by John Bowers
* * *
Denise Jordan knocked once and walked in.
"You sent for me, Major?"
Walters nodded. He indicated Onja, who stood, and made the introductions. The two women shook hands.
"I'm going to step outside for a few minutes," Walters said. "If I don't hear any glass breaking, I'll assume the two of you are getting along." He winked and walked out the door.
Onja stared at the black woman and felt her stomach knot. This wasn't going to be easy. How could she say it?
"You want my pilot, don't you?" Denise said.
Onja blinked at her candor, but felt herself nodding.
"Yes. Is … is that going to be a problem?"
Denise looked her up and down, like a wife inspecting her husband's tart.
"And what am I supposed to do? Retire?"
"Captain …"
"Denise. No bullshit between us, okay?"
Onja swallowed, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks. She hadn't expected the other woman to be so blunt.
"Denise," she said slowly, "I …"
She stopped. Nothing that came to mind made any sense.
"I don't know what to say," she said finally.
Denise smirked, nodding slowly.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Nineteen."
"I'm thirty-three. I've been a gunner most of my adult life. You think you can just waltz in here and take my pilot?"
Onja said nothing.
"Tell me why you want him."
"I've reviewed his record," Onja said. "I think he's probably the best pilot in the Terra-Luna sector."
"And now you want him? What gives you that right?"
Onja's tongue traced across her lips. "Fifteen kills," she said.
Denise nodded grudgingly. "I'll give you that. But I have five of my own. What makes you think I wouldn't do as well as you if I had the same opportunity?"
"Maybe you would. But my simulator scores suggest otherwise."
"I ask you again — what gives you the right?"
Onja wondered if she should be getting angry, but tried to put herself in the other woman's place — how would she feel if the situation were reversed?
"General Osato gave me permission," she said.
"That don't make it right, honey."
Silence reigned for fifteen seconds.
"Do you hate the Sirians?" Onja asked finally.
"Sure. So what?"
"Have you ever met a Sirian?"
"No, but I met five Vegans one afternoon. They're all dead now."
"I mean face-to-face," Onja said patiently. "Like you and I are right now."
"Of course not. Have you?"
"Yes. I was born on Vega, Denise. I lived under Sirian rule until I was twelve years old. I had a mother and a sister. When I was twelve they were taken away from me, and I've never seen them since."
Denise stared at her, at a loss for words.
"They were taken to Sirius," Onja told her. "If they're still alive, they're slaves of the Confederacy."
Denise blinked, hardly daring to breathe.
"Do you know what that means? To be a slave? It means being ripped away from your family and taken to a place you don't want to be. It means never seeing your loved ones again. It means being raped by men who care nothing about you, every day, every night, whenever they choose. You lose your freedom, your dignity, your right to choose."
Onja's eyes glimmered.
"That's what it means to be a slave to the Confederacy," she finished. "I've met the enemy, Denise. I hate the enemy more than I love my own life. My entire purpose for living is to kill Sirians, and anyone else who serves the Confederacy. I can do more to destroy Sirius than any other single individual can do. But I have to stay alive to do the job."
Denise cleared her throat, her voice suddenly hoarse.
"I'm sorry about your mother and sister," she said.
Onja nodded. "I don't want to come between you and your pilot," she said softly. "You can still sleep with him, I don't care. But I need him. For a while, anyway."
Denise stared at the floor for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, I don't have any say in the matter, do I? You have permission from General Osato."
"Yes, but I wanted to speak to you first. It only seemed right."
Denise looked her square in the eye.
"He's too young for me, anyway," she said. "But he's a hell of a nice kid. And you're right — he has a god's touch in the cockpit. I've never seen anyone come close to him."
"I hope we'll be friends."
"Hey, I don't like it, okay? But I don't own him. As for you and me? Let's just give it time. That work for you?"
Onja felt suddenly sad. She nodded.
