by John Bowers
"Why didn't the five squadrons go?"
"They'd been launched to protect the carrier when the strike came in. They needed to be rearmed and had to be recovered first. I knew that would take an hour or more, and I was afraid the enemy carriers would recover their fighters and warp to another location …"
"Which is exactly what they did," Lincoln pointed out.
"… so I pressured Johnny to go after them. I wanted to put homing devices on them before they could leave."
"Which you did."
"Yes. But — it cost Johnny his life. And Captains Washington and Jordan, too."
"You almost died, too," Mrs. Lincoln added. "Don't forget that."
"Look," Lincoln said, a trace of his old self returning, "I don't want to hear you blaming yourself for this. You're in a war out there, goddammit! You have to take risks. If John hadn't thought you were right, he wouldn't have done it, no matter what you said to him. You stop blaming yourself. You did not cause his death. Understand?"
Her eyes filled again as she looked at him, and she nodded mutely.
"That's better. Now, how about some dinner? You must be starving."
She nodded again.
"Good!" He stood and looked into the house. "Hobbs!"
"Mr. Lincoln?" Onja looked up at him, and he moved over by her patio chair. "Thank you."
"Don't be silly. As far as we're concerned, you're our daughter now. John loved you, and that makes you part of this family. Don't ever forget that."
"Thank you."
He bent over and kissed her on the cheek, then took her hand and helped her up, and they all went inside for dinner.
* * *
The next day Rosemary took Onja to visit the Lincoln family plot, located at the base of the mountain on the extreme edge of the grounds. Onja stared with a helpless sense of loss at the marble monument Oliver Lincoln had commissioned in Johnny's memory. The monument's base was four feet high, and standing on it was a life-sized statue of Johnny in flight gear, gazing toward the heavens with a determined look on his face. The brass inscription plate bore these words:
~
JOHNNY LINCOLN
June 3, 0198 - April 16, 0222
Federation Medal of Honor, Posthumous
That others may live
~
Saturday, 22 June, 0222 (PCC) — Denver, CO, Terra
The Lincolns installed Onja in Johnny's room for as long as she wanted to stay. At first she had misgivings about that, but once there she looked around at the mementos of his life and felt somehow closer to him. Several holos of him at various ages lined the shelves, and she saw keepsakes from his childhood. She slept in the same bed where they'd made love that first night last winter, and when she'd spent some time looking at everything she sat and wept again, but it wasn't as painful this time. It was a final flushing of her system, a cleansing, and when she finished she felt almost normal. Johnny was still gone, she still missed him, but she was that much closer to recovery.
The days blended into a week. Her injuries continued to mend and each day the physical pain was a little less. She felt better about everything, but wasn't ready to return to duty, and didn't try to rush it. The Lincolns treated her with total respect and consideration, making her feel loved and wanted, and she had no fears that they were growing tired of her presence.
Onja came down the stairs toward the end of the first week to find Angela Martinez in the main hall talking to Rosemary Lincoln. Sitting in her arms was a beautiful child of about eight months. Onja stopped, feeling her heart seize at the sight of him. Angela saw her and turned, a tentative smile on her lips.
"Hello, Onja."
Onja crossed the space between them and stopped two feet away, her eyes still on the baby. The little boy stared back at her, his dark eyes curious and a little uncertain. After a moment he stuck a thumb in his mouth and buried his face in his mother's shoulder.
"Onja," Angela said, "meet Johnny Lincoln II."
Tears spilled down Onja's cheeks and she put both hands over her mouth. Mrs. Lincoln excused herself and left the room. The two young women faced each other, one sobbing, the other biting her lip to keep from joining in.
"I'm sorry, Onja," Angela said quietly. "I should have warned you."
But Onja was shaking her head.
"Johnny told me," she said.
Angela's eyes widened. So he had known!
"Oh, you lucky girl!" Onja said, wiping her eyes. "You gave him a child! I would give anything to have done that!"
"You would have," Angela told her. "He wanted to marry you."
The blonde nodded, still wiping her face. "I know. If we'd had more time …"
An awkward silence developed for a moment.
"Would you like to hold him?" Angela offered.
"Could I?"
Onja took the baby as Angela handed him over. He stared up at the strange woman for a moment, then twisted in her arms and reached for his mother. Onja kissed the top of his head, then laid her cheek against it. He began to whimper, still reaching for Angela. After a moment Onja handed him back; he clung to Angela for dear life.
"How did Johnny find out?" Angela asked. "I suspected he knew, but I never told him."
Onja briefly recounted what Johnny had told her, including his doubts and suspicions. Angela nodded.
"I wanted to tell him, but I was afraid it would distract him. When he died I had a terrible fear that it might have happened because he knew."
"No, don't ever think that. What happened to us that day would've happened no matter what."
Angela cleared her throat, as if fighting the urge to cry.
"Thank you for telling me that."
"Angela, the night Johnny told me about the baby … he was killed the next day. But you should know that he was going to take full responsibility for him, and share in raising him. He was very clear about that. I don't want you to ever think he was going to abandon his son. He wanted to be involved in his life."
