by John Bowers
Oliver glared at him as if they were talking about enough money to bankrupt the factory. Johnny swallowed and blinked, staring at nothing, as tears threatened.
"Go on home," Oliver said finally, more gently. "Tell your mother what you've done."
Johnny's eyes widened. He'd forgot about his mother. Breaking the news to her wouldn't be pleasant.
"Do I have to?" he whispered.
"If you don't, I will. She was always against you learning to fly. The only way I got her to agree to it in the first place was by promising that I would never keep anything from her. Those were her terms. Now one of us has to keep the bargain."
Johnny stood up slowly, biting his lip.
"No flying at all?"
"Not even a toy airplane."
Johnny left the office quietly, letting the door close itself behind him. Oliver Lincoln III watched him go, then ran a hand over his face.
"God damn!" he muttered.
It was hard to see the boy so depressed, but he knew it was best in the long run. Johnny II had always been irrepressible. If it took the government to bring him back to earth, then so be it. All the kid ever talked about was joining the Space Force, so he'd better get used to it.
But after today, Oliver wondered, would they even take him?
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
Book Two: Captivity
Chapter 7
October 0239 (PCC) - April 0240 (PCC) — Various Locales, North America, Terra
Forty men in fatigue pants and combat boots jogged in a loose gaggle across the countryside. Up and down hills, over dusty tracks, through streambeds and gullies, along a highway, up the main street of a small town. Sweating in the sun, wind streaming over their close-cropped hair, feet hitting the ground in rhythm.
Singing, a chorus of masculine voices.
"I don' know but I been told!
"Sirian girls are mighty bold!
"They'll fuck one man, then another —
"Then go home and fuck their brother!"
Induction into the military wasn't exactly what Johnny Lincoln II had expected. First came the obligatory physical; medicine had evolved to the point that a simple electronic scan could determine a man's fitness to serve, but Johnny was subjected to a technique centuries out of date. Standing naked in line for two hours, enduring a probe of ears, mouth, and nose, inspection of teeth, hands-on palpation of stomach, chest, and back, a rubber mallet to test reflex. Another man's hand on his testicles, head to the left and cough, to the right and repeat.
"Bend over and spread yer cheeks! I wanna see yer ass!"
All of it calculated not only to determine fitness to serve, but to thoroughly humiliate.
The process of dehumanization had begun.
Johnny spent six weeks at Loveland SFB in Colorado, then twelve more at Grand Forks, North Dakota. The rigors of flying spacecraft had left him fit, but boot camp discovered muscles he'd never used, and severely abused them.
Calisthenics. Pushups, pull-ups, jumping jacks, obstacle courses, running…
And running.
And running.
And still more running.
"Sound off!"
"One, two!"
"Sound off!"
"Three, four!"
"Cadence count!"
"One, two, three, four, one, two —
"Three, four!"
An eternity of pain, humiliation, and sleeplessness. Then, it was over. He was no longer a boot, no longer a maggot. He had a name again, and a rank — Space, the lowest designation in the fleet.
Oddly enough, he physically felt better than ever before in his life.
Johnny's confidence returned. He'd worried that he might not be accepted into the service, then fretted that he might not get into fighters. It would be ridiculous, of course, but after eighteen weeks of bullshit nothing would surprise him.
He made it, and after a brief week at home, found himself at Edwards SFB in California, sitting in a classroom.
Learning the rudiments of flight.
Johnny was heartsick. With over five thousand hours behind him, he was confined to a classroom with a gang of groundhogs. A quarter mile away, parked beside a runway, more than fifty PulsarFighters beckoned to him. While he aced test after test and helped others learn their lessons, he was obliged to hear them taxiing, taking off, landing.
Week after week.
He wasn't allowed within fifty yards of one.
After four weeks of classroom, Johnny and his fellow trainees finally got into a cockpit with an instructor. It was a propeller-driven craft, the very first step. On his first hop, when the instructor finally let him take the yoke, Johnny rolled the thing onto its back and dived for the earth six thousand feet below, pulled out at five hundred and executed a barrel roll.
Shaking with fear and fury, the instructor, Lt. Bergman, took back control of the plane and landed. Johnny also landed — in the CO's office.
Edwards SFB, Mojave, CA, North America, Terra
"Pilot trainee Lincoln, reporting as ordered, sir!"
Johnny Lincoln II stood at stiff attention in the base commander’s office. Lt. Col. Trautman stared at him coldly, no trace of humor on his face. For twenty long seconds he didn’t say a word, leaving Johnny with a chill in his blood. Lt. Bergman leaned against a wall, a grim look on his face.
"So you’re Johnny Lincoln’s kid." Trautman didn’t sound impressed.
"Sir, yes, sir!" That was how trainees had to talk.
"What does that make you?"
Johnny frowned. "Sir, the trainee does not understand the question, sir!"
"Does the fact that you’re Johnny Lincoln’s kid make you special? Is that what you think?"
"Sir, no, sir."
"Then what does it make you?"
Johnny’s lips pursed. What the hell did that mean?
"Sir, the trainee doesn’t know, sir!"
