by John Bowers
He stared at them grimly.
"If that sounds hopeless, just remember this: every one of you is a volunteer. Back home you have moms and dads, brothers and sisters, people you love. The enemy has put every one of their lives at risk, but they don't have the training or the opportunity to fight back. You do. What you do here you do for them. Never forget that."
Silence settled over the cavernous room for several seconds. Onja felt a sudden exhilaration she hardly expected; Landon's words were like a reaffirmation of the vow she'd made almost seven years ago. Her blood pounded fiercely, and she turned to stare directly at him. He ignored her.
"At ease."
The entire assembly seemed to slump.
"In a few minutes you'll receive housing assignments. You will all be interviewed over the next couple of days. Hold your questions until then."
Without another word, he turned and strode out of the room.
* * *
"What did you think?" Sylvia asked as they hoisted their space bags and followed a female ensign up two levels to their quarters.
"He didn't sugarcoat it," Onja replied, her thoughts elsewhere.
"No shit, he didn't sugarcoat it! He scared the hell out of me!"
Onja sighed. "Well, we should've known, shouldn't we? Everything he said makes sense. It's pure logic when you think about it."
"Yeah, I guess. But somehow it seems worse hearing it from the CO. Sort of makes your worst fears official, you know?"
The ensign led them through a double door into a wide dormitory with more than fifty sleeping racks. As the new arrivals streamed through, several women gathered around to stare at them. The ensign departed, leaving them to be inspected by their new roommates.
"Well, damn!" one of the residents declared. "Finally, some new faces. Welcome to the Beaver Pond."
"Cute," Sylvia said to the grinning resident. "Who came up with that sexist gem?"
"The pilots, who else?" The other woman stuck out her hand. "I'm Christine Liebau. Call me Chris."
"Sylvia Gates."
"Onja Kvoorik."
Liebau smiled curiously. "Swedish?"
"Norwegian." Onja frowned in confusion. "Beaver Pond?"
"It's a play on words," Sylvia explained. "An all-female dorm. Gunnery Pool, Beaver Pond. Get it?"
"No."
Liebau laughed. "Seriously, welcome to the Gunnery Pool."
"Do you get much action from here?"
"Oh, we get plenty of action! Every time some pilot gets tired of humping the same gunner he comes down here. Now, if you're talking about combat — well, not so much."
Onja scowled.
"From the looks of you," Liebau added, "I think the rest of us might start getting more sleep at night. You're going to be the number one attraction from now on."
"I didn't come here for that," Onja told her bluntly.
"None of us did, honey, but that's biology. Something about combat makes men think they have to spread their seed around, in case they don't survive. Not that it would do much good on this fucking rock!"
Onja left the group and strode through the dorm looking for a rack. Only about a dozen seemed to have been claimed; she chose one against the far wall and began stowing her gear in a locker. Other girls filtered through and began claiming racks as well. A few minutes later, Sylvia arrived and tossed her bag on the top bunk.
"Any objection if I sleep here?" she asked.
Onja shook her head. "I prefer to have a friend nearby." She stood erect and shrugged out of her fatigue shirt. She felt grimy; the sonic showers aboard the transport had been rare and unsatisfying. Tossing the shirt on her rack, she looked around in disapproval.
"Syl, I've got to get assigned to a squadron. I can't live in this place!"
* * *
Onja had no idea where the pilots who arrived with them had been quartered, nor did she much care. At least Billy Cameron wasn't around to fawn over her, and she hoped he was assigned to an experienced gunner — anything to keep him out of her face.
One by one, the new gunners were called in for interviews. Onja's call came shortly after evening mess. The same ensign who'd shown them to the Beaver Pond led her down one level to an office, then set off to fetch the next gunner. Onja knocked once on the door, then stepped through, head erect and shoulders back. The tall officer, Capt. Hinds, was seated at a desk. He looked up and stared at her with baleful green eyes, his expression unfriendly.
"Third Lieutenant Onja Kvoorik, reporting as ordered, sir!"
