A Vow to Sophia

by John Bowers

  Johnny showed up exactly at eight, and her brother Rico let him in. Angela waited exactly one minute before stepping out of her room, interrupting an embarrassed silence between teenaged Rico and the famous fighter pilot. Both stared at her in disbelief when she appeared.

  "¡Jesu cristo!" Rico gasped. "¿Tu eres mi hermana?"

  Johnny seemed to have trouble catching his breath, but stepped forward gallantly and took her hand in his.

  "God almighty!" he whispered. "She walks in beauty, like the night!" He kissed her gently on the cheek. "You look like a goddess!"

  "¡Jesu cristo!" Rico said again, this time in disgust. He dropped back onto the couch and returned to his solarball game.

  "You ready?" Johnny asked. He looked more muscular, resplendent in his charcoal dress uniform.

  Angela smiled and nodded, her heart hammering in her chest.

  "Then let's go. Our destiny awaits."

  The Top of the Rock was the swankest nightspot in Denver, located on the top floor of one of the skytowers. Angela was astonished at the elegance, the sheer atmosphere as a haughty mâitre d' led them to a table. Angela walked carefully to avoid tripping in the dim light.

  Before they reached their table an excited buzz swept the room and she saw heads turning. Johnny's was the only uniform in sight, and he was instantly recognized. He smiled and nodded as people made eye contact with him. They'd barely been seated when an elderly gentleman in a white tux appeared at their table and laid a veined hand on Johnny's shoulder.

  "Pardon me for interrupting your evening," he said in a manicured voice, "but I won't take long. Young man, I want to thank you for restoring my faith in the younger generation. I've been following your career these past few months, and I am honored to have this opportunity to meet you."

  Johnny stood quickly, accepting the gentleman's hand.

  "Thank you, sir. But, really —"

  "No, no, it isn't 'nothing'. That's what you were about to say, isn't it? Unfortunately, it's always the finest of our youth we send out to defend us when these cosmic tragedies overtake us. I wish to god I was your age again; I'd love nothing more than to be your wingman. But I'm eighty-one years old, and those days are far in my past."

  He smiled, and winked at Angela.

  "Now, I've taken far too much of your valuable time. Feel free to order anything you want. I'll be picking up the tab."

  Angela felt her scalp tingle, and turned shining eyes on Johnny. For the first time all evening, he seemed at a loss for words.

  "Sir… Thank you. I-I'm overwhelmed."

  "Don't be, son. I knew your grandfather well. I'm only sorry he isn't here to see how you turned out. He would be even more proud than I am."

  The gentleman returned to his own table, and Johnny sat slowly, shakily.

  "Who was that?" Angela asked quietly.

  "I have no idea. I thought I knew all the important men in town."

  Dinner was the finest Angela had ever eaten. The portions were small, expensive, but surprisingly filling. The wine was aged and exotic, and after her second glass, she felt a warm glow spreading through her that rivaled what she'd felt all evening.

  "Want to dance?" Johnny asked presently.

  "Of course."

  And they'd moved onto the small, wooden dance square in the center of the room, filling it with their presence; in short order they were dancing alone, watched by every diner in the room. The vocalist stood ten feet away, her facial muscles straining as she gave the performance of her career, as if she sensed the portent of the moment. She hit the climax with her throat bobbing, and Johnny swept Angela around to a perfect finish, closing his lips over hers to thunderous applause from the diners.

  Flushed and still tingling, Angela caught her breath as Johnny released her and stepped over to the vocalist. He gave the singer a kiss on the cheek and pressed a tip into her hand. She blushed and thanked him.

  "Ready to get out of here?" Johnny asked as he returned to Angela.

  "Yes."

  They returned to their table, where Angela picked up her things, then headed toward the exit. As they passed the elderly gentleman's table, the old man nodded at them with a wink. Johnny shook his hand and thanked him again, then led Angela out of the dining room.

  "Where to next?" she asked as they stepped into the lift.

  He didn't answer until the door swished shut. Then he turned and pulled her into his arms, kissing her hard.

