The Fighter Queen

by John Bowers

  "Look, lady, I don't know what your game is, but there is no 'Southern Command'. You are not part of the expeditionary force and I am not authorized to talk to you. Now go away."

  "Negat, jerk-off! This is the Southern Command; I am an escaped prisoner of war and I demand to speak to someone in authority! I have eight hundred POWs here who need evacuation! I also have twenty of your fighter people who were shot down over the past month. You are putting their lives in jeopardy!"

  "How do I know you're who you say you are? You're probably a Confederate trying to bait a trap. Well, it isn't going to work."

  "I'm Captain Ursula Negus, Fighter Service. I was captured over four years ago and you can check military records to prove it." She gave him her serial number.

  "If this Captain Negus was captured, then you probably have her ID in your hand. That doesn't prove anything. I have no way to prove who you really are."

  "Then come down here and see for yourself, goddammit!"

  She heard mocking laughter. "Sure, I will. You think I'm going to send someone down there so you can ambush them? Fuck off, you Confederate whore!"

  Ursula was speechless with rage. Kevin Willis took the headset from her and slipped it on. He keyed the transmitter.

  "Listen up, asshole!" he said calmly. "My name is Kevin Willis, Corporal, 33rd Star Marines. I was captured at Periscope Harbor in 32. You can look that up, too. Now I don't know who you are, but I've got the name of your ship on my display, so when the war is over I'm going to get my hands on the comm logs and find out which son of a bitch insulted my friend here. And you know what, fuck-face? I'm gonna look you up. I will make it my life's mission to get you a star-court and have you publicly disgraced. You might even get some brig time over it. What do you think?"

  "I think you better go fuck yourself, you fucking perv —"

  They heard a murmur of interruption, then a new voice came on.

  "This is Commander Stockwell, UFF Black Forest. Who am I speaking with?"

  "Corporal Kevin Willis, 33rd Star Marines. Are you in charge of the jerk I was just talking to?"

  "I'm his superior officer. Who, exactly, are you?"

  Heaving a deep breath, Kevin repeated everything Ursula had tried to convey. "We have a few medical cases," he concluded, "that need evacuation. But trying to talk sense to your subordinate there as been less than satisfying."

  "Who is your commanding officer?"

  "Colonel Robert Landon, ZF-111."

  Silence on the other end for a moment.

  "Colonel Robert Landon is listed as missing, presumed dead. He was killed in the first year of the war."

  "Negat, Commander. He was captured when the Sirians took over his asteroid base. And you're right — it was early in the war. He's been a prisoner for about twenty years now."

  "Stand by."

  Kevin gave Ursula a hopeful thumbs-up, and she smiled at him in the starlight. They waited breathlessly, but it was five minutes before Stockwell came back.

  "All right, Corporal. We have no way to verify who you really are, but I've been in touch with my superiors and they're going to send some fighters down tomorrow to overfly your position. If you aren't legitimate, or if they encounter any hostility at all, they will take action against you. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, sir. I have no problem with that at all."

  "Very well. Be back where you are at this same time tomorrow night. After we get a report from the fighters, we'll decide what to do."

  "Thank you, Commander. Southern Command out."

  Kevin turned off the microwave and sat back with a sigh. He suddenly felt better than he had in years.

  "You were awesome," Ursula said.

  He grinned. "Sometimes you just got to push your weight a little."

  "I was trying to, but I got so mad I couldn't talk." She put her arms around his neck, resting her forehead against his. "It's nice to see a man act like a man for a change," she said.

  Chapter 19

  Friday, 27 August, 0241 (PCC) — UFF George Bush, Parking Orbit, Sirius 1

  Onja Kvoorik looked up from her desk as the door opened and Col. Paul Michelini poked his head inside. Michelini was the Wing Commander for Bush. He was about Onja's age and had been a fighter pilot until he lost both arms and both legs during the Outer Worlds campaign. He now had bio-regenerated limbs and, if anything, was even more agile than he had been before.

  "Major, we've got cherries coming aboard. Your replacement for Lieutenant Ritscher is among them."

  Onja nodded absently, her mind still on her datawork.

