by John Bowers
At first the conversation was stiff, everyone asking after everyone's health. For the first time since he'd known her, Johnny saw Onja become submissive, almost shy. From the fierce, determined, direct young lieutenant who could coldly blow thirty enemy fighters out of the sky and beg for more targets, she now became almost peasant-like. Smiling quietly and lowering her eyes when her parents spoke, blushing as they talked about her to Johnny, remaining respectfully silent when they expressed quiet disapproval of her chosen profession. Johnny marveled at the change, and respected it; there was something here beyond his experience.
The Kvooriks spoke Standard English with a heavy accent, familiar and yet different from Onja's, whose Vegan accent was more lilting. After a half-hour of breaking the ice, Mrs. Kvoorik directed most of her conversation to Johnny, while her husband listened, smiling occasionally with a grunt.
"Lieutenant Johnny," the old lady said charmingly, "you work with our daughter. You know her well?"
"Yes, I do."
"You know about her childhood?"
"Yes. She was born on Vega."
The old lady nodded solemnly, as if it were important that he know that terrible truth.
"That's right. We are old, we have no children. Then Onja come to us, very young, very frighten'. She is a beautiful child, but so frighten'. We take her in, we love her. She is our daughter now. We give her all we have. You understand."
"You and your husband were wonderful to give her a home."
She ducked her head modestly.
"We have no children, we have much love to give. We love her, we care for her. But such a lonely girl, so frighten'. Now, look at her. All grown up, so pretty. So beautiful! We are very proud."
"You should be proud. You did a wonderful job."
Onja stared at the floor, face flaming, but he saw pleasure in her eyes.
"Now she is famous," Mrs. Kvoorik went on, and Johnny wondered where she was going with this. "Her picture in all the video, on the news, on SolarNet, paper magazines. Everywhere, Onja Kvoorik, the war hero. And her pilot, Johnny Lincoln."
Johnny smiled, keeping silent.
"It is not what we wanted for her," the old lady said, her voice sad but with no trace of accusation. "We think maybe she will marry, find a nice young man and make a family. But she wants only to kill. Kill Sirians."
Johnny nodded. "Are you unhappy with that?"
"No, no, not unhappy. Maybe disappointment, but still we are proud. But this war, why is it that girls are gunners and men are not? It was never this way before. Nah?"
"Scientists have learned that women have better reflexes and a higher tolerance for stress than men," Johnny explained. "Women make better gunners. That's why thousands of girls like Onja are fighting in the Space Force."
"But these girls, they die sometimes?"
"Yes," he admitted, "sometimes they do."
"But you are good pilot. You will protect our girl." She peered at him intently, hanging on his answer.
"He is the best pilot, Momma," Onja said.
"Yes," Johnny said, "I'll protect her. With my own life, if necessary."
The old lady smiled, as if she'd needed the reassurance, and poured him more tea.
"And you are in love with our Onja?" she asked tactlessly.
Johnny felt his face warming, but nodded seriously and held her gaze.
"Very much."
"You will maybe marry her? When this fighting is finish'?"
"Yes, if she is willing."
Mrs. Kvoorik beamed at him, and at Onja. Onja looked at Johnny with an embarrassed smile. He grinned back at her and sipped his tea.
* * *
A few hours later the two of them stood outside in the icy darkness, leaning on a wooden railing as they peered down into the dark, freezing waters of the inlet near the Kvoorik home. The sky overhead was blue-black, the stars bright and hard, twinkling through the atmosphere. Wood smoke spiced the cold air and the breeze carried a distinct smell of fish.
"I'm sorry about Momma," Onja told him quietly as she leaned against him. "She's pretty old-fashioned, like about four hundred years."
Johnny chuckled softly.
"She's true blue, all the way. And she loves you."
"They both nearly spit plutonium when I enlisted. They didn't think it was right for women to fight."
"They seem to have accepted it now."
"Not really. They respect me and don't want to hurt me, but in their minds it still isn't right. What you told Momma helped a lot, I think. She likes you. She'll sleep better now, thinking I'm somehow safer because of what you said."
