A Vow to Sophia

by John Bowers

  Onja spun on her heel, trying to maintain attention. The rest of the girls were less precise, but got the job done. Kerrigan scowled with displeasure but let it go.

  "Forward!" she shouted, "march!"

  The girls began walking forward in a shuffle, no form whatsoever. Few had any idea how to march, or even walk in step. One of the corporals led the procession, the other brought up the rear. With Kerrigan shouting occasional insults, the ragged formation managed to find its way down several camp streets to the "beauty shop". Onja wasn't terribly surprised that it was actually a men's barbershop, a wide room with twenty chairs and a male barber waiting at each. Twenty at a time, the girls took to the chairs. The process was fast and efficient, less than a minute for each girl. Clippers buzzed and hair began to fall like harvested wheat. Within moments the floor was covered with piles of mane; black, brown, red, yellow, and every conceivable shade of blond. Onja blinked as the first girls emerged, their scalps shining white in the sunlight.

  When her turn came she closed her eyes in silent agony while her waist-length, snow-blonde hair died a rapid death. Aside from trimming, she'd never cut her hair in her life, and now eighteen years' worth of growth lay in a heap. She stepped out of the barber's chair and, just for a moment, felt off balance. As if she'd have to learn to walk again.

  She felt naked.

  Friday, 11 August, 0220 (PCC) — Denver, CO, Terra

  Johnny Lincoln stepped out of the anti-grav lift on the top floor of the Executive Tower. The lobby was wide and well decorated, with a rushing waterfall in the center and a holo of a pine forest in the background. As he strode into the lobby he saw Angela Martinez seated at the nearer desk. Mrs. Waterbury's desk sat empty.

  Angela looked up. Her dark eyes widened.

  "Johnny!"

  The way she said it, sort of surprised and breathless, always made him horny. She was a stunner, dark and slender, just five feet four, with long lean legs and straight, midnight hair brushed to the middle of her back. Johnny had always liked Mexican girls, and Angela was one of the hottest he'd ever met.

  "How's the wrist?" he asked, nodding at the transparent splint she still wore.

  "Almost healed," she said, flexing it carefully. "They fused it with a laser. I just have to be careful for about a week."

  Johnny nodded thoughtfully. "I'm glad it wasn't worse. You could've really been hurt, rolling down those stairs like that. Dad told me what happened." It had been two days since the attack, but the first time he'd seen her since.

  "I would've been dead, Johnny, if it weren't for you," she said breathily. "You saved the whole factory."

  He shook his head dismissively.

  "I was lucky," he said. "Lucky and stupid."

  "Stupid? Johnny, you're a hero! You're still all over the holonews across the planet."

  He grinned. "That's because nobody realizes how stupid I was."

  "You shot down five Sirians."

  "So did a lot of other guys. The Fighter Service downed over a hundred altogether. Those guys deserve the real credit."

  "You took on a full squadron all by yourself."

  "It was less than half a squadron."

  "Johnny —"

  "My old man in there?" Her fawning was making him uncomfortable; if her eyes got any wider, they might fall out of her face.

  "Yes, but Senator Wells is with him. He doesn't want to be disturbed."

  "What's Wells doing here?"

  "I think it's about the QF. But you didn't hear it from me."

  Johnny nodded. Henry Wells was Oliver's boyhood friend, and the man most responsible for arming the Federation military after the Sirians overran Vega in 0196. Without him, the Sirians wouldn't have had to attack — they could have just landed troops and planted their flag.

  "Can you break in on him? Tell him it's important."

  Angela looked dubious. "Johnny, I don't know…"

  "I'll buy you dinner."

  Her eyes sparkled as he grinned engagingly.

  "If I get in trouble —"

  "Relax. Your job is safe. The old man's a sap for a pretty face."

  Angela pressed the comm button and spoke hesitantly.

  "Mr. Lincoln?"

  "It better be important, Angie!" Lincoln didn't sound pleased. Angela glanced at Johnny uncertainly.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Lincoln, but Johnny is here to see you. He says it's urgent."