  "Thanks, Colonel."

  Michelini stood there a moment. She looked up again.

  "Why don't you come to the flight deck with me," he said.

  Onja tilted her head curiously. It wasn't like Michelini to play games. She searched his expression for clues, but his poker face gave nothing away. Abruptly she stood.

  "Aye‑aye, sir."

  Five minutes later they stood in the observation bay overlooking the flight deck. Through the aft end, three hundred yards away, Onja could see just a slice of the planet below. Out the fore end was nothing but empty space, the black hole broken only by the pinpoint lights of distant stars. A fighter had just landed and was taxiing toward the lift that would lower it to the hangar deck.

  "I think the next one is your replacement," Col. Michelini told Onja, nodding toward another flashing beacon that approached from thirty miles out. Onja looked.

  "What's his name?"

  Michelini didn't answer; at that moment the speakers bellowed with SpectraWav talk.

  "Timberwolf, Bush Control. Your approach is a bit unsteady. Are you on manual?"

  "That's affirm!" replied the approaching pilot's youthful voice.

  "Negat, Timberwolf. Go to autopilot, please." The controller's voice was cool and professional. Onja never ceased to admire the iciness of the men and women who kept the fighters untangled even in the heat of battle.

  "With respect, sir —" the young pilot started to reply.

  The controller bit him off instantly.

  "Negat! You will use autopilot or you will abort your approach. That is an order, Lieutenant."

  "Roger, Bush Control. Autopilot engaged." Onja heard resignation in the young voice, and shook her head.

  "He sounds like a teenager, for god's sake!" she told Michelini. "Why do I get all the kids?"

  Michelini grunted. "Maybe Command figures they need mothering."

  Onja flashed her blue eyes at him, but bit back the "fuck you" she would have tossed to an equal or lesser rank.

  "Anyway," he added, "there aren't that many these days."

  "If it were up to me, there wouldn't be any. Nobody under twenty-five should be allowed inside a cockpit."

  She glanced back in time to see the rookie pilot hit the deck in a shriek of rockets and straining metal. In spite of the shaky approach, the PulsarFighter didn't rock nose-down as most fighters did, the tail hardly rising at all, and was off the flight deck in thirteen seconds flat, riding the lift down to the hangar deck.

  "At least he knows how to land," she noted. Michelini grinned and nodded toward the exit.

  "Go on down and meet him. From now on he's yours, body and soul."

  Onja made a wry face. "Thanks a lot. See you later, Colonel."

  She jumped into the antigrav lift and dropped down to the hangar deck, emerging just as the ship handler was unsealing the cockpit hatch on Timberwolf's PF. Onja put on her sternest face; it was clear she had a hotdog on her hands. Anyone who tried to shoot a carrier landing on manual control would need an iron hand around his throat until he learned to do things the right way.

  The ship handler popped the hatch on the gun turret and a short, black‑haired girl climbed out, helmet under her arm, and looked around with wide eyes at the awesome view of the hangar deck. The pilot was already on the deck, his helmet still locked down, and reached up to help his gunner. He was medium height, Onja noted, slender, but she could tell l
ittle more. His gunner reached up and unlocked his helmet, then spotted Onja and spun to face her, automatically snapping to attention and throwing her a salute.

  Onja returned the salute absently, taking in the girl's name patch. It said simply LEWIS. Onja fixed her with a blue stare and saw the other girl's eyes widen slightly with intimidation.

  Good.

  She turned on the pilot just as he removed his helmet. She saw the name patch at the same moment, and stood frozen. He stared down at her from his five feet ten, brown hair, brown eyes, square jaw. The shape of the face, the posture, the easy grin, all so familiar. She flashed back nineteen years as her heart pounded foolishly. His eyes twinkled with mischief and it was obvious he was pleased with himself. He'd really put one over on her.

  For perhaps five seconds Onja stared at him in wonder, not believing it was real. It was so unexpected, so unbelievable, so …

  "Don't I get a hug, Major?" he asked at last.

  Onja snapped back to reality, and her eyes narrowed dangerously.

