by John Bowers
Some time later they lay disentangled, still naked, and cuddled close. Onja dozed and Johnny fought against his exhaustion, just to preserve the perfection of their togetherness. Their suite was quiet, the absolute silence broken only by the soft hiss of the ventilation ducts. No amount of money — gold, silver, or precious stones — could have persuaded him to be anywhere else this night. Indeed, he'd have traded all he owned, all he ever hoped to inherit, to hear Onja sincerely utter three simple words.
He slept. Dropped into black oblivion, too tired even for the flitting images of combat that often played across the subconscious minds of fighter pilots as they slept.
He was absolutely dreamless.
For ninety minutes.
* * *
"Noooooooooooooo!!!!"
Onja clawed her way up from her pillow, screaming at the top of her lungs, doing mortal combat with her sheet as, in total panic, she desperately tried to escape the horror that was poised to devour her. The sheet ripped in two places as she scrabbled hysterically, still shrieking.
Johnny's blood ran to ice as he was jerked from oblivion into what sounded like murder in progress. His heart pounded in terror and he leapt to his feet on the rack, not knowing where or what was the threat, but the assault on his ears continued as Onja, still howling, lashed out in the darkness against her invisible foe. Johnny caught an elbow in the ribs, and still bleary, wrapped his arms around her, hoping to calm her — but instead found himself crashing backward into the bulkhead, the naked girl's lunge smashing the air out of him.
He sagged, only to catch a karate chop across the shoulder and a heel in the stomach; then he was sliding sideways to get clear of her invisible, murderous assault. Somehow he landed on his feet and turned on the light, revealing his gunner still lashing out with fists and feet at whatever enemy she imagined.
"Onja!" he cried. "Onja! Onja!"
She stood in a defensive crouch, her back to him, trembling, but at the insistence in his voice she stopped and slowly turned, blinking at him in the sudden light. Her face was red, her eyes tortured, lungs heaving, and after ten long seconds she seemed to wilt, then sagged to her knees and folded over forward, head down. She began to sob brokenly.
"Oh, god!" she wailed. "Oh, god! Oh, god! Oh, god!"
Johnny was also trembling and panting heavily, but he stepped forward and reached for her. To his surprise she drew back, shrinking against the bulkhead as she sobbed in anguish.
"Oh, god!" she wailed, her voice thin and reedy and girlish. "Oh, Jesus! Oh, Goddess Sophia! Oh, Jesus!"
"Onja." Johnny was still breathless, trying to control his cardiac rate, and sat on the edge of the rack, but she cringed at his touch and he drew his hand back. "Onja. Honey, what is it? What can I do?"
"Don't touch me!" she sobbed. "Leave me alone! Oh, god!"
Johnny rubbed a hand over his eyes to clear the fuzziness out of them and backed away, sitting down on the opposite rack, his heart slowly returning to normal. He was unbelievably fatigued, but couldn't ignore this. He'd never seen her like this, had never imagined she had such nightmares. He stared at her, perplexed, wanting to help, unable to do so. She continued to sob for several minutes, but her intensity faded.
Johnny stood up and leaned over the rack again, and without touching her, began to speak in a quiet, soothing voice.
"Onja, I'm here. I love you. I'm here for you. Talk to me, honey."
"Go away, Johnny," she whimpered.
"I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here with you. I'm gonna put my hand on your shoulder now, so don't be afraid. It's only me, okay?"
She didn't answer, still weeping softly, and he laid his hand on her. She didn't flinch, and he slid his hand across her back, began to knead the muscles in her neck, then he crawled onto the rack and leaned over her, massaging her with both hands. She was crying less fiercely now, most of her energy spent, and he kissed the top of her head. When she didn't respond, he slowly rolled her onto her back, and planted his lips on her forehead, her cheek, and, gingerly, her lips.
"It's okay," he said softly. "You had a nightmare. It wasn't real. I'm here, and nothing is going to happen to you."