  "I have a room," he said quietly, his voice slightly unsteady. "Spend the night with me."

  Angela turned surprised dark eyes on him. They'd dated occasionally, but never slept together.

  "It could be the last chance we'll ever have," he reminded her quietly.

  "Don't say that!" she whispered. "Don't ever say that!"

  "Angela, I'm not trying to asteroid you. I don't know what's waiting for me when I go back, but I'm a realist. Even if I do come back, it might be years."

  She swallowed hard, gazing into his eyes. Her lungs felt constricted. She knew he was right, and yet…

  And yet.

  She knew she wanted to. It went against her Catholic upbringing, but — she wanted to!

  His eyes never left hers as he waited. Almost without her consent, she felt her head nodding.

  "Okay," she said. "Okay."

  Tuesday, 13 March, 0221 (PCC) — Denver, CO, Terra

  "Angie, would you come in here a minute?"

  "Right away, Mr. Lincoln."

  Angela Martinez killed the intercom and hurried through the heavy oaken door to the executive office. Oliver Lincoln III was leaning back in his chair, waiting for her. She looked at him expectantly.

  "Sit down," he said, waving her to a chair. "Need to talk to you for a minute."

  Angela's expression became guarded; Lincoln had never summoned her just to chat; had she done something wrong? She stepped over to the chair and sat gingerly on the edge of it.

  "Am I in trouble, Mr. Lincoln?" she asked tentatively.

  "I don't know," he said. He stared at her for a minute, and she waited uneasily, trying to read the hard grey eyes in that weathered face.

  "Are you pregnant?" he demanded bluntly after several seconds.

  Angela's breath caught in her throat; she flushed crimson. Her heart thundered and she suddenly found it difficult to breathe. She stared back at him with guilty eyes.

  "Yes, sir," she whispered, unconsciously twining her fingers.

  He nodded slowly, eyes narrowed with that dangerous look she knew so well.

  "Thought so. You've been looking a little peaked lately. Morning sickness?"

  She nodded. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lincoln. I was going to tell you…"

  "Do I know the father?"

  She nodded miserably, certain that her career with Lincoln Enterprises was over.

  "Is it John?"

  She could no longer meet his eyes. She nodded again, swallowing to blink back the tears.

  Lincoln stared hard at her for another few seconds, then closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. He sighed.

  "Does he know?"

  "No, sir."

  Lincoln stared out the window, his expression still unreadable.

  "Are you going to fire me, Mr. Lincoln?" Angela asked, bracing for the answer. He pulled his eyes back to her face in surprise.

  "Fire you? Because my son got you pregnant?"

  Angela dared to breathe again as she saw genuine astonishment in his eyes.

  "Hell!" Lincoln declared, "I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner, if you want to know the truth. I've been a little worried about the boy for not taking you more seriously."

  She swallowed hopefully.

  "Are you in love with him?"

  "Oh, yes, Mr. Lincoln. For a long time."

  "Does he know that?"

  "I don't know. I told him, but — I'm not sure he believed me."

  Lincoln regarded her in silence for a moment. "What are your plans?" he asked finally.

  "I'd like to k
eep my job," she said. "And I want to have the baby. If anything happens to Johnny, then part of him will survive."

  Lincoln's eyes narrowed again.

  "This puts you in the pilot's seat, you know."

  "Sir?"

  "You could force him to marry you now."

  "I would never do that!" she gasped. "This was an accident, Mr. Lincoln. I would never do that to him."

  Lincoln said nothing, but his eyes glinted admiration.

  "When are you going to tell him?"

  "I don't know. He has a lot to worry about already. He doesn't need to be distracted. I won't do anything to put him in danger."

  Lincoln nodded. "Angie, do me one favor, will you?"

  "If I can, sir."

  "Don't tell anyone else about this. It's our secret, yours and mine."

  "Mr. Lincoln, people will know very soon…"

  "Take some time off. Medical leave. Six months, a year, whatever you need. We'll cook up a story for the staff about nervous depression or some shit like that. I'll hold your job for you, and we can figure out how to handle it when you come back. By then John will probably know, and if he doesn't, we'll wing it. All medical bills will be paid by me. Anything you need, no matter how trivial, you've got. Understood? And your salary will continue in your absence."

