by John Bowers
Johnny struggled for breath, shoving the fighter back to the left, realizing he was in deep trouble. Without atmosphere his movement was limited. Onja's turret was pointing backward, toward the carrier, and she blazed away with her onboard lasers as if she could somehow penetrate the enemy shields and stop the murderous fire that was threatening to fry them. She did manage to hit one laser battery, but it had no effect; only Johnny's wild maneuvering kept them alive for the next twenty seconds.
Then the carrier ceased fire as a full squadron of patrol fighters arrived and took on the two intruders. Denise Jordan unleashed a Yin-Yang that took out two and sent four others scattering, but the rest came on, driving doggedly toward the two QFs with only one thought in mind.
"Keep going, Johnny!" Onja shouted. "I've got them! Keep going!"
Gasping, Johnny twisted, jinked, and rotated, flying harder than he'd ever flown in his life. Thrusting, killing thrust, anything to keep the enemy guessing. Once he killed all power and let the Sirians overshoot, to give Onja a shot at their six.
Rockets, steering jets, evading with everything he had. Leading the Sirian fighters on a thirty-thousand-mile chase that logically could end only one way.
The Sirians were too close to use EMP, so Onja blazed away with laser, her eye dead-on and her hand steady as stone. Shorting out their shields, she damaged six fighters as they pursued, but still they came, joined by a second squadron, then a third, until more than fifty, like a pack of timber wolves, chased them relentlessly across the endless reaches of space.
Somehow, Washington stayed with them, losing ground now and then as Johnny continued to turn instinctively, following no particular pattern. Denise Jordan in Washington's turret used all her 29mm ammo before turning to her laser, punching holes in two Sirians, then burning another with her laser before the combined fire of three converging Sirians blew open her turret and blasted her body to hamburger.
"Denise is gone, Johnny!" Washington cried out in desperation. "I don't know how long —"
Washington's QF exploded in a flash that cut off the pilot's last words. Johnny felt a razor slide down his throat with the pain of their loss.
He and Onja were all alone.
Beyond the Orbit of Pluto, Solar System
The battle continued another twenty minutes. Johnny's course took them ever farther from the enemy taskforce; he saw no reason to stay where those long-range lasers could reach him. The enemy showed no sign of turning back, so he headed for empty space, with no idea where he was, knowing that if he didn't escape what was chasing him, it wouldn't matter. Without his hyperdrive he could do nothing else.
"Keep going, Johnny!" Onja cried, still blazing away with her laser. She'd taken out another Sirian, and the rest were keeping a respectful distance, but they were still coming, with no intention of giving up. "Keep going, sweetheart."
Johnny Lincoln kept going.
Turning.
Twisting.
Taking tangents.
Dodging the lasers.
WHAM!
Another hit, but it wasn't EMP, and again the shields sagged. They'd recharged to sixty percent, but were now down to ten. Another hit like that could take them out entirely. He was quickly running out of options. They had no explosive cannon shot, torpedoes were running low. Onja used all her countermeasures against incoming torpedoes, and even tried deceptors, but the enemy was too close.
The pack came on, more than forty strong.
Still coming.
Still gunning.
They used lasers and torpedoes, but they'd learned about EMP — it didn't work against the QF. Johnny was the best any of them had ever fought. Trying to hit him was like blowing a hole through water.
Then, hoping to bracket him, they split into two groups. Then three.
Then four.
Slowly they boxed him in.
Johnny saw them on his holos, and knew real fear for the first time. He blinked away the sweat in his eyes, unable to get past his faceplate to wipe it. Salt burned his eyes even as acid burned his stomach. He panted for breath and continued his evasive actions, aware now that it couldn't last much longer. In the back Onja continued to rotate and fire.
Laterally.
Longitudinally.
She killed two more Sirians. But there were too many, and her laser batteries were running low from the continuous power drain.
"Onja —"
WHAM!
A torpedo erupted against the shields and finished them for good.
"Shields are gone, Onja! They've got us boxed! We can't take any more!"
"Keep going, Johnny!" Onja was still firing, but she was sobbing now. "I'm sorry I got you into this! I'm so sorry!"
