by John Bowers
Hinds scowled unhappily.
"Your idea of seduction is a little different from mine, Captain." She shoved what was left of her drink to the side. "I've had it for today. I'm going to turn in."
"Wait," he said. "One more thing."
She waited.
"Pam and I are getting different assignments," he said. "She's going to the G-class gunnery school to train recruits. I'm getting a squadron. I'd like you to go with me."
Onja shook her head. "No thanks."
"Look, when Landon asked me to take you on my ship and get you back safely, he also asked me to be sure you got a good assignment. I'm offering you a good assignment now. You and I will kill a lot of Sirians. I'm in a position to make you a First Lieutenant. I'm allowed to take five people with me from 131, and you're my first pick."
Her lips twisted into a cynical grin and she shook her head.
"Even if I did become your gunner, I'd never sleep with you, Hinds. You better find yourself a girl who likes you. The nights will be a lot less lonely."
"Don't be a fool, Onja!" His voice hardened perceptibly. "You want to fly turret for some green rookie who can't handle a ship? If you turn me down you'll be playing pilot roulette. You won't have much say over who you get teamed up with."
"I found a good pilot once, I can do it again."
"I've been promised new fighters," he told her. "The latest thing off the assembly line, the QuasarFighter. It's a Lincoln. Sleeker and faster than the GF, almost double the firepower, and has warp capability. We can follow the Sirians into hyperspace and fight them on the other side. Think about that, Onja! If you want to kill Sirians so bad, think what you can do in a ship like that."
She stared at him, tempted in spite of everything.
"Only a few squadrons are getting those ships. It may be two years before production catches up to equip everyone. You can be a veteran by then."
She wavered for a moment, her eyes losing their focus as she stared into the deafening dimness of the Fighter Club. Her mind drifted for a moment — and ended up in the sauna back on AB-131. With Hinds trying to force himself on her.
Her eyes refocused and she found his face again, her lush lips pinched with bitterness.
"Find yourself another gunner, Hinds."
She got up and walked out of the club.
Saturday, 1 September, 0221 (PCC) — Lunar Base 1, Luna
As Onja Kvoorik stepped out of the simulator she was surprised to see about forty people clustered around her, both pilots and gunners. Most were staring in awe at the screen that displayed her score, others at the holo above the simulator on which computer graphics were generated, turning the simulation into a movie that looked like a real battle. For one breathless moment no one moved, then the crowd burst into applause. One girl pointed to the score, and Onja turned to look.
TARGETS PRESENTED -193
TARGETS HIT -193
TARGETS MISSED -0
TARGETS DESTROYED -191
TARGETS DAMAGED -2
DURATION -00:14:22
DIFFICULTY LEVEL -MAXIMUM
She allowed her lips to curve slightly. She hadn't known anyone was watching, had never seen more than a half-dozen there in the past, usually other gunners waiting their turn. Mildly embarrassed, she turned and headed for the exit.
Just as she reached it, a man wearing stars stepped in front of her, flanked by a colonel and a captain. The general was short and stocky, his hair steel gray except where his scalp shone through, his face lined but lively.
"Congratulations, Lieutenant," he said as Onja snapped to attention and saluted. He returned the salute briefly, then reached out to shake hands. "I've been in the fighter business for more years than you've been alive, and I've never seen anyone rack up a score like that." He glanced up at the scoreboard. "Hell, most gunners never even attempt maximum difficulty, and those that do are lucky to score fifty percent."
Onja stared at him in silence.
"I was minding my own business," he added with a small grin, "doing whatever it is that generals do, when Colonel Parker here came in and told me there was something happening in the simulator that I should see. I figured I'd seen about everything a simulator has to offer, but Parker was so excited I came down anyway, and I've been watching you for the last few minutes. God! If I was still flying fighters I'd kill to get you in my back seat."
"Thank you, General," she murmured, unsure what else to say.
"You wouldn't, by any chance, be the girl from AB-131, would you? The one with fifteen kills?"
