The Fighter Queen

by John Bowers

  She slapped him with all her strength, rocking his head to the side. He pushed her down again. His ears still rang from the explosion, so her words were lost on him, but her lips were still working.

  "The whole place is on fire!" he shouted. "If you …"

  She slapped him again, then pummeled him with both hands. He drew back to escape her fists, and instantly she tried to bolt past him. He caught her again, pulling her back; her nails raked his face, and blood spilled down his cheeks. He closed his eyes and twisted his face away, but she battered him with her fists. He held on doggedly, absorbing the abuse. The air was steaming, and it was hard to breathe.

  Onja appeared beside him, and he pulled back, panting. The girl struggled against Onja as well, then her mother reached her. The girl sobbed in terror, clinging to her mother, and Johnny sank back into his spot, breathing hard. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up; Onja was studying his face, and pressed a sterile compress against it. Where she got it he had no idea.

  With the girl quiet at last, Johnny's hearing gradually returned. The air was stifling now, and the wall behind his back was hot to the touch. He wondered how long the fire would burn, and whether the capsule could survive it.

  Sunday, 13 March, 0242 (PCC) — Jackson, Missibama, Sirius 1

  By the following day, the sounds of battle gradually diminished and they heard voices in the rubble around them. The heat had dissipated and those trapped in the capsule dared venture out. The house was a wreck; the basement was littered with charred debris and part of the floor had caved in. What was left of a Fed hovertank dangled precariously into the hole, the main body still supported by the building's foundation. A charred skeleton lay pitifully beneath the wreck, cremated by the flaming fuel that had threatened the survivors in the capsule. The women recoiled in horror at the sight, but the Star Marines led the way out of the basement into the hazy, stinking daylight above.

  Four Star Marines challenged them with a password, but Cranford gave the countersign and they relaxed. The survivors milled about for a time until an officer arrived. Once he learned Onja's identity, he couldn't do enough for them.

  Adam was taken into custody by two grimy Marines with red-rimmed eyes.

  "Private!" Onja said to the one placing him in E-cuffs, "don't give him an opportunity to do anything stupid. He's my nephew, and I don't want him killed. Do you understand me?"

  The Marine nodded sullenly. "Aye-aye, Major."

  "I expect him to be alive and in good condition when the war is over."

  The Marine nodded again, then the pair marched Adam off toward the rear. Sonja wept fearfully, but Onja put an arm around her.

  "They have to take him, Sonja," she said. "I know it's hard, but he is an enemy soldier. He'll be treated fairly."

  The little party trooped back through the shattered, bloody streets until they reached a command post where Onja made arrangements for Mistress Simonian to be taken to a refugee center. She took her sister and niece back to New Birmingham. In General Osato's office, Onja made the introductions; Osato was gracious and genuine in his pleasure at meeting Onja's long‑lost relatives. After a few minutes of quiet conversation, his eyes turned serious.

  "I'm sorry, Major, but we've been through the records of all the slaves we've recovered and your mother isn't among them. We'll keep looking, of course."

  Onja compressed her lips and nodded gravely. It was what she had feared. She put her arms around Sonja and held her for several minutes.

  "We'll do all we can," the general added lamely.

  "Thank you, sir. I know you will."

  Chapter 23

  Saturday, 14 May, 0242 (PCC) — Displaced Persons Compound, Glenville, Texiana, Sirius 1

  "Tonja Simonian, Number YF‑11909, report to the main gatehouse immediately. You have a visitor."

  Missie stared in wonder at the video monitor, her brow slightly furrowed. Who on Sirius would be coming to see her? Certainly not her father, since he was still in the unoccupied zone. Not Mistress Simonian, either — she was in a refugee camp, and they'd never liked each other anyway. Her aunt had returned to her squadron to keep on killing Sirians, so it likely wasn't her.

  Who, then?

  The message was repeated. Missie stood in front of the vanity and quickly brushed her hair, making sure it was straight and untangled. She passed a few cosmetics across her face to sharpen her colors, then, on impulse, sprayed just a fine mist of what little Vegan perfume she had left; it might be someone important. Sirian or not, her mother had taught her well the importance of a girl's appearance.