It's a simple matter of the odds. You keep on fighting, sooner or later the joker always turns up.
"Honey, I wouldn't have missed this for anything."
"Not even —"
"Except that."
She was weeping as she released her last torpedoes on random spread and watched the Sirians evade them.
"I'm out of torpedoes. I love you, Johnny! Oh, goddess, I love you!"
"Onja…"
"Incoming!" she screamed. "Faster!"
He saw them on his HH, six torpedoes coming at him under fifty G's of thrust, closing like hounds. He jinked right and left, but the torps followed, cutting inside his turn, and there was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go. He had no more power to use — his throttles were jammed all the way forward.
"Eject, Onja!" he yelled.
"I won't leave you!" she cried, blinded by her own tears.
"Goddammit, Onja! Get out! Get out now!"
"No!" Daddy! Don't make me go!
"Input!" he screamed. "Eject gun turret, execute!"
The AI didn't reply — and the turret remained in place. Johnny looked at the HH and saw the six streaks of light closing faster, now less than ten seconds away.
"Pull your eject lever, Onja! For god's sake, do it now!"
"No! I won't leave you!"
But you are good pilot. You will protect our girl?
With my last breath, Momma Kvoorik.
A laser bolt sliced through the cockpit and burned off his left leg so cleanly he didn't even feel it; his suit sealed instantly to prevent decompression from killing him as air exploded out of the cockpit. A second shot took his left arm at the elbow. With his remaining hand, Johnny jerked the yoke to the left and sent the QuasarFighter into a spin, then reached up over his head for the red lever inset against the turret firewall. He jerked with all his remaining strength. The QF rocked as an explosive charge fired the turret out into space at six G's, leaving the fighter a gutted hulk.
Johnny Lincoln had time to gulp one last breath as he saw the debris from the turret spin away outside his window.
"Thank you, God!" he whispered.
The first torpedo overtook the QuasarFighter…
…and Johnny Lincoln became one with the universe.
Chapter 31
Saturday, 20 April, 0222 (PCC) — Denver, CO, Terra
The intercom on Oliver Lincoln's desk buzzed.
"Yes, Angie?" His eyes never left the spreadsheet of production figures he'd been studying.
"Senator Wells on six, Mr. Lincoln."
"Thank you." He spun around in his chair, tapped the vidphone on his credenza, and leaned back with a smile of anticipation on his face.
"Henry! Did you enjoy the venison?"
The face on the screen, familiar enough, looked strained.
"Yes, Oliver, we did. Yvonne said to send you her thanks."
"No problem. Plenty more where that came from."
"Are you sitting down, Oliver?"
Inexplicably, Lincoln felt his chest constrict ever so slightly. His smile froze on his face; he'd never heard his friend sound quite the way he did this minute.
"Yes," he said quietly. "What is it, Henry? What's happened?" He closed his eyes in a silent prayer.
"There's a military co
urier on his way to your place right now," Henry said. "I tried to divert him but I was too late. He's heading for your house, Oliver."
"Oh, god! Is it Johnny?"
"You'd better get a security team over there to stop him," Wells continued. "Don't let him talk to Rosemary."
Lincoln's body felt like lead, as if he were in a six-G spin.
"Hold a minute, will you?" He punched the intercom again and connected directly to LincEnt Security; issued terse, no-nonsense instructions; then, feeling as if his heart would burst, returned to line six. "Henry. Tell me what happened."
There was a long hesitation on the other end.
"Oliver, I'm damned sorry. I wish I had any other kind of news for you."
Lincoln felt tears sting his eyes for the first time in twenty years. He blinked them away almost angrily, forced his lungs to accept the air they felt too paralyzed to receive, and willed his heart to keep on beating.
"How did it happen? Where?"
"Not many details, I'm afraid," Henry said. "The 'where' is classified, at least for the moment. All I know for sure is that he located an enemy taskforce and took it on all by himself, with nothing but one wingman. They both bought it."
Oh, god, no! Not Johnny! Don't let this be real! What will I tell his mother?
"Oliver?"
"Yeah. I'm here." Lincoln's voice was a whisper.
