by John Bowers
And if that was true, she didn't want to be rescued.
She spent most of the second day fading in and out of delirium, losing track of reality. Feverish from shock, she dreamed of her parents, both Vegan and Norwegian, unable to distinguish one pair from the other. Johnny Lincoln fogged into Robert Landon, Sylvia Gates blended into Ursula Negus, and somewhere in the mix was Jack Hinds.
Part of the time she was a child on Vega, playing with her dolls and living a carefree life. Then she was a little older, facing terror and degradation, sneaking around in the night to board a shuttle piloted by a strange man who would take her to safety. Sobbing her heart out, begging her father to let her stay…
Get out of my sight!
Arriving off Vega 7, where a Federation blockade-runner waited to receive contraband cargo, including one terrified twelve year-old girl. Living in dread for three weeks in a ship crewed by strange, rough talking spacers. Expecting to be assaulted at any moment, but finding only gruff kindness and safe passage to that strange, mystical place called Terra.
Being adopted by a kindly old couple who gave her their name, and called her daughter.
She woke sluggishly when something magnetic locked onto the turret; she fumbled for her laser pistol, pulling it out with hands that seemed covered with thumbs. She waited numbly for the end, determined to kill her last Sirian with her last breath, but when the hatch didn't open for a half-hour she passed out again. When she regained awareness she was no longer in the turret, no longer in her pressure suit, and no longer armed. Two doctors stood over her, taking readings from her battered body, and one of them spoke to her in Standard English with a British accent.
Sick as she was, she knew Sirians didn't speak in British accents.
Three more days passed before she discovered she was aboard a hospital ship, UFF Elizabeth Dole, inbound from Mars to Terra. It was another day before she learned that a strike force from Anwar Sadat had followed her and Johnny into hyperspace ninety minutes after their battle with the Sirian carrier. The enemy fleet had gone, leaving nothing behind but twenty or so dead fighters. They'd warped to another location, taking with them the homing devices Onja had fired into the huge carrier's hull, and the Federation was tracking them. A strike force was on its way to attack them even now.
The squadrons that followed had found no evidence of their fighter. But when they returned to Sadat and their AI logs had been downloaded, someone, a technician, had noticed a transponder signal on one of the logs, so weak and distant the pilots hadn't even heard it. Someone had figured out that it was the distress beacon from an ejected gun turret, and search craft had been dispatched to the scene.
But it had taken them yet another day to locate her.
It had been that close.
Sunday, 5 May, 0222 (PCC) — Lunar Base 1, Luna
She didn't see anyone she knew for nearly three weeks. Sadat was busy chasing the enemy taskforce, taking the 213 with it, and when they returned she was in a Luna hospital. Several members of her squadron came to see her then, all of them awkward and sorrowful over Johnny's loss, yet incredibly moved that she'd survived. Predictable. Even Hinds, the commanding officer, was sympathetic for a change, almost human.
She woke late at night to find him standing there, his mottled face reflecting the flickering light from her bedside monitors. He looked as big and imposing as ever, but somehow not as threatening.
"How you feeling, Lieutenant?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
"I'm fine, sir," she said weakly. "Sorry I can't salute yet."
He shook his head dismissively, ignoring the faint sarcasm.
"I'm sorry about your pilot," he said quietly. "He was a good man. Probably the best natural pilot I've ever seen."
Onja nodded, but didn't speak. Her blue eyes remained fixed on his face, wondering at the change in him. Could it be the real thing, or did he want something?
"I should probably chew you out for going after that carrier," he said. "Was that your idea or Lincoln's?"
"It was mine."
He tried to grin, but it barely creased his cheeks. "You'd say that even if it wasn't, wouldn't you? You'd protect him."
"It was my idea, Major."
He nodded. "Yeah, sounds like something you'd come up with. Well, it was a pretty dumb idea, don't you think? You didn't have my permission to follow those fighters home."
"We didn't have a choice, Major. The 213 had to recover and rearm. The carriers would've been gone before you could get there."
