A Vow to Sophia

by John Bowers

  Some people may think the Federation is soft, but they forget that Johnny Lincoln is only one of millions of young men and women who are not afraid to stand up and be counted.

  Johnny Lincoln walks toward camera, a determined look on his face.

  ANNOUNCER

  On August 9, Johnny Lincoln did the right thing.

  On August 11 he did the right thing again — he joined the Space Force.

  CLOSEUP — JOHNNY LINCOLN

  JOHNNY

  (points at camera)

  Where were you on August 9?

  ANNOUNCER

  The Federation is at war. Don't be counted out.

  Join the Space Force today!

  As the Federation Anthem swells…

  FADE OUT

  "Jesus Christ that's corny!" Johnny sputtered after the director called it a wrap. He heaved a deep sigh and shook his head, turning to look at the GalaxyFighter behind him. "I wasn't even flying a GF. It was an experimental model, the QuasarFighter!"

  Major Dershowicz happily slapped him on the back.

  "Forget it, Lincoln, it doesn't matter. The public doesn't know the difference and they're going to love it! The minute we air this you're gonna be responsible for about forty million girls fingering themselves in the bathtub every night. This is nitro!"

  "I feel like such a fucking hypocrite. 'Where were you on August 9?' Fuck! I wished I was anywhere else on August 9!"

  Dershowicz shook his head patiently.

  "Come on, let's get a quick bite to eat. They're setting up the next shot for this afternoon."

  FADE IN

  EXTERIOR — WING CAMERA FOOTAGE — DAY

  Focus on the nine Sirians as Johnny Lincoln approaches (clean up the image for sharpness).

  ANNOUNCER

  What do you do when you are facing the unthinkable?

  Hold as the Sirians grow larger in the shot.

  ANNOUNCER

  What do you do when all the odds are against you, and death is only seconds away?

  CUT TO

  COCKPIT — TIGHT ON JOHNNY LINCOLN

  Lincoln's face is visible through the faceplate of his flight helmet.

  ANNOUNCER

  You could run away…

  CUT TO

  EXTERIOR — KCNC HOLONEWS SHOT FROM SKYTOWER — DAY

  Show the enhanced video from Denver Holovision of battle over the mountains.

  ANNOUNCER

  Or…you could stand and fight.

  Hold the footage until the first Sirian begins to fall from the sky.

  ANNOUNCER

  If you have any questions, ask Johnny Lincoln.

  On August 9, he had to make a decision.

  CUT TO

  MEDIUM CLOSEUP — JOHNNY LINCOLN — DAY

  Lincoln is in uniform, facing camera.

  JOHNNY

  On August 9 I did what I had to do. Was I scared? You bet I was. But I didn't really have any choice.

  PULL BACK

  Johnny turns and watches a flight of four fighters taking off from a runway behind him. He looks back at camera.

  JOHNNY

  You have a decision to make, too. Make it today. Join the Space Force and defend the Federation.

  (points at camera)

  I want to fly with you!

  FADE OUT

  Denver, CO, Terra

  Angela Martinez was wearing headphones and didn't hear the anti-grav lift arrive. She sensed motion near her desk and looked up, her smile automatic.

  "Hi, Angie." Brad Lincoln grinned vacantly at her, and she felt her heart sink.

  "Hi, Brad. What's going on?" He looked disheveled as usual, one corner of his shirt hanging out, his tie crooked and badly knotted.

  "I got my own place, you know."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah."

  He stood there waiting for her reaction, and she felt her skin crawl.

  "Well — that's great. How long have you lived there?"

  "About a year."

  "Oh. Well. That's great. You like it there?"

  "It's okay. Nice neighborhood."

  "That's important." She dropped her eyes to the computer screen, willing him to stop staring at her. "Did you need to see your dad?" she asked.

  "No. But since I'm here, I will."

  "Let me see if he's busy." She buzzed Oliver Lincoln III with the information, praying he wasn't on another line. A moment later she gave Brad another smile. "Go right in."

  "Thanks." He stood there another moment, fiddling with the switch on her desk lamp. "You want to go out sometime?" he asked. "You know, dinner?"