He stared into her blue eyes and she gazed back at him, still tormented, but calm. He kissed her again, his fingers kneading her shoulders, and when he lifted his head to study her face she'd stopped crying. Her eyes were closed, and she moaned.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
"No."
"You want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Was it the battle? Were you dreaming about that?"
She shook her head.
"Okay. It's okay." He put his arms around her and pulled her against him, cradling her like a child, and began to rock her gently, swaying as he spoke soothing words into her ear. "It's okay. It's okay now."
Her arms wrapped weakly around him and she sat there, still trembling, breathing heavily, moaning occasionally. Finally she lifted her head and rested her chin on his shoulder, her breath teasing the tips of his short dark hair.
"I'm sorry, Johnny," she murmured. "I'm sorry you saw that."
"It's okay. Onja, you're okay with me. Anything you do is okay. I love you. I'll always love you."
She pressed her cheek against him and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly in a ragged sigh.
"Oh, Johnny!" she moaned.
"It's okay, honey. I love you. I'll always love you."
It took an hour, but she did fall asleep again, and this time there were no more dreams. Johnny Lincoln lay beside her, even more exhausted than before; he dozed, but never did return to a sound sleep. When reveille sounded he felt as if he'd never slept at all.
Friday, 21 December, 0221 (PCC) — near the Asteroid Belt, Solar System
In early December the 213 joined a supply convoy headed for Mars. Intensified attacks on the Red Planet, and the losing battle in the Belt, suggested a possible invasion attempt in the near future. The convoy consisted of freighters, destroyers, and eight fighter squadrons; six of those squadrons would remain on Mars. Due to the position of the planets, the trip out took ten days.
Each squadron was assigned to a tender, where the crews lived when not on patrol; 213 was assigned to UFF Nelson Mandela. Patrols lasted six hours each.
The trip out was tiring, but uneventful. One would never have suspected a war was in progress until they reached Mars and dropped into the atmosphere for a little sightseeing.
Two major Space Force bases had been heavily bombed, and several cities were in virtual ruin. Dotted here and there across the arid red deserts were the shiny remains of spacecraft from both sides. The civilian population had taken a fearful pounding, and it was far from over — the Sirians' last raid had occurred just days earlier.
They remained on station for two days until the last freighters had offloaded, then headed back. The trip back was a bit more tense. Only two squadrons were returning, and patrols now lasted twelve hours each.
Their course wasn't a direct one; they traveled in a parabola that carried them outside the Martian orbit for the first four days, passing not far from the inner edge of the Asteroid Belt. This would swing them around the sun to bring them into the path Terra was traveling on its annual orbit, and also, at least for a few days, afford some screening from the Belt itself.
On the afternoon of the third day, Johnny and Onja were flying a quarter-million miles off the convoy, dangerously near the Belt, on the extreme limit of their patrol. Strung out behind them at thousand-mile intervals were the other fighters from Section 3. After so many days without contact it was becoming routine, almost boring.
Johnny was half asleep in his cockpit, leaving the AI to advise him of trouble. Onja sat suspended in her turret harness, weary from endless days in space, but alert as she watched her holos.
"Attent:" the AI said on the mark of the hour. "No Contact at 1700."
"Ack."
Johnny stretched and yawned, looked out the canopy at the end
less depths of space — black emptiness, punctuated only by the brilliant pin-point flares of distant nuclear fires.
"Anything happening back there?" Johnny asked, just to hear his own voice.
"Negat," Onja replied.
"We're getting close to the limit of our patrol. Time to change vector soon."
"I could go for a hot bath."
"Don't talk about it. I could go for a planet under my feet."
"You know what I miss the most in space?"
"No."
"Weather. How long has it been since I felt a cool breeze, or rain on my face?"
"Yeah. A winter snow would feel good right about now."
They drifted into silence for some minutes, too tired to talk, too bored to think beyond the moment. That was the trouble with war, Johnny thought idly — too many weeks of absolute boredom, punctuated by unexpected moments of sheer terror.
"Attent:" the AI said suddenly, "contact."