Angela's efforts to keep her emotions in check failed completely. Tears flooded her cheeks and she pressed her forehead against the baby, her shoulders shaking. Onja stepped forward and put her arms around the both of them. For nearly a full minute none of them moved.
Finally Angela regained control, wiping her eyes with a wrist.
"Thank you, Onja. Thank you!"
"One more thing," Onja said gently. "Johnny can't do that any more, but I hope you'll let me stand in for him. Thanks to you, part of Johnny survived. I'd like to be involved in his son's life as much as I can. I'd like to be his Aunt Onja."
Angela nodded again, then wrapped her free arm around Onja's neck.
"Johnny loved you," she said. "Now I know why. But I hated you, because you had him and I didn't."
"I'm sorry."
"No, it was irrational. You loved him for the same reasons I did. How could I blame you for that? But everything is different now. I'd be honored if you would be little Johnny's aunt."
"I'll visit as often as I can."
"We'll look forward to it." Angela shifted the baby to her other hip. "I've got to go now. It's time for his nap."
"I'm going to be here awhile. I hope you'll come back?"
"Every day. I want to get to know you better. We have too much in common not to be sisters, don't we?"
Onja's smile was genuine and heartfelt.
"Yes, we do."
Saturday, 29 June, 0222 (PCC) — Denver, CO, Terra
Onja sat on the patio and sipped hot tea as a summer rain cascaded down just ten feet away. She remained under the trellis, which protected her from the downpour. She heard the door open but didn't look around. A moment later, Oliver Lincoln III sat down across from her, a glass of scotch in his hand. It was a Saturday evening, and he'd just returned from the plant.
Onja turned her intense blue eyes on him and smiled.
"Hi, Mr. Lincoln."
"How are you feeling this afternoon?"
"The leg aches, but it's strong
er every day."
"This damp can't be good for it."
"No. But I love watching the rain."
She sipped her tea and sighed. They sat in silence for some minutes.
"I'd like to ask you a question," Lincoln said.
She looked at him, and he grinned a little.
"Have you ever been to Reina?" he asked innocently.
Onja's eyes widened perceptibly. "I was born there."
He nodded, as if confirming a suspicion.
"How did you know?" she asked.
"Onja, I know I'm a crusty old bastard, but I didn't get that way without a lot of experience. I spotted that accent the first time I heard it. And nobody who's ever seen a Vegan woman can ever mistake another one."
She blushed, the color spreading slowly through her cheeks.
"I assume you didn't want anyone to know?" he asked.
"I didn't try to hide it, but it's less complicated if people don't know. Johnny knew, but I haven't told many others."
"How did you end up here?"
In as few words as possible, she told him about her mother and sister, how her father had paid to have her smuggled to Terra. He shook his head with a grimace.
"Goddamn Sirians!" He was silent a moment. "So, is Kvoorik your real name?"
"No. I was adopted in Norway. I was born Onja Pedersen."
It was Lincoln's turn to be surprised.
"Pedersen?" He slowly turned pale, staring at her in disbelief. "Was … By any chance, was your father's name — Adam?"
Onja's mouth dropped open. She felt her scalp tingle.
"Goddess Sophia!" she breathed. "How did you know that?"
They stared at each other in disbelief for ten seconds. Lincoln closed his mouth finally and took a swallow of scotch.
"Jesus Christ!" he whispered. "Talk about a small galaxy!"
"Mr. Lincoln, did you know my father?"
He nodded slowly.
"I was there," he said quietly. "When the Sirians invaded. I wanted to sell fighters to the Vegan Guard, because I knew the Sirians were going to attack. But I was too late; they came while I was still on Vega."
"How did you get away?"
"I didn't."
Onja turned her chair to face him, the rain forgotten. Her face felt warm, her skin seemed too tight.
"Your dad," he continued, "built weapons systems. He owned a company called NordTek."
"Yes! Yes!" She was nodding, engrossed.
"He was engaged to a gorgeous blonde girl named Marie —"
"My mother!" she cried.
"You look a lot like her. Ever since I met you, there were times you reminded me of someone, but I couldn't quite place it. Now it all makes sense."
She nodded, unable to speak. Tears brimmed her eyes. Lincoln stared at her and shook his head.
"I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't —"
"Please!" she begged. "Tell me!"
He nodded, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
"I only met your mother once. But your dad had a sister; her name was Olga."
"Aunt Olga! She was killed in the war."
Lincoln chewed his lip and nodded slowly. His own eyes glistened. He breathed deeply until he could continue.
"I joined the Vegan Guard. I was wounded in my first major action. My platoon was mostly wiped out. Those were dark days, Onja. It was a volunteer regiment, and losses were so severe that anyone with battle experience became valuable in a hurry. They made me a sergeant, gave me a squad; just kids, all of them. High school kids." He stopped, fighting back the emotion the memories evoked. "We … we fought for several months, took some losses, and… And then we got Pedersen."
He managed a short laugh.
