A Vow to Sophia

by John Bowers

  Johnny nodded and turned toward the portside wing root; he was dressed for space, tubes and hoses dangling from his flight suit. He lifted his helmet off the wing and settled it over his head. Hatley helped him with the locking ring, then opened the voice port so they could still hear each other.

  "I uploaded your mission data. Stay in the stratosphere, and when you're ready, contact Grand Forks. They'll launch the drone — and you'll only get one shot at it. Keep our tower informed."

  Johnny nodded. "Anything else?"

  "Yeah. Don't miss."

  Johnny nodded one last time, his nerves singing with anticipation.

  "Okay, let's get this done! I got things to do today."

  He clambered onto the wing root and crawled through the access hatch into the cockpit. The QuasarFighter — flat, triangular, and deadly — rocked lightly on its tricycle gear; it was the third generation of Lincoln fighters, built over the original specs of the SolarFighter and the GalaxyFighter. The latter was still in production, and currently the backbone of the United Federation Fighter fleet. If the QF met expectations, it would replace the GF in that role.

  Johnny attached his safety harness and started through the checklist with his AI, which responded crisply in a professional female voice. The checklist complete, Johnny sealed his cockpit and spoke to Hatley on the ground.

  "All systems go," he said easily, his voice belying the adrenaline that flowed through him. "Ready to disengage."

  "Good luck, Johnny," Hatley told him. "Make it count." The older man pulled the jack and walked away, clearing the flight line.

  Johnny chinned his radio. "LincEnt Control, Sierra Foxtrot 44 Echo. Request per mission to taxi."

  "Forty-four Echo, LincEnt Control," replied a no-nonsense female voice. Her name was Bobbie Miller, a former military space-traffic controller. "The traffic pattern is clear. Wind is northwesterly at two knots. You are cleared to taxi."

  "Roger, LincEnt Control. Forty-four Echo."

  Johnny caressed his throttles and the twin jets began to whine. He released brakes and the heavy deep-space fighter began to move, rolling smoothly forward as he turned onto a taxiway with gentle toe pressure. His eyes roamed the dials and controls as the hangar fell behind and he taxied past offices, machine shops, and factory buildings. To his left stood the five-story control tower, its roof sprouting communications antennae.

  Lincoln Enterprises, the leading defense contractor on the planet; years ago, when his dad was young, LincEnt had built fighters for the Sirian Confederacy — now they built ships that, hopefully, could defeat the Confederacy, if it ever came to that.

  Johnny reached the midpoint of the taxiway and turned left, touching his brakes before turning onto the runway. His tongue slid across his top lip to moisten it, and for just a moment he sucked oxygen inside his helmet. He wasn't scared, he told himself, just tense. This was the last factory test before turning the QF over to the military, and it was a one-shot deal. If he missed his target, the test would be over, so he had to be perfect. He fully extended his wings and set his flaps to fifteen degrees.

  "LincEnt Control, 44 Echo. Request permission for takeoff."

  "Forty-four Echo —" Bobbie Miller's voice was truncated unexpectedly, and another took its place.

  "John," said Oliver Lincoln III. "Good luck, John. Do it right!"

  Johnny's face felt suddenly hot; why did his old man have to horn into the picture now? He was stressed enough already; he didn't need that.

  "Roger," he replied curtly, and sighed impatiently. Get off the radio, Dad!

  "Forty-four Echo," Bobbie Miller repeated, "you are clear for takeoff. Give 'em hell, Johnny! LincEnt Control out."

  Johnny grinned briefly. "Roger, LincEnt Control. Forty-four Echo."

  With a smooth motion he pushed the throttles forward, feeling the QF tremble. The whine built rapidly to a roar, the fighter shaking harder, as Johnny's practiced eyes skimmed the dials one last time.

  He released the brakes.

  As he turned left onto the runway, the fighter began to roll, faster and faster, until it became a blur. Then it became a streak; Johnny breathed evenly, his eyes straight ahead, the runway a flowing ribbon beneath him.

  "Attent," the AI told him, "V1 speed."

  "Input:" he said easily, "max burner, execute."

