by John Bowers
"In fact," he added, "you can count on it. Before you leave here. Now get back to barracks! We go at it again at dawn."
* * *
Dawn found the platoon continuing bayonet practice. Sgt. Kerrigan stood to one side shouting instructions while Webber and Tkach worked with the girls one-on-one. Onja sat cross-legged in the grass with the rest while waiting her turn. The sun rose into the morning sky and she began to sweat under her fatigue T-shirt.
The girls were improving, but it was slow. Predictably, Tkach and Webber taunted the slow ones, and made things as difficult as possible for the faster learners. Onja watched as Helga, still clumsy and ungainly, jabbed at the dummy in what turned out to be an embarrassing display of arms. Tkach screamed insults at her, finally kicking her in the butt and shoving her out of the way.
"Tits! You're up!"
Onja sprang to her feet and leapt forward, taking the rifle Tkach thrust at her.
"Let's see if you learned anything last night while the rest of us were enjoying fine European cuisine!" he snarled. "Take your position!"
Onja went through the motions, stabbing at the dummy.
"Fucking Norway whore!" Tkach yelled from behind her. "Don't tease him, stab him! Stab him!"
Onja lunged again, driving the rifle forward, but without the intensity Tkach apparently expected. Kerrigan watched with narrowed eyes, a suspicious look on her face.
"You stupid cow!" Tkach bellowed, grabbing Onja's shoulder and spinning her around. "What the fuck did you do out here last night? You didn't learn a fucking thing!"
Onja stared at him, her eyes wide, panting with fatigue.
"Tired already? Goddamn you! Let's go through this again. Hit me! Come on, hit me! Kill me if you can!"
Heaving for air, Onja crouched yet again, stared at him fearfully, then lunged. Tkach grabbed the rifle barrel and shoved it aside. His fist landed on her chin, driving her backward with a cry of pain. She still held the rifle, but blinked at him in horror.
"Come on, pussy! Try harder! What the fuck's the matter with you!"
He glared at her with hate-filled eyes.
"Listen, bitch, if you don't do it I'm going to break your arm. Now do it!"
Webber and his pupil had stopped and stood watching. The girls on the ground were silent as death.
Onja advanced slowly, the heavy rifle making her arms tremble. Four feet short of the corporal, she took a deep breath and tried it again. Her lunge was weak and ineffective. He grabbed for the rifle, but she jerked it away and managed to fall back out of his reach. His face purple with rage, he sprang toward her.
"Goddammit —"
A split second before he reached her, Onja danced to the side and swung the rifle butt around, smashing his ear against the side of his skull. Tkach went down like a slaughtered steer. He hit the ground and rolled onto his back, one hand automatically covering the side of his head. Onja stood over him, teeth bared, her eyes no longer frightened, the bayonet poised twenty inches from his face. Tkach pulled his hand away from the hamburger that had been his ear and saw the smear of blood on his fingers.
"You fucking cunt!" he snarled. "That's the last time you'll …"
"Nooooooooooooooooooo!" Kerrigan screamed.
It was too late. Onja lunged; the bayonet entered his chest just beneath the sternum and disappeared inside. His eyes sprang open with shock, his words cut off in mid-curse. Onja twisted the blade cruelly and jerked it free, blood and gore dripping as she stepped back.
"Like that, Corporal?" she asked in an even voice.
Blood gouted from Tkach's chest as he lay quivering. His eyes glazed even before Webber reached him. Something hit Onja like a railsled and she was suddenly on the ground, Kerrigan on top of her, wresting the rifle from her grip. The older woman was breathing heavily as she flung the rifle away. Then, her eyes only inches from Onja's, she spoke.
"In my office, Kvoorik, right now! You are in the deepest shit of your life!"
* * *
Onja stood at attention in the empty office for twenty minutes before Kerrigan arrived. The drill sergeant was grim and pale. She settled heavily into her chair and pulled open a drawer, drew out a small flask and took a deep swallow. Putting the flask away, she turned her eyes on Onja for the first time.
"Kvoorik," she said heavily, "Corporal Tkach is dead. Just in case you needed to know."