  Angela blinked at him in surprise, trying to keep her feelings from showing in her eyes.

  "Well, gee, Brad… I'll have to let you know. Okay?"

  He grinned, obviously pleased. "Okay, sure."

  "Thanks for asking."

  "Sure." He turned and shuffled for the door to his father's office. He stopped and looked back. "See you."

  "Okay."

  As the door slid shut behind him, Angela closed her eyes and sucked a deep breath. When she opened them, Elaine Waterbury was staring at her.

  "You need to tell that boy to just go away," she said sharply. "He isn't going to stop pestering you if you keep smiling at him."

  "I can't be rude to him!" Angela protested.

  "Nothing else is going to work. Trust me, I know him."

  "I don't even know how to be rude," Angela said. "Besides, he's the boss's son!"

  "Oliver isn't going to hold it against you," Mrs. Waterbury replied. "He knows Bradley better than anybody."

  Angela frowned at her terminal, conflicted.

  "I don't know what to do," she admitted.

  Mrs. Waterbury's voice softened. "It's not his fault that he's the way he is," she said. "Everyone feels sorry for him, but that doesn't make being around him any easier."

  "I know. But at least he isn't dangerous or anything." I hope, she didn't add.

  "No, he isn't. But he is persistent, and he doesn't take hints. You need to be very firm and very specific with him. He'll get all pouty and sulk for awhile, but he'll leave you alone."

  Angela sighed and returned to her computer. It would be so much easier if Brad were more like Johnny. That was one Lincoln she could get excited about.

  * * *

  Oliver Lincoln III watched his only biological son settle heavily into the chair opposite the desk. As always, he felt a vague sense of despair at Brad's presence, an emotion to which the son was totally oblivious.

  "What are you up to?" Oliver asked. "Found a job yet?"

  "No. Haven't really been looking."

  "Why not? You need to start supporting yourself, don't you think?"

  "Yeah, I guess. Haven't found anything I like."

  "That job in the factory is still open," Oliver said. "It's yours if you want it."

  Brad shook his head emphatically. "Not my style."

  "Why not? It pays pretty good."

  Brad took thirty seconds to answer, as if trying to remember what they'd been talking about. Oliver waited him out.

  "I want to marry Angie," Brad said.

  "Angie who?"

  "Your sexetary."

  Oliver leaned forward, unable to believe his ears. "Angela?" he sputtered. "Angela Martinez?"

  "Yeah, her. She's a good girl, don't you think?"

  Oliver sat back in his chair, his astonishment complete.

  "Angie is a terrific girl," he heard himself say, his mind reeling. "I didn't know you were even dating her."

  "I'm not," Brad said. "Not yet."

  "Well… You haven't asked her to marry you, then?"

  "No. I thought I'd run it by you first."

  Oliver placed a hand over his eyes and massaged his brow. Never a dull moment with this son of his! How did he handle this one?

  He got up and stood at the window, staring out at the new construction that was replacing facilities destroyed on August 9, at the laser batteries now ringing the plant,
at the olive-clad soldiers manning them.

  "Angie would make a good wife, don't you think?" Brad was saying from behind him. "She's smart and sexy. I bet she's a good cook, too."

  Oliver turned away from the window and settled back into the chair, his gaze narrowed as he met Brad's eyes directly.

  "Brad, no decent girl is going to marry you unless you can support her. Even if she has her own career, it isn't right for you not to have a job. If she gets pregnant and has to take time off, you'll have to be the breadwinner, pure and simple. Do you understand that?"

  "Yeah. I'll get a job."

  "The other thing is, there's no point in running it past me if you want to marry somebody. Whoever she is, you have to run it past her! If she doesn't feel the same way, then you and I can talk 'til we're blue in the face and it's all bullshit. You see what I'm saying?"

  Brad sat thinking for a moment, then shrugged.

  "Yeah, I guess."

  Oliver grimaced.

  "Good. Now, if you want to marry Angie, the first step is to ask her. Before you do that, you should try dating her."

  "I already asked her out."

  "Oh? What did she say?"

  "She'll let me know."

