The Fighter Queen

by John Bowers

  "How many Sirians did your father kill?"

  "Not very many."

  "No," she said bitterly, "but he flew the ship while Aunt Onja killed thousands of them! I hate your father! And I hate Aunt Onja!"

  Johnny stared at her in horror. She held his gaze for a few seconds, then looked away across the horizon, her jaw set.

  "Do you hate me, too?" he asked quietly.

  She pinned him with her gaze again, but didn't answer. Instead she swallowed hard and turned away, eyes glittering. Johnny studied the ground until he regained control of his own feelings. He looked at her beautiful Vegan features again.

  "I never met my father," he said. "I only learned about him as I was growing up, and when I found out how he died I started hating Sirians. But now I've been out here awhile, and I've met a few Sirians. I found out that Sirians are just people, like anyone else. It's always like that in a war, the enemy is just people."

  He studied her profile for another second.

  "I don't hate you, Tonja."

  She stared at the ground but didn't reply.

  "Come on," he said. "I'll walk you back."

  * * *

  When they entered the visitor's room Johnny wanted to walk straight out the door and not look back, but he forced himself to say good‑bye. Without looking at her, he cleared his throat.

  "I won't bother you again."

  He turned toward the door.

  "Johnny!"

  He turned, surprised; she’d never used his name before. Her green eyes were fixed on his, and seemed to penetrate his soul.

  "I … I'm sorry I scratched your face," she said haltingly.

  He stared at her a moment, then shrugged. “You were scared."

  "I was terrified. I — I thought I was going to die."

  "I thought we all were."

  She chewed her lip a moment, still searching his eyes.”

  "You saved my life," she said quietly. "If I had opened that door …"

  "Then we'd all be dead."

  She nodded slowly, tears glittering on her cheeks.

  A long, awkward moment passed. Tonja had run out of words, and Johnny simply didn't know what else to say. Then he dug into a pocket.

  "Almost forgot," he said. "I brought you this." He held out a small package.

  She took it with a slender hand, opened it carefully, and lifted out a tiny square bottle of cut glass. It had a Vegan label.

  "I noticed last time that you wear Vegan perfume," he explained.

  "Oh. Thank you. I didn't know where I was going to find any more.”

  She met his eyes again, and he saw something there he couldn't interpret. She was a complex person, and he didn't know if he had the courage to try to understand her. At the moment, he didn't want to.

  "I gotta go," he said, and went through the door.

  As the door closed behind him, hot tears spilled from Missie's eyes and streamed down her cheeks. She'd wanted to say so much more, but really didn't know how to express herself. She had blundered badly at the fountain, and her words had wounded him deeply. Now he was gone.

  And she knew she would never see him again.

  Thursday, 20 October, 0242 (PCC) — Displaced Persons Compound, Glenville, Texiana, Sirius 1

  Missie Simonian stared out her window at the snow that fell in a steady blanket in the gathering dusk. Winter had arrived at last and the temperature outside was well below zero. The glass window fogged as she breathed against it but she hardly noticed; her eyes weren't registering the scene before them.

  She'd been here more than seven months, and it seemed the war might go on forever. Confederate armies were making the Federation pay for every mile, and every day they held out meant Missie and her mother and all the millions of others of Vegan heritage had to stay where they were. The Federation was using all its resources to fight the Confederacy, and would do nothing about relocation or repatriation until that job was finished.

  Missie had mixed emotions about the war these days. On the one hand, she felt a certain patriotic pride that Sirius was so difficult to defeat, yet she knew that every day the war continued meant more death and misery in the combat zones.

  Other matters were even more confusing … like Johnny Lincoln II. It had been three months since his last visit. She realized he could have been killed, but she was fairly certain she'd have heard about it, because Aunt Onja had visited twice and said nothing about him.

  What confused her most was the question that revolved through her mind every day: Why should she care? Johnny Lincoln was a Feddie, and she had an avowed hatred of everything Federation. The war had lasted her entire life, and she'd been indoctrinated almost from birth that the Federation was a despicable enemy.

