by John Bowers
Johnny's eyebrows lifted.
"Sorry," she said. "This is turning into a really long day."
"Okay. I just wanted to say I'm really sorry about Lieutenant Royal's parents. He's a damned good man."
Onja nodded. "Yes, he is."
Johnny hesitated, as if waiting for permission to continue.
"Is that it?" she asked, sensing his unease.
"Aunt Onja …" Johnny's eyes regarded her warily as he licked his lips. "I want to apply for Lieutenant Royal's job. I want to be your pilot."
Onja sat rooted with surprise for a heartbeat, then smiled as if he'd made a joke. "You can't be serious."
"Serious as a solar flare," he replied. "It's been my goal my entire life. Since I was five years old and found out how my dad died, I've wanted to fly with you. This is my chance, and I can't let it get away."
"Johnny …"
"I'm sorry you're losing Lieutenant Royal. I mean that sincerely. But I want his job. Please, let me fly with you."
"Johnny …"
"Please, Aunt Onja!"
She sat shaking her head in disbelief, leaned back wordlessly in her chair and stared at him.
"You're out of your mind!" she sighed in wonder. "I can't believe you think I could even consider you."
"Look —" He spread his hands wide for emphasis. "I'm not talking about sleeping with you. We can live in separate quarters, if you want, but you've always tried to keep the best pilot in the fleet in your cockpit. Right?"
She nodded.
"That's me. You said it yourself. Even Lieutenant Royal said I was the best he'd ever seen. You heard him this afternoon. You can't turn me down. You're the Fighter Queen. You have to have the best pilot."
Onja laughed.
"Goddess, Johnny! You sound like a commercial for Johnny Lincoln II!"
"Call me conceited if you want, but I am the best natural pilot in the Fighter Service today. You know it and I know it."
She just stared at him.
"Give me one good reason for turning me down," he challenged.
"You want a reason? I'll give you two! First of all, you're Johnny Lincoln's kid. I'm almost your mother! How would it look for me to fly with you? Can you imagine the talk?"
"Onja …"
"And second," she continued, "I have a record of killing off pilots. Tommy Royal was one of only two that got away from me with life and limb intact. I've lost six pilots, Johnny. Six! Do you want to be number seven?"
He sat in thought for a few seconds.
"I'm willing to risk it. Royal Flush wasn't killed; your luck is changing."
"It's a different war than the one your dad and I fought. We're not facing waves of enemy fighters any more. Now it's laser batteries and GAMs. I can't shoot down the GAMs or the lasers. It's really a lot more dangerous now than it was then."
"I know how it is. I was out there today. Look, at the risk of offending you, there is no defensible reason for you turning me down, except that you don't want to fly with me. And that isn't logical. Given your history of going for the best pilots, you should be begging me to fly with you, and not the other way around. Now that's the truth, and you know it."
"Goddess Sophia," she said slowly.
"My mom would feel a lot better about me being out here if you were my gunner. So would Gramps. They want me to have the best gunner in the fleet, and for the last twenty years that's been you. You've got to pick someone, because you're the CO and you have to fly. Is there anyone in the Triple One more qualified than me?"
She shook her head, smiling at his earnestness.
"No. There isn't."
"I rest my case." He sat back, then leaned forward again. "You wouldn't want to dash my lifetime dream, would you?"
"You already rested your case," she reminded him.
He slumped back in his chair and waited, his fingers drumming nervously. Onja stood up and walked to her observation port, staring down at the planet below.
"You don't have a gunner any more," she mused aloud. "And I don't have a pilot." She stood in silent thought for nearly a minute, letting Johnny fidget in misery. Finally she turned and fixed him with her famous blue gaze.
"Okay," she said reluctantly. "Don't get your hopes up, but I will consider it."
His eyes lighted and he started to let loose a whoop of joy, but she cut him off.
"Don't get your hopes up!" she repeated. "Just take it as it comes. In the meantime, we have a mission tomorrow. Until I make a final decision, I will fly with you temporarily. Whether I accept you as my pilot or not, you will realize your lifelong dream at least once."
