by John Bowers
He could see the Soderstad skyline from here, just three miles away. It was the southernmost city on Vega 3, the first to be captured by the Sirians, and the safest place to house POWs; if one should escape from this camp, one faced either the ocean or the city; the ocean offered no hope, and the city was crawling with Sirians.
As far as he knew, no one had ever tried to escape.
Oliver could see several hundred inmates around the compound, huddled in small groups or strolling casually in the cold wind. Unlike prison camps he'd read about in the history chips, the Sirians didn't demand work details, so the daily routine was pretty boring.
He'd almost reached his barrack when he spotted two Confederate guards approaching. He stopped and waited, making them come to him. They stopped on either side of him, their expressions grim. He held out his hands and one of them snapped on E-cuffs.
"What is it now, jerkoff?" Oliver demanded sourly. "Another fucking IQ test?"
He'd been interrogated several times over the past month by a pair of confused colonels who couldn't seem to decide what to do with him; once his identity as a Federation citizen had become clear, the prison-camp bureaucracy had jerked to a halt.
"Shutcher trap, Feddie!" one of the guards told him. "The brass wants to see you."
"Oh, great. Can't win this fucking war without my advice!"
The other guard shoved him, making a point of pushing his injured shoulder. Oliver grunted with pain, but turned to glare at the guard.
"You better watch it! I'm gonna tell your mama!"
"Fuck off, Feddie. My mama's dead."
"She wasn't dead last night. Best fuck I ever had!"
This time it was a rifle butt to his head, and it felled him. Blood seeped from his scalp and his head swam. For a moment he thought he would vomit, but they hauled him to his feet and shoved him forward. He made no more rude comments as they approached the gate leading to the administration building.
The guards took him inside and left him in the same room where the colonels had grilled him. It was a plain room, ten by ten, with a table and four chairs. The door slid shut and he collapsed into a chair, resting his head against the wall. His shoulder was really hurting now, and his head had joined the throb. He reflected that it might be time to curb his expressions of hostility toward the guards.
He waited a half-hour.
The door opened with a swish and Oliver looked up. Had he been capable of the emotion, he might have been surprised — but he wasn't.
"You son of a bitch!" he said quietly.
Brandon Marlow stepped into the room, letting the door close slowly behind him. Tall and elegant in his ebony SE uniform, Brandon only stared at him.
"Is that any way to greet your best friend?"
"What are you doing here?" Oliver asked, half-glad and half-dismayed to see him.
"I came to get you out," Brandon told him evenly. "Unless you like it here and want to stay." His eyes were harder than Oliver remembered, as if he'd seen things that changed him.
"So get me out."
Brandon took a chair and sat facing him.
"I will. But first, maybe you'd like to tell me what the fuck you're doing here?"
Oliver sneered. "Fuck off."
"I'm impressed with your gratitude."
"Fuck you!"
"You said that. What the hell are you doing in the Veggie Guard? Just tell me that."
Oliver relaxed a little. He took a slow breath.
"I was scheduled to leave here the day your fleet showed up," he said. "I was about twelve hours too late."
"What were you doing on Vega in the first place?"
"Was I supposed to ask your permission to come here?"
"Goddammit, Ollie …"
"I heard the women here were an instant hard-on. I came to see for myself."
Brandon's eyes narrowed. Oliver held his gaze as if his explanation made sense. Brandon frowned.
"So you got caught here. And like every other Feddie on the planet, you decided to join the Guard?"
Oliver ignored the sarcasm. "No. Like every other Feddie on the planet, I went to the embassy, but it was a fucking zoo. So I decided to find the nearest Sirian unit and surrender."
"Why didn't you?"
Oliver's brow furrowed with the pain of memory.
"I tried to. But at the time I made contact, I was in the company of two Vegan girls. Your troops jumped them like roosters in a henhouse, and when they finished fucking them they killed one and kidnapped the other. They beat the living shit out of me and left me for dead."