  The nose tried to lift, but Johnny held it down just a few more seconds. The afterburners kicked in, the ship vibrating like a rocket.

  "Attent, V2 speed."

  "Input:" Johnny said, and jerked the yoke back into his crotch, "gear up, execute."

  The fighter was already into a sixty-degree climb, launched from the ground as if by reverse gravity, as the gear retracted and the doors slid shut. The QF looked like an arrowhead, sleek and black, as it climbed for the edge of space.

  * * *

  Oslo, Norway, Terra

  "It's time, Momma. I have to go."

  Onja Kvoorik stood in the doorway with a single overnight bag in her hand. At five feet four and a hundred ten pounds, she looked like a sculpted work of art; high cheekbones, wide-set blue eyes, snow-blonde hair down to her waist. In a land known for its Nordic beauties, she could easily have won the national pageant had she tried.

  Momma Kvoorik looked up from her knitting. She was in her sixties, round and grandmotherly. Old-fashioned eyeglasses perched on her nose. For a moment she said nothing, her wrinkled eyes filled with pain.

  "Why, my Onja?" she asked finally. "Why do you have to go?"

  "There's going to be a war, Momma."

  "Maybe not. The diplomats are still talking, nah?"

  "The Sirians walked out on the talks. There's nothing now to stop them from attacking. I have to sign up before it starts."

  "Ach, I don't know! They would never dare attack the Federation!"

  "Momma, you don't know them. Two months ago they invaded Alpha 2 for no reason. Alpha doesn't even have an army!"

  "Yes, I have heard all this already. I watch the news."

  "The only reason they invaded Alpha was to keep us from using it as a base. It's the nearest star system, and now the Sirians can use it against us."

  Momma Kvoorik put her knitting aside and pulled herself to her feet, distress written across her face.

  "Maybe the Sirians just wanted Alpha Centauri. Maybe they need the land."

  "They have plenty of land. Their planet isn't crowded, and they also have Vega 3 and Beta Centauri. They have a plan of conquest, and now it's our turn to be invaded."

  "You don't know this for certain."

  "Yes, I do. My father — my Vegan father — told me, before he sent me here. The diplomats were still talking, he said, when the bombers came."

  "But Vega was a small world, only a few million people. The Federation — Terra alone has ten billions!"

  "Ten billions, mostly unarmed," Onja pointed out, looking at her adoptive mother for the first time. "The Sirians have big armies, Momma. They have allies, too — Beta Centauri and Vega also contribute men to their forces."

  "Well, maybe you are right. But why do you have to fight? Fighting is for men."

  "Not any more. When Sirians conquer a nation, the women suffer more than the men. Women have the right to fight back before that happens. I'm eighteen now, so you don't have to sign for me."

  "I would never sign for you."

  "I know, or I would have joined up last year."

  The old lady wrung her hands, shaking her head repeatedly.

  "This is not right. You should not have to do this."

  "I have to, Momma," Onja said softly. "I told you a long time ago. I made a vow."

  "You cannot possibly keep that vow! You were a child, your Sophia will understand."

  "I have to try."

  Papa Kvoorik appeared in the doorway, thin and leathery, his blue eyes sparkling in contrast to his weather-beaten face. He listened silently.

  "When will you go?" he asked quietly, his voice flat with acceptance.

  Onja str
aightened up. "Today," she said. "I need to go now."

  "I will drive you."

  The old lady's tears slid down her cheeks and she put her arms around the only daughter she'd ever known.

  "It hasn't started yet," she pleaded. "Maybe it won't."

  "It will."

  "You can't know that!"

  They were silent for a heartbeat. Papa Kvoorik reached for his jacket.

  Onja kissed her. "I love you, Momma. I'll visit."

  Tears flooded the old woman's cheeks. "Be careful, my Onja. Don't let them hurt you!"

  "I won't. No one will ever hurt me again."

  Onja went out the door.

  "Oskar!" the old lady cried. But the old man lowered his head sadly.

  "She has to do it," he said. "We always knew we couldn't keep her forever."

