter was hit; it trailed smoke, but kept flying.