by John Bowers
He thought about that for a moment, trying to evaluate it fairly.
"John is a lot smarter than Brad," he said. "I expected more of him."
"Yes, you did. And from a mature viewpoint, that's completely logical. But a little boy can't understand that logic; all he sees is Brad getting a pass while he gets taken to task for every mistake."
Oliver sat silent for several moments, his mind working through the information.
"So John was right. I was a shitty father."
"I suppose that's one way of putting it."
"How come you never said anything?"
"I did. You weren’t listening.”
Oliver felt his guts squirm with guilt, and for a moment was unable to speak. He sipped his scotch and set it down, took a deep breath, and cleared his throat again.
"I'm sorry I put you through that," he said when he was able. "And I'll do whatever I can to make it up to John."
"How are you going to do that?"
"I don't know. But I'll find a way. Somehow."
Loveland, CO, Terra — Loveland Space Force Base
The Wheeled Utility Vehicle (Auxiliary) scooted down the camp street at a brisk speed, piloted by a Spaceman First Class. Johnny Lincoln sat beside him, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of Loveland Space Force Base around him. Everything was Spartan and military in appearance, rows of flat buildings that all looked alike, vast fields of green grass that looked like a school yard, water towers, comm towers, and somewhere in the distance, hangars and runways. The WUV(A) skittered past a formation of recruits with shaven heads. Johnny stared at them with interest, saw a sergeant in someone's face, bellowing at the top of his lungs — something about "steers and queers", but the WUV(A) passed too quickly to hear the rest.
Johnny was puzzled. He'd been at Loveland for a week, had undergone medical exams, psyche exams, dexterity tests, scholastic tests; had been fitted for a uniform, had his hair cut (but not skinned), had been quartered in a sparsely-furnished but comfortable barrack, was allowed to eat at the officers' mess…
It didn't make sense. He'd been fully prepared to arrive as a maggot, to endure the inhumane abuse of drill sergeants, had fully expected to face boot camp with the rest of the recruits. But it hadn't happened. And no one had explained why.
So far the pilot hadn't spoken except when spoken to, always addressing Johnny as "sir". The WUV(A) swung down another street and Johnny saw what looked like an administration building ahead, the Federation flag waving atop a pole. The pilot jerked to a halt and shut down the turbine. He hopped out.
"This way, sir."
Feeling like an idiot in his officer uniform, Johnny stepped down and accompanied the Space 1/c up to the front door of the building. Two sentries beside the door saluted stiffly, and Johnny tried to return the salutes, but no one had ever shown him how. His face burned as he passed the pair, but they betrayed no emotion whatever. Inside the building, his escort turned right and led Johnny to a lift, which took them to the third floor. A moment later, they reached an office with a sign that said:
~
Major Dershowicz
Public Affairs
~
It was a small office, packed wall-to-wall with books, papers, and file cabinets. Recruiting posters lined the walls, and holos of ads that Johnny recognized. Behind the desk sat a red-haired man with mottled skin and eyes that had pupils but no visible irises. He looked up with a blank stare.
"Special Recruit Lincoln, Major!" the escort parroted, and saluted.
"That will be all, Space." Dershowicz returned the salute, and the escort disappeared, leaving Johnny standing there alone. Dershowicz stood abruptly, a smile springing to his face, and stuck out his hand.
"I'm Major Dershowicz," he said graciously. "Please, sit down."
Johnny settled uncomfortably into the only available chair that wasn't stacked with materials. The questions in his mind multiplied.
"Sorry I couldn't meet with you until today," Dershowicz told him. "It gets pretty crazy around here sometimes. I had to fly to the Polygon to get your orders straightened out, and then I had to plan your itinerary. I've been impatient to meet you."
Johnny blinked. "Yes, sir."
Dershowicz sat back in his chair, still smiling, and clasped his hands together. "So, tell me — five Sirians! How did you do it? I mean, you're already an ace before you enlist! What are the odds of that!"
"Pretty long, I guess, sir."
"Damn right, they're pretty long! Christ! Do you have any idea what a sensation you've made in the Federation press?"
"No, sir, not really." Johnny had seen a few holonews reports in his quarters, but aside from that had been fairly busy himself.
