A Vow to Sophia

by John Bowers

  "You still with me, Onja?" He had his hands full, and two Sirians were still out there somewhere. "Onja? Onja!" His heart swelled with fear when she didn't answer. God! He couldn't lose his gunner…

  "Input: shut down non-critical systems. Report medical condition of Lieutenant Kvoorik. Execute."

  "Non-crits shutting down. Lieutenant Kvoorik is unconscious, vital signs depressed but stable."

  Johnny's cheeks puffed as he released pent-up breath. He continued his turn, swinging wide, one eye on his Heads-Up to see where the enemy fighters had gone. One was almost off the holo, climbing for orbit, but the other had made a wide circuit over Denver and was turning for another pass at him. He was forty miles out, but pushing past Mach 1.

  "Input: compute firing solution on target at three four zero relative. Fire when ready. Execute."

  "Attent: unable to comply. Firing circuits have shut down. Launch tubes are offline."

  "What?" Johnny gulped as he glanced again at the red graphic on his HH. Fear chilled his blood and he twisted to see out his cockpit window; the speck in the distance was coming hard, rocket trails streaming out behind it.

  The yoke shuddered in his hand; he could actually hear wind whistling across ragged metal above him. Trapped in a crippled fighter with all weapons offline…and within sight of home. What a fucked-up way to die!

  "Input: deploy countermeasures. Execute!" No point making it easy for the asshole. He twisted right and began another wide turn, trying to keep distance between himself and the Sirian, but the range was still closing.

  "Johnny?" Onja's voice sounded weak, disoriented. "What — where are we? What's happening?"

  He didn't have the heart to tell her. Nothing either of them could do in the next five or ten seconds. Shit! His old man had been right!

  The next sound he heard exploded through his headset like the voice of god.

  "Railsplitter, break left, bandit on your tail!"

  Johnny rolled left without thinking, oblivious of the condition of his ship.

  "Missile lock, I'm taking the shot! Adios, motherfucker!"

  * * *

  Burgundy was missing, but Jackson and Marcos dropped into formation alongside Johnny Lincoln and looked over his battle damage.

  "You'll never make orbit," Marcos told him. "Your fuselage looks like a cribbage board."

  "That's okay," Johnny told him. "There's a QF garage not far from here. I'll put down there."

  "I dunno, man. Looks like your portside is all fucked up. Your flaps are shredded and your nose nacelle is shot all to hell."

  "I'll have to risk it. Where's Billy?"

  "He ejected up north somewhere. They both got out okay."

  "How about you guys?"

  "We're spaceworthy. We nailed seven of the jokers, the others ran home to mother."

  "Not a bad day's work."

  "You want us to patrol the area for awhile? In case they come back?"

  Johnny started to say no, then reconsidered. Who was to say another strike wouldn't show up?

  "That might be a good idea. Maybe thirty minutes. Don't short yourselves on fuel, be sure you can get back to orbit."

  "No problem."

  Johnny turned east for a few miles, shedding altitude, then began his turn toward the runway at Lincoln Enterprises. Normally he'd have called the tower for clearance, but the tower was no longer there. He lowered landing gear, but his indicator lights flashed red.

  "Hey, Polo, can you tell if my gear is down?"

  Marcos dropped below him and swung in close, peering up through his canopy.

  "Affirm. They're down, but you've got a lot of shit hanging out of the wheel well on the port side. Lot of loose wires and some metal strips and stuff."

  Johnny felt his skin tighten a little more. How ironic to buy it on landing, after what they'd just survived.

  "Anything else?"

  "Yeah, looks like you're losing hydraulic fluid. Better put that bird down while you can."

  "Okay, thanks. You guys better get clear, just in case."

  He'd completed base leg and now turned onto final. The LincEnt runway, all three miles of it, lay dead ahead, just six miles away. Johnny throttled back and tried dropping flaps, but only the starboard flap opened, causing the fighter to crab against the onrushing wind. Marcos had been right.

  "Shit."

  He raised the good flap again and glanced at his airspeed. Too fast, but not a damn thing he could do about it.

  "You still with me, Lieutenant?" he said into his intercom.

