A Vow to Sophia

by John Bowers

  "I would never have made it without you, Onja! I think that corporal would've killed me before today." Helga now weighed fifty-five kilos and looked excellent. Her face was lean, her muscles toned, and she had a distinct waistline.

  Onja shook her head. "You did it yourself, Helga. You didn't quit. You could've walked away after what he did to you, but you didn't."

  "I still owe you. Danke."

  Two hours later, smartly turned out in her first dress uniform, her garrison cap perched cockily to one side of her snow-blonde head, Spaceman Onja Kvoorik boarded a Military Air Shuttle and settled happily into a seat. She was on her way to gunnery school.

  Sunday, 12 November, 0220 (PCC) — Fairfield, CA, Terra — Travis Space Force Base

  Travis SFB was located a few miles from San Francisco in northern California. It was Onja's first trip to North America, but she didn't see any sights. Her air shuttle landed at night and she was assigned to enlisted quarters for a brief few hours of sleep. At dawn she joined a growing mob of gunnery trainees who'd arrived from all over the globe. Nearly six hundred girls were crowded into an auditorium for orientation, and if boot camp had been brutal, the Space Force in general seemed only slightly less so. Trainees were treated with indifference, orders were barked, and hardly anyone smiled.

  Two middle-aged officers gazed solemnly at the trainees from a stage-like platform. When everyone was seated and the doors closed, the proceeding began.

  "Good morning, Ladies! My name is Major Harmon, and my assistant is Captain Cole. We're going to cover a few subjects you need to know before you can begin combat training. If you have any questions, hold them until the end.

  "First, let me congratulate all of you for choosing the Fighter Service. No matter what anyone tells you, the space fighter is the backbone of the Federation Fleet. You've chosen well, but the question now is, will you be good enough for the job? Only time and training will tell.

  "Your training will occur in three stages. For the next few weeks you will alternate between the classroom and the simulators. Next you will fly with real pilots in real fighters, where you'll practice what you've learned in atmospheric flight. Finally, you'll transfer to Luna Base One for experience in spatial tactics. All this will take about five months, and you can wash out at any step along the way. So don't get complacent. Don't ever assume that you have it made — many of you don't. Those who make it will receive commissions as third lieutenants."

  Harmon scanned the crowd for a few seconds, then turned to the woman on his left. "Captain?"

  Capt. Cole was about forty, Onja judged, trim and petite and fairly attractive. When she spoke, her clear voice carried easily across the large room.

  "I want to see a show of hands," she said. "How many of you are still virgins?"

  Onja's eyes widened at the bluntness of the question. What did virginity have to do with a girl's fitness for combat? She glanced to left and right, as over a hundred hands went up.

  "All right," Cole said. "Now we arrive at a fairly delicate subject, and I'm not going to sugar-coat it for you."

  The hands went down, and a stir ran through the auditorium. Onja listened intently.

  "Sex is a simple fact of life," Cole went on. "Human beings, both male and female, are endowed by nature with powerful drives which cannot be ignored. In spite of all the taboos associated with it, sex is as vital to human life as food and sanitary needs.

  "For centuries, armies tried to ignore this, and the results were catastrophic. In the past, armies consisted mostly of young men; they were sent to foreign lands, often for years at a time, to fight and die for their cause. In far too many cases, such soldiers raped and pillaged the local populations wherever they happened to be. At other times they made use of camp followers, prostitutes who frequently infected them with deadly venereal diseases."

  Onja frowned silently. Where the hell was this headed?

  "Thankfully," Cole continued, "genetic research has eliminated venereal disease, but rape is still an issue. The Sirians routinely rape women wherever they happen to be — and that includes female prisoners of war, so don't let yourselves be captured!"

  Cole paused dramatically, sweeping the faces before her.

  "You've all heard of the Domestic Service, also known as the Pink Ladies. Those units are comprised of female military personnel whose job is, essentially, to provide a sexual outlet for male soldiers. They usually operate near combat troops who have little or no other access to women.

  "Now, what does all this mean for you?"

  She smiled grimly.