  * * *

  North America, Terra

  Johnny killed the burners at sixty thousand, but continued to climb. It was a beautiful morning, very little cloud, and he'd left that far below. Behind him, the sun was just peeking above the plains; the sky above was a deep blue, bottomless with the promise of adventure. The sight of it never failed to move him. He talked to his AI as he continued to climb, letting the jets do their work as they lifted him effortlessly toward the stratosphere. The fighter around him was a living thing, throbbing with power, with life. He felt a part of it, and it was part of him, an extension of his body, of his ego.

  The finest spacecraft ever built.

  Ninety thousand, and the sky turned bluer, darker. The air outside was freezing, too thin to support human life. Johnny checked his instruments, still talking softly to his AI. A hundred thousand feet. A hundred ten, a hundred twenty. His wings were fully extended, to catch the rarified particles needed to sustain lift. His speed increased to Mach 3, then Mach 4. He was over Nevada now, still heading west. Far below and miles ahead, the Pacific Coast was barely visible through the haze of California pollution. He could see stars overhead.

  He checked the time: 0647.

  "Input: set freq two Grand Forks SFB, execute."

  "Freq two set, channel open."

  "Grand Forks Control, LincEnt experimental 44 Echo, copy?"

  The reply was instantaneous, clipped and professional.

  "LincEnt 44 Echo, Grand Forks Control."

  "Grand Forks, 44 Echo in position. Launch at your discretion."

  "Forty-four Echo, copy. Stand by one."

  Johnny sucked oxygen to still his heart. He'd been through this before; now they would make a quick check with the North American Space Traffic Command (NASTC) to confirm that civilian air traffic wouldn't be endangered. Commercial traffic should already have been routed around the test area. That would take only a few…

  "Forty-four Echo, Nasty C has cleared the test. Stand by for launch in ten, nine, eight…"

  Johnny rolled left and turned one hundred eighty degrees, heading back the way he'd come. The cruise missile would be coming toward him, and it was his job to keep it from getting past.

  "…two, one, mark! Launch successful. Good luck, 44 Echo! Grand Forks Control."

  "Forty-four Echo."

  * * *

  Oliver Lincoln III was forty-nine, five feet nine, and slightly overweight. In spite of that, he was in good physical condition; he'd kept in shape ever since his tour of Vega twenty-five years earlier. He stood in the control tower at Lincoln Enterprises and sipped a cup of coffee, his nerves humming. There was nothing to worry about, of course — they'd run dozens of live-fire tests on the QF — but it never got any easier. The bugs were supposed to be worked out, but if anything went wrong today it would set the program back several weeks.

  He stared through the tinted glass of the control tower as if doing so would help him see what was happening. He heard Johnny's conversation with Grand Forks, and a radar screen in the corner was now tracking the cruise missile as it lifted off from North Dakota; the cruise carried a dummy warhead, and was targeted to land in the ocean a few hundred miles west of San Francisco. If things went according to plan, it would never get that far.

  Oliver set his cup down and turned to his son, Bradley.

  "Cross your fingers," he said.

  "Don't you mean 'pray'?" Brad looked a lot like his dad, but without the muscles. At twenty-two, he already showed signs of self-indulgence.

  "If it makes you feel better. The only thing that counts right now is Johnny's reflexes."

  Brad looked annoyed. "He better not fuck this up," he muttered.

  His father silenced him with a glare.

  Oliver bent over the radar sweep and watched as the cruise missile crossed Montana, still climbing. Another sweep showed the QuasarFighter approaching from the west, two hundred miles south of the drone's trajectory. Johnny had gone to radio silence, as per the test rules; he had to find and intercept the missile all by himself, with no assistance whatsoever.

  It shouldn't be that difficult.

  * * *

  Oslo, Norway, Terra

  Papa Kvoorik had never obtained a hovercar license, stating that if God wanted him to hover he'd have sent him a letter to that effect. Instead, he drove an ancient wheeled vehicle that barely kept up with the minimum speed limit. He stared straight ahead as they rode along in silence.

  Onja stared out the window as they turned onto Karl Johann's Gate, which cut through the middle of downtown Oslo. It was early afternoon, the streets crowded with tourists, but she hardly saw them. Her entire life had drawn her toward this moment, but now that it was here, she felt overwhelmingly sad.

