The Fighter King

by John Bowers

  They made another pass, this time from the east, and again missiles plowed into the column. Again Oliver fired, and again missed. Ghostly orange flame lighted the night; the cold mountain wind carried the stench of roasting flesh. Oliver felt sweat on his forehead, and loaded another rocket into the launcher.

  Only five fighters made the final pass; this time they fired autocannon, strafing the mountain trail with explosive 19mm shot; steel shrapnel and rock fragments sang through the air, ripping into flesh and bone. Oliver stared into the throats of two fighters as they seemed to come directly at him, and released his rocket at almost point-blank range. The missile streaked within inches of the first fighter, barely missing its cockpit, and hit the second ship in the wing root.

  A shout went up as flame sprouted from the Sirian fighter’s fuselage. The starboard wing ripped and folded, metal strips exploding into its slipstream. The fighter instantly began to spin, and within seconds was completely out of control. Hundreds of Vegans came to their feet cheering as the fighter arced and careened crazily into the distance. Before it had time to crash, the fighter exploded in a blinding flash.

  Oliver stared in shock, hardly able to believe he'd actually hit the thing. His men were pounding him on the back, delirious with excitement.

  But all he could think of was the complete irony of it — he'd come to Vega to sell Lincoln fighters, and now … he'd shot down a Lincoln fighter.

  Saturday, 16 April, 0196 (PCC) — Lake Francesca, Sophia Alps, Vega 3

  Four nights of hard marching brought them to Lake Francesca. Oliver had been there twice before, the most recent being his hospital stay. But this time he didn't see the town itself, nor the picturesque lake for which it was named. Instead, the 77th was directed several miles to the south, where another trench network had been constructed. They moved into a reserve position, and the next day Col. Kuhlman lectured the entire regiment via their helmet sets.

  "Lake Francesca is a hub," he told them. "Every major road in the Alps comes through here, and from here the tubes can reach any city in the north. Except for Sophiastad, that makes this the most critical crossroads in the western Alps. Once the enemy captures Lake Francesca, he has a clear shot in any direction.

  "The Sirians are only thirty miles from here, and they've been making gains. At the rate things have been going, we expect them to reach Lake Francesca within a week to ten days. When they do, our job is to stop them cold.

  "I don't have to tell you what that means. Our orders are to hold at all costs, and they're going to hit us with everything they've got. So make your peace with Sophia, because most of us aren't leaving here alive.

  "Good luck, and Sophia's tears."

  Monday, 18 April, 0196 (PCC) — Lake Francesca, Sophia Alps, Vega 3

  Two days later the regiment moved into the line. Oliver was impressed with the trench works — they were even more elaborate than those at Natalia. His unit was stationed at the southernmost extension of the line. From their position they had a view across a broad gorge some two hundred feet below their trench. Half a mile away, another hillside faced them; it wasn't defended, nor did it contain defensive works, but it had been mined, and every inch was sighted by artillery. If and when the Sirians occupied it, they would pay a heavy price.

  "This is your section, Lincoln," Lundgren told Oliver as they peered down the slope toward the rocky bottom of the gorge. "You're responsible for the next fifty meters, and this bunker is for your squad."

  Fifty meters (Oliver had trouble thinking in metric terms, but simply translated it into yards) was quite a distance. Including himself, he had nine people to cover it, about one person every seventeen feet. He would have much preferred to have three times that number.

  The bunker was nice, built into the side of the hill and heavily fortified. The trench wound around it, but a door on each side offered access to three comfortable rooms inside. Firing ports were built into the sides, but didn't offer a view down the hill. They would only be of use if the enemy actually entered the trench.

  The trench was eight feet deep, with cutouts that served as firing posts. Shrapnel shields had been installed over long sections, offering cover from artillery bursts; a medical aid station was located four hundred yards to their left, and a kitchen bunker three hundred yards beyond that. Six hundred feet above them on the hillside was a parallel trench, with another one four hundred feet above that. Defense in depth. Somewhere back up on the mountain were the P-guns — rapid-fire mortars — and halfway back to Lake Francesca were batteries of rockets and heavy artillery. Whoever had designed this defense had planned for a long siege.