Onja realized she wasn't wearing a nametag — her flight suit had been checked out from the gunnery pool.
"Yes, sir," she said. "Onja Kvoorik, Third Lieutenant."
He nodded wisely.
"I thought so. You had to be. I've never seen you around here before, and we've heard you were just about perfect. The reports didn't tell us how pretty you are, however."
She lowered her eyes, more out of military protocol than gratitude. She wasn't awed when men told her how beautiful she was; sometimes it got pretty tiresome.
"Would you do me the favor of stepping into my office for a few minutes?" the General asked. "I'd like to have a word with you in private."
She nodded. "Of course."
Two minutes later she stood at parade rest in front of the general's desk, but he waved a hand carelessly.
"Sit down, please. We're off duty here, no need to stand on formality."
He sat on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms, studying her with interest.
"My name is Osato," he said. "I'm wondering if you'd like to get into a carrier squadron."
"Sir?" Onja's eyes widened and her heartbeat doubled. "We have carriers now?"
"Under construction, soon to be commissioned. It's no secret, really. The Sirians know it, they just haven't figured out where we're building them. The first one will be ready in a few months, and we're already putting together squadrons to fly off it. I figure a girl with your talent should be included."
"That's where I want to be, sir."
"Good. I don't have final authority on any of these matters, but I am involved in crew selections and training. If we're in agreement, I'll put your name in the hat."
"How soon will the assignment take place, sir?"
"Maybe a couple of weeks at most."
Onja favored him with a rare smile.
"Thank you, sir. Can I make a request?"
"Of course."
"If I get this assignment, can I select my own pilot? I know that's irregular, but …"
Osato was frowning, his eyes narrowed.
"I-I just don't want to get killed by ending up with a careless pilot," she explained. "Or some rookie."
"There won't be any rookies in these squadrons," Osato assured her. "Most of the crews we select will be experienced teams. In many cases we're going to use existing squadrons in their entirety. As a matter of policy we don't normally break up fighter crews without good reason."
She gazed at him for a minute in disappointment, then nodded slowly.
"Yes, sir."
"There will be some pilots who don't have gunners. You're certainly free to meet with any of them and see if you think a match can be made."
"Thank you, sir."
Osato stared at her a minute longer, intrigued.
"This is important to you?"
"Yes, sir. I suppose it sounds selfish, but I want to be as effective as possible against the enemy. To do that I need the best pilot I can find."
"I see." He studied her for a moment. "Well, you are an outstanding gunner. Maybe an exception could be made in your case. Let me think on it. I'll give you an answer in a few days."
She almost smiled.
"Is there anything else you need?" he asked.
She started to say no, then hesitated.
"Yes, sir. It's … the inquest into the fall of AB-131."
"What about it?"
"It ended five days ago, and I heard the pan
el came to a conclusion, but no one seems to know what it was. Or won't say."
Osato's eyes clouded slightly and he wrinkled his nose.
"You were Major Landon's gunner, weren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
He nodded. "Well, the panel's verdict is classified, so I can't tell you what their recommendation was. But I can tell you it wasn't the way I would've voted. For Major Landon's sake, it's better that he didn't come back."
They’ll crucify me!
“Thank you, sir.”
Wednesday, 5 September, 0221 (PCC) — Lunar Base 1, Luna
Terraside liberty was granted for those survivors of AB-131 who wanted it. Most did, as the majority hadn't been home in years, and the gunnery pool where Onja lived while awaiting new orders emptied within a single day. Four days after her meeting with General Osato she was sitting in front of her vanity, deftly painting her face, when Sylvia Gates walked into the dorm.
"Hey!" she smiled, walking down the center aisle and dumping her space bag on Onja's rack. "I thought you'd still be on Terra. Did you come back early?"
Onja looked up at Sylvia, her only true friend at 131 until she'd moved in with Landon. She smiled and shook her head.
"I didn't go. What about you? I thought you'd been reassigned."