Brandon heaved a sigh, his expression softening a little.
"So much for Federation neutrality," Oliver said. "At that point I wasn't too fond of anything Sirian. And I haven't forgotten," he added, "that your people murdered my sister."
Brandon's eyes narrowed to lasers.
"What the fuck're you talking about! You know her death was ruled an accident!"
"Bullshit!" Oliver half rose from his chair. "You know goddamned well it was no accident! Maybe you don't want to believe it, and maybe I can't prove it, but in your heart you know it as well as I do! She was lynched!"
"You don't know that for sure. Neither do I."
"Then why did you let the SE pay for shipping her body home?"
Brandon stared at the table for a moment.
"You didn't have to join the Guard," he said. "That looks really bad for you, Ollie. You declared war on the Confederacy."
"The goddamned Confederacy declared war on me! On the whole Lincoln family! After all the business we've done with them!"
"How many Sirians did you kill?"
"Does it matter?"
"It might. I can get you out of here, but I have to sell it to higher authority."
Oliver allowed an ironic smile to twist the corner of his face.
"You've seen me shoot," he said. "You figure it out."
"Don't play games, Ollie! This is serious shit."
"Jesus Christ! How the hell should I know? Some of the battles were at night, and even in daylight you never know for sure."
"Give me a guesstimate."
Oliver shrugged. "Maybe a hundred." He knew it was more.
Brandon's expression turned sour. Clearly he wasn't happy with that number.
"What's the matter, can't you sell that?"
"Maybe, but it would be a lot easier if you just said the Veggies forced you into uniform."
"Well, they didn't. They even tried to discourage me from enlisting. Said I was too fat."
Brandon looked him up and down. "Looks like their fitness program is pretty good."
Oliver was silent.
"So where did you fight? Royal Meadows?"
Oliver's eyebrows lifted. "You mean the Slaughter Pen? No, I missed that one."
"Well, that's a plus. Where else?"
"Half a dozen places. Natalia, Ginastad, Contessa Peak, Lake Francesca…"
"With your rifle skills I'm surprised they didn't make you a sniper."
Brandon watched him closely, obviously looking for a reaction. Oliver met his gaze and they stared for ten seconds without blinking. Brandon swallowed.
"Christ, Ollie! This is bad!"
"It could have been worse," Oliver told him. "I didn't shoot you."
Brandon's eyes widened perceptibly.
"Didn't you ever wonder why there was no third shot?"
Brandon turned pale. He began to pant, as if the room were suddenly too warm; beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
"That was you?" he whispered.
Oliver nodded slowly. "I kept you in my sights until you got back inside that building. The guy next to me was screaming at me to kill you."
"Fuck!"
Brandon’s hands were shaking, the first time Oliver had ever seen him not completely in control.
"So," Oliver said, "you owe me. Get me out of here. I'd like to go home."
Oliver had a barrack building all to himself. His cell had bunks for eight, but he
was the sole occupant. For some reason the Sirians wanted him isolated, and in truth, he didn't really mind. He had a lot to think about, a lot to remember — and a lot to regret. The solitude made that easier.
He lay face-up on his bunk and stared at the ceiling. He wondered if Brandon really had the authority to get him released. The SE was an elite unit, dominating the rest of the Sirian military, but there had to be limits. Brandon was only a captain, after all.
That would work itself out; he refused to worry about it. It seemed clear that the Sirians weren't going to shoot him any time soon, and the political implications would probably prevent them from ever taking such drastic action. Even so, they probably had the right to hold him indefinitely.
He sighed. He'd really fucked this up, hadn't he? His dad had warned him, had tried to prevent him from making this trip. But his arrogance had been too strong, and he'd done it his own way. Look what it got him!
He knew he was damned lucky to be alive.
And almost regretted it, since almost all of his kids were dead.
He couldn't stop thinking about Giordino and Pedersen.
And Erika.
And Jacquje.
He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. All those young Vegan faces kept appearing before him. He'd really fucked this up.