"Yes, Ma'am!" Onja's expression didn't flicker.
"Here is what we are going to do," Kerrigan said. "We only have a few minutes, so listen carefully. It was a training accident. When you are asked how the accident happened, tell it exactly as it happened. Understand?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"With one small change." Kerrigan took a deep breath. "When the corporal lunged at you, you swung your rifle by reflex. You did not intend to hit him. When he fell, your legs became tangled and you fell forward. The bayonet broke your fall, but unfortunately the corporal was in the way. Do you have that?"
Onja's eyes widened. "Yes, Ma'am."
"Repeat it to me."
Onja repeated it almost word for word. Kerrigan nodded, satisfied.
"Do not change that story, no matter what. Do not add or subtract any details. If you are asked any other questions, you simply do not remember; it all happened too fast. Yes?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Good."
"Permission to speak, drill Sergeant?"
"Go ahead."
Onja pinned her with blue eyes. "Why are you doing this, Sergeant? You know it isn't true."
Kerrigan didn't hesitate.
"You will be a hundred times more valuable to the Federation than Tkach ever was," she said. "I know you planned to kill him and I know why. I've known about him for a long time, but I could never catch him at it."
"How did you find out?"
"Every training platoon, a few girls turned up at infirmary with injuries to the genitalia. It was clear they had been raped, but none of them would ever talk."
"They were all terrified of him," Onja said.
"Yes. Fear is a good thing in a recruit, even hatred. But terror is counterproductive."
Onja nodded simply. "Thank you, drill Sergeant."
"Don't thank me yet. There will be an inquiry in a few hours. Until it is over, we are both in great danger."
* * *
The inquiry lasted two hours. Onja was tense, but not frightened. She regretted nothing — Tkach was no better than a Sirian — but did tremble from an overload of adrenaline. Three ranking officers asked for her version of events, and she told it exactly as Kerrigan had coached her. To her surprise, so did Webber and three girls who'd witnessed the whole thing. The witnesses still appeared to be in a minor state of shock, but all agreed that Onja had stumbled and the killing had been unintentional.
The officers disclosed their findings the following day. The death of Cpl. Pavel Ivan Tkach was ruled as regrettable — but nothing more than a training accident.
Chapter 7
North America, Terra
Major Dershowicz hardly let Johnny out of his sight for the next few weeks. Once the holo spots were in the can, their next stop was the Polygon in Washington City, where Johnny met a number of high-ranking military men. One was Admiral Leach, in charge of the Armed Forces Information Office (AFIO), the public relations arm for the military. Johnny sat through meetings in which he was briefed on his duties as a hero — what to say, how to act, how to smile.
"People are scared," Leach told him. "Forty thousand people died on August 9, and nobody knows when the Sirians will strike next. They need reassurance, someone to focus on."
Johnny sat staring at him.
"You've been chosen, son. You are the icon for the moment."
"Sir, I've told Major Dershowicz and I'll tell you — I don't think I'm up to this. I signed up to fly fighters. If I'd had any idea you were going to make me some kind of personality, I would still be testing fighters for LincEnt."
Leach nodded.
"I un
derstand you, Lincoln. But your first duty is to the Federation. Right now, the Federation needs a shot in the arm, and you're it. So let's not waste any more time on wishing, all right?"
Johnny sighed.
"Yes, sir. But will somebody at least teach me how to do a proper salute? I haven't had any training at all."
* * *
The holo spots were already airing and public reaction was favorable. After two weeks at the Polygon, Johnny began his tour. It began in North America, where most of the bombing had occurred, and included fifty-five cities. Johnny and Dershowicz traveled with a crew of more than fifty people, including technicians, pilots, bodyguards, media experts, musicians, and a Space Force girl-group whose function was to sing patriotic songs during the recruiting spiel.
"Nobody's going to show up," Johnny predicted as they arrived at their first stop. "This will be the biggest bust in history."
Dershowicz smiled. "If that's true, then you'll probably go straight to boot camp."
"Really? God, I hope I'm right!"
"Don't shave your head yet."
