by John Bowers
INTERSERVICE MEMO
From: Sirian Confederate Military HQ
To: All Military Personnel, all services
Date: 11 October, 0239 (PCC)
Effective this date, any officer or enlisted person who shall kill, capture, or otherwise neutralize the following individual shall, upon verification of such action, receive a cash reward of ten million (10,000,000) sirios, tax free. In the event of capture, the prisoner shall also be awarded to the captor as a personal slave when interrogation procedures have been concluded. The individual to be killed, captured, or otherwise neutralized:
Major Onja Kvoorik
United Solar Federation Fleet
Fighter Squadron ZF-111
(see attached holo)
By order of General Field Marshal Martin Vaughn
by John Bowers
published by AKW Books
THE FIGHTER QUEEN SAGA
In chronological order:
The Fighter King
The Sword of Sophia
A Vow to Sophia
Star Marine
The Fighter Queen
NICK WALKER SERIES
Sirian Summer
Rebel Guns of Alpha Centauri
OTHER BOOKS
Joseph Lexxus and the Drug Runners of Altair
Starport
THE FIGHTER QUEEN
by
John Bowers
AKW Books
Washington
An AKW Books eBook
Published by Kalar/Wade Media
Copyright 2009 and 2011 by John Bowers
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by AKW Books, an imprint of Kalar/Wade Media, LLC, Washington.
You are granted a non-exclusive license to this work. You may make copies or reformat it for YOUR OWN USE ONLY. You may not resell, trade, nor give this work away.
ISBN: 978-1-4524-5087-2
Created in the United States of America
First Publication: September 2009
Second Publication: November 2011
Cover design & composition: Howard Milligan
Cover art: Joesph Bowers and Howard Milligan
Star background: Sololos
Model: Monica Zimmer
Model Hair & Makeup: Sarah Rose Einck
Model Photography: Rachel Smak
Fighter Pilot: Nikamata
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters are a product of the imagination of the author and any resemblance to any real person, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The name “AKW Books” and the AKW logo are trademarks belonging to Kalar/Wade Media, LLC
For my late Parents: John H
and Irma L Bowers
(rest in peace)
Acknowledgements
Harry Hofman, who helped me avoid a fatal blunder in the story.
Monica Zimmer and Howard Milligan, for their tireless efforts on the cover photo
Prolog
Monday, 26 November, 0232 (Post Colonial Calendar) — Jefferson Fleet Base, Missibama, Sirius 1
Cpl. Bruno Turner felt like killing somebody. One of the prisoners on that shuttle would do, if the damn thing ever got here. The heat, the frustration, his own shame at never seeing combat – somebody needed to pay.
Jefferson Fleet Base sweltered under the blistering heat of Sirian Summer, that hellish period each year when the planet orbited between binary stars. The runway shimmered with the illusion of flowing water. Dull white buildings reflected back some of the heat; vehicles sat steaming in the direct sunlight; an occasional tripod rat burrowed along the edge of a forcefence.
Bruno stared down the runway. Sweat crawled down his neck into his collar, soaking the fabric and making him clammy. His normally ill temper burned even hotter as he sat in silence. The fucking shuttle was late again! Couldn't those bastards at Fleet ever do anything right? The captain was going to give him hell when they got back to camp late.
Three other soldiers lounged nearby, too fatigued to talk.
In the distance, high in the sky, sunlight flashed off glass and metal. Bruno's eyes narrowed at the sight, and he checked his watch again. Five minutes crawled by, each one an hour in the sweltering afternoon, and finally the ship began to take on shape. It was clearly descending, but then he lost it in the mirage that converted the runway into a molten river.
Smoke puffed as the bird touched down, Bruno heard reverse thrust. Now the shuttle streaked down the runway toward him, black exhaust blowing out the nose nacelles. Finally it slowed and turned onto a taxiway, rolling toward him. It shuddered to a stop twenty yards away.
