A Vow to Sophia

by John Bowers

  Landon nodded unhappily. He knew through coded SpectraWavs from Luna 1 that half the asteroid bases had already fallen. Ceres and Vesta were in enemy hands. The picket line was faltering, but the longer it held, the more time it bought for the Federation to crank up its defense. His position was completely untenable, but it was the only one he had, and his job was to hold until relieved.

  "We can't very well force a battle," he said, "without knowing where they are or how to draw them out. But if we do get the chance, we'll hit 'em with everything we've got."

  "I like the sound of that."

  "Even if it finishes us," Landon said. "A single victory of any magnitude will buy time, and time is what we need."

  A few minutes later the two men stepped out of the office; the afternoon patrol would be returning soon and Landon was in the habit of being present whenever a patrol came back. As he stepped into the corridor, he felt a twinge of annoyance. Onja Kvoorik stood there waiting for him, almost at attention, a salute snapping toward her forehead.

  "Permission to speak to the Major, sir?"

  She was like a bad habit — she'd been to see him at least once a week since she arrived. Landon returned her salute.

  "What is it, Lieutenant?"

  Hinds stepped into view and her blue eyes blazed with sudden anger.

  "I would prefer to speak to the Major alone!" she said.

  "I'm here and you're here. If you have something to say, then say it."

  "Yes, sir." She threw a visual dagger at Hinds, then turned back to Landon. "I've been here five weeks, Major. I have not been assigned to a squadron. I have not flown a mission. Every other gunner who arrived with me has flown missions. Every gunner in the Pool has flown at least one mission. I have the best training record of any gunner in the Fighter Service."

  She stopped, her eyes darting to Hinds again. Landon felt a fleeting satisfaction at her obvious discomfort. He pushed the needle a little.

  "Is that it?" he asked.

  "Sir, I…" She glanced at Hinds yet again.

  "Yes? What is it, Lieutenant?"

  Hinds stood beside him, glowering at her. Her face flushed slowly crimson, but she didn't back down. Her eyes reflected her growing rage.

  "Major, I hereby request posting to a squadron, or at the very least, a slot in the Pool rotation. I volunteered to fight, I am trained to fight, I am ready and willing to fight. Let me pull my weight, sir!"

  Landon stared at her a moment longer, then turned to his XO.

  "Captain?"

  Hinds looked startled. For just a second he seemed nonplussed, but recovered quickly.

  "We have no openings at the moment, Major."

  "Bullshit!" Onja's eyes gleamed her hatred.

  Hinds swelled with sudden rage. He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, turning his eyes on his commanding officer.

  Landon stared back at him, his expression neutral.

  "Major? That was insubordination! Do you want to let her get away with that?"

  "You still have concerns about her loyalty?" Landon asked bluntly.

  "Yes, sir, I do. I'm reluctant to send her out with her hand on enough firepower to wipe out one of our squadrons."

  Onja's mouth dropped open in astonishment. Her eyes darted from one officer to the other.

  "In that case," Landon said, "why don't you take her out yourself? That way, if you sense any danger to your patrol, you can override her systems."

  "I won't fly with him!" Onja snapped.

  Landon withered her with his gaze — or tried to. "If you want to fight so badly," he informed her, "you'll fly with whoever you're assigned to."

  "Major, if I fly with him, he'll expect me to sleep with him! He's been fucking me over ever since I got here, but as my pilot he'll try to fuck me for real."

  "That's defamation of a superior officer!" Hinds roared. "You could get a star-court for that!"

  "He's all about power," Onja went on recklessly. "Every gunner I've talked to said so, and the way he handled my case confirms it. I'll obey any legitimate order you give me, Major, but I will not fly with him!"

  Landon held up a hand to stop her tirade. He studied her for several seconds, evaluating her words. Hinds was right, of course — she was stomping all over military protocol, but she also had a point. He wasn't sure what Hinds had against her, but he'd already carried it too far. He glanced at Hinds, whose mottled face was diffused with blood.

  "I'll handle this, Captain," Landon said quietly. "That will be all."

  Hinds grimaced, saluted, and stalked away. Onja watched him go, her hatred evident in every muscle.

  "Let's take a walk, Lieutenant."