"Listen, if you like, I can fly out there this afternoon. I'm not —"
"When did it happen?"
"Four days ago. His carrier was operating off Mars —"
"Why was he alone? Where the hell was his squadron?"
"I don't know, Oliver. Like I said, not many details yet. He's been put in for the Medal of Honor and I guarantee he'll get it."
"I don't care about the goddamned medal!" Lincoln rasped. "I want my boy back!"
"I know. I'm sorry, Oliver. I'm truly sorry."
"What about the girl? His gunner?"
"She's alive. She used the ejection seat —"
"She ran out on him? God damn her!"
"No, Oliver, no. She didn't run out on him. She says she refused to leave, but he ejected her himself just before the fighter blew up."
"Can her story be verified?"
"I doubt it. The ship was destroyed, and the computer with it. They didn't even find it."
"What about the backup system in the gun turret? That should have a record."
"I don't know, Oliver. You build 'em; you know more than I do. But the Fighter Service believes her story. They're labeling Johnny a hero for saving his gunner just seconds before his own death. You can be proud of him …"
"I was already proud of him! He didn't have to get himself killed for me to be proud of him!" Oliver shouted.
"Oliver… This doesn't accomplish anything."
Lincoln took a deep breath and held it, fighting the emotions that overpowered him and forced him to feel what he didn't want to feel. He let his breath out slowly and swallowed hard.
"I'm sorry, Henry. No need to scream at you. You didn't kill him."
"Oliver, I'll be out this evening. Yvonne and I will stay with you a few days. God knows we loved him, too. Known him since he was a baby."
"You don't have to do that."
"We're coming. Pull yourself together, now. You have to be strong for Rosemary. This is going to hit her hard."
"Yeah, okay. Look, the media doesn't have it yet, do they?"
"No, but you don't have much time. I dare say it'll make the evening holonews. By the time that courier reaches you the word will be out."
"Okay. We'll be all right on this end. Thanks for calling, Henry. I owe you one."
"I'll see you in a few hours. Keep it together, now."
Oliver punched off and sat immobile. The room seemed suddenly cold, as if an arctic blast had blown through while he was on the phone. He shivered helplessly, unable to believe the unbelievable, accept the unacceptable. His eyes glazed as his lungs took air one breath at a time and released it. His mind refused to work, and he sat there for twenty minutes without moving. First Victoria, now Johnny. Would the damned Sirians ever spill enough Lincoln blood?
The door opened and Angela Martinez stood there, staring at him with haunted eyes, her face drained of blood.
"Mr. Lincoln," she whispered, "there's a man here from the War Department. He's…"
"Let him in, Angie," Lincoln said softly, his heart reaching out to the young woman before him. "Let him in."
Angela stumbled woodenly back, gripping the door to support herself, staring at the uniformed man who stepped into the room with horror in her eyes.
The courier was younger than Johnny, Lincoln noticed, fresh faced and sincere, his eyes filled with sadness at the duty he'd come to perform. He glanced at Angela, then at Lincoln.
"Mr. Lincoln?" he asked. "Are you Oliver Lincoln?"
"Yes."
"Sir, my name is Lieutenant Jacobson. I'm afraid I have some bad news." He held an official document in his hands.
"Just leave it on the desk, son," Lincoln whispered gruffly. "I already heard."
"Sir, I'm terribly sorry."
"Thank you, son. Thank you for coming to tell me."
The young man looked uncomfortable, but had one more thing to say.
"Sir, Johnny Lincoln was my hero. I just want you to know that. I feel your loss personally, sir."
"Thank you."
The young man nodded, backed toward the door, and dipped his head.
"Good luck to you, sir. God bless you." Then he spun on his heel and was gone.
"Close the door, Angie. Sit down."
Blinded by tears, Angela managed to obey, settling heavily into the chair in front of the desk, her shoulders drooping as she placed both hands on her face.
"Is it true?" she wailed. "Johnny? He's —"
"Yes, Angie. He's gone. Oh, god, he's gone!"
"Oh, Jesus!" she sobbed, and crossed herself. "Johnny!"