"Well, you're a goddamn sensation! Then, two days after the war started, you enlisted in the Space Force. What a coup! What a glorious opportunity!"
Johnny only stared at him, with no idea what he was talking about. Dershowicz smiled wider and placed his hands on the arms of his chair.
"Hell, you haven't been briefed, have you?"
"No, sir. Since I got here they've been running me through all kinds of tests and stuff, but — well, it isn't what I expected. I thought I'd be on the parade ground with the rest of the recruits."
"Oh, hell no! You're much more valuable than that. Listen, Lincoln, you are the hottest property on the planet right now. You're more valuable than any actor or rock star we might get our hands on. What you've done for the war effort so far is nothing compared to what you're about to do."
"I-I'm afraid I don't understand, Major."
Dershowicz took a deep breath and let the smile fade.
"Let me back up. I work for public relations. The Polygon has instructed me to work with you exclusively until we milk this thing for all it's worth. Now the first thing we're going to do is shoot some holo spots for immediate airing. Then you're going on a global tour where you'll meet the public and give patriotic speeches. After that …"
Johnny's eyes were now wide with alarm.
"Excuse me, sir, but — what exactly are you talking about? I'm a pilot. I signed up to fly fighters."
Dershowicz waved a hand carelessly. "Of course you did, but don't worry about that. All in good time …."
"But …"
"Listen, Lincoln — right now your immediate value to the Space Force is in recruiting. That's why you're wearing an officer's uniform. Put a handsome young man like you in front of the public, with five Sirian kills, and you won't believe the recruits we'll get."
"Sir, if you're looking for handsome, you got the wrong guy. I'm really pretty ordinary."
"All the better! Just an ordinary guy, Mr. Average North America — people will look at you and think, 'Hell, if he can do it, then so can I!'"
Johnny stared at Dershowicz as if he were mad.
"Major, when do I start training? I'm not a poster boy. I'm a fighter pilot. I want to get out there and …"
"You've already done that, Lincoln! What's your rush? You're a goddamned hero, and we're going to cash in on that!"
A terrible sinking feeling hit Johnny in the pit of the stomach, and he felt his face turn red.
"May I ask you a question, Major?"
"Of course."
"Did my old man suggest this crazy idea?"
Dershowicz stared for a moment, then his own face began to pink.
"Number one, Lincoln, it isn't a 'crazy idea'. It's a legitimate recruiting drive and it was authorized by the Polygon. Number two, I've never spoken to your father and I doubt anyone else has. Number three, you volunteered for six years in uniform; the moment you took that oath, you belonged to us. You don't have to like this assignment, but this is your assignment, and you will carry it out! Do I make myself clear?"
Johnny stared at him for long seconds. He didn't believe for a moment that Oliver had nothing to do with this. It had his DNA all over it. But Dershowicz was right. He'd volunteered, and now he was stuck.
"Yes, sir!" he said. "Very cle
ar!"
Damn that Oliver!
Chapter 6
Wednesday, 6 September, 0220 (PCC) — Hannover, Germany, Terra
Four weeks into the program, Onja Kvoorik could feel her body beginning to respond. Her arms and shoulders had hardened, the pushups were no longer as painful, and her lungs now carried her through all but the longest runs.
The abuse was just as severe, however. Sgt. Kerrigan's voice cracked across the parade ground like an electro-whip, the corporals still screamed in recruits' faces, and used their batons whenever they felt like it. Onja's determination had hardened, but her hatred hadn't diminished.
Onja had no idea how the war was going. Had there been more bombings? Had the Sirians landed troops? Probably not, since some girls had computers and had reported nothing, but neither had the recruits been given any news. Their entire lives revolved around the daily training and trying to avoid punishment.
The latter wasn't easy. The least infraction was cause for "gimme twenty-five!", and such infractions were as often for sins of omission as commission. Of fifty-eight girls in the platoon, three had been sent to infirmary for sprains, two others for dehydration, and one for a broken jaw. Webber and Tkach were more feared than the Sirians themselves. Ironically, Kerrigan herself never touched a recruit — her corporals handled that chore.