  "Still here. You did good, Johnny."

  "Maybe, but if I don't pull this off it won't matter. Secure for crash landing."

  "As ready as I'll ever be."

  As he coasted down the glide path, Johnny saw the evidence of bomb damage; the tower was gone, several spacecraft hangars were ablaze, and at least one factory building had been obliterated. Other fires smoldered where ASC batteries had been destroyed. Then he swept across the end of the runway and had no more time for sightseeing.

  The QuasarFighter crunched down hard at three hundred knots and streaked down the runway like an out-of-control railsled. Johnny couldn't fire reverse thrust with damaged nose nacelles, so he throttled back his jets to provide absolute minimum power. The fighter began to jerk and buck; the landing gear hammered against the runway and Johnny expected them to collapse at any moment. In a matter of seconds the speeding QF shot past the first factory buildings, slammed across debris from the collapsed control tower, and began a skid to the right as it passed the general aviation building. Johnny worked his rudder pedals gently, stopped the skid, and dared try the brakes.

  He was past the factory now, nothing ahead but two miles of icy runway flanked by snowfields. He dropped under two hundred knots and touched the brakes again, then again; the QF shuddered violently, but the speed dropped off to one hundred ninety knots, one-eighty, one-seventy. A mile of runway left, nothing beyond that but the intercontinental highway. He felt his blood pressure climb out of sight.

  Ninety knots, eighty — half a mile to go. Seventy knots.

  "Come on, goddammit!"

  Sixty knots, four hundred yards of runway…

  The portside gear collapsed.

  The QuasarFighter crunched down onto the left wing and began to skid in a sweeping arc, sparks showering out behind it like a volcano. Facing back the way it had come, completely out of control, the QF shot backwards off the runway, plowing through two feet of soft snow, replacing the sparks with a blizzard of white powder. Sixty yards later the ship slammed to a halt in a deep drift.

  They were down …

  … and they were alive.

  Denver, CO, Terra

  Johnny Lincoln crawled out of his cockpit and stood on the port wing, shaking badly. The starboard wing was buried in the snowbank, steam hissing from the engines as the snow cooled them. He pulled frozen air into his lungs and marveled that he was still breathing. In the distance he heard sirens, and saw a fire hover racing toward him from up the runway. Above him, Jackson and Marcos waggled their wings as they cruised overhead at two hundred feet; Johnny gave them a thumbs-up, and they climbed for altitude.

  Bracing himself to keep from sliding off the tilted, icy wing surface, Johnny popped the external lock on the turret hatch and peered inside. Onja extended her hand, and he helped her crawl out to join him. She pulled off her helmet and they stood facing one another.

  "You look like hell," he said.

  "Thanks." She took a deep breath and her eyes narrowed as she looked around. "So this is Colorado."

  Johnny nodded, watching her closely. She did look like hell. Her spiky hair was flattened, a bruise darkened her left cheek, and a trickle of blood had dried beneath her left nostril. Most telling of all, the whites of her eyes were spider-webbed by burst capillaries.

  "How do you feel?" he asked.

  "Vindicated."

  "What?" He frowned.

  Onja's bloodshot eyes gazed into his for a moment and
she shook her head minutely.

  "Never mind."

  The fire hover arrived then and stopped at the edge of the runway. As a team of men in rubber suits began unloading handheld equipment Johnny saw a private hovercar jerk to a halt a few yards beyond the fire unit. A man stepped out of it, and Johnny caught his breath, feeling a twist in his gut without quite knowing why he should.

  The man was his stepfather, Oliver Lincoln III.

  Chapter 23

  Denver, CO, Terra

  Oliver Lincoln III stood in the late afternoon sunlight and stared at the youthful fighter pilot before him. Johnny gazed back warily, like a dog that never intends to be kicked again.

  "You look tired," Oliver said quietly.

  "A little."

  Lincoln turned to the QuasarFighter, which sat half buried in the snowbank. No longer sleek and deadly, just wounded, with a gaping hole in the turret, steam still rising from the engines.

  "A fine goddamn spacecraft, isn't it?" he said, almost to himself. He seemed almost awed.