  But her impression of Johnny flew in the face of that, and she was instinctively drawn to him; there was something about him. He was kind, and she sensed goodness in him. Yet he was a Feddie!

  So why should she care?

  She didn't know. But she wanted to see him again, to spend time with him. And she'd driven him away with her angry mouth. She should have kept silent, which was more natural for her. He'd been partly to blame, because he wanted to know why she never said anything. Well, she had said something!

  "Missie?"

  She turned from the window as her mother entered the room and stood looking at her with concern.

  "What is it, Missie? What's bothering you?"

  "Nothing, Mother."

  "Are you sure? You've been moping around for weeks. Why don't you tell me about it?"

  Missie stared silently at her mother for half a minute, then peered back through the frosted window at the snowflakes falling in the near darkness outside.

  Sonja took a seat by the window, facing her.

  "If I didn't know better," she said, "I'd think you were in love."

  The girl only stared at her.

  "Missie?" Sonja's eyes widened slightly. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

  Missie looked out the window again. A single tear slid down her cheek as her only answer.

  "Missie?"

  "No, Mother, I don't have a boyfriend. Not a real one, anyway."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means he isn't really my boyfriend. He doesn't feel the same way about me."

  "Goddess, I can't believe it! Who is he? When did you meet him?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Of course it matters! Who is he?"

  Missie looked down at her hands and shrugged minutely.

  "Johnny Lincoln."

  "Johnny — You mean the pilot? Onja’s pilot?"

  Missie nodded silently.

  "Honey, he's a Federation officer! What makes you think he would …" She stopped when she saw the pain in her daughter's eyes. "I mean, you only met him once. And you tried to kill him that time."

  "No. He's been here to see me. Twice."

  Sonja's blue eyes were startled. "I didn't know about this!"

  "I never told you. You were working in the children’s center."

  "If he came to see you …" Sonja frowned slightly. "Did he make any advances toward you?"

  "No."

  "What did he want?"

  "I'm not sure. He brought me some presents. A food package and a bottle of perfume."

  "Well, it sounds as if he likes you."

  Missie shook her head miserably, tears in her eyes.

  "Not any more. I ruined it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I said some mean things to him. About … about the war. About his father. I offended him. He hasn't been back."

  Sonja took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  "How do you feel about him?"

  "I don't know. I never met anyone like him before. He's nice, Mother. It doesn't make any sense. He's a Feddie, but he's nice. I feel like a fool for what I said to him."

  "What did you say, exactly?"

  "It's too awful to repeat." Missie wiped tears from her cheeks. "What can I do, Mother? I want to see
him again!"

  Sonja hugged her for a moment.

  "Honey, I'm not sure I can help you. I never had the chance to fall in love."

  Missie looked surprised. "You didn't love my father?"

  "Oh, sure, I loved him. But I wasn't 'in love'. There's a difference. I mean, you can respect somebody, and in that sense you love them for who they are, but you don't feel anything for them in a romantic sense."

  "But … you and my father …" Missie shook her head in confusion. "How did I get here, if you didn't love him?"

  "I was his slave, honey. He owned me. When he wanted sex, I had to give it to him."

  "You didn't — enjoy it?"

  Sonja smiled sadly, and for the first time in her life Missie saw pain there.

  "I did enjoy it. I was hypno-conditioned. I had to enjoy it. But I never wanted it. How can I explain this? Honey, a woman wants to choose her own man. I never had that chance."

  "But he was good to you!"

  "He never beat me. He never abused me. I think he loves me, if he's still alive. But — I was his property. Not his wife. He inherited me, like he inherited the house we lived in." She smiled again, that same sad smile, and stroked her daughter's hair. "Don't misunderstand me, honey. Something good came from it, because I have you and Adam. I wouldn't change that for anything."

  Missie stared at her solemnly, and spoke the words as she explored the thought.

  "But … you would have been happier … if you'd never met him?"

  Sonja nodded slowly.