"Sit."
Onja sat quickly, remaining erect on the edge of the chair. Hinds turned his gaze to his desk terminal, a scowl playing across his features.
"What's your story, Ka-vorik?" he asked bluntly.
"Sir?"
"What bullshit are you trying to pull here? Do you think I'm an idiot?"
Onja's eyes widened in alarm and she felt her heart begin to thump.
"I-I don't understand, Captain."
Hinds leaned back and stared at her unpleasantly, his face rigid.
"I'm looking at your training chip," he said. "Did you doctor it? Or maybe someone did it for you?"
"No, sir!" Her fear receded into puzzlement. "If I may ask …"
"I'll ask the questions, Lieutenant. It says here that you scored a Perfect in gunnery training. Did you know that?"
"Yes, sir."
"You knew that? Or you scored a Perfect?"
"I scored a Perfect, sir."
He sat staring at her, his eyes calling her a liar.
"Bullshit," he said.
Onja stared back, frightened and just a little annoyed. "Sir, if you question my record, you can check with my instructor at Travis SFB. His name is —"
"Oh, that's cute, Lieutenant! That's fucking brilliant! We've been observing SpectraWav silence since 9 August. But you knew that, didn't you?"
"No, sir," she whispered. "I didn't."
"What exactly did you hope to gain? I mean, what's the point? You bucking for a promotion already?"
"No, sir."
"Nobody scores a Perfect, Lieutenant. In anything! The tests are structured to make that impossible. I've never seen anyone exceed eighty-five percentile, and I've seen a lot of gunnery records. So you expect me to believe you did?"
"Yes, sir. Because I did. If you question that, test me yourself. I'll do it again."
He nodded agreeably, but with a bitter smile.
"I can't," he said. "The simulator's been down for two months, and we didn't receive any spares for it today. The folks on Mars correctly assumed we'd be more interested in parts for real ships than simulators. So, it's your word against my skepticism, and I don't believe this shit for a minute."
Onja's anger was building steadily. Her blue eyes flashed at him.
"There is one other way to find out, Captain," she said.
"And that is?"
"Put me in a real gun turret. Send me out. I'll bring back dead Sirians for you. Maybe then you'll believe your own eyes."
"You'd like that, would you? Is that why you did it? So we'd stick you in the first available fighter and send you on patrol?"
Onja trembled with barely suppressed rage. Her breathing became labored, and only with an effort did she remain seated. He held her future in his hands, and losing her temper wouldn't help.
"Your record also says you're Norwegian," he mused conversationally, gazing at the terminal. "But I've heard that accent before. Vega, isn't it?"
"You've been to Vega?" she asked.
"No, I was pretty young when the Sirians occupied it. But I've known a couple of Vegans. The accent is pretty distinctive. You have Vegan looks, too. Terran women don't look like you."
She sat silent.
"Vega is a Sirian colony," Hinds said slowly. "Maybe you're an enemy agent."
"Sir, that's just ridi —"
"Is it? How do I know that?"
"I'm not old enough to be a Vegan agent! I left Vega when I was twelve!"
"Oh, di
d you! You're what, eighteen? Vega has been under Sirian occupation for twenty-five years! And nothing has moved between here and Vega all during that time. So how did you get off the planet without Sirian approval?"
Onja blinked in astonishment at his leap of logic, her anger momentarily forgotten.
"Captain —"
"You're under house arrest, Ka-vorik, until I have time to investigate this. Except for meals, you're confined to quarters until further notice, and if I find you anywhere but the Pool or the mess hall, I'll have you locked up. Understood?"
Onja's head swam. She just stared at him.
"Dismissed," he said.
She stood slowly, blood draining out of her face. She turned for the door, stopped and turned back.
"Captain —"
His eyes were cold as death as he looked up again.
"Dismissed, Ka-vorik!"