The rally was held in a solarball stadium, and it was packed. Almost ninety thousand people crowded in, mostly young people. A local comedian opened the show and soon had the crowd screaming with laughter; a military color guard executed a series of drills with mathematic precision; a sky holo featured wing-camera footage of several aerial battles, including some from Johnny's own QF; and finally a professional announcer introduced the star of the show. As Johnny walked into view for the first time and snapped off a salute to the Federation flag, the crowd came to its feet with a deafening ovation.
Johnny was astonished. Ranks of girls screamed as if he were a rock star, thousands of boys and young men chanted solarball cheers. Handheld flags waved everywhere and fireworks streaked into the air from stadium facilities.
It lasted a full three minutes, then the crowd sat down and Johnny began to speak. Moments before, he'd felt like a fraud; but the crowd's response moved him. He delivered his lines with all the sincerity he could muster. He went through a brief history of Sirian aggression — Beta Centauri, Vega, Altair, Alpha Centauri — then spoke briefly of the August 9 attack.
"We haven't fought a war for generations," he said, "and I'm sure the Sirians think we've forgotten how. A lot of people think we should have taken action years ago, before things got this bad, and maybe they're right. But the simple fact is, now we don't have a choice.
"This isn't a movie or a vid game. We can't just walk away when we get bored. We didn't want it, we didn't start it, but we're in it. It's now a matter of survival.
"Maybe you think you don't have what it takes to be a hero. Well, guess what — neither do I. Individually, not one of us can make much of a difference. But together, united, we can defeat them.
"You don't have to be a pilot. You don't even have to use a weapon. The Space Force needs people in thousands of jobs. Medicine, maintenance, computers, food services — you can serve the war effort in almost any capacity you can imagine. If you have a skill, we can use it.
"But to do your part, you have to join the team. Recruiters are waiting at the exits. Talk to them on the way out. Don't put this off. Just because you haven't seen any Sirians since August 9, don't assume they've forgotten us. They're still attacking in the asteroids, at the edge of the Solar System, at the Outer Worlds. People are dying every day. If you don't make a decision today, it might be too late …"
He turned in a half circle and gazed at the silent crowd.
"… for all of us," he concluded solemnly.
The girl-group burst into song, accompanied by a military band. The crowd rose again, applauding but not cheering. Johnny saluted them one last time, then turned and walked off the stage.
The program varied little from city to city. With practice, Johnny's delivery became ever more convincing, and what surprised him most was that he really meant it. Dershowicz reported that several thousand enlisted on the spot after every appearance.
"It's working, kiddo!" he beamed. "Didn't I tell you?"
Johnny nodded.
"Don't ever underestimate the power of PR," Dershowicz said. "With it, you can move mountains. Without it, you just dig holes."
Johnny sat silent for several moments. Then he turned to Dershowicz with a frown.
"Is there any chance I can get some cockpit time somewhere?" he asked. "This is the longest I've been on the ground since I was fourteen."
Dershowicz stared him for a moment, his eyes almost glazing. Suddenly he grinned.
"You're a genius, Lincoln! I should've thought of it myself, and if anybody asks you, it was my idea!"
"What was?"
"I can't believe I missed it! Christ! Imagine the drama if you fly your own fighter to each stop, actually flying escort for the rest of us! It's brilliant!"
Dershowicz looked so pleased with himself that Johnny was amazed. But he didn't care whose idea it was, if it put him back in a cockpit.
Asteroid Base 131, Solar System
Robert Landon frowned as he peered through the foot-thick Solarglas at the hangar bay of AB-131. From this vantage he could see the fighters returning from patrol, and what he saw was not pleasing. With comm silence in effect, the fighters couldn't call ahead to advertise losses or need for medical treatment; only when actually in combat were the fighters allowed to transmit, and they had. Landon knew they'd been in battle. His heart tempo increased as they began to drift into the bay, but he'd dared hope they would arrive unscathed.
Three were missing, and four others damaged.
Out of twelve fighters.