  "I was taken from my home by force. Taken from my parents and my sister. No one should ever have to go through that. Of course I would have been happier. I was happier!"

  Missie closed her eyes and lowered her face to her hands.

  "I'm such a fool! I thought …"

  "You thought that because I'm your mother and you're a Sirian citizen I feel as loyal to Sirius as you do?"

  The girl nodded.

  "No, honey. I've waited my whole life for the Federation to get here. I'm sorry about the pain and death the war has caused, but I thank the goddess every day that the Federation is winning, that they're here now, and it's almost over."

  They sat in silence for long minutes. Missie wept softly while her mother stared out at the falling snow. At length the blonde teenager wiped her eyes again, and blew her nose.

  "I didn't know, Mother. I'm such an idiot."

  "No you're not. How could you know if I never told you? The question now is, what are we going to do about your Feddie boyfriend?"

  Missie sighed and shook her head. "There's nothing we can do."

  "If you really care about him, you have to try."

  "But how?"

  "Do you know how to get in touch with him?"

  Missie started to shake her head, then remembered the card Johnny had given her on his first visit. She nodded.

  "Then contact him. Get him to come back here. After that, it's up to you. But get him back here."

  Chapter 26

  Friday, 21 October, 0242 (PCC) — UFF George Bush, Parking Orbit, Sirius 1

  "ATTENTION ON THE FLIGHT DECK! WE HAVE A HOT FIGHTER INBOUND! EMERGENCY CREWS SCRAMBLE! ATTENTION ON THE FLIGHT DECK!"

  The strident tones of a damage control siren punctuated the authoritative voice of the space traffic controller as it reverberated through flight operations spaces aboard UFF George Bush. Flight deck personnel scrambled for hatches and cleared the area in seconds; those in the observation bay dropped down behind armored shields to watch as the situation developed.

  Two thousand miles away a PulsarFighter streaked toward the stern of the carrier, its vertical stabilizer shot away and one wing extended. One landing strut was partially extended, the other jammed by twisted metal over the wheel well. The starboard rocket burned at twenty percent thrust, the port drive was shut down. The cockpit canopy was completely blown away, though the pilot was still safe in his pressurized suit. The bottom turret had been blown into twisted metal, the top turret crushed as if by a giant fist.

  The fighter was "hot", not fully under the pilot's control. Recovering a hot fighter was always risky, and whenever possible it would be waved off to protect the carrier.

  But not this time.

  * * *

  As he cleared the planetary atmosphere and made his way across eighteen thousand miles of space to where Bush cruised in its leisurely orbit, Johnny Lincoln II was more frightened than he'd been in a long time. He'd tried everything he knew to correct the problem, and the AI was no help — the GAM that had almost taken them out had damaged a lot more than just the turrets and the rocket engines; somehow it had wrecked the AI circuits as well.

  "Mayday! Mayday! Bush Control, Timberwolf! I have an emergency!"

  The Bush space traffic controller cleared the channel instantly, giving Johnny his full attention.

  "Timberwolf, Bush Traffic Control. State your emergency."

  Johnny related his damage as quickly and accurately as he could, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

  "Roger, Timberwolf. Do you have casualties?"

  "I don't know," Johnny admitted. "I'm not hurt, but I've lost comm with my gunner, so I don't know if she's dead or alive."

  "Stand by, Timberwolf."

  Johnny panted with fear as he covered the miles toward his carrier, visually tracking the other capital ships in the area.

  "Standing by," he said. But not for long — we don't have a lot of time here!

  "Timberwolf, Bush Control. What is your rocket fuel status?"

  "Looks like about sixty percent. I've got over half a load."

  "Can you establish a parking orbit around the planet? When the fuel runs out we can send a ResQMed to pull you and your gunner off your ship."

  "I could," Johnny replied honestly, "but I'm not going to. I've got to get this thing aboard the carrier."

  "Negat, Timberwolf," the controller said smoothly. "Your ship is too hot. If you crash, you could shut down flight operations for days."