He grimaced. "They were gone," he said. "They were halfway to Alpha Centauri."
She stared at her feet, elevated by laser traction. "Did you get them?"
"We got the one that had the homing devices on it." He heaved a weary sigh. "If it helps, Lincoln's bill is paid."
Onja stared at him a moment, wondering why she felt no elation.
"What about the enemy pilots?"
"Thirty-four confirmed kills, half a dozen probables. The rest warped away again and we had to let them go." He pulled up a chair and settled onto it. "It was a real gunfight. We lost nine people."
Onja nodded slowly. "Then Johnny didn't die in vain. Not completely."
"No. I've recommended him for the Medal, and it's been confirmed all the way up the line. He'll get it posthumously."
Her eyes met his again, and for the first time ever there was no hostility in them. "Thank you, Major. I appreciate that."
Hinds shrugged. "He earned it."
But the real surprise was Ursula Negus. The tall blonde came into the room alone late one evening, rabbit-like, as if about to run. Her dark eyes glittered as she approached Onja's hospital rack, gazing at the laser tractions that held Onja's legs in place. Onja's eyes were closed but she wasn't asleep, and Ursula stood watching her quietly for a few minutes. She almost jumped when Onja opened her eyes.
"Onja," the other Vegan girl said softly. "Oh, Onja! How are you?"
"I'm okay," Onja replied.
Ursula nodded, as if not trusting herself to speak.
"Onja … I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. About everything."
Onja nodded silently, still staring at her.
"If there's anything you need …" Ursula fidgeted. "Shit, everyone says that, don't they? I know you'd rather call on anyone else if you did need anything. But — if you'd call me instead, I'd do anything for you. Goddess Sophia! I mean that."
Onja was too weak to express her astonishment. Something had changed between them, and she had no idea when or how it happened.
"Thank you, Captain."
"Call me Ursula," Negus said. "After all, us Vegan girls have to stick together. Don't we?"
She burst into tears.
She fought them back, wiped her eyes, and tried to smile. "I'm sorry. You don't need to see that right now."
"It's okay."
"I hope you'll forgive me, Onja. The Bitch of Luna 9 would like to be your friend."
Onja stretched out a hand and Ursula took it, almost reluctantly. Onja squeezed her fingers and forced a half smile.
"Thanks for coming, Ursula."
Unable to speak, Ursula just nodded helplessly, tears in her eyes.
Onja closed her eyes after Ursula left, feeling numb inside. Every single person who came to see her expressed sorrow over Johnny's death, and several had choked up. But she hadn't wept for him, and somehow that wasn't right. She loved him. He'd loved her. There had never been anyone like Johnny Lincoln in her life, not even Major Landon. There never would be again.
So why couldn't she cry for him?
* * *
Sylvia Gates smiled at Onja as she entered the room. She looked younger somehow, her face a little fuller, eyes a little brighter. Onja wasn't sure why, exactly. Sylvia sat down by the hospital rack and took her hand, squeezing it gently.
"Onja, we got it! We killed that carrier. We followed the homing signals you planted. I put four torpedoes into it myself."
Onja nodded quietly. "Major Hinds t
old me."
Sylvia nodded. "How are you doing, honey?" she asked sympathetically.
"They tell me I'll make it."
"I didn't mean that. How are you doing?"
Onja tried to smile, but didn't quite succeed.
"I don't know."
"You feel like talking about it? No secrets between us."
"I just feel numb."
Sylvia nodded, but didn't speak.
"I lie here all day and all night. People come and go and they make all the right noises and they encourage me, but I don't care if I live or die."
"You've got to live, honey. You have so much to live for."
"I've only ever lived for one thing, Syl. To kill Sirians."
"Then live for that."
Onja sighed deeply, staring at the laser tractions.
"Killing isn't a reason to live. I've killed Sirians, and Vegans. Thousands of them. But it didn't satisfy me."