  "The best ever built," Johnny agreed.

  "How many were there?" Lincoln was looking at his stepson again, his eyes a little glazed.

  "We counted fifteen, but the attack was in progress when we got here, so…"

  "Did you get them all?"

  "No. Two or three got away."

  "Jesus! One fighter against fifteen. How in the hell …?"

  He turned and looked at Onja, as if seeing her for the first time. She stared steadily back at him, her blue eyes narrow with fatigue. "You did it," he said.

  "We did it." She nodded toward Johnny. "He's the best pilot in the fleet. No one else could have kept us flying through all that."

  Lincoln looked at Johnny again, as if seeing a stranger.

  "And I tried to talk you out of enlisting. God!"

  Johnny didn't reply. Let the old man draw his own conclusions.

  "Well, let's get you up to the house. Your mother will want to see you."

  Johnny shook his head.

  "We have to report in, let someone know we're still alive."

  "Later. You need to get something to eat, rest up a little. It'll take them a week to put all the facts together anyway, so tomorrow should be soon enough." Lincoln was herding them toward his car, but Johnny pulled back.

  "We have to report in now," he said.

  Lincoln stared at him in silence, as if understanding a great truth for the first time.

  "Okay," he said finally. "We’ll do it your way."

  "It isn't 'my way', Dad! We have to obey orders."

  Lincoln nodded. "I understand. I'll take you by the ops center. You can call from there."

  The trip to the operations center took only minutes, and on the way Johnny and Onja got a brief look at the damage done by the Sirians. The majority of the complex was still intact, though fires still raged where the bombs had hit.

  "Goddamn cruise missiles took out the ASC batteries before their spacecraft ever showed up," Lincoln told them. "But they haven't stopped us. We'll be up and running again in two days."

  From the operations center Johnny contacted Loveland SFB by scrambler and spoke to the duty officer. After a brief conversation, the DO consulted the officer in charge of fighter operations and he came on the line.

  "What's your status, Lincoln?"

  "Our ship is damaged and we can't return to Luna without repairs."

  "Will she fly?"

  "No, sir. We were lucky to get her down in one piece."

  "All right, I'll send a shuttle over to pick you up and download your AI."

  Johnny bit his lip.

  "Colonel, my dad is standing here with me, and I'd like to spend a few hours at home, if that's possible. We could get transportation tomorrow."

  "Negat, Lincoln. I sympathize, but we need to get you debriefed and downloaded as soon as possible. With luck, you might stop in and see them before you head back to Luna. But for now, you come here ASAP."

  "Yes, sir."

  Johnny replaced the scrambler and turned to his dad.

  "Well, there it is. Loveland is sending an aircraft to pick us up. We may get to come back tomorrow, but we won't know until then."

  Oliver Lincoln III nodded. Orders were something he could understand.

  "Well, John, I'm damned sorry your mother won't get to see you. But make it back tomorrow if they'll let you, okay?"

  "Yes, sir."

  They stood there awkwardly for a moment. Johnny cleared his throat.

  "Dad — did you have anything to do with equipping the 213 ahead of other squadrons?"

  Oliver peered at him narrowly, as if expecting a rebuke. He just nodded.

  "Well, thanks. I appreciate it. I mean that."

  Oliver nodded again. "It was the least I could do," he said. "I've done a lot of thinking since you left. About what you said when you quit … about a lot of things. If I could, I would do a lot of things differently." His eyes focused narrowly on Johnny's. "A lot of things."

  Loveland, CO, Terra — Loveland Space Force Base

  The debrief at Loveland lasted almost two hours, and clearly the S-2 people had trouble believing the claims Johnny and Onja were making. But when the AI memory had been examined it was irrefutable. The two young people in the battered spacesuits, looking haggard and hanging over thick black coffee, had destroyed twenty-nine enemy fighters!

  In a single day.

  * * *

  It was 2200 local time when the debrief was done and they were shown to quarters. Johnny got the shower first. He was covered with dried sweat and wanted nothing more than ten minutes of luxurious hot water followed by twenty hours of sleep. He poured soap over his head and scrubbed himself thoroughly, then shoved his head directly under the spray to wash it off. When he opened his eyes, much to his surprise, he was no longer alone.