  Oliver nodded slowly. Angela was apparently on top of the situation.

  "Okay, that's a start. See how that develops before you move on to the next step."

  "Sure." Brad heaved himself to his feet. "Well, I gotta get going."

  "Okay. Where you going next?"

  "Headin' home. I'm kinda tired."

  Brad headed for the door without another word. He waved once and was gone. Oliver stared at the door for a moment, then shook his head wearily. It had suddenly become a very long day.

  September-October, 0220 (PCC) — Hannover, Germany, Terra

  The days passed inexorably, turning into weeks. The girls learned to march, salute, and shoot. The abuse never stopped, but gradually it seemed less painful, either because the girls were getting used to it, or perhaps it wasn't quite as severe as before. Their bodies began to harden, extra kilos were shed; stamina increased, and they began, ever so slowly, to think like soldiers. Their numbers diminished through attrition. Fifty-eight became forty-eight, then thirty-eight, then thirty-four. Those who remained were starting to shape up. Even Helga, now down to sixty kilos, looked as if she might survive the ordeal.

  Onja felt better physically than ever before, but her hatred of Cpl. Tkach did not diminish. Now when he confronted her on the parade ground she glared at him, making eye contact, silently daring him to do something about it. When he and Webber began teaching martial arts, Onja saw her chance, wading into Tkach with all the intensity of a Vegan hypercat. But she had much to learn, and on her first try he almost broke her neck. Still, she worked hard, quickly learning to dodge, parry, and deflect. She learned holds and throws, kicks and jabs, but no matter how much she learned, he was always ahead of her.

  He seemed to enjoy their combats. Onja invariably crawled away nursing cuts and bruises, but her eyes lost none of their fire.

  "He's going to kill you, Onja," Helga told her miserably one night in barracks. No one was nearby and they had a moment of privacy. "Let it go. He isn't worth your life."

  Onja shook her head solemnly.

  "He isn't going to kill me. I have a mission, and he isn't man enough to stop me."

  "For god's sake, Onja! He's playing with you!"

  Onja grimaced. "I can play, too," she said.

  The next skill they learned was the bayonet, even though none of the girls ever expected to find themselves in infantry combat. While Webber demonstrated the techniques, Tkach lectured.

  "Never let the enemy know what you're thinking!" he warned them. "He will look at your eyes to see if you're afraid. If you are afraid, make him think you're angry. If you're angry, make him think you're afraid. Keep him off balance. Never let him see your true thoughts! He will use it against you."

  Onja practiced with the other girls, clumsily stabbing at human-like dummies. Tkach ridiculed them all as usual. They stood staring at him like chastened schoolgirls, faces flushed, bayoneted rifles held awkwardly.

  "Jesus fucking Christ!" he bellowed. "After all I've been through with this platoon, you're still a bunch of pussies!" He spun around to look at Webber. "Whose idea was it to put pussies in the Space Force?"

  He spun back again.

  "Tits! Come here! Stop, right there! Now, assume the stance! Rifle up! Up, goddammit! That's better. Now, stab me. Come on, I know you want to do it — kill me! This is your chance!"

  Onja blinked at him in surprise, then her eyes narrowed as she gripped the rifle harder. For a single instant she could almost taste his blood.

  Then she saw the glitter in his eyes. He was setting her up! Taking a deep breath, she stabbed forward clumsily, but he batted the rifle away.

  "Pussy!" he shouted. "Fucking whore! Stop whimpering and start fighting! Come at me like you mean it!"

  Onja backed away, set up again, and lunged. Again he slapped the rifle aside.

  "Fucking Norway slut! Hit me, goddammit! Kill me if you can!"

  Onja knew she didn't have the skill, but now she had no choice but to take whatever was coming. She lunged again, sincerely this time, but he sidestepped her at the last second and grabbed the rifle, jerking her against his hip and lifting her off her feet. She sailed over his head and landed hard on the mat, dazed and unarmed. As she rolled over and got to her feet, Tkach stood glaring at her, holding her rifle. He threw it at her and she barely caught it in time.

  "You're pathetic, Tits!" he snarled. "You skip chow tonight. You work on this drill until you can do it in your sleep. And you don't sleep until you learn it."