"Onja …"
"The only thing that ever made me feel good were the people I loved."
Sylvia nodded, smiling sadly.
"What's wrong with me, Syl?"
"What do you mean, honey?"
"It's like my life is cursed. Almost everyone I ever loved, I've lost them."
Sylvia bit her lip, but let her continue.
"I lost my mother and sister to the Sirians. I met Major Landon, fell in love with him, and then I lost him. Now I've lost Johnny, too. Am I some kind of jinx? Everyone I love either dies or is destroyed. I don't understand why."
Sylvia shook her head.
"You love me, don't you? And I'm still here. I'm not dead."
"Of course I love you, Syl. But I'll never be able to love a man again. I should've died out there with Johnny. Then I would still be with him, and I wouldn't endanger anyone else. Syl, I can't afford to ever love anyone again."
"Now that's just silly! You listen to me. There's nothing wrong with you. You are a sweet, beautiful person. You'll find someone else some day."
Onja stared at her with wide blue eyes, trying to sort it out.
"After Johnny," she said, "I don't want to."
"Give it time, honey. You don't need to be thinking about that now."
"I think I'm losing my mind," Onja confided. "I loved Johnny more than I can tell you, but I haven't even cried for him. I just feel numb. I can't cry for him. And that isn't right. He gave his life to save me. He deserves my tears. But I can't. I just can't."
"You will, baby. I promise, you will. When you're ready, you'll cry for him. And for all the others you loved, too." A tear slid down Sylvia's own cheek as she squeezed the blonde gunner's hand. "Just give it time."
Chapter 32
Friday, 14 June, 0222 (PCC) — Denver, CO, Terra
Five weeks later, Onja stepped out of a hovertaxi and breathed deeply of the pine-scented fragrance of the Colorado Rockies. Walking with a limp and a lasercane, she mounted the magnificent front porch of the Lincoln mansion that she'd visited so very long ago — had it only been five months? — and reached for the intercom bell. The door opened before she could touch it and Sylvester Hobbs stood there, looking older and feebler than when she'd first met him in January. He smiled at her and took her space bag, ushering her into the foyer.
"Welcome back, Lieutenant," he said as he set her bag on a chair. "Mrs. Lincoln is expecting you. Please follow me."
She followed him through the house to the rose garden and stepped into the late afternoon sunshine. Rosemary Lincoln was seated on her patio, a pitcher of tea in the center of the table. She rose when she saw Onja and stepped forward, giving her a gentle hug and kissing the air next to her cheek.
"Onja, dear, please. Sit down."
"Thank you," Onja whispered, glad to oblige because her right leg was aching like hell. She settled into the patio chair and accepted the tea she was offered, sipping it gratefully.
"Did you have a pleasant trip?" Mrs. Lincoln asked.
Onja nodded, wishing the woman would dispense with the niceties and get on with whatever prevailing emotion she felt. Anger, sadness, sorrow, hatred — she could handle any of them, but politeness was too much just now.
"Yes," she whispered. "It was fine."
"You appear to be mending well."
"Yes. A couple more months and I'll be like new." She compressed her lips briefly. "Physically, anyway."
Mrs. Lincoln gazed at her in a motherly way.
"I'm glad, dear. I'm so glad you survived."
Onja stared intently at her, but saw no trace of anything in her face except genuine sincerity. Unexpectedly, her eyes filled.
"I'm not," she said.
"Oh, don't say that, dear. Of course you are."
"No." She felt hot tears spill down her cheeks and looked away, unable to speak for a long moment. Making eye contact again, she shook her head helplessly. "No. Not without him." She stared at the ground, waiting for it to pass.
"Well." Mrs. Lincoln sounded as if she might bawl any minute herself. "I think I understand. You loved him."
"More than my life. I didn't want to leave him," she said with a rush. "He shouted at me to eject, but I told him I wouldn't leave him. He begged me to go, and I said no. And then … and then, he ejected me himself." She put a hand to her face and broke down completely. "Oh, god! Oh, god!"