* * *
As one, Johnny and Onja leaned forward, eyes narrowed, pulses quickened. A white graphic blinked on their Ladar holos, and Onja began tuning in magnifications while Johnny asked the AI for specifics.
"Input: identify contact," he said.
"Insufficient data. Scanning."
"You see anything, Onja?" Johnny was staring at the graphic on his HH, wondering if it was aware of their presence.
"I see it on optics. It's a ship, I think. Can we get in closer?"
"I don't want to get too close until I know what it is and who owns it." Johnny spoke a coded phrase to the AI that sent a SpectraWav signal to the fighters behind him, alerting them to the contact in case they hadn't picked it up yet. No voice or instruction was sent.
"Info," the AI said. "Contact is a spacecraft, civilian construction, registry unknown. Does not appear to be armed, is not under power."
Johnny Lincoln stared harder at the symbol on his HH. Onja keyed instructions into her target ID control. When the light flashed amber she spoke three words.
"Input: shields up."
They approached the ship carefully; fully aware they could be drifting into the sights of enemy gunners. Behind them, the other fighters closed up and prepared to cover them. When they came within range, Onja brought all her weapons systems online, everything fully armed; still they drew closer.
It was a derelict, hanging dead in space, lights out, portholes dark, engines cold. Johnny took manual control and maneuvered in close, within a few hundred yards of the hulk. It was a passenger ship, a large luxury liner capable of interstellar flight. One of the big fancy jobs that had routinely warped between star systems before the war. The size of a carrier, it was big enough to house a dozen fighter squadrons.
But it was dead.
They saw holes in five or six vital areas, gaping black wounds that had let out the air and the life.
"Do we have any ships like this that are missing?" Onja asked as she stared with wide blue gaze at the wreck.
"I don't know. Would they tell us if we did? Wartime security might keep a lid on it."
"I don't see any insignia."
Johnny peered closer, maneuvering underneath the wreck to look up into the cargo bays. "I see markings now. I don't recognize them."
Onja saw them too, and felt a deep sadness.
"Those are Vegan markings," she said.
"Vegan! Then it is an enemy ship!"
"I don't think so. That's the Queen's Emblem. It's an obsolete insignia; it goes back to the Vegan monarchy."
"What's the Queen's Emblem?"
"It's like a national flag. North America has the Maple Leaf, Sirius has the Binary Zero — Vega used to have the Queen's Emblem. It was their pride and honor."
"I've never seen it before."
"Neither have I, except in books. After Sirius conquered Vega and turned it into a colony, the Queen's Emblem wasn't used any more." She drank in the sight of the emblem for the sake of memory; she would likely never see another one. "It's beautiful."
Johnny was frowning.
"If that's what you say it is, then this ship must be from preoccupation Vega! That's why the AI didn't know the registry!"
"That's right. It's been more than twenty-five years since the Sirian invasion."
"Has this ship been here that long?"
"It must have been."
"But there was no war around here then! How did this ship get killed?"
Onja's face grew sadder as the truth dawned on her.
"Johnny, during the Sirian invasion of Vega, the Federation didn't want to get involved, so they did nothing. The Sirians had a free hand as they carried people away. During that time, pirates were active in the Asteroid Belt, and some Federation ships also disappeared. Some people believed the Sirians were operating covertly inside the Solar System. But no one could ever prove it, or wanted to."
"You think the Sirians gutted this ship?"
"Someone did. It was either inbound to the Federation or making runs to other systems. Nothing went in and out of Vega during that time. Maybe it had refugees on board."
"And when they came out of warp the Sirians were waiting?"
"It looks that way."
Onja bit her lip as she imagined quite clearly what it might have been like for the passengers as the Sirians looted the liner. They would have dragged all the women and girls into the airlocks to be transferred aboard the enemy ship; men would have been killed or left behind to die when the liner was depressurized.
"God!" she whispered passionately, "they must have been so scared!"
Johnny maneuvered past the stern of the huge liner and turned, giving them a good view of the entire length of the ship. There, on the stern near the star drives, they saw the name.