The hangar bay was open to space, but suited medical and rescue teams were standing by. As cockpits and gun turrets began to pop open, base personnel moved forward to assist, and Landon felt his stomach churn as some of the crews were lifted out. From here he couldn't tell who was dead and who was injured, but of four damaged fighters six crewmembers appeared to be hit.
He saw Capt. Hinds heading for the airlock, and dropped down a crew ladder to meet him as the inner door swished open.
Jack Hinds was thirty, two inches taller, and twenty Terra-pounds heavier than Landon. He wore a bushy mustache and his face was mottled with white splotches as if he'd been burned in childhood. His baleful green eyes looked perpetually pissed off, and as he tugged off his helmet they were angrier than usual. He offered a non-reg salute and glared at Landon as if deciding whether to slug him.
"How bad, Jack?" Landon asked.
"Bad, Major." Hinds didn't try to hide his rage. "Fuckers ambushed us somehow, just appeared out of nowhere and opened fire. We had no idea they were in the neighborhood; shields were down, everything quiet. We lost three ships just like that, completely blown away. We returned fire, of course, but they were all around us."
Landon's eyes narrowed and he shook his head.
"What do you mean they 'appeared out of nowhere'? You didn't see them on Ladar?"
"Negat. Nothing there but a billion tons of rock, and suddenly the sky was full of Sirians. Or Vegans, or whoever the fuck they are!"
"That's impossible!" Landon said.
"Yes, sir. It is."
"You had passive Ladar turned on?"
"Everybody did. At first I was pissed at my gunner, thought she wasn't doing her job, but everybody said the same thing. The threat screens were clear. Just another boring day in the 'roids."
The airlock swished open again and a medical team hustled by, a wounded gunner moaning on a hover-stretcher. Lt. Pam King, Hinds's gunner, followed. Pulling off her helmet and shaking out her dirty-blonde hair, she stared at Landon with haunted eyes, came to an approximation of attention, and saluted. Landon nodded at her.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yes, sir." She looked as if she'd been crying.
"Pam got a kill," Hinds said, with all the enthusiasm of a mourner. "At least the bastards didn't get away clean."
"How many kills total?"
"Just one. And a cou
ple damaged."
"God!" Landon didn't try to hide his frustration. "Not a very even trade."
"No, sir."
AB-131 had started the war with fifty-four active fighters, but attrition had whittled that number down to forty-six, and four of those were down for repairs. Today's encounter left him only forty-three, with eight down for repair — thirty-five effective ships — and he was starting to run short of pilots.
"Okay, you two go get cleaned up. Debrief in thirty minutes."
As they walked away, Landon waited by the airlock to greet the rest of the crews as they arrived. One thing he knew for certain — he was done with flying a desk; he would lead the next patrol himself.
Friday, 10 November, 0220 (PCC) — Hannover, Germany, Terra
The final three weeks of boot camp were almost anticlimactic. The death of Cpl. Tkach left everyone shaken, even Kerrigan and Webber seeming subdued. No more girls dropped out, and on 10 November they graduated. The platoon stood at attention, their stubbled hair gleaming in the autumn sun, as Sgt. Kerrigan made the long-awaited announcement:
"Today, you are no longer maggots. You are the lowest rank in the Space Force, but you are in the Space Force."
Each girl received a Training Completion badge, garrison caps sailed into the air, and they hugged each other in congratulation. Those whose families had attended were given the afternoon off, but the rest, including Onja, celebrated privately in barracks.
The following morning, training assignments were handed out. Onja waited breathlessly, wondering what she would do if she didn't get gunnery school. Kerrigan read the assignments alphabetically, making Onja wait. Two other girls who wanted gunnery school got it, Inga was sent to nursing school, and Helga…
Helga was assigned to the Domestic Service — the Pink Ladies.
"Kvoorik!" Kerrigan looked up, made eye contact, and glared at her for a long moment. Slowly her face cracked into a smile. "Travis Space Force Base, G-class Gunnery!"
Onja almost fainted. For the first time since arriving at boot camp, she smiled.
"Thank you, drill Sergeant!"
Helga threw her arms around Onja's neck, and they danced in a happy circle.