"And don't waste his talent," Denise added. "If you take him, make it count. You better be the best goddamned gunner in history."
* * *
Johnny Lincoln passed Denise in the corridor outside Walters's office. His summons had come only moments earlier.
"You're next," she told him.
"Hey, what's it about? Is it what you thought?"
She looked into his eyes with an expression he couldn't quite fathom.
"You better get inside," she said. "Don't keep him waiting." She spun on her heel and walked away.
Johnny watched until she turned a corner. His grin faded; he felt his stomach knot.
He knocked once on Walters's door. It slid open and he stepped inside.
For once Walters wasn't smiling. He sat staring at Johnny, then nodded to his right.
"Second Lieutenant Johnny Lincoln, First Lieutenant Onja Kvoorik."
Johnny glanced to his left, and felt his knees turn to rubber. It was her! The goddess who'd helped him at Travis! She was real after all. He stared at the stunning face and felt suddenly awkward, like the class nerd in the presence of the prettiest girl in school.
"Lieutenant Kvoorik would like to have a word with you," Walters said.
Johnny waited expectantly, his face feeling warm. She was still staring at him. When she spoke, her accent was foreign, lilting, undeniably sexy.
"You seem to have recovered from your wound," she said.
"Yes, Ma'am."
"I would have come to see you, but my training officer didn't allow it. I'm glad you're all right."
Johnny nodded. Being in the blonde's presence was intoxicating, but he remembered Denise's concern — he still didn't know why he'd been summoned.
Her eyes were searching his face.
"Did you really shoot down five Sirians on August 9?" she asked.
He frowned. What the hell?
"Yes, Ma'am."
"I heard the story and I saw the recruiting holos, but I had a hard time believing it."
He stared at her in discomfort, wondering what response was required in this situation.
"Then I saw you that day at Travis, shooting down cruise missiles. After the last one blew up, I thought you were finished. But when you brought that fighter down in one piece, I knew you were an exceptional pilot."
Her lips curved at the corners, a half smile. Johnny remained silent.
"I came here from AB-131," she said quietly. "I had an excellent pilot there, Major Robert Landon. When he ordered the evacuation, he stayed behind, and was either captured or killed — I don't know which."
Johnny waited. What was she getting at?
"Minutes before I left, Major Landon gave me a direct order. He told me to find a good pilot, the very best, and keep on fighting." She gazed hypnotically into his eyes. "I think you are that pilot, Lieutenant."
Johnny took a step back, shaking his head.
"Ma'am, I'm flattered. I'm sure you're an excellent gunner, but I already have a back seat. Her name is Denise Jordan."
She abandoned the smile, her forehead creasing in a frown. Johnny turned to Walters.
"Tell her, Major."
Walters said nothing. His eyes reflected his disapproval. Johnny felt a stab of alarm at his silence.<
br />
"Sir, Denise and I have more kills than anyone in any lunar squadron. That's got to count for something, doesn't it?"
Walters only stared at him. Johnny became annoyed.
"Don't I have a say in this, Major?"
"No, you don't. Lieutenant Kvoorik has fleet permission to choose her pilot. It's out of my hands."
Do I need to use crayons now?
"Christ! I can't believe this!"
Onja Kvoorik took a step closer to him. Her blue eyes looked troubled.
"Lieutenant, it won't be so bad. I already discussed it with your gunner."
Johnny felt his anger rising.
"You discussed it? What am I, a jackass at an auction? You two go behind my back and talk about me like a pair of fucking horse traders?"
"Settle down, Lieutenant," Walters cautioned.
Johnny took a deep breath, his face burning. He wanted to walk out, but there was no escape from this situation.
"So this is an order?" he asked finally.
"You can consider it as such," Walters agreed.
Johnny looked at the blonde again. She hadn't taken her eyes off him; now she looked almost angry. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to bleed off his adrenaline.
"I can't persuade you to pick someone else?"