"RVS Princess Gina," Johnny read. "What does 'RVS' stand for?"
"Royal Vegan Starship."
"God, it's spooky," he commented.
"Let's get out of here," Onja agreed.
At that same moment, graphics began to flicker on the Ladar holos.
"Attent: contact!" the AI chattered. "Enemy fighters inbound."
* * *
They scrambled quickly, Johnny kicking full thrust and barking orders. Onja quickly armed her systems, her heart filled with murder after seeing the old Vegan derelict. Four enemy fighters were approaching from the direction of the asteroids, diving straight in.
As thrust crushed them into their seats, the fighter corkscrewed in an evasive pattern. Johnny broadcast a contact to the Fed fighters on his flank and to the convoy he was guarding. Major Hinds and four more fighters left their patrol vector and began to accelerate toward the contact, but they were at least twenty minutes away.
"They're all bunched up!" Onja reported. "Dumb bastards never learn."
She thumbed a switch and a pair of Yin-Yangs rattled out of the starboard wing tubes. Onja opened up with laser to distract the Sirians, though they were still out of range. The Sirians held their fire, growing swiftly in her optics.
The range closed quickly, but the next thirty seconds dragged on forever. The rest of the section raced to join the battle, but were still too far away.
"Attent: enemy warheads inbound! ETA twenty-two seconds."
Johnny felt his mouth turn dry; sweat beaded his palms, but he held his course.
"Input: cancel active Ladar, cancel passive Ladar, execute!"
Onja steadied her optics, all four Sirians visible in the narrow field. The range was under five thousand miles now, and she began to fire for effect. She saw her hits spark against the Sirians' shields, but continued firing. This was going to be close…
A brilliant flash, filtered by her optics, killed the Sirians' shields with EMP. A second flash killed a fighter as well. Onja quickly squeezed off two more shots, but —
"Attent: enemy warhead ETA ten seconds! Nine! Eight! Seven —"
"Input, full EMP block, execute!"
Johnny saw the graphic streaking toward him, but had nowhere to go. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes.
WHAAAM!!
The QF lurched under the blast, but the shields held. Johnny opened his eyes…
Too soon.
Even with cockpit shielding and tinted windows, the second flash was blinding. Radiation sensors slammed against the pegs, but again the shields held. Indeed, they intensified.
"Goddammit!" Onja screamed.
"What? What's wrong?"
"Fuck!"
"Onja! Are you hurt?"
"No, but I can't shoot! That EMP fried the shield regulator. It won't open for my laser."
Johnny suddenly felt like laughing. They were alive! Goddammit, they were alive! And she was worried about the shield regulator!
"Railsplitter, Polo! Are you guys still there?"
"That's affirm!" Johnny transmitted. "But we can't shoot back. Can you guys get that fucker?" Onja had killed the other three.
"We're on him!" Polo's voice was heavy with relief. "Section 3, form up on me. Let's get 'im!"
The fourth Sirian tried to change course, but his speed was too great. It was over in three minutes, an easy kill for gunner Trish de los Santos.
Onja dropped her shields and raised them again, testing her laser. The shield still wouldn't open. Two more attempts also failed. The shield regulator would have to be replaced. Without shields they'd be dead meat if another fight came along, and with them they’d be unarmed.
Johnny joined up with his section and they traded chatter for a moment, everyone happy to be alive.
Onja gave up on the shields and turned active Ladar back on. For just a heartbeat she stared at her display in disbelief.
"Johnny?"
"Yeah."
"Check your HH."
"What's up?"
"Tell me what you see."
* * *
It was too far out to identify, close to fifty thousand miles, but it was like nothing they'd seen before. A cluster of ships, ninety or more; the majority were fighters, but many were much bigger.
"My god," Johnny murmured. "There must be four squadrons covering them. How many do you count?"
Onja's nerves were humming. "They're too far away to be sure, but I'm looking at close to a hundred. What do you suppose they are?"
"Input: identify enemy force."
"Fleet is Sirian design, composition mostly fighter ships, four destroyers, six merchants, four transports —"