She allowed her lips to curve slightly at the corners, enjoying his expression of pent-up joy.
"Dismissed."
Sunday, 5 September, 0241 (PCC) — The Outback, Sirius 1
"It's been a long time, Jack," Landon said as the two men shook hands. "What's it been, nineteen years?"
"Twenty years and a month, sir. The last time I saw you was 9 August, 0221." General Hinds smiled. "You don't look any the worse for wear, actually."
Landon smiled thinly.
"Looks like you did all right for yourself, too. Brigadier General, eh? Not bad for a fighter jockey. You still flying combat?"
"Not any more, sir. Transport and supply. It's my job to keep the materiél moving to the right people at the right time."
Landon nodded. "Tough job."
"Sometimes," Hinds agreed. He looked around the underground chamber where Landon had his office. "Sort of reminds me of an asteroid base," he mused.
"It does, at that." Landon laughed, then turned and rummaged in a file cabinet for a bottle. "Care for a drink?"
"I'd love to, sir, but I'm on a tight schedule. Normally I wouldn't even have made this trip myself, but when I found out it was you, I had to come in person. I understand you've been running a rescue operation for the last few months. The 'Southern Command'?"
Landon poured himself a shot and nursed it as he nodded.
"We're short on supplies, of course, but we've done a pretty decent job, considering. We've rescued about twenty fighter people who need to get back, but more important than that, I have over seven hundred men who were captured over the years. They need to get home as soon as possible."
"So, about eight hundred all told?"
Landon nodded. "Pretty close. We also have about a hundred other miscellaneous personnel, but most of those are native to Sirius, so I'm not sure what to do about them."
"If I take all your fighting men, are you going to have anyone to defend your operation here?"
"A few Star Marines have volunteered to stay until the war ends. There isn't much of a threat here any more."
"You don't want to be evacuated?"
"I'd love to be evacuated," Landon grinned. "But at the rate fighter crews are dropping into this region, I think the Federation needs someone here to catch them. We're already doing the job, we know the terrain — and it's probably the last chance I'll have to contribute anything to the war effort. What I need from you is a supply line — weapons, comm equipment, medical stores, things like that. And, of course, evac shuttles to move out the excess people."
Hinds nodded thoughtfully.
"Sounds reasonable.”
He stood up abruptly, effectively ending the conversation.
"Colonel, I have to run. My shuttle is waiting, and I have work to do. We'll give you everything you need that we reasonably can. I'll arrange for evac transport within the next day or two for your extra people, and you can expect a shipment of everything you need at the same time."
Landon also stood, his weary face creasing in a smile of pleasure.
"I appreciate that, Jack. Thanks for coming."
"It was my pleasure, sir."
"When this is over, let's get together for a drink. I'd like to catch up on all the gossip for the last twenty years."
"There's plenty to catch up on, sir."
"See you after the war, then."
"Ye
s, sir. It won't be long now."
Thursday, 10 March, 0242 (PCC) — New Birmingham, Missibama, Sirius 1
New Birmingham was a shell. The capital of Missibama, it had been a beautiful city once, built at the junction of three rivers and sprawled across a spread of rolling hills. Its history of human oppression stretched back almost two centuries. Here, the first serf laws had been enacted, depriving non-Aryan people of citizenship. Here, the first president of Sirius had been born, raised, and educated in his poisonous ways. Here, just recently, nine Sirian divisions had defended the city almost to the last man, fighting street to street, house to house, until the Star Marines, at a terrible cost in life and limb, had finally rooted them out.
As the PulsarFighter swept in over the rivers from the west on approach to what was left of Lucius Clay Spaceport, Onja Kvoorik couldn't think of a single city in the galaxy more deserving of the devastation she saw from horizon to horizon.
The spaceport was virtually destroyed, the runways repaired by Fed engineers so friendly ships could land. As she and Johnny climbed down, she saw Star Marines everywhere. They were met on the apron by a young sergeant who snapped off a textbook salute, and smiled his freshest.