  "Fighter squadrons, as in the case of the asteroids, are sometimes based in places where Pink Ladies are not available. The general policy, although it is not a requirement, is that pilots and gunners — take care of each other."

  The statement landed like a rock, and another ripple ran through the assembled girls. Cole gave them a second to absorb it.

  "The Fighter Service goes to great lengths to match pilots and gunners who are compatible, who like each other, and who can get along. Each crew is like a marriage, and in many ways closer than a marriage. Fighter crews literally live and die together. And most of them sleep together."

  "As Captain Cole said," Major Harmon interjected, "this is not a requirement. No one will force you to sleep with anyone. But in the interest of unit cohesion, please think carefully about it. You may at some point be paired with someone you don't particularly like, and certainly no one would expect you to be intimate with him. But if you have any religious or moral objections to this arrangement, perhaps the Fighter Service is not where you belong."

  Cole picked it up again.

  "If you have reservations about any of this," she said, "you can return to barracks now. You will be reassigned without prejudice. You have until the end of the day to decide. If you're still here tomorrow, we will consider your presence to be acceptance of the policy."

  Somewhere to Onja's left, two girls rose and headed for the exit, their faces rigid as stone. A moment later, another to her right did likewise. Onja felt her heart race, but didn't move.

  "Moving on," Major Harmon said. "There is one more issue to cover. Partly because of the sex policy, and partly because some of you could become prisoners of war, there is the issue of pregnancy. Captain Cole?"

  Cole smiled again — sadly, Onja thought.

  "I realize this isn't a pleasant subject for some of you, but we must deal with reality. When the decision was made to place women in gun turrets, it was not without a great deal of concern for issues of gender. Politicians debated for decades whether women should be allowed to fight. It was probably Robert Heinlein who first suggested that women have quicker reflexes and can tolerate higher G forces, and it's a simple fact that a small woman can fit better into a compact gun turret than some lanky, six-foot man. So here you are.

  "But women have problems that men don't face. If you don't know what I'm referring to, just wait twenty-eight days and you'll be reminded."

  A ripple of laughter — the first — tittered through the crowd.

  "Also at issue is the chance of pregnancy. The old U.S. Navy used to court-martial female sailors who got pregnant during a cruise, sending them home in disgrace. I suppose those in command were unaware that it takes two people to make a baby.

  "Thanks to modern science, we now have an answer to most of these issues. The answer is hypno-technology."

  Onja felt her skin crawl. She knew all about hypno-technology. Her eyes narrowed as Cole continued.

  "To make a long story short, all of you will be subjected to hypno-preparation. Hypno-prep will prevent ovulation and thus prevent pregnancy. We also have the option to lower your inhibitions a little so that you're more inclined to embrace the necessity of the sex policy. Now don't worry, we aren't going to turn you into a gang of nymphos — although I'm told that some pilots have been lobbying for that —"

  More laughter.

  "— but we can reduce the stress level a little, and perha
ps any guilt feelings that might result."

  Without a conscious decision, Onja found herself on her feet.

  "Begging the captain's pardon! Is all of this legal?"

  Cole turned to her in surprise, her expression clouding a little.

  "State your name," she said.

  "Gunner Trainee Onja Kvoorik, Ma'am."

  Cole glanced at Harmon, who was looking at Onja as if she were a bomb.

  "Of course it's legal," he said. "Otherwise we wouldn't do it."

  "Then please explain to me, sir, what makes you any different from the Sirians?"

  The officers exchanged glances.

  "Explain the question."

  "Sir, the Sirians use hypno-tech to condition slave women for their sexual utility. Aren't you doing exactly the same thing to us?"

  Harmon stared at her for ten seconds. Neither officer said a word. Onja felt six hundred pairs of eyes on her, and suddenly wished she'd remained seated.

  "What makes it legal, Space, is that we do it with your permission," Harmon said finally.

  "You have to sign a release form," Cole added.

  "And if you don't sign," Harmon finished, "you will never be assigned to a combat squadron."