  "Didn't anyone ever teach you to salute, Lieutenant?" she snapped. "Who the fuck do you think you are, some over-privileged rich kid? Ten‑hut, goddammit!"

  His grin vanished and his eyes glazed. He kicked to attention as if electrocuted, eyes front, chest out, snapped off and held a textbook salute. Onja glared at him as if it were an inspection, circled him as if checking for defects, then did the same to his gunner. She returned his salute and he dropped his arm straight down to his side.

  "Lewis, how long have you been flying with this jerkoff?" she demanded.

  "Thirteen months and nine days, Major!" The girl, at least, had a sense of military propriety.

  "Has he always been this stupid?" she continued.

  "Ma'am?" Lewis looked confused.

  Onja took up the discussion with the pilot.

  "Lincoln," she said icily, "I don't care how important you may think you are, or who your daddy was. You may be the most natural pilot ever born, but Space Force regs are very clear that you never shoot a carrier landing on manual control. Did anyone ever tell you that?"

  Johnny Lincoln II paled slightly.

  "Yes, Ma'am!"

  "Oh, did they! Then what the hell was that out there? I saw your landing. I heard you talking to the controller. Do you think you can flaunt service regs just because your old man won the Medal of Honor? Son of a hero, you can break the rules?"

  "No, Ma'am."

  Onja glared at him.

  "Another thing — you never, repeat, never, talk back to a traffic controller. Things happen out there at very high speeds. Everything is timed. They don't have time to fuck with you. You obey orders. You obey them the first time, and you don't talk back. If you want to discuss your options, you abort your approach and get out of the traffic pattern. Then you can debate all you want, as long as you're willing to accept the consequences." She stepped up against him, pinning him with her blue stare again. "Do I need to repeat any of this?"

  "No, Ma'am." His voice was quiet, subdued. He looked confused, a little shamefaced.

  "Good. As of right now you're grounded."

  His mouth dropped open, stunned. "Grounded?" he gasped.

  "I don't remember saying 'at ease'!"

  He snapped back to attention.

  "One thing you will understand early," Onja continued. "I am your commanding officer. You will obey my voice or I will have your ass on a butcher block. You will do things the way I tell you to do them. There won't be any freelancing here, or you'll find yourself swabbing shitters with your toothbrush while someone else takes your ship into combat. Are we clear on that?"

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  "Good." She turned her angry eyes on Lewis, who trembled visibly but maintained attention. "Can you shoot?" she demanded.

  "Y‑yes, Ma'am!"

  "You don't sound too sure about that."

  "Yes, Ma'am. I can shoot. It's in my record, on my data chip."

  "I'll be looking at it. What was your top achievement?"

  "Expert, Ma'am."

  "Expert?" Onja's expression didn't change, but she was impressed. There'd only been one Perfect, but Experts were excellent gunners, and not all that plentiful. "I hope so, Lewis. Because this squadron is composed of the finest personnel in the Fighter Service. I don't need any substandard gunners. If Lincoln doesn't shape up, I'll get you a real pilot so you can get some targets. Someone who can get you in close."

  She took a step back.

  "For now, the two of you report to my XO, Captain Najarian. Deck 11. He'll assign you to quarters. Lincoln, I want you in my office in one hour. Dismissed."

  The two young people saluted stiffly and turned toward the yellow exits that would take them into the labyrinth of the huge carrier, each with a helmet under one arm and carrying a space bag. Onja watched them go, her cheeks warm. She didn't quite understand what she was feeling right now, but she didn't much like it.

  * * *

  "I thought you said she was your aunt!" Joanne Lewis accused as she and Johnny cleared the exit and were out of earshot of the major. "She treated you like shit!"

  "She's not my real aunt," Johnny explained lamely. "She was my dad's gunner. I just call her Aunt Onja. I've known her all my life."

  "Aunt Onja my ass!" Joanne complained bitterly. "The Fighter Bitch is more like it!"

  "Come on, drop it!" Johnny sighed, his face flaming with humiliation.

  "Fucking Fighter Queen!"

  "I said drop it!"

  "Shit!"