  The comm was silent for five seconds, and Angela closed her eyes dramatically, gritting her teeth.

  "Tell him to wait. I'll be done in about ten minutes."

  "Yes, sir." She killed the line and flinched. "That was close!"

  "Naw, don't worry about it. He just likes to talk tough."

  Johnny settled onto the corner of her desk.

  "How's Mrs. Waterbury doing?"

  "She's recovering. Should be back next week."

  "God, if anything happened to her… I think she's been here since Jesus was a kid."

  Angela smiled. Mrs. Waterbury was looking hard at seventy and was due to retire soon. Angela was grooming for her job.

  "So where are you taking me for dinner?"

  "You ever eat Mexican food?"

  Angela laughed. "No, I've never tried it."

  "Well, you're going to love the place I have in mind."

  She picked up a folder from her desk and walked across the room to a filing cabinet. As she returned, Johnny stepped in front of her. Without a word of warning, he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her tight, and kissed her firmly, moaning softly with pleasure.

  "¡Dios mio!" she gasped when he released her mouth. "What's the occasion?"

  "Just felt like it," he said. "It feels so damn good to be alive."

  "That's the first time you ever kissed me."

  "Always wanted to."

  "Me, too."

  He kissed her again, and this time her arms slid around his neck as she kissed him back, her full breasts pressing hard against his chest. They stood there for thirty seconds, Johnny's back to the executive door. His hands slid down her back and gripped her bottom, squeezing it gently.

  "Ahem!"

  Johnny released her quickly and spun around. Oliver Lincoln III stood there staring at them, a bemused expression on his face. Beside him, short and dapper, Senator Henry Wells smiled broadly.

  "Are you sure you wanted to see me?" Oliver asked. "Or was that just an excuse?"

  Johnny felt his face flush. Angela's was scarlet. She hastily settled down in her chair and slipped on headphones.

  "Come on in," Oliver said, holding the door.

  Johnny walked past him, trying to recover his dignity. Senator Wells shook his hand.

  "Goddamn proud of you, Johnny!" he said enthusiastically. "Taking on the Sirians like that was above and beyond. And a hell of a test for the QF."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Listen, I've gotta run. Glad I got to see you." Henry waved. "I'll call you tomorrow, Ollie. Hello to Rosemary for me."

  "Okay, Henry, same to Yvonne."

  Wells winked at Angela and headed for the lift.

  Johnny headed for the chair facing the desk as Oliver closed the door. He settled down with a sigh as Oliver pulled out his own chair and settled into it. His forehead was covered with small adhesives where flying glass had cut him.

  "So what's up? You didn't come here just to swap tonsils with Angie, did you?"

  Johnny frowned in irritation. That was going to be the gag for the next few years, was it?

  "Speaking of which," Oliver interrupted himself, "she's a helluva girl. About time you paid her some attention. I think she has the hots for you."

  "I don't need you to find women for me, Dad."

  "Wouldn't dream of it. So, how you feeling? Bumps and bruises getting better?"

  "Yeah." The day after the battle, Johnny had barely been able to walk.

  "FYI, Henry thinks the QF deal is as good as closed. Your performance the other day left no doubt in anyone's mind that it's the bes
t fighter ever built."

  "I brought the thing home in pieces. The military had to save my ass."

  "Yes, but not until you nailed five of the bastards."

  "It was luck, Dad. Either they didn't pick me up on radar, or they were slow to react."

  "Yeah, okay. What's on your mind?"

  Johnny heaved a deep breath and braced himself. This wasn't going to be easy, but he had to do it. With a conscious effort, he made eye contact.

  "I'm quitting, Dad. Effectively immediately."

  Oliver said nothing, but his eyes narrowed dangerously.

  "Quitting? Is that what you said? Quitting? Why, John? What — I mean, what the fuck do you mean? You can't quit!"

  "I'm a legal adult, Dad. I can do anything I want."

  "But — Christ, you're a global hero! Why would you want to quit? You're the youngest civilian test pilot in the world! Don't you know how much money you can make?"

  "That's all it is with you, isn't it? Money!" Johnny's expression was close to a sneer.