  Onja pushed herself under the water, her magnificent nude body brushing against him. Johnny watched in silent shock as she turned her face upward to let the hot water flood over her. It was the first time he'd been this close to her, and the effect of such proximity was immediate. He tried to step back, but there was no room.

  Onja turned and looked up into his eyes.

  "Wash me," she said softly.

  Johnny blinked at her.

  "Please," she added.

  He reached for the soap and poured it over her shoulders. The slippery liquid streamed down her back, her belly, and over her breasts. Johnny touched her gently at first, around the shoulders, the neck, up the back of her head. Gingerly, as if she might break. He ran his hands down her sides, to her hips.

  "Lieutenant," Onja said quietly, "do it right."

  She took his hands and placed them on her breasts. He washed them slowly, staring into her eyes, his fingers gently squeezing as if of their own accord. He gasped as, without warning, she gripped his rigid manhood.

  "Wha — what are you doing?" he panted, shivering.

  Without a word she slid her arms around him, reached upward for his lips, and kissed him hard.

  "I need you!" she gasped.

  His head seemed to spin.

  "What about your ground rules?" he asked.

  "Goddamn you, don't make me beg!"

  Gazing into her eyes, he saw an expression he'd never seen in the brief month he'd known her, something close to desperation. He kissed her gently, daring to touch her full lips with his own. Her reaction was as violent as it was passionate. She pressed her body hard against him, sliding her fingers through his short, wet hair, her lush lips walking across his face. She sucked his neck, his throat, then grabbed his shoulders and tried to pull herself up, climbing onto him.

  Panting with lust, his fatigue forgotten, Johnny surrendered to the moment and lifted her, pushing her into the corner of the shower stall. Somehow, amazingly, everything lined up on the first try, and Onja slid down onto him, locked her legs around him, writhing like a worm on a hot stove, and let loose a shriek that both deafened and startled him. He stood p
erfectly still.

  "Are you okay?" he dared to ask.

  "Shut up!" she gasped. "Just fuck me! Hurry!"

  He did his best to maintain his footing on the soapy shower floor. Onja did most of the work, writhing and twisting, sobbing and crying, her body pumping like a piston. Johnny held her with all his strength, just trying to stay with her, and when he climaxed it seemed his brain would melt, as if heaven and earth had moved, as if his internal organs had shifted out of position. Onja screamed again, her body convulsed, and then she slowly relaxed, still clinging to him, moaning, her thighs locked around him.

  Exhausted, Johnny sank slowly to his knees, Onja sliding down the wall with him, until he was relieved of her weight. He pressed his forehead into the wall, gulping for air.

  "Oh, god!" he groaned, trembling. "Oh, Jesus!"

  Hot water cascaded over their heads. Onja rested in his arms, breathing hard, her mouth open, eyes tightly shut.

  "Don't let me go!" she panted. "Not yet."

  "Don't worry." He shook his head. "I can't move!"

  They sat like that until the water ran cold.

  * * *

  The BOQ was small, intended only for one person, and the bed was a single. Johnny settled onto the couch and watched as Onja turned back the sheets.

  "Do you want to explain to me what just happened in there?" he asked.

  She turned to face him with guilty eyes, her lips parted.

  "Are you upset with me? Didn't you…want to?"

  "I've been wanting to for a month," he said. "But I was told at the beginning to forget it. And now, this."

  She sat down on the bed, conflict in her eyes.

  "I'm sorry about that first night," she said. "I thought I made that clear."

  "You apologized for offending me, but the ground rules never changed. What makes tonight different?"

  "Does it really matter?" she asked. "You enjoyed it, didn't you?"

  "Hell, yes, I enjoyed it! And I'd like to enjoy it again sometime, but I need to know if that's going to happen. That's why it matters. I don't like walking around confused."

  She sat silent, staring at her hands.

  "What's going on, Onja? What happened in there?"

  "Johnny, I have normal desires, just like anyone else. But when I first met you I wasn't ready to get intimate with you yet. I had been through too much, all of it happening too quickly. Can you understand that?"