In spite of everything, Onja knew she was making progress. She'd learned the hard way that anything at all could and probably would happen to her, and that she must take it. When Tkach grabbed her breasts she now stood motionless, eyes straight ahead, her only reaction the red spots that burned on her cheeks. Other girls fared worse.
In particular, Onja felt bad for the chubby ones, like Helga. Although passably pretty, Helga was overweight, and suffered during the runs, which could be up to ten miles on a bad day. Invariably she fell behind, and just as invariably, Webber or Tkach would hound her like hyenas, trotting alongside screaming insults at her such as "cow" or "hippo". More than once, the German girl arrived in barracks not only exhausted, but sobbing. She'd lost ten kilos, but it was hardly enough.
Onja was certain that Helga would never make it. Where, she wondered, did such girls end up after boot camp?
* * *
Onja stood in the dark in a driving rain, wearing only her fatigue pants and T-shirt, gripping an ancient rifle that probably hadn't been fired in a century. Helga stood at her back, facing the other direction. Lightning flashed overhead, followed rapidly by the crack of thunder. Onja could see nothing, but it hardly mattered — they weren't really guarding anything. "Sentry duty" for recruits was a bullshit assignment, used for both discipline and humiliation. Everyone drew it, usually two girls at a time, standing "guard" beside a utility shed that contained nothing more sensitive than lawn-care equipment. The only thing it accomplished was to deny them badly needed sleep.
Onja sneezed, the rain washing away the residue. The base seemed deserted, as if everyone else had evacuated. The rain was so heavy she could barely see the lights from nearby facilities. Behind her, Helga stood shaking with cold.
Tkach appeared almost as if by magic, looming out of the darkness like a wraith. Onja unconsciously straightened her shoulders and held the rifle across her chest, assuming attention without being told. Tkach, wearing a raincoat and waterproof cap, stared at her a moment without a word. Finally he rubbed a hand across her scalp, now covered by fine snow-white stubble.
"How's it going, Tits?" he asked quietly.
"Sir, everything is fine, sir!" she shouted.
He nodded, staring at her T-shirt, which was soaked and clinging.
"I can see your tits, Tits!"
"Sir, yes, sir!"
He stepped around her to look at Helga. Helga sneezed just then and continued to shiver. Onja’s heart sank, but she dared not look around.
"And what the fuck was that!" Tkach bellowed, suddenly in the fat girl's face. "Did you just sneeze at me?"
"Sir, no, sir," Helga responded feebly. "I-I'm sorry, sir!"
"Bullshit, you fucking hippo! You sneezed at me! I saw you do it!"
"Sir, I… Please, sir, I think I'm coming down with —"
Tkach slapped her, and Helga dropped her rifle. Instantly he was nose-to-nose with her, screaming more abuse. Onja listened without wanting to, hating Tkach, but glad it was Helga and not her.
"You're a fucking disgrace, Hippo! Do you hear me? A disgrace! You think you're going to be in the Pink Ladies? The Pink Ladies will laugh at you. Do you know why? Because you're fat, Hippo! Pink Ladies have to be sexy, not fat! What soldier would want to screw a fat hippo like you? You're not even built like a woman! What makes you think you can comfort a lonely soldier?"
He stepped back, letting the girl sob uncontrollably. Now he faced Onja again, but his words were directed at Helga.
"Now you take Tits here," he said conversationally. "Tits could be the CO of Pink Ladies if she wanted to. Tits could charge a thousand terros a fuck and get rich if she wanted to! But no, Tits wants to be a gunner! Don't you, Tits? You think you're going to be a combat gunner!"
"Sir, yes, sir!" Onja shouted.
"Bullshit, Tits! You won't ever be a combat gunner. You'll be a combat whore, flat on your back in a Pink Ladies tent, fucking the real soldiers when they come off the line. That's how you'll serve the Federation! You know it and I know it. Right?"
"Sir, no, sir!"
He laid a hand on her scalp again, and leaned close to her ear.
"Do you really think you're going to be a gunner?" he asked.
"Sir, yes, sir!"
"Well, I'll tell you what, Tits! If I give you a down-check, they'll never accept you. Did you know that?"