  * * *

  At Travis, for the first time since the war started, Onja got some real war news. Since the August 9 attack, no more strikes had been aimed at Terra, but the Sirians hadn't been idle. Luna had been hit three more times, fighting was fierce in the asteroids, and communication had been lost with the Outer Worlds — the moons of Jupiter and Saturn. As far as anyone knew, they'd been captured by the Sirians. The navigable Solar System had been shrunk to a fraction of its previous size — the Asteroid Belt was now the front line.

  Chapter 8

  November-December, 0220 (PCC) — Fairfield, CA, Terra — Travis Space Force Base

  Travis SFB had been hit hard on August 9. About half the facility was under new construction, with some areas yet to be cleared of rubble. But the runways were active and fighters thundered day and night.

  Onja Kvoorik spent several hours each day in a classroom with thirty others, trying to absorb the most complicated math she'd ever been exposed to. Formulas, diagrams, simulations, and actual footage illustrated the lessons as she learned about vectors, speeds, G-forces, and physics.

  "Everything is physics," Capt. Nakamichi stressed at least once a day. "Nothing in the universe happens without physics, and if you don't have at least a rudimentary understanding, physics will kill you. Gravity is physics, speed is physics, fire is physics, weather is physics. Technology is nothing more than learning how to harness physics to do what you want. Left to itself, physics will have its way with you, but if you harness it, it can feed you, clothe you, heat you, cool you, transport you — and defend you.

  "You'll be learning two kinds of combat theory. The first, atmospheric combat, is centuries old. We do it faster now, with much higher physical stress than the ancients experienced, but it hasn't changed all that much.

  "Extra-atmosphere combat is a different animal entirely. When you fight in space you're far more vulnerable than in the atmosphere. There are no sharp turns, no aerial maneuvers. Everything happens at speeds almost too great to comprehend, and usually you only get one shot at the enemy. More often than not, the one who shoots first wins, but quite often neither side survives."

  "Question, Captain?" The girl who raised her hand was Onja's roommate, a dark, petite girl from Colombia.

  "State your name."

  "Gunner Trainee Maria Santana, sir."

  "What's the question?"

  "Captain, with modern AI and all, why even put a gunner in the turret? Isn't the AI quicker and more accurate than a human?"

  "Trying to talk your way out of the program, Space?" Nakamichi grinned.

  Maria Santana giggled. "No, sir. But I've always wondered."

  "It's a good question, and the answer is simple enough. Yes, AI is accurate and has light-speed reflexes. But nothing can substitute for human judgment. Let's assume there are two enemy fighters bearing down on you. One is very close, about to open fire. The other is quite a ways off and not an immediate threat. Which one is the AI going to kill?"

  The girl seemed to sense a trick question, but answered anyway. "The closest one, sir."

  "That's right. But now you're the gunner, and that second ship, the one off in the distance, is already attacking one of your friends whose fighter is crippled and can't shoot back. With that scenario in mind, which one are you going to shoot at?"

  Onja watched Maria's forehead crease in concentration.

  "I'm not sure, sir. I'd want to help my friend, but I might miss; then, if the closer one kills me, I won't be able to do my friend any good."

  "So what's your answer?"

  "I-I don't know, sir. It would be a judgment call at that moment in time."

  Nakamichi nodded. "Exactly right, Space. It's a decision that has to be made, and only a human can make it. As fast and smart as it is, AI still depends on programming, and no Terra-bound bit-cruncher can anticipate situations like that."

  "Captain," Onja asked, "AI learns as it gains experience, doesn't it?"

  "Yes. But until it's been in battle, it's as dumb as a fence post. How many people would be killed in situations like that before the AI gained enough experience to do the right thing?" Nakamichi tapped her forehead with his finger. "AI doesn't have instinct, Space. You do."

  Classroom consumed six hours each day. Another two hours were spent in physical training, usually long runs through nearby Fairfield and Suisun City. When she had a rare moment alone, Onja stood behind a forcefence and stared at the fighters as they streaked into the air four at a time. From a distance she saw the crews as they milled about, her heart aching to crawl into one of the gun turrets herself.

  It was three weeks before she got into a simulator.