  Oliver just hoped it would work.

  Chapter 34

  Wednesday, 20 April, 0196 (PCC) — Lake Francesca, Sophia Alps, Vega 3

  The weather held for the next few days, though the nights turned increasingly colder. The squad ate hot food three times a day and patiently waited for the Sirians to arrive. Except for Pedersen, they'd all been through it before and knew what to expect. The waiting was a pleasant respite from combat.

  Everyone in the squad was instantly infatuated with Pedersen, and she could do nothing for herself — one or more of the men was always offering to help her. She treated them all like younger brothers, but they didn't seem to mind, as long as she paid attention to them.

  Oliver watched it all with a sense of amusement. He wondered how she would do in combat, but having her there was pleasant for everyone.

  One afternoon four days after they arrived at Lake Francesca, Pedersen sought him out.

  "Sergeant?"

  Oliver was inventorying ammunition; he turned. Pedersen stood there looking, it seemed, a trifle guilty. Giordino was with her.

  "Sergeant, would you mind … We'd like to have a religious service."

  "Who? You and Giordino?"

  "All of us. If it's all right with you."

  "Is this some special occasion? It's not Sunday, is it?"

  "No. It's just that — none of us has been to any kind of service in a while. We might never get to another one. It's … important to us."

  Giordino nodded agreement.

  "We don't want to lose sight of our faith," he added.

  Oliver felt awkward. He'd never been religious, and though he understood that many Vegans were, the request took him by surprise. He shrugged.

  "I don't have a problem with it. When do you want to do it?"

  "Right now. Right here."

  "Here? In the bunker?"

  They only nodded. He shrugged again, out of his element.

  "Okay. How long will it take?"

  "A few minutes. We don't have a priestess, and none of us is qualified for a traditional service. We just … just want to …"

  "Okay, sure. I'll keep watch outside."

  He left the bunker and stood in the trench near the doorway. The rest of the squad milled about, looking a little nervous. He felt the same way, but wasn't sure why.

  They removed their helmets and filed inside. Oliver stood at the firing post nearest the bunker and stared down the hill.

  He expected them to close the door, but they didn't. Out of curiosity, he glanced inside from time to time, seeing and hearing. They knelt in a circle in the center of the room, with Pedersen in the middle. Apparently she was the leader of this event, either because she was the oldest, or because she was a woman.

  Pedersen set a small box on the floor and opened it. She touched a switch and a hologram appeared, a twelve‑inch image of Sophia, rippling with color, almost translucent in its beauty. The soldiers bowed their heads, and Pedersen began to speak.

  "Goddess Sophia," she said in her husky voice, "hear your children and know our hearts. We are gathered in your presence, the Vega‑born, unable to worship in the proper manner; but know that we are still your children. We have no priestess to administer the sacraments, but accept our humble intent."

  She continued to pray, and Oliver looked away, feeling guilty for eavesdropping. As Pedersen co
ntinued for more than a minute, he felt a curious sense of compassion for these young Vegans who, even in the face of violent death, remained true to their faith.

  "Guide us, Sophia, as we attempt to walk the Path of Rightness. Many have died, and we know our battle is difficult. Victory is not assured, yet we humbly beg your tears to guide us. Take us to your heart, and do not forsake us."

  Each of the men said a few words in prayer, one by one. Then Pedersen's voice came again. Oliver couldn't make out everything, but she seemed to be quoting some kind of commandments.

  "Honor the woman …" she said.

  "… for she is the one who bears life," the boys chanted in unison.

  "Honor life …" Pedersen said.

  "… and do not destroy life, except to protect life," the men chanted.

  "Walk the Path of Rightness …"

  "… in all your dealings, showing equity to friend and foe alike."

  "Give your best effort to every endeavor…"

  "… and work hard that you may take pride in your accomplishments."

  "Aid the weak …"

  "… and protect the innocent against all evil."