"Sir, no, sir!" Onja swallowed hard, blinking against the rain. What the hell was he talking about?
"You don't have the discipline, Tits. You've been here a month and you still resist orders. I don't think you're ever going to get it, Tits. What do you say about that?"
"Sir, I can obey orders, sir!"
"Well, why don't we find out? I'm going to give you some orders, and we'll see if you can obey them. Think you can do that?"
"Sir, yes, sir!"
Tkach nodded, then turned back to Helga. Onja was still facing away, and remained at attention. Tkach took Helga's rifle and leaned it against the utility shed. Then he turned Helga to face the shed and forced her to bend forward, her hands flat against the wall.
"Don't turn around, Tits!" Tkach growled. "If you turn around, you get a down-check."
Onja felt herself tremble — what bullshit was this?
Tkach grabbed Helga's pants and jerked them down to her knees. Onja heard Helga gasp with surprise, but didn't see what happened next. Helga's gasp of surprise quickly turned to an animal howl of anguish, then a scream as her fingernails clawed at the wooden building. Onja trembled harder, raging within herself, tears stinging her eyes as she listened to Tkach grunting and panting. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped her rifle, and for a horrible moment she fought the urge to spin around and drive the butt plate into the corporal's skull.
But then the grunting stopped and Helga's howl diminished into a long wail of misery. The fat girl slumped into the mud beside the shed, and Tkach stepped back, reattaching his belt. He was breathing heavily as he faced Onja again. Even in the darkness, his eyes seemed to glitter.
"Here's another order, Tits," he panted. "You didn't see anything, you didn't hear anything, and you don't know anything. Do you understand?"
Onja stared at him with tears still streaming from her eyes. If he wanted to punish her for making eye contact, then fuck him! She simply nodded.
"I can't hear you, Tits!" he bellowed.
"I can't hear you either, Corporal," she said woodenly. "I can't hear anything right now."
Tkach stood there another thirty seconds, breathing heavily. Beside the shed, Helga was trying to pull her pants up, still sobbing weakly. Onja stood motionless, waiting, and finally the corporal nodded.
"Okay,
Tits. Take your friend back to barracks. She's not injured, so she doesn't go to infirmary in the morning, but if she wants to sleep in because she has a cold, that's fine." He tweaked one of her nipples through her soaked T-shirt. "Get yourself a hot shower. Don't want you to get sick, too."
He turned and walked away.
Loveland, CO, Terra
Johnny Lincoln felt like a fool.
The holo spots were dramatic but embarrassing. None lasted for more than thirty seconds, but it took almost a week to shoot four of them.
FADE IN
EXTERIOR — AERIAL SHOTS — NEW YORK CITY, RIO, COPENHAGEN, TOKYO — DAY
Teeming cities with snarling traffic and pollution (use old stock)
ANNOUNCER
(modulated)
Some people say the Federation is decadent.
EXTERIOR — SAME CITIES — STREET SHOTS — NIGHT
Montage of flesh pits, prostitutes, muggers, drug addicts.
ANNOUNCER
Some people say the Federation is corrupt.
EXTERIOR — FAT PEOPLE— DAY
Series of shots showing people who are overweight and out of shape.
ANNOUNCER
Some people say the Federation is sluggish.
EXTERIOR — DALLAS AFTER AUGUST 9 — DAY
Montage of the raging fires after the Sirian attack.
ANNOUNCER
Some people even say the Federation is too complacent to defend itself.
CUT TO
EXTERIOR — AERIAL SHOT OF GALAXYFIGHTER — DAY (STOCK)
The fighter is on patrol, makes a hard, dramatic turn and kicks in afterburners.
ANNOUNCER
Well… some people are wrong!
INTERCUT COMBAT FOOTAGE — SUPERIMPOSE JOHNNY LINCOLN IN F.G.
Use actual wing camera footage from Lincoln's fighter as he engages the Sirians.
ANNOUNCER
Meet Johnny Lincoln. On August 9 he was a civilian test pilot. By pure chance, he was in the right place at the right time.
EXTERIOR — PARKING APRON — DAY
Johnny Lincoln taxis to a stop and climbs out of the cockpit.
ANNOUNCER