  "You have two basic weapons in the atmosphere," Nakamichi said. "The first is your autocannon. Depending on what you're flying, it will be either a 29mm or a 24mm. The simulators duplicate the Lincoln fighter, so you'll be learning the 29mm. It's a Gatling design, with twelve barrels firing twin streams of explosive shot. Use it sparingly, because your magazine only holds three thousand rounds, but that thing spits out six hundred rounds a minute from each side — which means you can run out of ammo in less than three minutes.

  "Your main batteries are your wing tubes. Depending on the weapons configuration, the Lincoln GalaxyFighter carries up to sixteen ship-killer missiles or eight cruise missiles in the wing magazines. You can fire two at a time, one from each tube, and you can unload them fairly quickly, about ten seconds apart. Again, don't waste them, or you'll find yourself in the middle of a battle with nothing to throw at the enemy but your middle finger."

  "What about laser?" Onja asked.

  "That's for extra-atmosphere only," Nakamichi said gravely. "The Federation Congress ruled years ago that lasers couldn't be used in the atmosphere. If you happen to be firing downward, even if you hit your target, that laser is going to hit the ground. And there are people down there."

  "Captain, isn't the same thing true with cannon or missiles? If you miss, or even if you don't, something is eventually going to hit the ground."

  "True. But cannon shells and missile fragments are subject to drag. They lose speed before they hit, and in some cases won't even explode. A laser pulse travels at the speed of light."

  "But, sir — if you're just barely outside the atmosphere, and you happen to fire toward the planet –“

  Nakamichi smiled grimly. "No theory is perfect, Space. I didn't make the rule, I'm just passing it on."

  "Yes, sir."

  * * *

  Dayton, OH, Terra — Patterson Space Force Base

  Johnny's tour had covered a dozen cities, the crowds growing at each stop. The format was altered to let him interact with the crowds to some extent, shaking hands and signing autographs. He got his back slapped, his arm wrung; got hugged, kissed, and
proposed to.

  It was nuts, but also exhilarating.

  At Dayton, Ohio, the entourage landed at Patterson SFB and took a shuttle into the city. After the rally they returned and were quartered for the night in VIP quarters. After dinner at the officer's mess, Dershowicz escorted Johnny to the Office of Flight Operations.

  "The Polygon approved our request to get you a fighter," he said on the way over. "But there is one snag."

  Johnny grimaced. There was always a snag.

  "You haven't been trained by the Space Force," Dershowicz explained, "so they don't trust you alone with one of their ships."

  Johnny spun on him.

  "Are you kidding me? I test the goddamned things! I shake the bugs out of them before their precious pilots ever sit down in the fucking cockpit!"

  Dershowicz nodded agreeably. "I know, I know, but this is the military, okay? They have their own way of doing things."

  "Shit!"

  "Look, it's no big deal. They're gonna give you a ship, but they want you to fly with an experienced officer. We're going to meet him now."

  "Jesus Christ!"

  "Just relax, Lincoln. We're getting what we want, so don't fuck this up!"

  "Whose brilliant idea was this?"

  "It came from the Polygon. You remember Admiral Leach?"

  "Yeah. I remember all those dinosaurs. Those people aren't soldiers, they're politicians! If that's the best the Federation can muster, then we're all screwed."

  "Well, they aren't the best. You are. But to get what you want, you have to keep them happy."

  Johnny was still simmering when they entered Flight Ops and Dershowicz introduced him around. Johnny saluted properly — Dershowicz had spent several hours helping him get it right — and tried to look modest when the officer in charge, a Col. Enders, congratulated him on his kills.

  "We have a couple of Galaxy Fighters you can have for a few days," Enders said. "They were down-checked for maintenance and just got the green light this morning. You'll be flying with Captain Walters. Come along and I'll introduce you."

  They crossed the tarplast to the flight line and found Walters doing a walk-around on a GF. He was wearing flight gear and Johnny felt a sudden envy at the sight. Enders made the introductions; Johnny saluted Walters, and both men shook hands. Walters was about thirty; laugh lines around his eyes suggested he was a cheerful sort, but his expression was not amused as he looked Johnny up and down.