"I meant every word."
"We'll have to sleep in separate bedrooms tonight."
"That's okay."
Onja was silent a moment.
"Johnny… There's something I've been putting off, something I have to tell you. I should have told you sooner, but …"
"What is it?"
"Since I came to Terra, I've never told anyone. But you need to know."
A winter wind swept in off the inlet, making them shiver. Johnny wrapped an arm about her shoulder and listened.
"You know what hypno-prep is, right?" she asked.
He nodded. "They use it to keep gunners from getting pregnant."
"Yes. Well, the Sirians use it, too. For other things. When I was ten years old, the school administrator was a Sirian. Mr. Armstrong, an ugly, white-haired old man. He was at least fifty, maybe even older. He loved little girls, and we were all terrified of him."
"God, Onja! I don't know if I want to hear this!"
"You need to know. Please!"
He squeezed her tighter. "Okay."
"I don't know how many girls he raped, but he raped most of us. I was afraid to go to school, but it was mandatory; girls who stayed home were taken away, so I didn't have a choice. Every day, I threw up. My stomach was in a hard knot all the time. Nothing but fear.
"Mr. Armstrong finally got around to me. He called me into his office one day and told me I was 'under his authority'; that's the term Sirians use when they make you a concubine. He took me into an empty office and locked the door. I can't —"
She stopped as a sob escaped her. Tears glimmered on her cheeks.
"I can't — t-tell you how — horrible it was! He kept me at least an hour, and when he was done I could barely walk." She wiped the tears with the back of her hand. Johnny's heart pulsed with hatred for the unknown Mr. Armstrong.
"I got to go home early that day," Onja continued. "But I had to go back the next day, and the next. He called me in again, and this time he had a hypno-technician there. The technician hooked me up to some equipment and ran some kind of procedure on me; I was unconscious for most of it, so I don't know exactly what he did to me. After he left …"
She fell silent for a moment, trembling. Johnny kissed the side of her head.
"You don't have to tell me this," he said.
"Yes I do!" she whispered. "You have to understand why I have the nightmares."
He hugged her and nodded silently.
"Mr. Armstrong took me into the empty office again. This time — Johnny, this time I wanted him to! Do you understand? I enjoyed it! It still hurt like hell, but I enjoyed it! I was ten years old … and I was having orgasms!"
Johnny felt as if she'd kicked him in the stomach.
"God, Onja! How long did this go on?"
"I don't know. Five or six months. Every day. Every fucking day. He even came to the house on weekends and took me to a hotel. My dad complained to the SE and they finally took action."
"I'm surprised. I thought they condoned rape."
"They do. But even they have limits; because my dad's company worked for them, my mother and sister and I were supposed to be exempt. We carried ID cards to prevent soldiers from bothering us. So Mr. Armstrong was publicly whipped and sent home."
"I would've carved the fucker up with a rusty fishing knife!" Johnny breathed.
"I had nightmares for a coupl
e of years after that. Then they stopped, and I thought they were gone for good. But when Hinds tried to rape me, they came back."
She lowered her head as he wiped her eyes with his thumbs. She began to sob, and he held her tightly, buried his face in her stiff, snow-blonde hair.
"Don't," he whispered. "Don't tell me any more. It's okay."
She shook her head. "There isn't much more." She looked at the stars and wiped her eyes. "I told you about my mother and sister. I was twelve when the Sirians took them …"
"Wait — if they were exempt …?"
"My dad asked the same question. The story he got was that they were a 'special order', whatever that means. Anyway, before I left Vega, I made a vow," she said. "I swore before Goddess Sophia that some day, some way, I'd find Mother and Sonja, that I would kill every Sirian I met until I freed them."
She smiled bitterly.
"It was a childish vow, of course. But now I actually have a chance to keep that promise. But I have to keep on fighting, and I have to stay alive to do it."
"It's gonna be a long war, Onja."
"I know. I may not live long enough, but if I die, I'll die fighting." She looked into his eyes. "Is that crazy? Am I a fool?"