  Landon began walking toward the hangar bay, Onja at his side. Neither spoke for several minutes, the time it took to arrive at the observation deck where they could watch the returning patrol. Landon peered through the foot-thick Solarglas. The patrol hadn't arrived yet. He turned to the girl.

  "I know you think you have cause to dislike Captain Hinds," he said quietly, "but — don't interrupt! You don't like him, but you have to keep a lid on it, all right? He's fully within his rights to file charges against you for your outburst back there, and he'll probably try. I'll talk him out of it, of course, because I don't have time to fuck with a star-court. But I want you to stop provoking him."

  "Major! Everything I said was true!"

  "I don't care, all right? We may be stuck out here on the ass-end of the Solar System, but we're still part of a fully functional military service. As long as I'm in command of this combat wing, we will observe military protocol. Is that clear?"

  She glared at him in resentment for what seemed like forever, then relented.

  "Yes, sir."

  He nodded. "Good. Now, about your request."

  She came almost to attention again. Her eyes flickered hopefully.

  "Let's try this," he said. "I haven't flown many patrols lately, and I need to get back into the cockpit. I don't have a regular gunner, so next time I go out, you'll fly with me. Will that be satisfactory?"

  Relief flooded her gorgeous features. For just a moment, he thought she was going to smile, but she didn't quite make it.

  "Yes, sir! I'll fly with you anywhere, any time. Thank you, sir!"

  Landon allowed a ghost of a smile to cross his lips. "And I won't expect you to sleep with me."

  Once again she threatened to smile. Instead, she saluted him crisply.

  "Thank you, Major."

  "You just behave yourself. If I catch you baiting Captain Hinds again, the deal is off."

  "I'll be good, sir."

  "Dismissed."

  Lunar Base 9, Luna

  Johnny Lincoln rarely had contact with Major Dunn after his first day. He wasn't sure if Dunn was avoiding him or what, but it hardly mattered — until he'd proved himself to Dunn's satisfaction, he'd just as soon keep a low profile.

  Capt. Walters seemed to actually run the squadron. He posted the orders, issued the chewings, and led most of the patrols. The patrol area, to Johnny's surprise, was nowhere near Luna. Instead, the 213 usually flew some kind of intermediate cover over Terra, usually near one of the poles. It made for a long day every time, requiring several hours to arrive on station and the same number of hours to return.

  To Johnny it made no sense, especially the North Pole, because there was nothing there of value to the enemy. Walters explained the logic — patrolling ten thousand miles above either pole placed 213 in position to respond in any direction. In the event of another enemy strike, they could intercept the enemy before anyone else did, and perhaps blunt the thrust to some degree.

  The good news was that Walters, already familiar with Johnny's ability, quickly made him a section leader. Johnny's wingmen were Phil Stovall, call sign Blowtorch; Billy Burgundy, call sign Vintage Red; and Pablo Marcos, call sign Polo. The four of them flew well together and the wingmen didn't appear to resent Johnny's assignment as flight leader. Off duty, the four pilots and their gunners were like
members of the same club, drinking and dancing and hanging out together.

  Now, Johnny reflected, if only they could get some action.

  Monday, 16 July, 0221 (PCC) — Washington City, North America, Terra

  Several QuasarFighters had been turned over to the Fighter Service for testing a few weeks after the war began (one QF actually got into combat during the December strike, but scored no kills). Oliver Lincoln III had received reports of the results as the testing progressed, ordering two minor design changes as a result. Testing continued through the winter and spring; by summer the Polygon made its final evaluation, and on July 13, LincEnt was offered a contract.

  Oliver flew to Washington City for the signing ceremony; Henry Wells flew in from London to join him. Half a dozen high-level officers were present, their tunics top-heavy with colorful decorations. The details of the contract were explained in a closed session, and Oliver agreed to the terms. He would deliver four hundred fighters within three months, and fifty per month after that until all front-line squadrons had been converted over. At that time the contract would be reevaluated, with the option to continue or cancel. A LincEnt subsidiary would produce spare parts, for which LincEnt would receive a percentage.

  It was a lucrative contract, even though the profit margin was barely five percent per unit. Oliver already had sixty-odd QFs in stock for immediate delivery, and could spin the plant up to full production in less than a week.