"Almost. They wanted to retire me, actually, because I didn't do well on the psyche test. Too jittery, they said, obviously suffering from Deep Space Combat Stress. I told them to take a flying fuck. Major Landon didn't evacuate me so I could retire. He sent us back to keep on fighting. They'll probably stick me in a gun turret piloted by a monkey, escorting garbage scows, but at least I'll still be in the Fighter Service." She smiled charmingly and kissed Onja on the cheek, then sat down on the rack.
"I appreciate that, Sylvia," Onja said softly.
"What, a kiss on the cheek? Hey, I'm not that kind of girl."
"No, what you said about Major Landon."
"Well, shit, it's how I feel. He saved my pretty pink ass, so I owe him."
Onja squeezed her hand and returned to her makeup job in the mirror.
"I wish I had half your looks," Sylvia said wistfully. "Hell, I'd settle for a tenth. You Vegan girls have got it made!"
"You think so, huh?"
"You bet. How do you keep the men off your back?"
"Be a bitch. Except when I see one that I like."
"Yeah, it's times like that when I wish I had your looks." Sylvia laughed. "But what am I kicking about? I've done okay. Most of the time."
Finished with her face, Onja started putting away her cosmetics and looked up from the mirror.
"Syl, you are a very sexy woman. And a beautiful person on top of that."
"'Beautiful person'?" Sylvia wrinkled her nose. "That's what they tell ugly girls. Listen, what's going on with you? Any word about new orders?"
Onja almost told her about the carrier assignment, but changed her mind; it wasn't a sure thing yet.
"Nothing definite," she evaded. "What about you?"
"I already told you about me."
"Well, I was about to head for the Fighter Club. You in the mood?"
"Dining and dancing?"
"Dining, anyway."
"What the hell. If I hang with you I might get lucky." She laughed. "Anyway, I'm so damned glad to be alive I'll celebrate anything. Let's go!"
* * *
Onja and Sylvia enjoyed one whopping last fling together at the Fighter Club. After dining there was dancing, with lots of men lining up. Sylvia did get lucky, and left with a square-jawed muscle man whose arms looked like landing struts. Onja got kissed and groped by several others, but with skills acquired at an early age, managed to avoid anything more serious; she went to bed alone at 0300.
And came up screaming at 0445, fighting the sweat-soaked sheet as it tried to strangle her, her shrieks filling the empty dormitory. Panicked and hysterical, she staggered naked to the center of the aisle and fell down onto all fours, heaving for air and moaning like a wounded animal, only to give over to the heaves as the alcohol she'd consumed surged up out of her like a tsunami.
When it finally ended, she stumbled into the showers and sat on the tile floor sobbing, alone and naked, while hot water cascaded over her and washed away the puke and the sweat but did nothing for the sickness inside her head.
It took almost an hour to put herself back together enough to go back into the dorm and clean up her mess. She was grateful no one else was there, everyone either reassigned or on liberty. By the time the duty officer came through for inspection at 0800 the dorm was spotless and fresh.
Her orders came that afternoon, and with a brief farewell to Sylvia, she packed her space bag and took the bullet tube to the shuttle terminal where, two hours later, she caught the parabola that would take her to Luna 9.
She was joining ZF-213.
Chapter 20
Thursday, 6 September, 0221 (PCC) — Lunar Base 9, Luna
Major Walters rose and returned her salute when Onja entered his office.
"Welcome to the 213, Lieutenant," he said. "I hope you'll find it as much of a home as the 111 was."
She nodded briefly. "I hope so, too, sir."
"Off the record, I'd like to mention that everyone here is familiar with the evacuation of the asteroid base. We all feel that your CO did the right thing. I mean every one of us. It's unanimous."
"Thank you."
"Sit down, please."
Onja sat, staring at him solemnly.
"General Osato notified me that you were coming, and said he has authorized you to choose your own pilot."
"Yes, sir."
"I assume you've seen the records?"