  Angela stared at her boss in numb disbelief.

  "Mr. Lincoln, that's — that's more than generous!"

  "You're carrying my grandchild, Angie. And one more thing — whether John marries you or not, the baby is a Lincoln. Agreed?"

  She nodded quietly, unable to speak.

  "Take the rest of the day off," he said. "I'll call you tomorrow."

  Book Two: Evolution

  Chapter 11

  Saturday, 9 June, 0221 (PCC) — Asteroid Base 131, Solar System

  Asteroid Base 131 was a fully contained city of over three thousand people. The majority were support personnel; maintenance, medical, culinary, IT, housekeeping, hydroponics, recycling, mechanics, ordnance, anti-spacecraft (ASC), Star Marines, Intelligence — those specialties and others struggled to keep three squadrons of combat fighters flying.

  Onja Kvoorik got her first look at AB-131 from the observation lounge of UFF Colin Powell, a transport/supply ship based on Mars. The view was hardly impressive, just one more rock that happened to be larger than most of the rocks around it. The good news was it looked so nondescript that one would never suspect it was home to a combat fighter wing.

  "What do you think?" asked a breathless voice at her side, and Onja glanced at Sylvia Gates, a slender redhead she'd met at Advanced Gunnery on Luna 1.

  "Not much to look at," Onja replied solemnly. "Not exactly the place I would choose to die."

  "What're you talking about?" Sylvia, an eternal optimist, was smiling. "Who said we're gonna die here? Look at it as opportunity! You're always wanting to kill Sirians, aren't you?"

  "Yes. I do see it as opportunity, but I have no illusions about the war, or my chances of survival."

  The trip out to Mars had taken nearly ten days; Onja and her companions, fifty-five pilots and gunners, had then transferred aboard Powell, already loaded with supplies, munitions, and spare parts for the beleaguered asteroid base. The final leg, unarguably the most dangerous, had taken another five days; not only did they have to navigate the Asteroid Belt, they were now in enemy territory, what one of the North Americans called "Indian country"…whatever the hell that meant. Six fighters flew escort.

  Fortunately, they rendezvoused with the base without incident.

  With mixed emotions, Onja took one last look through the observation window. It didn't look very elegant, was hardly what she'd expected, but battlefields probably never were. If Sophia had handed her this opportunity, she wouldn't turn it down.

  * * *

  Onja felt more comfortable once inside the base. It still wasn't elegant, but anything was better than the confines of the transport ship. The lower levels were strictly utilitarian; the walls just bare rock where engineers had carved out corridors and storage rooms. Crew ladders provided access to the upper levels, but freight lifts were also available, each able to handle thirty people in pressure suits. Onja and her party emerged into a sort of lobby that had a more finished look, the rock covered by insulated siding that looked more livable than the lower levels.

  The most disconcerting thing was the artificial gravity, which had been set at about 50%. Onja had become accustomed to Luna 1, where it had been set at 85%.

  They were directed into a surprisingly large room called the "parade ground"; a casual glance suggested it also doubled as a gymnasium.

  "Form up in ranks!" barked the junior officer in charge of the party. "Major Landon will be in shortly to greet you."

  She swept them with a disapproving glare, then spun on her heel and left the room. The new arrivals heaved a collective sigh and looked around, wondering what came next.

  "Hey, Onja."

  Onja looked up into the star-struck eyes of 2/Lt Bill Cameron, the pilot she'd trained with at Luna 1. He was barely twenty, boyish and immature, constantly hoping to impress her.

  "Look, if they let us, you want to fly with me? I mean, if they don't assign us to someone else? I mean, we're already used to working together, right? You know how I fly, I know how you shoot…"

  Onja knew. He was a passable pilot, but sometimes scared the hell out of her. She desperately wanted to fight, but also wanted to survive as long as possible. If she could get assigned to an experienced pilot, she would.

  "Plus you get to sleep with me? Is that what you're thinking?" she asked, her blue eyes an open challenge.