The hatch opened. A Fleet ensign rode the lift to the ground and strode importantly toward him. The ensign was immaculate in his crisp uniform, and eyed Bruno up and down before uttering a word. Bruno's lips pinched in anger — the arrogant fuck had been riding in air-conditioned comfort and now judged him because he looked rumpled in this goddamn sauna? Bastard!
Bruno delivered a half-hearted salute, just to let the prick know how things stood.
"You from Camp Hope?" the ensign barked.
"Yessir.”
"I have fifty-two prisoners for you." He didn't even bother to introduce himself, but cast a skeptical glance at the hovervan parked nearby. "Can your transport hold them all?"
"Yessir. Whoever don't fit, we'll shoot."
For just a second, the ensign's horrified expression made him look almost human. Bruno grimaced with satisfaction.
"Jist kiddin', sir. We can take 'em."
"Sign here."
Bruno took the proffered manifest and scribbled his name.
"Any whores on board, sir?"
"Negative. This bunch came from Periscope Harbor. No women, just Star Marines."
Bruno handed the manifest back. "Too bad."
The Citadel, New Angeles, Texiana, Sirius 1
New Angeles lay sprawled across an ancient lakebed, ringed by low hills a few hundred feet high, every square mile gleaming in the blistering heat. The city filled the entire lakebed, flowing up the slopes toward the small sharp peaks until it could flow no farther. Toward the center, skytowers stabbed into the summer sky.
The peaks to the north were higher than the rest, more forbidding; no homes graced their slopes, nor any civilian installations. Instead, a military base stood guard at the thousand-foot level. A twisting road snaked its way even higher, up to the Citadel.
The Citadel looked something like a medieval Terran castle, but sported anti-spacecraft (ASC) batteries and electronic shields to deflect incoming space strikes. The Citadel was military headquarters for Texiana, and the Chief of Staff for all Confederate Forces had his headquarters there.
Major General Martin Vaughn stood in front of his staff in the Planning Room of the Citadel, his rugged features wrinkled with concern. Tall and dark, with an unruly shock of curly black hair, he was every inch the Confederate officer in his light-gray, red-trimmed uniform, a pound of ribbons and medals on his chest.
"Periscope Harbor has been a resounding success," Vaughn told the assembled officers. "Thanks to intelligence developed by our mole in the Federation, we were able to beat off the Feddie assault and save Beta Centauri — for now, anyway. I have no doubt they will try somethin' again.
"Another matter has been brought to my attention, however. I will let Colonel Draper give you the details."
Vaughn took his seat as another officer stood and moved to the front of the room. Draper was a bookish sort, thin and humorless. Without a word, he thumbed a console switch and the lights dimmed, then a holograph flashed to life. It was the picture of a young woman.
"This is Onja Ka-vorik," he said by way of preamble. "Sh
e's a Federation Fleet fighter officer. Not a pilot, but a gunner."
He swung around to scan the faces of the men at the table. Every last one was leaning forward, intent on the feminine portrait.
"The Feddies," Draper continued, "call her the Fighter Queen."
"That girl is a Vegan!" a senior captain blurted. "By all that's holy, I swear she's a Vegan!"
Draper nodded grimly. "Indeed she is. We don't know a great deal about her yet, but our agents have managed to learn a little. She was born on Vega under our occupation and somehow got off the planet when she was about twelve years old. Ka-vorik is her adopted name; we don't know who she was before that, but we are still lookin' into it."
The fifteen officers around the table barely seemed to hear him. All were familiar with the characteristics of Vegan women, knew that Vega had centuries earlier bio-engineered its population for physical perfection (something to do with the worship of their pagan Sophia goddess), and a few even owned Vegan slaves. But this girl, in an enemy uniform, was so stunning as to take their collective breath away.
"I'd shore as hell hate to git killed by some honey like that 'un!" another officer breathed. "She ought to be in somebody's stable!"