  Oliver was invited to sign the contract, which already bore the signatures of the military men present. He picked up the stylus and stared at the document a moment, then leaned back in his chair and scanned the faces around the table.

  "I have one request, gentlemen," he said quietly. "A personal favor."

  "Yes?" Admiral Rubens said.

  "I can deliver sixty fighters by the day after tomorrow," Oliver said. "Enough for three squadrons. I'd like your assurance that the first squadron to be converted will be ZF-213, now operating out of Luna 9."

  Rubens frowned at the presumptuousness of the request.

  "Mr. Lincoln, we already have a schedule in place for which squadrons get converted, and when. I'm afraid we can't alter that."

  "My son is with the 213," Oliver replied. "He tested the QF from day one, he knows it better than anyone alive, and he can make immediate use of it. Hell, he can even train the pilots in his squadron how to fly it. I don't think it's too much to ask, do you?"

  Rubens exchanged disapproving glances with two other officers, and it was clear they weren't happy.

  "Mr. Lincoln, we're extremely impressed with your product, but we take a dim view of a contractor trying to tell us how to conduct our business. I'm afraid I'll have to decline your request."

  Oliver stared at him for ten full seconds, then put down the stylus and scooted his chair back.

  "Gentlemen, you have a nice day."

  Oliver rose and started for the door. Rubens leapt to his feet.

  "Sit down, Mr. Lincoln! You can't just walk out of here!"

  Oliver turned back, eyebrows raised.

  "I'm a private citizen, Admiral. I can do anything I want."

  "We need your signature on that contract!"

  Oliver nodded slowly. "Yes," he said, "you do. I'm surprised it took you this long to realize that."

  The brass hats exchanged glances again, uncertainty in their eyes.

  "You're going to just walk out of here, turning down a multi-billon-terro contract?" Rubens sputtered in disbelief.

  "You're going to let me walk out of here?" Oliver countered, "because of your stupid fucking pride?"

  "Jesus Christ!" Rubens muttered, "I don't believe this!"

  "I'm not asking for all that much," Oliver said in a reasonable voice. "I just want my boy flying the best fighter available. Don't forget, he shot down five Sirians on August 9 — in the QF. He was still a civilian then, so imagine what he might do with a QF now."

  "Admiral…" Henry Wells spoke up from his seat at the end of the table. "May I suggest that we consider what's best for the service here? Is it going to cripple the war effort to convert the 213 ahead of other squadrons?"

  "Well, no, but —"

  "Do you not believe this new fighter will give us an advantage over the enemy?"

  "Yes, certainly it will!"

  "Then what are we quibbling about? Outfit the 213 first. Christ, man! Let's get on with the war!"

  Rubens glared at the senator for a moment, then glared at his colleagues. One by one they shrugged or nodded. Finally he turned his glare on Oliver.

  "All right!" he said. "But no more favors!"

  "Fair enough," Oliver said. "Now, as soon as you put that in writing, I'll sign the contract."

  Tuesday, 17 July, 0221 (PCC) — Arctic Circle, Terra

  When it came, it came like a bolt of lightning. Johnny had been with the 213 for three weeks, and the squadron was patrolling above the Arctic Circle, strung out over three hundred miles of orbital space. For the first time since Johnny had arrived, Major Dunn was leading the patrol.

  The first indication of trouble was a single SpectraWav call from somewhere to the south, over the North Pacific.

  "Mayday! Mayday! Any military station, I am under attack. Repeat, I am under—"

  The transmission ended in a burst of static, but Johnny felt his blood surge as his heart kicked into turbo.

  "Johnny, what was that?" Denise demanded anxiously from her turret.

  "Sounded like trouble," he said. "Some ship just died out there. Get ready."

  But Major Dunn, call sign Denmark, didn't issue any orders. For over a minute the squadron continued on course. Then Walters came through the headset.

  "Denmark, Tobacco Road. What are your orders, Major?"

  "Hold formation!" Dunn replied bluntly. "We've been assigned to guard this sector, we will hold our position. Let them come to us."

  Johnny gritted his teeth and was about to respond when transmissions began arriving from other stations.