The outer door opened and he heard voices. He sat up, curious. Usually, once supper was over, he was locked in and forgotten until morning. They didn't even bother to post a guard inside the barrack.
The guard's name was Homer, and he strode down the center aisle toward Oliver's cell with three women in tow. Oliver frowned as they stopped in front of him. What was this?
"Good news, Feddie!" Homer grinned at him. "The docs say yew're recovered enough for some recreation." He gestured at the three women. "Take your pick."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Oliver demanded.
"It's camp policy," Homer said. "Every prisoner is entitled to some pussy every other day. I got three bitches here and yew can have any one yew want. Just pick one."
"Is this a joke?" Oliver stared at the women, who gazed miserably back at him. All three were in their thirties, all were Vegan, and all were black. They were dressed like whores in skimpy skirts and high heels.
"No joke, Feddie. Pick one!"
"I'm not in the mood. Maybe some other time."
Homer shoved his face right up to the force field. "Pick one, goddammit! Or I'll pick one for yew! Like I said, it's camp policy, so yew don't have to be 'in the mood'!"
"Fuck off, Homer! I don't want to see your ugly face until breakfast!"
Trembling with fury, Homer shoved the women away from the cell and deactivated the force field. He stepped inside.
"Listen, yew ungrateful son of a bitch!" he snarled, "yew're gonna fuck one of 'em or I'm gonna relocate that wounded shoulder for yew! I have my orders and now yew have yours!"
Oliver returned to the bunk and sat down, swung his legs up and lay back, staring at the ceiling again. Homer glared at him a moment, then spun around and grabbed the nearest woman. He shoved her into the cell and reactivated the field. Muttering curses, he led the other two out of the barrack.
The woman stood there a moment, hugging herself, reminding Oliver of a frightened dog. Finally she sat down on the corner of a bunk facing him.
"My name is Georgia," she said. "What's yours?" The accent sounded strange on her lips — he'd never met a black Vegan.
"Oliver," he said. He sat up. "What's this about? I've been here over a month and they've never done this before."
"Maybe because you were hurt," she said. "All the other prisoners get women."
Oliver shook his head in confusion. "But why?"
"To humiliate us," she said. "Most Vegans, even those who don't worship Sophia, have an ingrained aversion to any form of rape. So they force the prisoners to sleep with us, to humiliate us. It's like the men are being raped, too, because it's against their beliefs."
Oliver lifted his chin and gazed at the wall, nodding slowly. How uniquely Sirian, he thought. His hatred grew another notch. He looked at Georgia again and shook his head slowly.
"Well, don't worry," he told her. "I have no intention of doing that. You can sleep safe tonight. I'm not even Vegan, so they can't force me to hurt you."
But she shook her head, her beautiful eyes worried.
"Oliver, you don't understand. You have to do this!"
"No I don't."
"Yes you do. Please! Tomorrow morning they will give me a pelvic exam, and if they don't find semen, they'll beat me!"
He frowned. "What?"
"They never punish the men. Always the women. One of my friends was beaten until she died. And they make the men watch!"
Oliver's blood turned cold. "You're not kidding?"
"I'm not kidding."
He stared at her, but his eyes glazed and she swam out of focus. How many Vegan deaths was he responsible for? Jacquje, certainly, and probably Erika. Danmark. Giordino and Pedersen, because he'd delayed their retreat. How many others in his squad could he have saved, if he'd been smarter?
"Oliver?"
His eyes narrowed, and he focused on Georgia again.
"Please, Oliver."
He nodded reluctantly. "Okay."
Chapter 38
Friday, 8 July, 0196 (PCC) — Denver, CO, North America, Terra
For the next week, Oliver Lincoln II performed his daily routine with all the civility of a Vegan hypercat. On July 8, he called Rosemary into his office. She stood facing him uncertainly, intimidated by his mood.
"Take a seat," he said.
She sat.
He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, rubbing his temples.