  Missie left her room and walked quickly out the main door of her barrack into the scorching heat. Sirian Summer was no time to go outside if one could avoid it, and she was grateful that living in the camp required little outside activity.

  She arrived at the main gatehouse five minutes later, stepping into the cool lobby where a Feddie noncom sat at a desk. The Feddie girl, who wasn't much older than Missie, looked at her with a smile.

  "I'm Tonja Simonian," Missie told her. "I had a call about a visitor."

  The noncom checked her ID chip.

  "Yes. Room D." She pointed.

  Missie turned and approached the door, her heart pounding in spite of her outward boredom. Who could it possibly be?

  The door opened at her touch and she stepped inside, bathed by cool air that felt delicious on her fair skin. She blinked in the controlled light and her eyes widened ever so slightly. This must be the wrong room, she thought; the man staring back at her was a Feddie officer. When she recognized him, her green gaze narrowed slightly.

  "Hi, Tonja," Johnny Lincoln II said. "Remember me?"

  She nodded, but didn't speak. She stood perfectly still and stared at him. He smiled tentatively but her expression didn't change.

  "I just stopped in to see if you needed anything," he said awkwardly. "See if they're treating you okay."

  "They're treating me fine." Her eyes never left his face.

  "Good," he said. "That's good."

  He seemed nervous, she noted, and wondered why. He was a Feddie, after all, and the Feddies were winning the war. What did he possibly have to be nervous about?

  She noticed thin scars on his cheeks, parallel vertical streaks, and felt a twinge of conscience.

  "How …" She stopped.

  "What?"

  "H-How's your face?" Her own cheeks burned suddenly red.

  "Oh." He touched his face, then shrugged nonchalantly. "It healed. The scars are fading."

  She chewed her lip, squirming inwardly with guilt. She should probably apologize for scratching him, she thought. But she wasn't very good at apologizing. She just nodded.

  He held her gaze for a moment, then began to fidget.

  "So how are you doing?" he asked.

  "Fine."

  "You like it here?"

  "No."

  That seemed to surprise him. His eyebrows lifted a few millimeters and he gazed through the window.

  "Why not? It looks like a nice camp."

  "It's a prison. I'm not a criminal."

  "Oh." He nodded. "Well, it's better than being homeless, isn't it? I mean, your home was destroyed."

  "I didn't destroy it. Your people did that."

  Again he looked surprised. Again she wondered why.

  "I guess that's true," he said.

  "Of course it's true. You were there."

  He nodded, avoiding her gaze. She enjoyed his discomfort for a moment, then the moment passed. He seemed to grope for something else to say.

  "Why did you come?" she asked bluntly, and his eyes met hers with a look almost of alarm.

  "I just … I mean … I wanted to see how you were doing. See if you needed anything."

  "I'm fine. I don't need anything."

  He seemed to shrink under her direct gaze. She looked him up and down, and realized he wasn't bad looking. He wasn't exactly handsome, but he wasn't ugly, either. He had a pleasant face, and the uniform looked s
harp.

  He cleared his throat.

  "I, uh, I brought you something," he said, handing her a small package. "It isn't much, but I figured the food here might get boring, so maybe this will be a nice change."

  She took the box and inspected it, then pulled the wrapper off. Inside was an assortment of smoked meats, with condiments. She gazed at it expressionlessly.

  "Thank you."

  He nodded, pursing his lips uncomfortably.

  "Sure. No problem."

  Another awkward moment passed, then he cleared his throat.

  "Well, I, uh — I guess I ought to get back. I'm glad you're okay."

  She just stared at him.

  "Sorry you don't like it here."

  She said nothing.

  He dug into a pocket and pulled out a small card.

  "If you, uh — if you ever need anything …" He handed her the card. "… just take this to the camp comm office. They can get in touch with me as long as I'm operating in the Sirian system. It has all the codes they need to get through."

  She took the card but didn't look at it.

  "If you need anything," he repeated. "Anything at all."

  "Okay."