"Her name was Olga, but everyone called her Pedersen. I thought she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Deep black eyes, long red hair… Jesus! I can see her like it was yesterday!"
Onja wept silently, daring not interrupt him. She wiped her face with her hands, but the tears still came. Lincoln was staring across the rose garden, through the rain, but saw only the battle-scarred slopes of the Sophia Alps.
"She could handle a Stockholm 12mm better than any man. She saved my life at least twice. When the … When the Sirians came up those slopes, like a fucking human wave, she was like a machine. She was as scared as the rest of us, but nothing stopped her. She was the best rifleman I had."
Onja stared at him, waiting, wanting all of it. He wiped his eyes with the back of a leathery hand, and shook his head.
"She was killed at Lake Francesca. I lost my whole squad that night. Giordino, Krieger, Fenske — all of them. Pedersen was the last one to die, shot in the back. She died in my arms, just before dawn."
"What happened to you?" Onja asked softly.
"I had a bullet in my shoulder and a grenade frag in my back. I stayed with Pedersen. After she was killed, I didn't care any more. We'd done all we could, and the Sirians had beaten us. They were all over the mountainside, I was out of ammo. I just wanted to stay there and die with her. I passed out from blood loss, and when I woke up, I was a prisoner."
"You were captured?"
He nodded. "I was a POW for more than a year. But since I was technically a neutral, they finally shipped me home."
Unconsciously, Onja made the Sign of the Cult.
"Mr. Lincoln, I had no idea! Johnny never told me any of this!"
"John didn't know."
"Were you at the Slaughter Pen?" she asked, still wide-eyed with astonishment.
"No. I was at Ginastad when that happened. The Sirians had driven us out and then they bypassed us. We were completely out of position, but some other units up north moved in to stop them.
"The end came for us about three months later, at Lake Francesca. They hit us with everything they had, including space strikes. We killed over a thousand men that night, but they just had too many. They threw serf troops at us, wave after wave. They simply overwhelmed us."
Unexpectedly, Onja stood up and walked around the table. She bent over and kissed him on the cheek.
"Mr. Lincoln, thank you for telling me all this. And thank you for defending Vega. I never knew what a good man you really are."
He managed a grin, with some difficulty.
"And I never knew what a sterling young lady you are. When you and John saved the factory, you more than made up for what I did. I lost my war. But I've got a hunch you're going to win yours."
"I hope so."
He nodded. "You will. Onja, when you go back out there …" He managed a smile. "… Sophia's tears."
Epilog
Monday, 2 September, 0222 (PCC) — Denver, CO, Terra
Two months later, Onja said good-bye to the Lincolns and returned to Loveland SFB. From there she was given medical clearance to return to duty, and boarded a shuttle for Luna 9. The war had continued in her absence, and she would get back into it, taking whatever combat assignment came her way. She was twenty now, but a lifetime older and wiser than when she enlisted. She'd lost much, and gained little, but the time spent at Johnny's home had given her time to reevaluate her life. No matter what had gone before, one thing remained crystal clear, and she locked it into her sights as surely as if it were a Sirian fighter: somewhere out there she still had a mother and a sister, and perhaps a father.
If it took the rest of her life — she had a vow to keep.
Thank You
If you enjoyed this book, it would be fabulous if you could leave a brief review where you obtained it. Readers trust other readers, and the number of positive reviews has a huge impact on sales.
If you’re on Facebook or other social sites, and liked the book, perhaps you could recommend it to your friends there as well. Again, thank you so much. You are my marketing team!
-John
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About the Author
John Bowers began his first “novel” at age 13. It took him nine months and was only 30,000 words, but he finished it. Before he graduated high school, he wrote four more. His teachers were convinced he was the next Hemingway, but it wasn’t to be.
Bowers was raised in a religious cult. Cults suppress creativity, demanding obedience and conformity. Though he wrote several more novels for fun, he never published them, and by the age of 30 he gave up writing entirely.
At age 44 he broke out of the cult, rediscovered his dream, and began writing again. He wrote a juvenile adventure for his children, and then began a science fiction novel. That novel became A Vow to Sophia.
Bowers is married and lives in California with his wife and three adult children. He is a computer programmer by profession, but a Born Novelist by birth.
Available now
The exciting follow-on to A Vow to Sophia
The Fighter Queen
The Citadel, New Angeles, Texiana, Sirius 1
New Angeles lay sprawled across an ancient lakebed, ringed by low hills a few hundred feet high, every square mile gleaming in the blistering heat. The city filled the entire lakebed, flowing up the slopes toward the small sharp peaks until it could flow no farther. Toward the center, skytowers stabbed into the summer sky.
The peaks to the north were higher than the rest, more forbidding; no homes graced their slopes, nor any civilian installations. Instead, a military base stood guard at the thousand-foot level; a twisting road snaked its way even higher, up to the Citadel.
The Citadel looked something like a medieval Terran castle, but sported anti-spacecraft (ASC) batteries and electronic shields to deflect incoming space strikes. The Citadel was military headquarters for Texiana, and the Chief of Staff for all Confederate Forces had his headquarters there.