"Rosemary, I just need somebody to talk to," he said. "I can't tell my wife what Henry had to say, and you're the only one who knows. So, you're elected."
She managed a smile, and relaxed a little.
"How're you holding up?" he asked.
"I'm doing all right. It was quite a relief to know that Ollie is safe."
Lincoln stared at her thoughtfully, then nodded. "I guess I should look at it that way, too," he admitted. "Instead, I keep wondering what I should be doing to get him home."
"From what Henry Wells said, I don't think there's anything you can do."
He stared out the window.
"You're probably right. If I try to rattle any cages, I'll only make things worse. My temper is razor thin right now, and I know I'll say the wrong thing."
She watched him sympathetically for a minute.
"Mr. Lincoln, I wish there was something I could say to make you feel better about everything, but …"
He shook his head. "There isn't. This is self-imposed torture. I'm used to being in control, to having the power to enforce my own will. Now I'm facing a situation where I'm standing on the sidelines, and I just don't handle that very well." He managed a grin. "Sort of a tyrant's curse."
Rosemary wisely let that one go.
"So," he said, mentally shifting gears. "How are you and Mason getting along?"
Rosemary flushed. "You know about that?"
"That you're dating Mason? Sure, everybody does. He isn't exactly a deaf-mute, you know."
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Men talk, Rosemary. Mason talks a lot."
She felt her stomach turn over. "What exactly does he talk about?"
Lincoln shook his head. "Nothing specific, but people can read between the lines." He took a deep, slow breath, avoiding her eyes. "Rosemary, I know I'm not your father, but your dad was a good friend of mine, and I feel a certain responsibility …"
Still frowning, she studied him carefully, her blood pounding in her ears.
"Please don't take this the wrong way," he continued. "I know you're an adult, and your private life is none of my business …"
"What do you want to tell me, Mr. Lincoln?"
"Mason is a good security chief," Lincoln said, "the best I ever had. He's
experienced and he's very smart. I hired him because I needed his skills." He paused briefly. "However … Well, let's just say I wouldn't want him to marry my daughter."
She sat very still, waiting for the rest.
"Mason has some definite flaws," he said, seeming to choose his words with care.
"What kind of flaws?"
Lincoln seemed suddenly ill at ease.
"Let me put it this way," he said; "if I wanted a guard dog, I'd look for one with a vicious, aggressive nature — but I wouldn't let my kids play with it."
Silence settled over the room for ten seconds.
"Do you understand what I'm saying?" he asked.
She shook her head slowly. "I'm not sure I do," she said, though she was pretty sure she did. "Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"
"It never crossed my mind that you and Mason would ever get together. I should've known, I guess — he's the type who collects beautiful women like trophies — but with everything else that's been going on I just wasn't paying attention." He sighed wearily. "For that I apologize. I should've warned you about him."
Rosemary stared at her feet for a moment, her face burning.
Lincoln seemed to sense he might have gone too far.
"If I'm out of line in any way, just forget this conversation," he said.
She met his eyes again with a faint smile.
"Mr. Lincoln, I'm touched that you're concerned enough to mention it to me. Thank you."
He waved a hand carelessly.
"Do you need me for anything else?" she asked.
"No. Get back to work. And keep your head up around Mason."
"Yes, sir." She smiled.
London, Europe, Terra
Henry Wells put away the latest FIA report as Howard Nieters entered his office. The report was an exercise in frustration anyway; what Henry really wanted was more information on Ollie, but nothing new had been reported.
Nieters settled into a chair with a sigh, looking relieved to be off his feet.
"How's it going, Mr. Wells?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye.
Henry waved a hand. "Same old stuff; debates about this and that. None of which I give a shit about."
"And why is that?"
"I'm really only interested in one topic," Henry said. "And that one was killed in committee six months ago."
Nieters smiled. "Patience, my young friend. Your proposal was killed, but it isn't dead. I happen to know it is the topic of quite a bit of unofficial conversation around town."