No one laughed. They were all thinking similar thoughts. The woman in the picture was a classic Nordic beauty — wide-set, sky-blue eyes; medium-high cheekbones; full, pouty lips; creamy white skin topped by short, spiked, snow-blonde hair — and a penetrating gaze as cold as arctic ice.
Draper, annoyed that the holo was distracting his audience, thumbed a switch to turn it off. The men all seemed to slump back in their chairs, as if the holo had held them magnetized. Draper scanned their faces once more.
"The Feddies are damn proud of this little whore," he told them solemnly. "And well they might be. No one, on either side, has come close to her in combat kills. As near as we can calculate, she has official credit for more than four hundred fifty of our combat fighters, one destroyer, and two troop transports. She also participated in the destruction of one of our carriers, the David Duke, though she didn’t get credit for the kill.”
He paused significantly, to let that sink in.
"What else do we know about her?" Vaughn asked, to keep the briefing on track.
Draper recapped. "Born on Vega, smuggled to Terra at age twelve, adopted by a family in Norway, joined the Feddie Space Force the same day we attacked the Federation. Served in the asteroids, later on Luna; went on medical leave after bein' wounded when the Duke was destroyed. Fought at Alpha Centauri, was wounded again, then took part in the Feddie assault at Periscope Harbor.
"She's now thirty years old and has refused promotion at least twice, because she wants to keep on fightin'. She likes it! She's been quoted as sayin' her mission in life is killin' Sirians. She's the best gunner they’ve got, and we need to stop her."
Draper sat down, his face flushed with anger. Vaughn took the meeting back.
"Well, gentlemen," he said quietly, "as you can imagine, this Vegan bitch is an enemy of the Confederacy. As of today, we are publishin' a memo. One million sirios, dead or alive. Any fightin' man who can kill or capture the Fighter Queen will receive the reward, tax-free. If he can take her alive, she will be awarded to him as a personal slave.
"Are there any questions?"
Jefferson Fleet Base, Missibama, Sirius 1
The first prisoner to step off the shuttle was Cpl. Kevin Willis, 33rd Star Marines. As he stepped through the hatch onto the antigrav lift, the heat struck him like a physical blow, almost taking his breath away. It was a dry heat that blistered his face, seared his windpipe, and blinded him from the glare of two overhead suns. He felt as if he'd been thrust into a furnace.
He stumbled, almost tumbling off the lift, but a Confederate guard grabbed him and pulled him upright.
"Open yewr eyes, goddammit! Gonna break yewr fuckin’ neck!"
The guards from the shuttle herded the prisoners down the lift and across the pavement into a little knot. Willis stood with his arms in front, wrists cuffed, waiting while other Star Marines were shoved toward him. The heat was debilitating, and he wished for a drink of water, but knew better than to ask. Since his capture, he'd learned to avoid asking for anything unless he had to.
Several of the Star Marines had to lean on others for support. Some had been wounded, and medical care had been sporadic. One of the wounded was Rocky Yamaguchi, from Willis’s own squad. As Rocky limped toward him, Willis reached for his arm and held him upright. Rocky gasped and swallowed, looking around in bewilderment.
"Hang in there," Willis told him. "We’ll be okay now."
"Hey!" A mean-looking corporal lunged forward with his rifle butt. The blow caught Willis in the shoulder, missing his head only because he saw it coming and ducked. "Shut yewr hole, pig fucker!"
Willis staggered, but held onto his friend. The Sirian glared at him and Willis glared back. We’ll meet again, chickenshit.
When all fifty-two prisoners had been assembled, many looking the worse for wear, they were loaded into a flimsy-looking hovertransport parked a few yards away.
Willis had no idea which direction they were taken, but the trip only took twenty minutes. When the transport settled down and the doors popped open, the prisoners stumbled out and found themselves inside some kind of compound. As the transport lifted off again, Willis saw squat guard towers with laser weapons, a glimmering forcefence, ten-foot starcrete walls, and dozens of barrack-like structures built half underground. Hanging limply from a flagpole was the Confederacy's Binary Zero flag.
"Listen up!"