  "No, of course not. I mean, if you're not happy then that's something else. But — what are you going to do? Where will you go?"

  "The Fighter Service. I enlisted this morning."

  Oliver got to his feet — rather unsteadily, Johnny thought — and stood at the window, staring out. For a moment he just breathed deeply, then placed his hands on the back of his chair and stared at the young man facing him.

  "John, there's something you may not have considered."

  "I doubt it."

  "Listen anyway, then do whatever you want. The Fighter Service has plenty of good pilots, already trained. What they're going to need is lots and lots of better fighters. They're flying the GalaxyFighter, and it's a damn good ship, but the QF is better and we both know it. As the war progresses, and the Sirians develop newer and better ships, we're going to have to do the same. We have to out-produce them if we're going to win. Do you understand?"

  "Sure. That's your job."

  "No, that's our job! You're my best test pilot, John."

  "You have other men. Lars Sorenson is as good as they come."

  "Lars is damned good, but you're still better. Why go out there and get your ass blown away when you can serve the war effort just as well from here? You already proved you have the guts to fight, now prove you have the guts not to fight!"

  "That doesn't make any sense. Anyway, it's too late. I already took the oath."

  "I can get you out of it. Henry will help. This is a vital defense industry and you're a vital employee. It won't be any trouble at all."

  "I'm not going to sit it out, Dad. I'm going to fight. With my experience I can skip nearly a full year of training."

  "Why, John? Why do you want to go out there? Didn't you get enough the other day?"

  "No, I didn't. They scared me really bad, and I ran. I ran, Dad."

  Oliver stared at him in dismay, breathing deeply to control his mounting frustration.

  "There's no shame in running," he said, "when you're heavily outnumbered. Why stick around and die when you can run and fight another day?"

  "I can't accept that."

  "You can accept a lot of things. You'll find that out, if you live long enough."

  "Look," Johnny said, rising, "I didn't come here to ask your blessing. I came to give notice. I'm leaving in the morning."

  "John —"

  "I'm going to see Mom next, then I'm taking Angie to dinner, and I report to Loveland tomorrow."

  "John, think for a minute! If you get yourself killed out there, who's going to take over the plant when I retire?"

  Johnny stood staring at him for a heartbeat, then his face turned ugly. He stabbed a finger at Oliver's chest.

  "Don't you dare pull that bullshit on me! I may be a goddamned fool, but I'm not fool enough to think you'll ever turn that chair over to me!"

  "Why wouldn't I?"

  "You've got Numb Nuts!"

  Oliver flushed. "That's no way to talk about your brother."

  "He's not my brother!" Johnny trembled. "And for that matter, you're not my father!"

  Oliver gulped. "What! Who told you that?"

  "I saw my DNA workup from kindergarten. My real name isn't Lincoln, is it? Mom already had me when you married her. But Brad was your son from another woman." He smiled bitterly. "It all makes sense now. He was your favorite. I was never good enough for you. Now I know why!"

  Oliver shook his head helplessly. "John, that's just not true."

  "Do you deny that I'm not your son?"

  "Yes, I do deny it! I'm —"

  "Bullshit! I saw the fucking DNA workup!"

  "I'm not your biological father, that's true —"

  "You're not my father in any sense at all! Would you like to hear all the things you did when I was growing up? I could keep you here all night telling you just part of it!"

  "Your mother already had you when we got married, but I'm your legal father. I adopted you. I wasn't perfect, but —"

  "No shit, you weren't perfect!"

  "I made mistakes, John. It was a difficult time. I was under a lot of stress."

  "Yeah? So was I! From the day I was born. And you know what? You caused it."

  Oliver, off balance for the first time in years, spread his hands placatingly. "Look —"

  "Save your breath — Oliver! You never wanted me in the first place, so count your blessings. I'm off your hands and out of your house."

  Johnny turned and strode for the door. Pulling it open, he looked back.

  "Enjoy your freedom."

  And he was gone.

  * * *

  Oliver Lincoln III stood there for half a minute, staring at the door. How the hell could things turn to shit so quickly? Slowly he turned and made his way across the spacious office to the window that looked out onto the huge manufacturing complex.