"No. You're not a fool. If you made a vow, you have to keep it. I'll help you."
"I'm so glad I found you, Johnny! I do love you so!"
Friday, 4 January, 0222 (PCC) — Oslo, Norway, Terra
Two days later Mr. Kvoorik drove them to the spaceport in his ancient wheeled car. When they arrived, Onja led her parents up to the gleaming black fighter. They stared at it, shaking their heads in wonder.
"You fly in this airplane?" her adoptive mother asked, awe-struck.
"It's a space ship, Momma, not an airplane."
"This goes to space? How far will it go?"
"All the way to Sirius, Momma Kvoorik," Johnny grinned. "This is the same ship we were in when Onja saved Mars."
"You killed all those men with this little ship?"
"That's right, Momma. But we saved a lot of other lives —"
"I know you had to do that. I understand." The old lady smiled at her famous daughter, tears in her eyes. "You be careful, my Onja. You be safe out there in the stars."
"I will, Momma. Johnny takes good care of me."
The old lady hugged her and wept. Then she hugged Johnny and wept, while the old man kissed Onja gently on the cheek and squeezed her hands.
"Take care of her, Johnny Lincoln," the old lady said, still weeping. "She is all we have."
"With my last breath, Momma Kvoorik," Johnny promised.
The old man shook Johnny's hand tremulously.
"Our Onja," he said simply, "she is our life."
Johnny's eyes misted as a lump crawled into his throat.
"She's mine, too," he whispered hoarsely.
Denver, CO, Terra
Touchdown at LincEnt was easy and routine, the QF set down perfectly like a homing bird returning to its nest. Johnny used only half a mile of runway and taxied back toward the parking apron. To his consternation, it was crowded with a battery of holocams and a mob of press people. It was six o'clock local time.
"Oh, shit!" he told Onja. "Get your professional smile ready."
The holocams were rolling as the QF shuddered to a stop and Johnny shut everything down. When he and Onja climbed down, the reporters were waiting, and they had to endure a thirty-minute interview, including remarks by Oliver Lincoln III, who had arranged the whole thing. Johnny and Onja put on plastic smiles, made patriotic statements, and gave the media people essentially what they wanted.
Johnny's mother was also there, but stayed out of the way until the cameras were packed up and the media people left. Then she stepped forward and greeted her son with a kiss and a hug. Johnny felt his heart leap at the sight of her, and held her in a bear hug for almost a minute. He'd missed her, but until that moment hadn't realized just how much. He stood back and held her at arm's length.
"Mom!" was all he could say.
"Welcome home, Johnny!" she whispered. "I don't have to tell you I'm proud, do I?"
He shook his head, pressing his lips together to keep from blubbering, then turned and extended an arm toward Onja, who stepped forward with a tentative smile on her face.
"Mom," he said when he could speak again, "this is my gunner. This is Onja."
Rosemary Lincoln smiled at the blonde girl and took her hand gently.
"I've heard so much about you, dear. I've seen you on the news, but — gosh, I didn't think you could really be so stunning. The holovids didn't exaggerate!"
"Thank you." Onja managed to look demure and gracious at the same time.
"I've been so worried about the both of you! Every time a strike comes in I wonder where you are, what you're doing. Last October when they hit us here — oh, John, I was so disappointed when you didn't get to stop by the house!"
"I'm sorry, Mom. I wanted to, but it was orders."
"I know, dear. I understood, but I really wanted to see you. And then, oh, gosh, that business out in the asteroids! I almost fainted when I heard the news that you had faced an enemy taskforce all alone."
"We weren't really alone —"
"Oh, my, listen to me babble! Come on, let's get you up to the house! Oliver!"
Oliver Lincoln III was waiting a few feet away, giving his wife and her son time together. Johnny thought he seemed stiff, almost awkward, and it left him ill at ease.
Lincoln led them across the apron toward a company hovercar. Ten minutes later, higher in the mountains, the car set down on the front lawn of the Lincoln mansion. It was fully dark, but the grounds were floodlit and there was no mistaking the opulence of the place. Towering, snow-covered pines ringed the property, shadowed and ghostly in the floodlights; as the little party walked toward the granite steps, Onja stared in disbelief.