  "Let every believer …"

  "… live an example toward unbelievers."

  "Respect Sophia as your goddess …"

  "… and respect the right of others to believe as they have been taught."

  A moment of silence followed; Oliver saw them all make the Sign of the Cult. It seemed strange to him, almost alien. Yet he could only respect them for it.

  "Thank you, Sophia," Pedersen said quietly, and he heard pain in her voice. "Your tears be with all Vegans in these terrible times."

  "Sophia's tears," the boys said, and got to their feet.

  Oliver saw Pedersen shut down the hologram and pick up the box. Moments later, the squad began to wander back outside, a faraway look in their eyes. For just a moment, Oliver wished that he, too, believed in something.

  Wednesday, 27 April, 0196 (PCC) - Friday, 29 April, 0196 (PCC) — Lake Francesca, Sophia Alps, Vega 3

  The artillery started on 27 April. Rockets, shells, and heavy lasers began pounding the defenses south of Lake Francesca and didn't let up for two days. Oliver's squad huddled inside the bunker, sleepless, listening to the unending cacophony of hell explode around them, feeling the ground heave, wondering if the bunker could hold against a direct hit. It did, several times. Dirt sifted down on the frightened squad each time a salvo crashed nearby. The noise was deafening; their ears rang constantly. Somehow they waited it out, eating cold rations and sharing a single sanitary closet in the rear of the bunker.

  From time to time, Oliver peered out, using a periscope that extended above the bunker roof. There was nothing to see — the air was filled with dust and smoke and occasional wood chips as trees were pulverized on the hillside above. Oliver remained in radio contact with Lt. Lundgren, but there were no orders. They just had to wait it out.

  Just before dusk on 29 April, the barrage stopped. Heads came up, eye contact was made, and Oliver's helmet radio sprang to life.

  "Take your positions! Confederate infantry approaching!"

  "Let's go!" Oliver shouted. "Into the trench! Let's go! Let's go! Pedersen! You're with me"

  They boiled out of the bunker, spreading down the trench and taking up firing positions. The squad to their right was setting up a machine gun.

  The trench was a wreck; entire sections had caved in, and what was still intact was littered with debris from the bombardment. As Oliver and Pedersen peered down the slope from the nearest firing post, bullets began to whiz past them. Oliver saw flashes of gunfire on the hillside opposite, and wondered how the Sirians had fared with the minefields.

  "Keep your head down," he told Pedersen. "Don't give them a silhouette."

  But he had to expose himself to get a look down the hillside, and saw a line of infantry moving upward, perhaps three hundred yards away. It was a skirmish line, ragged but unbroken. Too many to count, but it looked like at least a battalion. He put glasses to his eyes and muttered a curse.

  "What?" Pedersen demanded, her dark eyes wide with fear. "What is it?"

  "Serf troops," he told her.

  "What's a serf troop?"

  "Non-Caucasian men. The Sirians use them in the front lines to soak up our fire. On Sirius they aren't even allowed to hold citizenship. They're treated worse than slaves. But out here they have to die for Sirius, to save the white troops."

  "Why do they do it?"

  "My guess is they don't have any choice. Probably their families are being held hostage."

  Pedersen looked troubled. "So what do we do?"

  Oliver lowered the glasses and pulled the arming lever on his Stockholm 12mm.

  "We kill them."

  Fire from the opposite hillside intensified. Oliver ordered his men to keep down until the last possible moment, then chinned his helmet radio.

  "Lieutenant, this is Lincoln. Can you get some artillery on that slope across from us? We're taking small arms fire, and when that skirmish line gets here it's gonna get hot."

  "Stay on the line, Lincoln. I'll see what I can do." Lundgren was gone for twenty seconds, then came back into Oliver's headset. "On the way. Let me know if you need it adjusted."

  Before Oliver could reply, he heard a sound like the rustle of dry leaves rattle through the sky above him; the first salvo hit the hillside. It was a little short.

  "Raise it fifty yards," he reported. "I mean, fifty meters."