  "Listen!" Johnny yelled back. "My starboard rocket is only firing at twenty percent thrust. It could take two hours to burn that fuel! If my gunner is bleeding, she'll be dead by then!”

  "Understood, Timberwolf. Now you listen — you're not bringing a hot fighter on board this carrier! Do you read me?"

  Okay, Johnny thought angrily. Here it is. Maybe that asshole Dunn was right; maybe you are too much like your old man. Can't follow orders worth a shit. Are you ready to take the consequences?

  "I read you, Bush Control. Now this is the end of the conversation — I'll be there in about three minutes, and I'm bringing my gunner home. You can hand me a star‑court later, but I'm bringing this fucker in! You got that?"

  "Timberwolf, that is out of the q …"

  "Do you read me, goddammit?"

  Johnny was aware of a significant silence on the other end. When the controller came back, his voice sounded strained, but still professional.

  "Timberwolf, is there any possibility of ejection?"

  "Negat. My gun turrets are shot all to hell. If I punch out, the top turret will try to punch out, too, and that could cause an explosion."

  "Stand by."

  Inside the dim cocoon of the Bush control tower, twenty‑two men and women clustered over computer consoles, their faces lit by the ghostly glow of flashing lights and Ladar sweeps, as they kept the fighter traffic sorted out. Even at the best of times the tower was a zoo, and now, with a severely damaged PulsarFighter streaking inbound at high speed and virtually out of control, the tension was explosive.

  Alerted by the STC monitor in his office, Col. Michelini had headed for the tower the moment Johnny Lincoln declared his Mayday. Now he stepped into the near darkness of the control center in time to hear Johnny's defiant response to the controller's instructions. He peered over the controller's shoulder with a worried frown.

  "Situation?"

  "It's Timberwolf, Colonel. He refuses to wave off."

  "How badly i
s the fighter damaged?"

  "Sounds like he's shot all to hell, sir. Starboard rocket won't shut down, both turrets mangled; his gunner is trapped with unknown injuries. Sir, he's still accelerating; if we let him come in he could wipe out the flight tunnel. But I don't know how we're gonna stop him, short of opening fire."

  Michelini considered, staring hard through the Solarglas windows at the flashing strobe that approached from ninety miles out. Space Force regs were very clear on situations such as this, but what the hell did you do if the pilot refused orders? The safety of the ship had to come first, certainly. And yet …

  "What should I do, Colonel?" The controller's youthful face showed the strain of indecision. Time was running out.

  "That's Lincoln," Michelini mused aloud. "If anyone can pull it off, he can. And his gunner is Major Kvoorik." He compressed his lips, silently cursing whatever fates had handed him this decision.

  "Colonel …?"

  Michelini let his breath out explosively and nodded.

  "Bring him in."

  The decision made, he turned to the control tower supervisor. "Clear the flight deck! Scramble the crash crews! This one's hot!"

  * * *

  Johnny could already see a speck in the distance that was Bush. He fought the yoke of his wounded PF with all his strength as the speck grew rapidly larger. His starboard rocket was still firing, the thrust forcing him to the left; he had to compensate with steering jets, all of which together were barely adequate for the job. He had to time his approach minutely; even with the port steering jets pushing against the starboard thrust, he was still drifting to the left, and if he drifted too far he'd miss the flight deck entirely.

  "Come on, baby!" he muttered grimly as sweat poured into his suit. "Don't fail me now! Two more minutes! Hang in there!"

  All around him was empty, airless space, black as night and absolutely deadly. He'd never flown an open cockpit spacecraft and it was not a comforting experience. He'd never felt as totally naked in his life, and he knew that his continued existence hung on the next ninety seconds.

  And not only his life.

  Johnny swallowed hard, trying to keep his fear in check.

  "Timberwolf," the controller said crisply in his headset, "your approach is a little wobbly. Are you on manual?"

  "That's affirm!" Johnny responded tightly. "Autopilot is out, manual is all I've got. AI is malfunctioning."