  Payback, he thought. So this is how it happens.

  It had been right here, in this same office, that he'd stood down his own father…what? Twenty-five years ago? Oliver Lincoln II had been a hard man, cold and austere. Father and son had loved each other, but neither had ever dared say so.

  Oliver's dad had infuriated him, questioning his every move, second-guessing him at every turn, taking every opportunity to undermine his confidence. Or so Oliver had thought.

  But his dad had been right more often than not, he'd grudgingly discovered. Oliver had been arrogant, egotistical, self-willed. His dad's attempts to reach him had largely failed, until he discovered for himself that he hadn't been born with all the answers.

  And what I had to go through to learn that! he thought bitterly. Will Johnny have to experience anything that bad?

  He removed a small box from a drawer, laid it on the desktop, and opened the lid. Inside lay a small medal, slightly tarnished with the years; a flat gold crown attached to a ribbon of Royal Blue, overlaid by a tiny silver sword.

  The Sword of Sophia.

  How many good people died?

  He felt responsible for many of them. If only he'd been smarter…

  But that was all in the past. What worried him now was the future.

  He closed the box and put it away.

  Hannover, Germany, Terra

  Sgt. Kerrigan stood under floodlights and screamed abuse at the formation. It was early morning of the second day and the recruits were exhausted. After the "beauty shop" they'd been marched to the quartermaster where they were issued fatigues, boots, underwear, and bedding. They were then marched to barracks where they stowed their bedding and were given five minutes to change; the clothing didn't fit, but no one cared except the recruits; then it was on to the parade ground where they were forced to do calisthenics that few had ever done before.

  After dark they'd been fed — fifteen minutes to eat all they could choke down — then back to the parade ground for more calisthenics. About half the girls quickly puked their dinner, but the only sympathy they received were screaming curses from Kerrigan and sharp blows from th
e corporals. They didn't get to bed until midnight; bugles woke them four hours later and they found themselves back in formation in the freezing pre-dawn for more punishing exercise.

  Onja stood wearily, shivering with cold, trying to maintain what she thought was attention, her mind reeling from the whirlwind of abuse. Had she only left home yesterday?

  "Is anyone hungry?" Sgt. Kerrigan bellowed, scanning the ranks with narrowed eyes.

  The girls had already learned that rhetorical questions never had a "right" answer — no matter what you said, it was wrong. No one spoke.

  "No one?" Kerrigan said. "Excellent! Then we will practice standing at attention. None of you sleeping beauties has done it right yet, so let us begin! Corporals!"

  Webber began at one end, Tkach at the other, moving down the line, shaping each girl into a semblance of attention. If a girl slumped she received the end of a truncheon in the back; if her shoulders were too far back, she got one in the stomach. The men were brutal and familiar in their handling of the girls.

  Onja stood to the left of center, waiting her turn. Tkach was going to reach her first, and if she'd thought Kerrigan was ugly, Tkach must be her son. His hideously huge eyes made him look like an owl; his balding forehead sloped like a ski jump. Her skin crawled as he stopped in front of her, staring at her with undisguised contempt.

  "Okay, Tits!" he said. He grabbed her shoulders and shoved them back, then jerked her head forward an inch. She sucked in her stomach before he could adjust it, and he stared at her for a second, then nodded.

  "Not bad, Tits. Not bad."

  He ran his hand over her bare scalp, and without thinking, she ducked. He froze, his ugly eyes suddenly insolent.

  "What's your fucking problem, Tits!" he bellowed in her face.

  She snapped back to attention, mortified at herself. But it was too late.

  "I asked you a question, goddammit! What — Is — Your — Fucking — Problem?"

  "Sir, I — I'm sorry, sir!"

  "That ain't gonna cut it, Tits! You already fucked up, you Norway slut! You are on my list!"

  She blinked. For just an instant she glared at him. Instantly he slapped her, rocking her head to the side. She snapped back to attention, shocked and raging inside. Tears formed in her eyes, which made her furious at herself — she hated to show the slightest weakness to this man.