"Yes, sir. That's why I requested the 213."
Walters eyed her carefully, his smile fading slightly.
"And — you have a pilot in mind?"
"Yes, sir."
He lowered his gaze for a moment, then met hers directly.
"Normally, Lieutenant, I would be opposed to this. I don't believe in splitting up crews unless there's a solid reason for it. In this case, of course, it's an order so I have no choice. But I like to keep things open and honest; I just wanted you to know."
Onja nodded slowly. "You're concerned about morale," she said.
"That's right."
"So am I, Major. But I also want to win the war. To do my part effectively, I have to fly with the best pilot I can find."
Walters spread his hands, unwilling to argue the point.
"Fair enough. Which pilot did you select?"
She told him, and Walters wasn't at all surprised.
* * *
"So what does Walters want to see you for?" Johnny Lincoln stood naked in the tiny bathroom he shared with Denise Jordan, toweling his hair rapidly. Denise was changing into a fresh uniform as she answered.
"Seems we have a new gunner coming on board. A transfer from another squadron."
Johnny frowned as he ran a styler through his hair.
"So why does Walters want to see you? They usually just introduce them at squadron meetings."
"I didn't ask."
He watched her for a moment.
"But you know something," he said. "Don't you?"
She avoided his eyes, her lips tightly pursed.
"Come on, Denise," Johnny pressed, "what is it?"
She pulled her tunic down and adjusted the waist, pinned her combat badge onto the lapel, and stood in the doorway staring at him.
"What is it?" he repeated. "I know that look."
"Remember those fighters from that asteroid base that showed up a couple weeks back? One of those gunners has fifteen kills, and now she's coming here. Joining the 213."
Johnny shrugged. "So? We can use somebody like that. What's the problem?"
"Luna Command gave her a blank check. She gets to pick her own pilot."
"Who told you that?"
"Captain Santiago, this morning."
"Well, that probably has nothing to do with why Walters wants
to see you."
"It sure as hell does."
"You don't know that. How can you possibly know that?"
"Because I'm a lot smarter than you are. She's here right now."
"Santiago tell you that?"
"No."
Johnny looked into the mirror and sighed.
"Hell, so she picks a pilot. So what?"
"Who do you think she's gonna pick?"
Johnny snorted and turned from the mirror.
"You're paranoid, Denise. We have twenty-four pilots and I'm the youngest of the bunch. You got nothing to worry about."
"Wake up, Johnny. If she's picking her pilot, you can be damned sure she's checked the records. She isn't looking for a daddy, she wants a combat pilot. Somebody with experience. Do I need to use crayons now?"
He shook his head helplessly, leaned over and kissed her.
"If she picks me, I'll turn her down."
"No you won't. She gets to pick, and she gets whoever she wants."
"Then screw her."
"I'm sure you'll get to do that."
"Jesus! I can't believe how you borrow trouble!" He slipped past her to the wardrobe, grabbed a clean uniform, and began worming into it. "You're my gunner, Denise. You and I did pretty damned well out there. Between us we've got ten kills, and that's better than anyone else in the Luna sector. Why would anyone break us up?"
"This girl's got fifteen all by herself. The bitch!"
Johnny laughed as he locked down his boots. He grabbed Denise and laid a heavy kiss on her that melted her mood for a few seconds.
"Stop worrying!"
She clung to him for a moment, her eyes searching his face.
"Okay," she said, "I could be wrong about this, but I don't think so. If I'm right, you won't have any choice in the matter. I've been in the pool before, so it's no big deal."
"Denise …"
"Shut up. If it comes to that, don't go feeling guilty about me. We're not married and I don't have any legal claims on you. But I will miss you."
"Come on, Denise, cut it out."
"Johnny —" She was deadly serious, and he backed off a little. "You're a hell of nice kid. I mean that."
He managed a grin and kissed the tip of her nose.
"You ain't so bad yourself. For an old lady."
"Fuck you. Walters is waiting, I gotta go."