Chapter 12
Monday, 11 June, 0221 (PCC) — Asteroid Base 131, Solar System
Onja Kvoorik simmered in quarters over the next two days. It was so unfair! Worse than that, it was untrue! She'd worked hard to get here, had sweated and slaved and lost sleep over the math — had outperformed everyone in all phases of training, because she wanted to be the best!
And now this!
"Ignore that bastard!" Christine Liebau said when she heard the news. "Hinds is the biggest asshole in six star systems."
"I can't ignore him," Onja told her. "He's put me under hack. He thinks I'm an enemy agent."
"Did you really score a Perfect?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"She did," Sylvia said. "I trained with her at Luna 1. She was a sensation. Everybody was talking about her."
"Jesus! My best score was in the seventy percentile. How'd you do that?"
Onja shrugged.
"Well, look, you got witnesses, then. Sylvia can vouch for you. How many others here were in the same class?"
"Three or four."
"Take it to Major Landon. He's a fair man."
"Go over the captain's head?"
"No. First you demand that Hinds either file charges or cut you loose. Force his hand. Under the military code, you have a right to a speedy resolution. If he refuses — and he will — then you go to Major Landon."
"How? I'm not allowed to leave here except for chow."
"Work that out later. First, get your demand to Hinds. Make him put up or shut up."
Onja exchanged looks with Sylvia.
"It's worth a try," the redhead told her. "What have you got to lose?"
"I'll take your demand to Hinds myself," Liebau offered. "I owe that prick a few favors of my own."
Tuesday, 12 June, 0221 (PCC) — Asteroid Base 131, Solar System
Robert Landon stood in the observation lounge after the evening meal, staring across the asteroid field as he did every day. He'd just finished the last pilot interviews an hour earlier and now had to make crew assignments. All the replacements were green as grass, but their training records gave him at least some indication of their ability. He already knew that two or three were going to be substandard, but they were his now and he'd use them somewhere; he couldn't afford the luxury of wasting anyone.
Gunnery assignments would be tougher. Pairing pilots and gunners who were compatible was always a challenge. It helped when they already knew and liked each other, but that was rarely the case. Both men and women tended to gravitate toward people they found attractive, but that didn't always work. As often as not they were at each other's throats within a few weeks.
With a sigh, he stretched and took one last look toward the dim, distant sun. He'd worry about the rest tomorrow. Tonight he planned to turn in early.
Turning toward the exit, he stopped suddenly, startled to find he wasn't alone. The girl was standing near the bulkhead, almost invisible in the dim light. He could barely see her face, but her eyes, reflecting the distant sunlight, gleamed at him like a cat's. As soon as he turned, she came to attention.
"Permission to speak to the Major, sir?"
Landon took a step closer and stopped, now able to recognize her; she'd stood in the front row when he greeted the cherries. She'd kept making eye contact with him, but he'd have noticed her anyway. She was goddamned stunning.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.
"Kvoorik, sir. I came in on the Powell."
"Are you aware that protocol demands that you go through channels to speak to your commanding officer?"
"Yes, sir." Her voice was barely a whisper.
"That's one strike against you. What's the problem?"
"Sir…" She swallowed hard and tried again. "Major, I …"
"Spit it out, Ka-vorik! I don't have all night!"
She heaved a deep breath and released it quickly.
"Sir, Captain Hinds has accused me of being an enemy agent. He's placed me under house arrest until … until he can 'investigate' me."
Landon's expression didn't betray his surprise. Hinds had said nothing about this!
"Are you an enemy agent?" he asked.
"No, sir!" Her voice cracked; she was barely holding it together.
"Then why would Captain Hinds think you were?"
"Two reasons, sir. I was born on Vega, and I scored a Perfect in gunnery school."
Landon's eyes narrowed. She was too young to have left Vega before the Sirian invasion…and she'd scored a Perfect? Nobody scored a Perfect. In anything. Ever. In twenty years the best gunners he'd ever met had only scored Expert.
"How long ago did you leave Vega?" he asked.
"Almost seven years, sir."
"There aren't any starliners running between here and Vega."
"No, sir. I didn't come by passenger ship."