  "Well … I guess I better go. You, uh, take care of yourself." He backed toward the door, giving her time to respond, but she said nothing. "Bye," he said.

  "Bye."

  Missie watched him go, then left the way she had come, the box tucked under her arm. She frowned the entire way back to her room. Why would he do that? Why would he come to visit her? Why bring her a food package? It didn't make sense.

  Not that she didn't appreciate the package; camp food was plentiful and nutritious, but not exactly gourmet. Some of the items in the box, including the crackers, cheeses, and various spreads that went with the smoked meat, looked heavenly, and she would eat them sparingly, savoring every morsel. But it made no sense that Johnny Lincoln would do this for her.

  He was a Feddie!

  Tuesday, 19 July, 0242 (PCC) — The Citadel, New Angeles, Texiana, Sirius 1

  The battle for New Angeles had lasted seventeen days. Strategically, only New Birmingham, the Confederacy capital, was more important, and it was already in Federation hands. New Angeles was now the center of Confederate Command; by capturing the Citadel, it was hoped that Confederate resistance would crack.

  The fortress had been the target of space strikes for weeks, but electronic shielding had deflected most of the ordnance with few tangible results for the effort expended. Finally there was no option but to assault it with ground troops.

  Pvt. Lance Williams cowered in a starcrete moat in the fading light, sweat pouring into his collar as he listened to a heavy nitrogen-cooled machinegun firing over his head. He'd been part of a platoon-sized force that assaulted the moat four hours earlier, but the effort had failed. More than thirty men had boiled over the top while Federation lasers hammered Confederate positions, but the lasers hadn't prevented the machineguns from cutting down half of them before they reached the moat. Lance had been the last man into the moat, and as he dived headfirst to safety a bullet had passed clean through the calf of his left leg, missing the bone but ripping away part of the muscle. A medic had slapped on an IV pack and dressed the wound, but evacuation was impossible until those guns were silenced.

  Things had gone downhill from there. A counterassault by shock troops had flooded the moat with Federation blood; the shockers had been killed, but not before tossing plasma grenades. Only Lance and two others had survived, but the others died from burns a short while later. Now Lance lay prone, playing dead, terrified of discovery, wondering how the hell he might get back to his own side.

  Clearly, it wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

  * * *

  The left leg was hurting like hell. The IV pack had long since drained into his veins and the mild sedative it contained had metabolized. Lance Williams felt chilled and feverish in spite of the humidity that drenched him with sweat. His face was grimy, his eyes wide and bloodshot in the darkness. The stench in the moat was getting stronger.

  The gun, above him and perhaps twenty yards from the moat, still split the night with stark muzzle flashes each time it fired. Lance could hear officers talking over his helmet frequency, but none of it made sense to him. He'd told his own captain he was still alive, but had been advised to stay quiet and be patient.

  His patience was wearing thin.

  It was fully dark now, and a gentle breeze began to stir, lifting the oppressive heat a little; it felt heavenly against his hot skin. He pulled his canteen off his belt and sucked down the last of his water, realizing he'd be dehydrated again in an hour. If he was going to survive, he had to do something for himself, because no one was going to reach him tonight; even if they did, he might be killed by crossfire.

  He slipped an IR contact into his left eye, blinked up the magnification, and took stock of his situation.

  The part of the moat where he lay was thirty yards long and filled with bodies; the part he couldn't see curved away to his left. He'd seen a computer graphic before the assault that identified the known features of the moat, including stair-steps around the bend where the infantry had expected to exit and assault the Citadel. None of them had reached that far, and Lance had no idea whether the enemy had it covered; he suspected they did.

  The idea of going it alone scared him more than a little, but staying where he was certainly had no future. If he had to die, he might as well be doing something positive; maybe he could find a place to hole up until the infantry could break in.

  Lance crossed himself briefly, checked the load meter on his Spandau 48, and began crawling painfully down the moat toward the bend.

  It took him almost an hour to reach the stair-steps, stopping for long periods to listen for sounds of the enemy. The breeze was stronger here, drying his sweat a little and restoring his energy. The only sounds he heard were the voices in his helmet and the big machinegun behind him.