She shook her head slowly. "I'm afraid not, Lieutenant. As you said, you are the best pilot in the lunar sector. I'm surprised you don't want to fly with me. I'm the best gunner."
"I don't like having you shoved down my throat."
"I'm sorry you feel that way." She cocked her head to the side. "Tell me, Lieutenant — if you didn't already have a gunner, would you feel the same way about me?"
He thought about that for a few seconds, then slowly shook his head. All things being equal, he'd have climbed over other pilots to get her into his turret.
"Probably not."
"So you see, it isn't the end of your world, is it? If you want to pick your own gunner, all you have to do is pick me."
He let those words hang for a moment, then shifted his feet.
"And what am I supposed to tell Denise?"
"She has already agreed to let you go."
"Just like that."
"No, not exactly 'just like that'. She wasn't too happy about it, but — we came to an agreement."
"Horse traders."
"I'm sorry?"
"Fuck!"
Onja glanced at Walters one last time, then drew herself up, squared her shoulders, and made it a formal request.
"Lieutenant Lincoln, I respectfully request permission to fly with you."
Johnny lowered his head and stared at the floor for the space of ten seconds. Shaking his head with resentment. Hating the situation. Hating her. Goddamn it all!
Finally he gazed into her clear blue eyes … and saw uncertainty. Just what the hell would she do if he said no? It might be fun to find out, but Walters wouldn't be amused, and Johnny had no desire to anger him.
With a sigh of resignation, he shrugged.
"I guess I don't have a choice. But god damn it, you better be good!"
She nodded once, solemn as death.
"I am good," she told him. "I'm the Fighter Queen."
Book Three: Invocation
Chapter 21
Thursday, 6 September, 0221 (PCC) — Lunar Base 9, Luna
Johnny Lincoln was uncomfortable in quarters that night. His "suite" was tiny, and it was impossible to move around much without bumping into a second person. The second person was a stranger.
After stowing her gear in the locker and hanging her uniforms in the wardrobe vacated by Denise Jordan, Onja Kvoorik crawled onto her rack and stretched out on her back, heaving a deep sigh.
"God, I'm beat! I only slept two hours last night."
Johnny sat watching her, feeling awkward and conspicuous. Onja sat up, pulled off her boots, and began inspecting her feet. Johnny marveled at her cosmetic perfection; though she was a combat gunner, she looked more like a fashion model. Most gunners, even the pretty ones, sacrificed certain amenities because of the nature of their work, but this one apparently didn't. Not only was her face a masterpiece of cosmetology, she even had designer toenails!
"It isn't going to happen, Lieutenant," she said unexpectedly, still examining her toes.
"What isn't?"
She glanced up at him with eyes as deep and blue as a Norwegian fjord.
"I'm not going to sleep with you."
He flushed crimson, embarrassed and more than a little annoyed.
"What makes you think I want to?"
"Every other man does. Why should you be different?"
He sat there a few more seconds, his anger building, then got up and went into the anteroom. He poured himself a drink and downed a slug, burning with resentment. He didn't need to give up Denise for this!
She came in a few minutes later and sat down in the chair opposite, stretched her bare feet onto the coffee table, and stared at him.
"I hurt your feelings," she said. "I'm sorry."
He said nothing.
"It isn't easy for me, Lincoln. I have to set ground rules early, and enforce them."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I think you know what I mean. Can you honestly say that you don't want to fuck me?" Her eyes bored into his skull like diamond drills.
"Hey, I didn't ask for you," Johnny reminded her. "You picked me, remember?"
"Lincoln …"
"Bullshit!" he exploded. "I had a good gunner. I didn't need you and I didn't want you. Truth is, your looks intimidate the living hell out of me. So if you want to pick another pilot, be my guest!"
Her eyes widened. "I intimidate you? A rich guy like you?"
"Fuck you! You don't know anything about me!"