"Did the Sirians authorize you to leave?"
"No, sir. If they had caught me, I would be a slave now. Or dead."
Landon was intrigued. The girl seemed sincere enough, and her accent was charming. He hoped he wasn't being influenced by her incredible good looks.
"What do you want from me?" he asked.
"Could you … speak to Captain Hinds? I requested that he either charge me with something or clear me for duty, but he said he didn't have time to deal with it now. Major, I'm not an enemy agent! I want to fight. I want to kill Sirians. What he's doing is completely unjustified."
Landon's eyes narrowed. It should have occurred to him sooner.
"If you're under hack, what are you doing here? House arrest means confined to quarters except for meals."
She blinked fearfully. "I slipped away to see you," she said quietly. "Everyone says you're a fair man. I took a chance that they were right."
That's two strikes against you, he didn't say.
"Did you really score a Perfect?" he asked instead.
"Yes, sir."
"Can you prove it?"
"Yes, sir, if you get the simulator fixed. I have witnesses, too."
Well, she was sticking to her story, he mused. Willing to risk everything. If she was lying, he'd have to come down hard.
"You return to quarters," he said. "Do not leave there unless you hear from me or Captain Hinds. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll let you know."
She snapped off a salute. "Thank you, sir!" she breathed.
"Don't thank me yet. I still have to decide whether I believe your story."
He turned and walked out of the lounge.
* * *
"She killed her goddamned drill instructor!" Hinds sat across the desk as Landon reviewed the blonde gunner's chip. The white spots on his face stood out in relief as his anger mounted. "Drove a bayonet right through his heart!"
"Says here she was cleared of that, Jack," Landon replied evenly. "The review board declared it an accident."
"Fine. There's still that bullshit about her Perfect gunnery record. And she admitted she's Vegan, but her record claims she's Norwegian."
"Did you ask her about that?"
"Yes, si
r. She admitted being Vegan."
"What do you want to do, Jack? Convene a star-court?"
"No, sir. Who has the time? But I'm sure as hell not going to send her out on patrol with a turret full of munitions. We have enough trouble detecting the enemy without carrying one with us. Do you realize what she could do to our crews if we gave her that chance?"
Landon pursed his lips, his mind playing over the possibilities. Hinds did have a point. On the other hand, she'd been through three major training facilities over the last nine months and none of them had detected any sign that she might be an enemy — or had made no notation in her record if they had. Still, the war was young; security was tight, but not perfect. A mole might slip through undetected, and a mole at an asteroid base could compromise that base without much trouble.
If he erred, it had to be on the side of caution.
"She stays under hack," he said, getting to his feet. "But I do have one question, Jack."
"Yes, sir?"
"You didn't bring this to my attention. Why?"
Hinds blinked once and shook his head wearily.
"No excuse, Major. I was up to my ass in gunner interviews and I put it aside. I would've remembered eventually. My fault."
Landon nodded. "Keep me posted."
Chapter 13
Saturday, 16 June, 0221 - Friday, 22 June, 0221 (PCC) — Asteroid Base 131, Solar System
Every time Onja thought of the accusations Capt. Hinds had made, she trembled with rage. How dare he! At the end of four days she sent him another request to expedite her case, but received no answer. He probably had a lot on his mind, but so did she. She had a vow to keep.
She languished in the gunnery pool for a week. Crew assignments were made, missions flown, a battle was fought — she missed it all.
Sylvia was assigned to a pilot in ZF-99, Christine Liebau was teamed up with Billy Cameron; Onja did pushups, painted her nails, recorded a mail chip for the Kvooriks. Her frustration mounted. When other pool gunners tried to include her in their conversations, she snapped at them. They quickly learned to ignore her, which only deepened her isolation.
Exactly seven days after her conversation with Major Landon she was sitting in front of a mirror, restyling her hair. It was so short she had few options, so she spiked it. Sitting back and staring at herself, she nodded grimly. It was efficient, functional, and sexy — worthy of a daughter of Vega.