"Do you think you’re special? The rules don’t apply to you?"
"Sir, no, sir. I mean … y-yes, sir, the rules do apply to me … to the trainee, sir." He felt sweat beading his forehead.
"Are you God’s gift to aviation?"
Johnny hesitated. How did he answer that one?
"Well?" Trautman was waiting.
"Sir … yes, sir."
Lt. Col. Trautman’s eyes widened slowly, his first sign of humanity.
"What did you say?"
"Sir … yes, sir, the trainee does believe he is an exceptional pilot, sir."
Trautman stared at him for an eternity. "You’re serious, aren’t you?"
"Sir, yes, sir."
Trautman regarded him as if he had two heads.
"What the hell happened up there today? And for the duration of this conversation, talk normally."
Johnny sighed in relief. It was difficult to speak of himself in the third person all the time, but that was standard practice for trainees.
"Sir, the tr … I mean, it’s the first chance I had to get back in the air since I enlisted. I just couldn’t resist the chance to celebrate. I’m sorry if I frightened Lieutenant Bergman, sir."
"You were celebrating?"
"Yes, sir. I hadn’t been on the ground this long since I was twelve years old."
/> "You’ve been flying since you were twelve?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did you fly?"
"Everything, sir. Single engine props, multi-engine props, single-seat jets, multi-engine jets, deep-space fighters, rockets — I can fly anything, Colonel."
"That’s a pretty big statement, Space. You’ve only been flying for six years — there are lots of air- and spacecraft out there."
"Sir, I may not be expert in everything, but I can fly anything. I recognize that every ship has its own personality, but they all do essentially the same thing."
Trautman’s eyes narrowed in thought. Johnny kept his eyes on the wall above his head, so couldn’t read his expression.
"You’re telling me that you’re a prodigy?"
"I’m not sure what that means, sir. I’m just telling you that I must have inherited whatever made my dad such a skilled pilot. Maybe it’s genetic, sir."
"Do you recognize why you’re standing here?"
"No, sir. Except that I frightened Lieutenant Bergman. I probably shouldn’t have done that."
"Lieutenant Bergman is your instructor. You aren’t supposed to do anything without his permission. By his account, you dove your aircraft about six thousand feet and barely pulled out in time to avoid the ground."
"With respect to Lieutenant Bergman, sir, that isn’t quite accurate. I had two hundred feet of clearance when I pulled out."
"You recklessly endangered an aircraft and an instructor! What do you have to say about that?"
Johnny felt his stomach churn. "Colonel, with all due respect, Lieutenant Bergman is safer flying with me than with anyone else on the planet. Sir."
"Good god! You are completely full of yourself, aren’t you!"
"Sir, I’m just trying to be honest, sir."
"How many flying hours do you have?"
"Sir, about fifty-five hundred, sir."
"What?"
"Sir …"
"Did you say fifty-five hundred?"
"Sir, yes, sir."
"Do you expect me to believe that?"
"Sir, yes, sir. I have the logs to prove it, sir."
"You have them with you?"
"Sir, no, sir. They're in a safe at Lincoln Enterprises, sir. You can request copies, sir. Ask for Mr. Hatley, sir."
Without hesitation, Trautman buzzed his secretary. "Contact Lincoln Enterprises in Denver, Colorado. Find out who's in charge of flight ops there and request copies of the flight logs for Johnny Lincoln II. Have them V-mailed immediately to this office." He leaned back and stared at Johnny again, a different look on his face.
"You'd better be telling the truth, Space."
"Sir, yes, sir."
"I should have copies of your flight logs by the end of the day. If it checks out, are you willing to risk your life on your big mouth?"
"Sir?"
"If I put you in the cockpit of a heavy jet transport, can you pull it off? I don't want it coming through my ceiling just because you have a big ego."
Johnny felt his heart race with excitement.
"Sir, I may have a big mouth, sir, but I can fly anything you've got. Sir."
Trautman glared at him a moment longer, then nodded.
"Tomorrow morning, be prepared to perform."
Johnny almost grinned. "Sir, yes, sir!"
* * *
Within three days he'd checked out in nine different aircraft, including multi-engine props and single-seat jets. On the fourth day he finally sat down in the cockpit of a PulsarFighter.
Lt. Bergman stood on the wing root, rattling off instructions.
"Those switches control the rockets," he said, pointing, "but we're not going to touch them today. All voice commands to the AI are prefixed by the word 'input', and end with the word 'execute'. Got that? Now, V1 speed at sea-level is ninety-three knots, rotation at one-oh-five …"
"'Scuse me, sir?" Johnny looked into the man's eyes. "For optimum lift-off you can do better than that. Add five degrees spoilers with twenty degrees flaps, you can rotate at ninety-seven knots. Just don't forget to recess the spoilers when the gear retracts, otherwise she'll stall and nose dive like a whore in heat."
Bergman stared at him for a heartbeat.
"You don't touch those fucking spoilers, Space, you read me?"
"Sir, no, sir! The recruit just didn't know if the lieutenant knew that, sir."
It was obvious that Bergman hadn't, but he didn't admit it.