"General Osato is expecting you, Major Kvoorik," he said. "If you'll climb aboard, I'll take you to him."
Ten minutes later, Onja and Johnny found themselves in a hotel lobby a few miles from the spaceport. Somehow this building, of all those around it, had survived with virtually no damage, and was now used by the Federation as a combined headquarters. General Osato had established an office here to better coordinate his command with the needs of the ground troops. When the sergeant ushered them into his office he grinned happily, gave Onja a fatherly hug, and shook hands with Johnny.
"Sit down, Major!" he said. "How are you holding up?"
Onja had slept little in the past few weeks, but she favored the general with one of her rare smiles.
"I'm okay, General. I turned thirty-nine last August, and next year I'll be a hundred."
He laughed as he poured her a drink.
"Take a shot of that. Sirian Lightning. It'll put fire back in your blood."
"I'm about down to embers, sir," she admitted.
He grinned and hefted his glass.
"The end of the war!" he toasted, and they drank. Johnny choked on his, gasping for oxygen, but Onja held her breath long enough for the stuff to slide down, her eyes watering.
"Like it?" Osato prompted.
"Tastes like plasma," she whispered when she could speak again. "I think one will do me, thank you."
Osato cackled as he put the bottle away.
"I had to try that out on you. Forgive an old man a childish prank, will you?"
"For you, sir, any time. General, have you met my pilot? This is Lieutenant Johnny Lincoln II."
Osato turned his aging eyes on the young pilot.
"Johnny Lincoln? You're the son?"
"Yes, sir," Johnny said.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant. I knew your dad when he was about your age. As I recall —" He smiled at the memory. "— I had to save his impudent ass from a star-court."
"Is that right, sir?"
Osato nodded, still grinning. "His squadron commander tried to bring him up on charges for mutiny, or something like that. Seems he disobeyed a direct order."
"I never heard that story, General."
"I'm not surprised. To make a long story short, Lincoln engaged the enemy against orders. Shot down half a dozen or more. I couldn't punish a man for wanting to defend the planet, especially since the war wasn't going so well in those days, so I fired Major Dunn and sent your dad back to his squadron."
"Dunn?" Johnny gulped in astonishment. "Major Charles Dunn?"
Osato nodded. "You know him?"
"Yes, sir. He was my training officer."
"You mean he's still training pilots?" Osato shook his head sadly. "I sent the incompetent bastard to a training squadron in the hopes he would resign. He really wasn't fit for that job, either, but we were short handed in those days." His eyes narrowed. "He give you a hard time?"
"Oh, yes, sir, General. He didn't like my dad at all, and he didn't mind letting me know it."
"I'm sorry to hear that, son."
"It's okay, sir. Major Dunn is a civilian now. He finally got himself cashiered."
"Good. Anyway, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant. Your father was a good man."
"Thank you, sir."
Osato turned sober eyes on Onja.
"I had two reasons for ordering you to report here. One was to get you out of combat for a few days. Your unit has been in the thick of it for several months, and I don't want you overdoing it. I figured you could use a break, and from the look of you, I was right.
"The other reason — the main reason — is that here in New Birmingham we've captured an intact database."
Onja's pulse quickened.
"From what we can tell so far," he continued, "it appears to have a record of every Vegan woman ever brought here as a slave."
"Oh, my god!" she whispered.
"I knew you'd want to take a look at it. I expect you might find out what happened to your mother and sister."
"God, General! Have you …"
"No. I thought you should be here first."
She compressed her lips, fighting back the stinging in her eyes.
"Thank you, sir! You don't know how much this means to me!"
"Oh, I think I do." He smiled again, then nodded at a computer terminal on his desk. "Would you like to do it yourself?"
Numb with disbelief, Onja walked around the desk. It had been twenty-seven years since she'd vowed, on her knees, to the goddess Sophia that she would, somehow, find and free her mother and sister. Could this be the fulfillment of that vow?