  Thirty seconds later, the second salvo landed.

  "Drop ten meters and let 'em have it!" Oliver shouted.

  The third salvo was right on target, and as shells began pouring into the hillside, the small arms fire died away.

  "Now," Oliver said, "can you put something on that skirmish line?"

  "We're monitoring that," Lundgren told him. "Don't worry about it."

  Oliver looked down the slope again. The grade was steep, but climbable. Vegetation had been cleared to deny cover to the enemy, but there were depressions and occasional boulders. Even so, the Sirians making their way upward looked terribly exposed. They were only two hundred yards out now, still climbing. At the base of the gorge, Oliver saw another battalion getting ready. They would soon follow.

  "When we open fire," he told Pedersen, "take your time and aim your shots. No need for full auto until they get closer. Got that? This is just like a rifle range."

  "Except the targets can shoot back," she reminded him.

  He grinned at her. "You'll do okay. Just remember your training."

  She nodded, her dark eyes boring into his. Above the acrid smoke of artillery explosions, he picked up a whiff of her perfume, and instantly felt the stirrings of an erection. That damned perfume!

  Pedersen gazed down the slope at the oncoming Sirians and Oliver sensed her tension. He remembered his first real combat, and sympathized.

  "Right now," he said, "it's best to keep your head down. Wait until they get closer."

  "How much closer?"

  "A hundred yards or less."

  She heaved a deep sigh and settled down into the shelter of the firing post. Artillery still blossomed on the hillside opposite, and there was conversation over the helmet net, but otherwise the situation felt almost normal.

  Oliver checked the rest of the squad. They were all veterans by now, and waited patiently, unhurried. Oliver quietly gave them instructions and they nodded.

  "Sophia's pussy," Giordino declared.

  Oliver fought the urge to laugh out loud; what would happen on Terra if someone talked that way about "God's dick"?

  The Sirians hit the first minefield; artillery had destroyed some of the mines, but most were still active. The skirmish line wavered as dozens of men died in fiery agony. Oliver peered through his glasses, saw their hesitation.

  "Giordino! Four AP rounds into that line. Hit 'em where they're bunched up!"

  Within seconds, Giordino placed four anti-personnel rockets into the
Sirian line with deadly accuracy. The explosions further disrupted the Sirians, causing many to seek cover. Officers yelled and cursed to get them moving again. Oliver had noticed the officers earlier — they were all white. He wondered what infractions they had committed to get themselves assigned to a serf unit.

  Now he laid his Stockholm on the edge and took careful aim. Without a scope it was a difficult shot, but not impossible. Just as the first cluster of serf troops began to struggle up the hillside again, Oliver took out the nearest officer, blowing off the top of his head. As the body landed heavily and skidded downhill, half the serf soldiers dived for cover again. They began firing up the slope, and bullets kicked along the edge of the trench.

  Oliver ducked and waited. When the fire slacked off, he took another look and saw another officer kicking the frightened serfs to their feet. Before he finished the job, Oliver put a round through his heart. A few yards to the right a third officer was leading a platoon up the slope, and Oliver nailed him in the leg, felling him as the femur shattered and his thigh folded.

  The Sirian advance stopped cold. At least a hundred men tried to go back, only to run into the minefield again. Trapped, they seemed uncertain what to do. Then the parabola guns began to hit, dropping thirty rounds a minute along the length of their line. Screams filled the gathering dusk, and Oliver truly felt sorry for the men on the slope. When the P-guns finally stopped, most were dead or dying, the rest scattered prone across the hillside, too demoralized to move.

  But two hundred yards down the slope, another battalion was already moving upward.

  "Incoming!"

  Oliver dragged Pedersen down with him as the first salvo of rockets slammed into the hillside. Heavy concussion and hot fragments hammered the Guardsmen in the bottom of the trench; Oliver tried to breathe through his mouth, and as wave after wave of rockets hammered the hillside, he became aware that Pedersen was screaming. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her tight, struggling for air as each nearby explosion seemed to constrict his lungs.