"This is where you live?" she whispered to Johnny, her blue eyes wider than usual.
"Yep. This is our humble abode."
He laughed at her expression and laid an arm around her shoulders. As they reached the front door a uniformed servant met them and took their space bags, bowing slightly.
"Welcome home, Master Johnny," he said with a smile of genuine affection.
"Thank you, Mr. Hobbs," Johnny said, taking his hand firmly. "It's good to see you again."
"Good to see you, too, sir. We're all real proud of you."
The main entrance looked to Onja like the lobby of a museum, with a grand staircase, crystal chandeliers, and Persian floor coverings. At the foot of the stairs Mrs. Lincoln stopped and turned to her guests.
"The two of you would probably like to freshen up before dinner. Hobbs will show you to your rooms. We'll eat as soon as you're ready."
Hobbs led them up the stairs to the second floor and directed Johnny to his own very familiar room, where he'd lived as long as he could remember; he installed Onja in a room directly across the hall. As soon as Hobbs retreated down the stairs, Johnny tapped on Onja's door. It opened immediately and he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
"You think your parents are old-fashioned? Now you've met mine."
"Separate quarters again?"
"It looks that way. But if I slip in here a little later for some entertainment, no one will be the wiser." He grinned. "But we'll have to stuff a pillow in your mouth. The way you howl and carry on, you'll wake the whole house."
"Fuck you, Lincoln," she giggled.
"I think that's the general idea." He kissed her, groping her as he did so, but she pushed him away.
"Suffer, you horny thing! I'm hungry."
"Hungry! You've already had three meals. I just want to sack out."
"I'm tired too, but it's been nine hours since supper. I'm hungry." She glanced at him. "You going to get a shower?"
"No. But let's do dress uniforms. Impress the old people. Meet you on deck in ten minutes."
"Okay. Master Johnny!"
He slapped her on the
rear, ducked out the door as she flung her space bag at him, and went into his room to change. Shortly they went down to dinner.
The dining room was of the same mold as the rest of the house, complete with servants bringing in the food. Onja felt as if she were eating at the table of a Vegan monarch; her biological father had been comfortably well off, but their home had been nothing like this. She drew on her best table manners and followed Johnny's lead for everything else. It was a pleasant meal, just the four of them at a table long enough to feed twenty, and the food was excellent. She ate heartily, trying not to act as if she were starving.
Rosemary Lincoln tried to put her at ease.
"Onja, dear, tell us about your family. What does your father do?"
Onja looked up uneasily.
"My parents are retired," she said.
"Retired?" Mrs. Lincoln looked surprised. Clearly Onja's youth suggested that her parents shouldn't be retirement age.
Onja nodded slowly. "Actually — I-I'm adopted."
"Oh. I see." Sadness entered Mrs. Lincoln's eyes. She herself had been raised by a foster family. "Did — do you remember your original family?"
Onja swallowed down her panic, bit her lip, and glanced at Johnny for help. He quickly placed his hand over hers.
"Mom, those are some pretty bad memories," he said easily. "If you don't mind?"
Rosemary Lincoln looked horrified. She turned from her son to the blonde, shaking her head.
"I'm terribly sorry, dear! I didn't mean to pry. Please forgive me."
Onja managed a brief smile.
"It's okay."
* * *
Johnny enjoyed the meal, in particular the time spent with his mother. Oliver Lincoln III joined in the conversation, but didn't dominate it. Johnny had the distinct feeling he was holding back, waiting for his moment. A faint uneasiness dogged him throughout the meal.
After dessert, as the dishes were cleared away, Mrs. Lincoln invited Onja to see her rose garden and the two of them drifted out of the room. Johnny remained seated, sipping a glass of brandy; he felt as awkward as Oliver looked. They both remembered the day he'd quit his job.
"I'd like to ask you a favor," Oliver said.
"A favor?" Johnny met his eyes again, waiting.