  They drove past the Parliament Museum, the National Theater, and passed to the left of the Royal Castle. Onja had always loved the ancient look and feel of such landmarks, but now hardly noticed them. Moments later the car made a final turn and drew to a halt in front of an office building. Onja opened the door and set her bag on the sidewalk. With tears in her eyes she turned to look at the old man.

  "I'll come visit soon, Poppa."

  He smiled bravely.

  "We love you, Onja. Do not be gone so long."

  She threw her arms around him and hugged him tight, then forced herself out of the car. She closed the door and waved, fighting her tears, as he pulled away from the curb.

  She lifted her bag and turned toward the office building. She pushed the heavy door aside and stepped into a marble foyer. Corridors branched off to right and left, but directly in front of her was a glass-walled office marked USF Recruiting; a colorful poster beside the door advertised:

  JOIN THE SPACE FORCE

  See the Galaxy

  Onja entered the office and stopped in front of a counter. A florid, heavy-set sergeant at a desk glanced up at her; his eyes sprang wide at her extraordinary beauty.

  "Yes?" He had to clear his throat and try again. "Yes, can I help you?"

  He wasn't Norwegian, she decided. His accent was German. His nametag said KONRAD. He looked about forty.

  "I came to enlist," she said simply.

  He brightened quickly, a little smile on his lips.

  "Excellent! And I didn't even have to try to persuade you!" He rose quickly, came around the desk, and opened a wing-gate for her to enter. "Please follow me."

  Onja followed him into another office where he asked her to sit at a terminal. He keyed up an enlistment form and turned on the microphone.

  "Please fill out the form with voice commands. It's standard format. When you are finished, remain here until I return. Questions?"

  She shook her head and he walked away. Onja spoke quietly into the microphone as the cursor highlighted the questions on the form, and the software filled in the blanks. Ten minutes later she sat back, staring at the screen as a printer somewhere produced a hardcopy of the form. After another five minutes, the sergeant returned.

  "Miss Ka-vorik — is that right?"

  "Kvoorik."

  "Yes. Please follow me."

  He led her to another desk where he spread the forms and reviewed them. She sat facing
him, feeling unexpectedly nervous.

  "So you live here in Oslo?"

  "Yes."

  "You are eighteen."

  "Yes. I have documents if you need them."

  "I will need to see them before we finish.

  “Today is your birthday? Happy birthday!”

  “Thank you.”

  “Miss Ka-vorik, you specifically requested the Fighter Service. You understand that is a combat assignment?" He gazed at her openly, obviously enjoying the view.

  "Yes. I'm not joining the Space Force to wash dishes."

  He nodded. "I noticed that your reason for joining the service was to…" He checked the form and quoted exactly. "…'to kill Sirians'."

  "Yes."

  "Miss Ka-vorik, we aren't at war with the Sirians."

  Onja felt her cheeks turn hot. Was he laughing at her?

  "We will be," she told him. "Any day now."

  "Yes, it does look that way, doesn't it. But what if, by some chance, things are resolved diplomatically and —"

  "That isn't going to happen. There will be a war, and soon."

  "I'm sure you are right, but what if you're wrong?"

  "Are you trying to talk me out of enlisting?"

  "No! Not at all. But I have a responsibility to make sure you know what you are getting into."

  She leaned forward and pinned him with a blue glare. "Why don't you skip this part and let's get on with it? I know why I'm here, and I want to enlist."

  Sgt. Konrad studied her for a moment, then smiled and nodded.

  "Very well. Enlistments are for six years. The pay is three hundred terros per month for recruits, and five hundred for Enlisted One, which is the lowest rank. If you are promoted above E-1, you will receive pay raises accordingly."

  "I don't care about the pay. If I wanted to make money I would be a model."

  Konrad gazed at her in agreement. "Yes, I believe you could. Tell me, why the Fighter Service? I mean —"

  "I want to be a gunner."

  "That is certainly a possibility…"

  "That is not a possibility!" she snapped. "I will be a gunner or nothing."

  He stared at her in amazement. "There is always the possibility that you may not qualify as a gunner."

  "I will qualify."

  "If you don't, you will be assigned to something else."