"In my experience," she said evenly, "rich guys always come on the strongest. They think their money gives them the right."
"Yeah? In my experience, girls with your looks think the fucking universe revolves around them."
"How many girls have you ever met with my looks?"
"You know what I mean. If you knew I was rich, then why did you pick me?"
"I told you. I need the best pilot in the fleet."
He finished his drink and set the glass down, his face still flushed with anger.
"Maybe we can start over?" she suggested.
"What's the point?"
"Look, I'm sorry I offended you. I've just been through three weeks of hell and my nerves are a little raw."
"That comment in the other room wasn't raw nerves," he retorted. "That was just plain rude!"
Onja chewed her lip. A look of uncertainty crept into her eyes.
"Lincoln …"
"I admit, you're the most stunning woman I've ever seen," he said, "but that doesn't give you a license to insult me. I'll fly with you because those are my orders. But any time you decide you don't like my attitude, just march back into Walters's office and request another pilot. You won't get any argument out of me!"
She offered him a tentative smile.
"I'm really a nice girl," she said. "If you would just give me a chance —"
"Like you gave me?"
Onja closed her eyes and sighed, rubbing her temples with her fingertips.
"I can only apologize so many times," she said. "I was out of line. I never meant to offend you."
Unwilling to let her off the hook, Johnny said nothing.
"I want to kill Sirians, and I need your skills for that. Otherwise, I don't expect anything from you. I'll try to keep out of your way, and I won't be rude again. Will you accept that?"
Still angry, he wanted to punish her. "Go to hell," he said.
She got to her feet and walked into the other room. Moments later the light went out as she crawled into her rack.
Johnny sat alone a few more minutes, then let himself out and headed for the gunnery pool. His arrival caused a quick scramble as a couple of scantily-clad gunners ducked for cover. O
thers smiled at him or watched with interest as he checked the rack assignment and found Denise's name.
Denise was polishing the leather on her dress uniform when he stopped at the foot of her cubicle. She glanced up at him with a faint smile.
"Well, look who's here!" she said. "Whatever happened to Snow White?"
"Asleep, I think."
"Did you wear her out so soon?"
He snorted in disgust. "That girl's as cold as a surveyor's ass on Pluto."
"Turned you down, huh?"
"She's a cold-hearted bitch."
"Ooh! Looks like you two are going to get along great."
Johnny sat down on the end of her rack, picked up a polish rag and went to work on a boot.
"I didn't ask for this, Denise," he said. "And I sure as hell don't like any of it."
"I dunno, Johnny. She's a looker."
"Fuck her!"
Denise glanced at him and laughed. "Hey, lighten up, will you? You look like you've lost your best friend."
He met her eyes meaningfully. "Maybe I have."
She smiled. "What would you like to do about it?"
He shrugged. "We might take a walk… I think I know where we can find a deserted ready room or two."
Her eyes twinkled and she put her polishing job aside. Taking his hand, she stood up.
"Maybe a walk in the moonlight would be fun."
Saturday, 8 September, 0221 (PCC) — Lunar Base 9, Luna
The first shipment of QuasarFighters was delivered to the 213 two days after Onja arrived. Johnny Lincoln and the rest of the squadron stood about the underground hangar staring at them with the excitement of school kids. The fighters, sleek and deadly, were painted black with phosphorescent white camouflage specks.
"They look like killer sharks," someone murmured nearby.
"Or ancient arrowheads," someone else offered.
Johnny turned. "You're looking at the ship that's going to win the war," he told them.
Major Walters joined them and gazed in awe at the deadly new ships as factory techs crawled over them, removing shipping lockdowns and powering up onboard computers. One of the techs, wearing familiar black coveralls with the LincEnt logo across the front, spotted the fighter crews and walked toward them. He came up to Johnny with a big grin and stuck out his hand.
"Johnny Lincoln, I presume?" he said.
"Mr. Hatley! I didn't know you were here! How the hell are you?"