  "Attention all military spacecraft. This is Western Pacific Space Traffic Command. Code sequence Alpha November niner seven. Enemy spacecraft have been detected approaching quadrant three four North. All combat squadrons execute discretionary interception. Repeat, this is a battle alert. Execute discretionary interception."

  The controller went on to give coordinates and approach vectors of enemy forces, all duly recorded by the computers aboard the GalaxyFighters. Johnny and Denise armed their weapons and waited, confident they would quickly receive orders to engage the enemy.

  "All sections," Dunn broadcast, "we will hold position and see what develops. The enemy is too far south for us to intercept without leaving our patrol area vulnerable. Repeat, hold your position pending further orders."

  "Jesus Christ!" Denise shouted from behind Johnny. "What does that bastard want, a holo-invitation?"

  Someone else apparently was as frustrated as Denise; at that moment an unidentified transmission went out from one of the fighters.

  "Wassamatter, Denmark? You wanna die in bed?"

  Dunn came back on the air, his voice shaking with anger.

  "Last traffic, identify!" he ordered. When no one responded: "Who was that, dammit? Railsplitter! Was that you?"

  "Denmark, Railsplitter. Negat."

  "Maintain SpectraWav silence until further notice!" Dunn ordered and went off the air.

  "Son of a bitch!" Denise muttered.

  The squadron continued its circular patrol as reports of combat engagements began to arrive. At least two squadrons had managed to engage the incoming strike, but things didn't go well. The enemy strike force was powerful, and Federation losses were high. The strike penetrated the atmosphere and within minutes civilian stations began reporting attacks on major eastern cities, including Tokyo, Hong Kong, Singapore, Hanoi, Bangkok, Shanghai, Jakarta, Manila, and Taipei.

  The minutes dragged into a half-hour, and Johnny felt his body tremble with rage. Here he sat, in a fully loaded and combat-ready fi
ghter while enemy ships devastated large cities and slaughtered thousands of civilians. Every second he waited decreased his chances of punishing those doing the killing. This was worse than running away.

  "Johnny, I'm picking up bogies inside the atmosphere. Enemy ships climbing out. They've finished their strike and they're leaving."

  "I see them. They're gonna exit over Siberia."

  "We can intercept them, Johnny, but we've got to go now!"

  "Input: compute attack profile on bogies bearing two seven three degrees. Lock in."

  "Ack," the AI replied crisply. "Attack profile programmed and locked."

  Johnny's heart hammered faster than ever as he broke SpectraWav silence.

  "Denmark, Railsplitter. Request permission to engage enemy ships climbing toward orbit. They're sitting ducks, Major. They're climbing over the pole to make an easy getaway; if we catch them before they break atmosphere we can take them down."

  "Negat, goddammit!" Dunn roared. "Hold your position, Railsplitter! That is an order!"

  "Asshole!" Denise gritted.

  Johnny chinned his transmitter again.

  "Say again, Denmark? You're breaking up!"

  "You heard me, Lincoln! If you break formation I'll have you up on charges!"

  "Denmark, are you there? I think my SpectraWav is out."

  "Lincoln, you son of a bitch! You heard me! Hold your goddamned position!"

  Phil Stovall's voice came into Johnny's cockpit from his position off Johnny's right wing.

  "Railsplitter, Blowtorch! I'm with you! Let's go get 'em!"

  "Stovall!" Dunn was almost incoherent in his rage.

  "What're you gonna do, Johnny?" Denise asked breathlessly. "My god, he gave you an order!"

  "Tell me you want me to obey it," Johnny replied.

  "Jesus! You can't disobey an order! Oh my god!"

  "Tell me, Denise! You outrank me, and my radio is out!"

  "Oh, fuck!" She swallowed hard. "I can't just —"

  "They're getting away…"

  "Oh, shit, do it!"

  "Input:" Johnny said, "Execute!"

  * * *

  The GalaxyFighter fired its engines and arrowed toward the atmosphere on an intercept course for the Vegan ships leaving the scene of the devastation below. Stovall and the other two ships in the section followed, leaving the rest of 213 orbiting behind Major Dunn. Dunn's voice screamed after them but Johnny ignored it.