The voice was sharp and crisp, disciplined, very military. Willis turned and saw a Federation officer in a faded Fighter Service uniform. He looked close to fifty. He surveyed the prisoners for a moment, then smiled in irony.
"Welcome to Camp Hope," he said. "My name is Colonel Robert Landon."
Book One: Command
Chapter 1
Late September, 0236 (PCC) — Denver, CO, North America, Terra
For a brief moment, Capt. Onja Kvoorik wondered if she'd lost her mind. The gun turret looked like a museum piece, though she’d fought in one and knew it well. All the components were operational, and she watched the external video as the GalaxyFighter rolled dramatically to port and continued to shed altitude. She saw the LincEnt runway come into view two miles ahead and felt the fighter sink rapidly as it approached.
Too rapidly. Onja had flown with the best and knew as instinctively as any pilot how a fighter should feel as it rode the glide path toward the hash marks, and this one was sinking much too fast. Blood thundered in her ears as it occurred to her that, after all she'd been through since the war began, it would be damned ironic to die this way, in an obsolete fighter piloted by a fifteen year-old boy while on leave. For just an instant she was tempted to override the pilot and take control herself, or turn it over to the AI. But some instinct held her in check for another few seconds, and then everything changed.
The sink rate stopped, the jets spun up, and Onja felt herself thrust back into the hydrocushion. The GalaxyFighter was now under full forward thrust, though her turret altimeter indicated they were barely fifty feet above the ground — and the runway was yet a half-mile away.
She grabbed the overhead panic bar and held on.
On the video screen, Onja saw the hash marks disappear under the fighter's nose, felt the slightest loss of power, and the fighter sank again. The gear kissed the runway and the jets surged to full burner. Instantly the GF was off the ground and she heard the gear doors slide shut, then she was rocked backward as the nose came up and the little ship streaked for altitude.
It was the softest touch-and-go she'd ever experienced.
* * *
They parked on the general aviation apron of Lincoln Enterprises, North America's foremost defense contractor.
"So, what did you think, Aunt Onja?"
Johnny Lincoln II was standing on the wing root as she crawled out of the turret. The fa
miliar smell of exhaust washed over her, accompanied by the cooling sounds of hot jets. She stood erect and looked up at him — at fifteen he was already three inches taller than she was — and shook her head slowly.
"It's amazing," she said. "How did they keep this old ship in such great condition? I haven't even seen one in five years."
Johnny's grin of anticipation faded, and he stood staring at her.
"I didn't mean that!" he complained. "What did you think about my flying?"
She gave him a blank look. "Were you flying? I thought the AI was in control."
He looked shocked, and she smiled.
"I'm kidding, Johnny. You did great. You're a natural pilot, just like your dad."
His eyes lit up again. Johnny had been an infant when his dad was killed, but everyone said he was the best Space Force pilot in history. He'd won the Medal of Honor as proof.
"Do you think I'm as good as he was?" he asked hopefully.
"No," Onja said truthfully, her smile fading, "but you will be. You have the touch."
She hopped down off the wing, and he followed. As she strode toward the general aviation building he trotted backwards in front of her, anxious as a puppy.
"In three more years I'll be old enough to enlist," he said happily. "Then you and I can be in the same squadron, and I can be your pilot!"
Onja stopped walking, her brows knitting into a frown.
"Stop," she said. "I don't want you talking like that, okay? The war may be over by then, but even if it isn't, the end will be close. We don't need you out there, Johnny. There are thousands of fighter crews already trained and ready, enough to finish the war."
Torture filled his eyes and he shook his head.
"That's what Mom says. That's what Gramps and Gramma say. I thought you'd back me up!"
"Well, I won't." Her ice-blue eyes pierced his soul. "You listen to your mother and grandparents. They know what they're talking about."
"But, you're the best gunner in the fleet!"
She blinked as those words brought back a flood of memories. Johnny’s dad had frequently assured her that he was perfectly safe because he had the "best gunner in the fleet".