Her eyes misted as she sat down, but somehow she brought up a search screen, keyed in the name PEDERSEN, MARIE, and punched the input key. The screen came back with four matches, and she selected the PORTRAIT option for each one. The first three women were strangers. But the fourth …
Tears spilled freely down her cheeks. Her chest constricted and she sobbed, open‑mouthed. The woman looking back at her on the screen was her mother, as she had appeared at age thirty-six.
Twenty-seven years ago.
The next screen displayed the demographics: her husband's name, Adam; her daughters' names, Sonja and Onja. She'd been taken from Reina to fill a special order, a birthday present for a Sirian boy named Bill Jacobs, internment on 11 October, 0214. The purchase price had been 23,500 sirios.
God! A birthday present for a boy? They would take a woman from her home, rip her away from her family to make her a present for a boy? Sirians weren't people, they were predators!
Other transactions followed. Sold back to the Sirian government in 0219 by Bill Jacobs as a trade-in on another woman, sale price 9,000S. Resold a month later to a broker for 15,000S. Sold by the broker a week after that to one Neal Eitzen for 16,500S. Sold by Eitzen in 0222 to the Vegan Delights Corporation, a slave rental agency, for 9300S. Sold to the Big Rock Middle School District in 0227 for 3000S.
Onja closed her eyes. It was too horrible to contemplate. Her mother — her beautiful, loving mother being traded like a used hovercar. What did a school district want with a second-hand slave woman?
She sat with her hands over her face, weeping silently, for several minutes. Osato pulled out his Lightning bottle and poured her another shot. When she was able, she drank it down straight, didn't even feel the fire.
She returned to the screen.
The school district had sold Marie Pedersen back to the Sirian government in 0239 as a reject for 1500S. The final entry made Onja's heart stand still. It was dated 0241, less than a year ago, and the notation read: FINAL DISPOSAL PENDING.
"What does this mean, General?" she asked in a strained voice, pointing to the notation on the screen. "What is a 'final disposal'?"
Osato frowne
d at the screen, but shook his head.
"I don't know. But I know who can tell us. Come on."
He led the way and Onja followed, with Johnny close behind. They took a lift to the hotel basement. Osato walked right past the security guards unchallenged, returning their salutes, and stopped at a desk where a Star Police lieutenant leaped to his feet with a salute in progress.
"Lieutenant, I want to see the SE prisoner," he said briskly. "Right now."
"Yes, sir!" The young lieutenant led the way down a side corridor where he unlocked a room that was being used as a holding cell. Inside sat a short, white-haired man with a hooked nose and an insolent stare. His lip curled slightly as they entered, his eyes moving from Osato to Onja.
"You let anyone into your ranks, General!" he mocked, his voice heavily nasal. "She's a Vegan woman!"
"That's right, Colonel McColm," Osato said with easy dignity. "She's one of my finest squadron commanders. She's so good, in fact, that your people put a price on her head. Ten million sirios, dead or alive."
McColm studied Onja with narrowed eyes.
"You're the one they call the Fighter Queen," he said. "Sure, I heard of you. You butchered our boys by the thousands."
Onja stared back with equal hatred, but didn't reply.
"Major Kvoorik has a question for you, Colonel," Osato continued.
McColm sniffed. "I'm not talking to her. It's bad enough to have to deal with you! A slant-eyed general!"
Osato smiled patiently.
"Go ahead, Onja," he said, never taking his eyes off the prisoner.
Onja took a step toward the little man, but he didn't flinch.
"In your database concerning Vegan slave women," she said carefully, "I saw a notation for one woman that said 'final disposal pending'. What does that mean?"
"What do you think it means?" McColm sneered. "They get to a certain age, all used up, there's no market for 'em any more. All they do is eat and shit and cost money. We get rid of 'em."
Onja's blood ran cold – that was exactly what she had feared it meant. She managed to keep a grip.
"How do you get rid of them? By what method?"
"They usually go to the military. Soldiers use them for awhile, and if they survive that they're used for target practice."