She broke down completely then, unashamed, her tears spilling into her hands. Lincoln sat watching her weep, and could no longer force back the pressure inside him. Tears spilled down his own faded cheeks and spread salt across his face, sliding down his neck into his collar. He kept his head up, eyes open, but the sobs came, tearing at him like tiny explosions in his chest. He reached across the desk then and took Angela's hand, squeezing it gently, and they grieved together.
* * *
Rosemary Lincoln was in her rose garden when her husband came home in the middle of the afternoon. As he stepped out the French doors onto the garden patio she looked up — and knew instantly that something was wrong.
"Oliver?" Her voice registered her concern, and her dark eyes narrowed slightly. "What are you doing home? It's only three thirty."
He tried to keep his face neutral, with an effort, and took a step toward her.
"Rosemary…"
She closed her mouth suddenly and placed her fingers over her lips. Her heart hammered with fear and her eyes filled unexpectedly. She turned back to the roses, reds and yellows and whites, looking almost frantic, as if there was something she'd forgotten to do. Quickly she snipped a cluster of leaves off one plant, then moved to another and snipped it, too.
"Rosemary, maybe you'd better —"
"Not now, Oliver. I've got to finish this." Her hand trembled as she snipped at a third plant, and a fourth. Her muscles had gone rigid; an almost hysterical glitter had entered her eyes. "Johnny always loved these roses," she said, forcing her fear to the back. "He used to come out here and smell them in the springtime, just stand here breathing their perfume. When he comes home, I want them to be neat and trimmed."
"Sweetheart, sit down," Oliver said tiredly. "Please."
"You don't understand, Oliver. Johnny loves these plants. He loves lilacs, too, but once when he was five he was sniffing a lilac and a bee stung him on the nose. It was almost funny, because he was so angry. Not because the bee stung him, but because it interrupted his pleasure." She glanced
at her husband with a panicky smile. "You should have seen him cry, he was so angry!"
She snipped faster, leaves here, buds there, faster and faster, no longer paying attention to what she was cutting. Fully flowered roses began to fall under her onslaught, and still she attacked the bushes violently, laughing at her story, but the laughter had gone out of control and edged on sobs.
Oliver reached out to stop her, and she spun to face him, the clippers still in her hand. He clamped his left hand over her wrist to immobilize it.
"Oliver!" she cried out, but he held her in place until he could get the clippers out of her hand. She stared at him with tears on her cheeks, her teeth bared, madness in her eyes, and began to shake with sobs. "Oliver! Why did we let him go? He could have been home now, safe here with us! Why did we let him go?"
"Rosemary." Oliver Lincoln III pulled his wife into his arms and held her in a tight embrace while her heart burst and she wept out of control. It was the first time in years he'd seen her cry; she was the elegant lady, the perfect hostess, always poised, always in control.
He held her until she stopped.
It took a very long time.
Lunar Base 1, Luna
It took them two days to find her. Onja lay in her gun turret with two broken legs, somewhere beyond the orbit of Pluto, unable to move for the pain, drifting in and out of consciousness, sustained only by the water tube in her helmet. She had food and oxygen for a month, but was too weak to remove her helmet and get at the stores.
She hadn't been braced for the ejection, and the shock was like being fired from a gun. Both tibia were fractured and she suspected ankle damage as well. The hydrocushion had probably saved her from worse injury; without it, both femurs would also have shattered, in which case the shock alone would have killed her.
As it was, she began to wish she had died; she faced a bleak death out here beyond the limits of the Solar System. Unless the Sirians picked her up, it was unlikely she would ever be recovered. And if the Sirians did come for her, she knew what she would do then. She carried a laser pistol on her belt; the first Sirian to enter the turret would die, and after that she would likely be killed, or abandoned to die slowly.
She wouldn't be taken alive, no matter what.
Worse than the pain of her injuries, during her conscious moments, was the pain in her heart. Johnny Lincoln was dead. Of that she had no doubt. He'd launched her mere seconds before the torpedoes had overtaken the fighter, and there was little chance he'd got out alive. She couldn't be absolutely certain, of course, because the turret AI was offline and she couldn't talk to it; but somehow, instinctively, she knew. For the second time in less than a year she'd lost the man she loved.