  He saw nothing moving around the stairs.

  Looking up, he spied a starcrete overhang, like the roof of a balcony. Someone might be up there, able to see down into the moat, but he detected no heat signatures through his IR lens. His heart pounded as he gripped the rifle in sweaty hands, took a deep breath, and rose to his feet. Limping weakly, he started up the stairs — not more than twenty steps — and almost screamed from the pain as he put weight on his leg. Fresh sweat popped out of his pores, but he resolutely mounted the steps, expecting at any moment to hear a shout of surprise or a burst of fire.

  But he made it to the top, and quickly stumbled to his left into the lee of a starcrete support pillar. Once he reached it he was in complete darkness — though anyone with IR aids could see his heat sig — and stopped again to look and listen.

  The machinegun was behind him now, fifty yards away, but his view was blocked by another structure in between. He couldn't see the gunners, nor could they see him.

  He sank gratefully to the ground and leaned his head against the pillar. He would rest for a minute and see what developed.

  * * *

  Lance woke with a start, unaware he'd been dozing. For a second he was disoriented, then the pain in his leg reminded him, excruciatingly, where he was. His helmet chatter had picked up considerably, and the machinegun's sporadic firing had intensified. Something was happening.

  "Williams! This is Captain LaRue. Can you hear me?"

  Lance glanced quickly around, saw no movement or heat sigs, and cleared his throat.

  "I'm still here, Cap'm."

  "Can you move to the far end of the moat? We're gonna plaster that gun position, but we don't want to hit you."

  "I'm already out, Cap'm. Nobody alive in the moat."

  "Where are you?"

  "I took the stairs at the end. I'm about ten yards past it, right up against the fortress."

  "All right. Keep your head down."

  Lance was happy enough to do that. He crawled around the upright pillar, p
utting its bulk between him and any incoming fire. He was still in total darkness, couldn't even see his own hand. His heart pounded with anticipation, hoping he was far enough away that whatever they threw in there wouldn't reach him.

  He didn't have to wait long. Less than a minute after Capt. LaRue signed off, Lance heard a hovertank rising from the hillside below the moat, its massive fans roaring like giant turbines. Immediately, from the overhang above Lance and several positions he couldn't see, heavy laser fire opened up, but the flying armored hulk seemed unfazed. Lance saw the flash and heard the ear-splitting shriek of the tank's own lasers, hammering at the machinegun. After the second shot, the gun fell silent.

  The tank fired a third time and something exploded. The night flashed brilliant as day, and blistering heat washed over him.

  "Fuck!" he gasped, and lurched agonizingly deeper under the overhang. More explosions cooked off, great chunks of starcrete rained down, and he choked for air. He reached the smooth stone wall of the fortress and followed it, using his left hand as a guide because the fires behind him had rendered his IR contact useless, leaving him half blind. But he had to escape that heat, those explosions. Maybe it was just his imagination, but they seemed to be coming closer.

  He found a steel door, the last refuge under the overhang, and punched the control. To his surprise, it opened, and he tumbled into a dark hallway beyond. The door closed behind him, and he lay gasping, coughing, sucking cool oxygen like a fish thrown back into a lake.

  Dimly, he could still hear explosions outside, and Confederate lasers were still working on the tank, but his headset was now silent, the signal blocked by the stone walls. He was inside the Citadel, Confederate Command HQ.

  Alone.

  * * *

  Lance could only assume that the hovertank outside would clear the way for another infantry assault, one that would actually gain entrance to the fortress. If no one came to his assistance, he could easily be captured or killed where he was. In any case, his leg was hurting worse. The wound needed treatment soon.

  Once his vision returned to normal, he realized he was fully exposed to anyone who might approach. The corridor stretched off into the distance like a mineshaft, dimly lit by recessed lighting every ten yards. On the left side of the tunnel he saw the dark holes of cross-corridors, and could only guess where they might lead. After a moment's mental debate, he began hobbling toward the first one; he needed to find a place to hide, in case someone decided to use this tunnel to reinforce the fighting outside. So far he'd been extremely lucky not to encounter any Sirians, but that might change at any moment.