"I'll be in the gun turret," he said. "Take your time, take it easy, let's see what you can do. Don't piss me off."
"Sir, no, sir!"
Johnny taxied to takeoff position, received clearance from the tower, and turned onto the runway.
"Sir, ready back there, sir?" he asked over the intercom.
"Don't worry about me, kid. Concentrate on what you're doing."
Johnny felt the power from the engines flow through him, an intimate bond with the spacecraft that was almost sexual. Without another word he shoved the throttles forward, soaking up the vibration as the jets screamed behind him. The PF began to roll, shooting down the starcrete like a meteor.
"Input continuous," Johnny said rapidly, "autoexecute. Turret lock true, hot weapons false, optimum rotate true, autoexecute false …
"Here we go, sweetheart! Johnny loves you."
Four hundred yards from takeoff roll the wheels lifted.
"Input: gear false, burner true, execute."
The wheels snapped up smartly and the doors snapped shut. Afterburners fired and the PF streaked forward like an arrow. Johnny jerked the yoke into his crotch and the sleek space fighter climbed for the stars at an optimum sixty degrees. A sonic wave cracked across the desert as the ship passed through Mach 1, still accelerating. In the back, Lt. Bergman gasped under three full G's, too stunned to issue countermands.
"Input: zero flaps, auto-trim true, execute.
Johnny reached thirty thousand feet in forty seconds, lowered his angle of climb to twenty degrees, and killed his burners. Just for fun he did a couple of aileron rolls, then began a wide spiral, still climbing. At fifty thousand he leveled off, set his throttles at cruising speed, and rolled inverted — then pulled back on the yoke and dived straight down, pulling out level again at high G, back to normal attitude.
Through his side window he looked out in admiration at the desolate expanse of the Mojave Desert almost ten miles below. To the northwest lay the Tehachapi Mountains.
"What's all that true-false bullshit?" Bergman demanded in his headset. "Who taught you to talk to the AI like that?"
"Sir, the trainee is using Boolean commands, sir!"
"What?"
"Sir, it's just like any other computer, sir! Everything is represented by ones and zeros — true or false. Boolean commands. You can give the AI a long command string and it will parse that into a true or false statement for most instructions. Or you can issue the command in Boolean format and save a hell of a lot of time. Sir!"
Bergman was silent. Johnny smiled inside his helmet, certain that Bergman had just learned something else new.
"All right, Space, take us back."
"Sir, yes, sir! But doesn't the lieutenant want to see what the trainee can do? Sir?"
"Take us back, Space."
"Sir, yes, sir!"
Three days later Johnny was ordered to Luna 1 for Advanced Flight Training. He'd just shaved nine months off his road to combat.
Friday, 10 April, 0240 (PCC) — Luna Base 1, Luna
Major Charles Dunn had been training fighter pilots for eighteen years, considered himself good at it, and the pay was adequate. Rarely these days did he let himself remember how and why he came to be in command of a training squadron — or why he was still a major. Some things were best forgotten.
Sitting behind his desk at Luna 1, he reviewed the names of the next batch of trainees who would arrive tomorrow. Forty-one names. Half would wash out in the first weeks of Advanced Flight, five or six more before he finished with them. By the ti
me they got here they all knew how to fly, but that didn't make them combat pilots. Only Dunn could do that.
Running his finger down the hardcopy, he suddenly froze as he came to a name that evoked the worst memory of his life. What the hell? Could it be a coincidence?
He turned and pulled up the file on his computer terminal, gazing at the picture with the first stirrings of hatred. He smoldered as he read the demographics.
He sat back with a groan.
It was not a coincidence. The son of a bitch had a kid!
Reina, Vega 3
Sirens screeched in the Vegan capital of Reina as the sound of attacking spacecraft died away. The air over the city was heavy with smoke; fires raged in every direction, and streets were littered with fragments from bombs, missiles, and broken buildings.
Adam Pedersen climbed gingerly out of his basement shelter and straightened up wearily, surveying the scene. His beautiful city lay in virtual ruin, at least the part he could see. Half a block away, a water main gushed like a fountain; the shopping mall just beyond lay in a burning heap. Bodies lay grotesquely in the street.
He turned and looked the other way, toward his factory, and caught his breath — NordTek was gone!
NordTek, established by his father, had provided Adam's livelihood his entire life. Originally it had manufactured weapons for the Vegan Guard, but after the Sirian occupation he'd been forced to produce weapons for the Confederate military. He never had a choice in the matter. If he'd refused, the Sirians would simply have taken NordTek from him, and probably shot him in the bargain.
He stared in numb disbelief at the raging inferno, his stomach feeling hollow and queasy. Flying cinders drifted down around him, smoke smarted his eyes, and tears slowly coursed down his cheeks. It was truly over for him now. Except for his wife, Inga, he had nothing left. The Sirians had taken everything that was important to him, and what they hadn't taken the Federation had just destroyed.
He sat down on the sidewalk and lowered his head. He was no longer a young man. He would have retired already except the Sirians wouldn't let him. His SE controller had insisted he remain at the helm until "this emergency" was over. And if he resisted, what would become of Inga?