  He turned to face the rest of the platoon.

  "Fall out for evening chow!" he bellowed. "We're going to leave Tits alone so she can practice. Form up!"

  Onja stood there alone after the others had trotted away. She wiped her forehead with a hand, catching her breath, then began working on the drill, taking the stance with her feet slightly apart, left hand forward, right hand back, balancing the rifle like a spear. Jab forward, pierce the dummy, twist the bayonet, and pull back. Again. And again.

  And again.

  "Kvoorik."

  Onja whirled in surprise, then snapped to attention, the rifle vertical beside her. Sgt. Kerrigan stood directly in front of her, eyes narrowed. Onja fixed on a water tower beyond her shoulder and froze.

  Kerrigan took a step closer.

  "You have a lot of drive, Kvoorik," she said quietly. "You are perhaps the most determined recruit I have ever seen. You're going to make a good combat gunner."

  Onja blinked in surprise, but said nothing.

  "You have a problem with Corporal Tkach, don't you?"

  "No, Ma'am!"

  "Yes, you do. I see it in your eyes. My advice to you is let it go. Whatever your grievance, you cannot win. Boot camp is structured to prevent you from winning — ever. If you try to beat the system, it will break you. And that would be a shame, especially for you. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  Kerrigan stared at her for another ten seconds, then reached for the rifle.

  "You are doing this all wrong. Let me show you."

  * * *

  Onja was still there at midnight, lunging, stabbing, twisting the blade in the target dummies. Tkach showed up under a thin slice of New Moon, his breath frosting in the cold night air. Onja was shivering in her thin T-shirt.

  "At ease, Tits," he said quietly, and she let the rifle butt drop to the ground, shoulders back, but kept her eyes on him. He seemed casual, almost relaxed, for a change. She wondered briefly if he'd screwed another one of the girls.

  "You hungry yet?" he asked.

  "Sir, yes, sir." She said it quietly.

  "Good. Next time I tell you to give it all you've got, then do it."

  "Sir, yes, sir."

  "How's the hippo doing?"

  "She'll live, sir
."

  "How are you doing?"

  "I'll live, too, sir."

  "Only three more weeks," he said. "I think you're going to make it."

  "I always knew I would, sir."

  "You're pretty confident, aren't you?"

  "Sir, yes —"

  "Can that bullshit for now. Nobody here but us."

  "Sir, y— Yes, sir."

  "Good. Now listen, I know you hate my guts, or think you do. But what I do here is for the good of the Federation."

  Onja's eyes widened perceptibly. "Do you really believe that?" she blurted.

  "Of course. This isn't like a men's platoon. Half these girls have no business in the military, and it's my job to weed out as many as possible. It's a vid game to them, not life and death."

  "So — all those that dropped out — did you rape them, too?"

  Tkach's face hardened.

  "We're not talking about rape!" he said. "We're talking about discipline!"

  "Oh, is that what you call it? You fucked Helga in the ass without her permission! I call that rape!"

  "She's a special case," he said. "She thinks she's going to be a Pink Lady. They'll never take a hippo like her, but she's too stupid to know that. She joined up looking for romance, never realizing she would be nothing but a whore! I just gave her a little dose of reality."

  Onja's jaw tightened. "But you got your pleasure, didn't you! How many others, Corporal? Or do you only fuck fat girls?"

  He studied her intently for a moment. "Is that an invitation?"

  "Only in your dreams!"

  "I can still down-check you, Tits. Never forget that."

  "But in three weeks, once I'm out of here, you're hoping I'll keep my mouth shut, aren't you?"

  He grabbed her by the throat, choking off her air.

  "Are you threatening me, Tits? Is that what you're doing?"

  He was incredibly strong, and for several seconds Onja stood there in pain, making no move to defend herself. She twisted her head just enough to open an airway. She closed her eyes as she sucked cold air into her lungs. He released her with a shove.

  "No," he said. "I don't just fuck fat girls! If you think you're going to hold a gun to my head, you might be the next one I fuck."

  Breathing hard, Onja managed to get back to parade rest.