  * * *

  Onja looked up as Johnny Lincoln II stepped through her door and stood stiffly at attention.

  "Second Lieutenant Johnny Lincoln II reporting as ordered, Major!" he recited.

  Onja stared at him for a moment, unsmiling.

  "At ease, Lieutenant," she said quietly. "Sit down."

  Johnny quickly obeyed, taking a chair in front of the desk and sitting stiffly.

  "Relax, Johnny. You're going to break yourself."

  His tongue moistened his lips as he dared look at her.

  "We're off the record now," she said, still not smiling. "You can say anything you want."

  He stared at her, waiting for her to speak, but she said nothing. He held out both hands in confusion.

  "God, Aunt Onja! Aren't you glad to see me?"

  She shook her head.

  "I'm not sure. I didn't know you were coming. How did you happen to get posted to my squadron?"

  "I asked for it."

  "Let me guess. Oliver fixed it?"

  Johnny dared to grin. "You got it."

  "So you wanted the Triple‑One and you got it. Jesus Christ, Johnny! Why did you do that?"

  He looked surprised.

  "All my life I've wanted to fly with you. So here I am."

  Onja dropped her stylus on her desk and sat back in her chair.

  "Did it ever occur to you that I might not want to fly with you?" she asked softly.

  He looked shocked, then hurt.

  "No. Why not? I thought you loved me."

  She nodded slowly. "Exactly."

  His eyes were blank. "I don't get it."

  She leaned forward again.

  "Yes you do. I told you five years ago, the day we went flying in Colorado. We don't need you out here. You never should have enlisted."

  "I had to, Aunt Onja! I could never live with myself if I didn't. Especially with my talent for flying. You should be glad to have me in your squadron."

  Onja sighed and sat back in her chair.

  "Johnny, I loved your dad. Loved him so much that I would have died with him if he hadn't ejected me. The last thing I need in my squadron is you. Depending on me. Reminding me of him. Now I not only have to worry about my squadron, but I have to worry about someone I love. I don't want that. I don't need that." She compressed her lips briefly. "I can't take the pain any more, Johnny."

  "You don't have to worry about me, Aunt Onja," he grinned. "Nothing's going to happen to me. The war's almost o
ver."

  She stared at him in frozen disbelief for a heartbeat, then slammed her fist down on her desk and leaped to her feet.

  "The war is not over, goddammit!" she screamed. "You kids are all so fucking immortal! The man you're replacing was shot down by a fucking airplane! Goddess Sophia!"

  She paced the office and stared out her port at the heavy cruiser keeping formation with Bush, twenty‑two miles away. She caught her breath and turned back, staring at the son of Johnny Lincoln with tears in her eyes.

  "Your dad thought he was immortal, too. He used to say nothing could happen to him with me riding shotgun. Because I was the damned Fighter Queen. Well, the goddamned Fighter Queen did the best she could, Johnny, but your daddy is still dead."

  Tears streamed down her cheeks and she stopped, lowered her head and held her breath for a moment, but the pain would not abate. "Oh, Jesus!" she sobbed.

  Johnny was on his feet, around the desk, and stood awkwardly a foot away.

  "I'm sorry, Aunt Onja. I didn't mean to make you cry."

  She looked up at him, unable to speak, and shook her head. She started to wave him away, changed her mind and put her arms around him instead, pulling him against her and holding him close until she could fight down the barrier in her chest and get her breath back.

  "It's not your fault," she said hoarsely after a minute or so. "I keep it buried most of the time."

  He pushed her back and looked into her eyes, his twenty year-old face so very like the one she remembered from her youth.

  "Is the pain still that fresh?" he asked in wonder. "I had no idea."

  "I guess no one knows what lives in another person's heart," she said quietly. "No one alive knows just how much I loved your father. He knew, and I knew. No one else."

  "He loved you just as much."

  She nodded painfully.

  "I love you, too, Aunt Onja. I would die to save you if I had to."

  She studied his eyes for a long moment, nodded slowly.

  "I know you would. But I don't need you in my squadron."

  "You're not going to reassign me?" he asked fearfully. "Gramps appealed to President Wells to send me here."