She sobbed brokenly, weeping for the first time for her lost love. Rosemary Lincoln leaned over and wrapped her arms around Onja, holding her gently as she poured out the bitterness and the grief, shoulders shaking. After a few minutes Rosemary gave her a handkerchief and urged her to drink some more tea. Onja wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and forced the tea down, red-eyed and weak from the pain in her heart.
"Don't talk about it now, dear," Mrs. Lincoln suggested. "Give yourself some time. You can stay here as long as you like; we'll have plenty of time to talk."
Onja nodded, staring at her hands.
"Have you been to see your family?"
"Yes. I spent a week with them."
"That's good. At times like this we need our families."
"Mrs. Lincoln," Onja said when she could trust her voice again. "I wanted you to know that I didn't run out on him. I would never do that. He was part of me. When he died, a part of me died, too."
The older woman nodded painfully, her mouth open to hold her own emotions in check.
"I never doubted that."
"I loved him so much!"
"And he loved you. He told me, the last time he was here, that he wanted to marry you."
"I would have. Eventually, I would have."
"You would've made him a wonderful wife, Onja."
Onja didn't respond to that. Fresh in her memory was Johnny's marriage proposal on that Pacific island, when she'd turned him down. If only she'd put aside her own selfish desires then!
"He loved you, Mrs. Lincoln. He loved you and your husband very much."
"Thank you, dear. What are you going to do now? Will you stay in the service?"
Onja shrugged, looking down.
"I don't know. I'm no good to anyone right now. If I can get through this, then maybe I'll stay, but if not — I just don't know."
"You're welcome to stay here as long as you like. Take all the time you need to decide."
"Thank you. I'm on indefinite medical leave, so I may take you up on that for a while."
"Please do."
Oliver Lincoln III, having learned that Onja was coming, came home early that evening. He joined them in the rose garden, gave Onja a gentle hug, and kissed her on the cheek. Onja thought he looked a good five years older than he had in January, and his manner was less brusque. He sipped a glass of wine and made small talk for a while, asking after her health. Finally, after fidgeting for half an hour, he got around to the subject that was foremost on his mind.
"Onja, if it isn't too painful, can you … tell us how our boy died?"
She stared at him for a few seconds, nodded slowly, and told them in simple sentences how it had come about. Abo
ut the homing devices, and following the Sirian fighters home, finding the giant carrier, and the subsequent battle. She kept her voice carefully neutral, willing herself not to break down again, and finally was done. Lincoln stared with unfocused eyes at the snow-capped mountains behind his house, his eyes glittering with tears. Silence reigned for a full minute, then he offered her more tea.
"Well," he said at length, "if there's any solace to all this, he died doing what he loved."
Onja stared at him. He caught her gaze, and nodded.
"He loved being a fighter pilot. And he loved you. He was with the woman he loved when the end came. I have to remember that. I've been told by official sources that what the two of you did made it possible for the fleet to track the enemy carriers back to their point of origin. One of them has been destroyed, and another one damaged. They're no longer immune. You and John may have won the war that day."
Onja said nothing. At the moment, winning the war didn't seem all that important. She stared at her hands again.
"Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln, there's one more thing I have to tell you. It's been on my mind every day since I was rescued."
"What is it, dear?" Rosemary Lincoln looked concerned.
She looked up and met both their gazes.
"It was my idea to follow those fighters back. I talked Johnny into it. I wanted to get a shot at them, and maybe I pressured him a little. If I hadn't done that, he'd still be alive today. I'm afraid I … I caused his death." Her voice caught, and she bit her lip momentarily. "I-I think maybe I killed him."
She sat waiting for their judgment, her guilt on the table. They stared back at her for an eternity, their eyes hollow with surprise.
"Well," Mrs. Lincoln said at last, her voice barely above a whisper, "someone had to follow them, didn't they?"
"Yes. But the plan was for five squadrons to do that. We went with only two fighters."