  Cameron flushed. "Well — yeah, I guess. I mean, if that's what we're supposed to do."

  "Let's see what happens, Billy. I don't really think they're going to pair cherries up with other cherries, do you?"

  "Ten hut!"

  Cameron jumped back into the second line with the other pilots and the entire assembly snapped to attention as several officers strode into the room. Onja stole a quick glance to her left as they entered, then fixed her eyes on a piece of the wall as protocol demanded. The man who seemed to be in charge was close to forty, five feet ten, tanned and weathered. He stopped front-center of the formation and stared at the entire group, his eyes sweeping them critically. Not bad looking, but old enough to be her father. A taller man, a captain, stood to his right and slightly in back, and two majors took up positions to his left.

  "My name is Landon," the officer said in a voice that easily filled the room, "call sign Lone Wolf. You will call me 'Major'. I am commanding officer of ZF-111 and also acting CO of the 29th Deep Space Combat Wing. As of this moment, I own you body and soul, so don't piss me off."

  He swept them again with his eyes. For just a moment his gaze lingered on Onja, and she dared make eye contact, then returned to her fixed point of reference.

  "Welcome to 131," he said. He briefly introduced the other officers: the tall one was Capt. Hinds, XO of ZF-111; the others were Major Crawford, CO of ZF-99, and Major Hawkins, of ZF-57.

  "We've been at war for ten months now," Landon continued. "You may have been told that we're winning, that things are going well. That's bullshit. The way things stand right now, if nothing changes, we will lose the war. You've all just been dumped into a meat grinder, and though you were damned lucky to get here alive, getting here at all may not have been in your best interest.

  "It's not my intention to scare anybody. But if you're going to survive, you need to know the gravity of your situation. So let me make it clear for you."

  He turned and began to pace, his eyes never leaving the group.

  "Since the war started ten months ago, three supply ships have tried to reach us with munitions and spare parts. Yours is the first one to get through. For that reason, this base is almost completely unarmed. Normally we support sixty combat fighters and another dozen spares, but thanks to losses and lack of maintenance materials, we're now down to twenty-one activ
e ships. I have fourteen more in need of repair, and now that we finally got some spare parts, most of those will return to the line in the next few days. Even then, we'll only be at fifty-eight percent. With nothing in reserve."

  He stopped pacing and glared at them as if it were their fault.

  "So…what does that mean to you?"

  He turned and paced the other direction. Onja felt a tension around her as fear sank in. Her own heart beat a little faster as she wondered what other good news he was about to deliver.

  "The Outer Worlds have fallen. They're in enemy hands. Nothing bearing the Federation emblem is moving outside the Asteroid Belt. You may have experienced bombings while you were on Terra or Luna, but the real war is right here. The Sirians are here, and they mean to stay. Your job is to prevent that from happening, but it isn't going to be easy. We've tangled with them a dozen times already and we've always come out on the short end.

  "Half my crews have been killed or wounded, and others are grounded because they have nothing to fly. Your arrival means that some of them can take a break, but we're still short of ships, so some of you won't be flying for a while. We'll get all of you into action sooner or later, but you may have to wait a bit.

  "To do what we have to do may kill all of us, but it has to be done, and so far we haven't been doing it very well. Most of you — maybe all of you — won't survive."

  He stopped again, scanning them for reaction. Apparently he got it. Onja could smell the fear in the air.

  "Don't look so shocked. The only way this war is going to end quickly is if we lose. Assuming we hold the line here at the Belt, that won't be the end. Defeating Sirius means invading Sirius. It means killing the Confederacy where it lives. To do that, we first have to free the Outer Worlds, liberate Alpha Centauri, then maybe Altair. It means invading Beta Centauri and Vega 3. All those things have to happen before we can even think about invading Sirius."

  He paused again. Again Onja made eye contact with him, then quickly looked away. He turned back down the line.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, if we ever accomplish all that, it will take decades! Ten, twenty, even thirty years! So you don't need to worry about surviving the war. You've already been sacrificed. Your job is to make it count."