A Vow to Sophia

by John Bowers

  Major General Martin Vaughn stood in front of his staff in the Planning Room of the Citadel, his rugged features wrinkled with concern. Tall and dark, with an unruly shock of curly black hair, he was every inch the Confederate officer in his light-grey, red-trimmed uniform, a pound of ribbons and medals on his chest.

  "Periscope Harbor has been a resounding success," Vaughn told the assembled officers. "Thanks to intelligence developed by our mole in the Federation, we were able to beat off the Feddie assault and save Beta Centauri. For now, anyway — I have no doubt they will try somethin' again.

  "Another matter has been brought to my attention, however. I will let Colonel Draper give you the details."

  Vaughn took his seat as another officer stood and moved to the front of the room. Draper was a bookish sort, thin and humorless. Without a word, he thumbed a console switch and the lights dimmed, then a holograph flashed to life. It was the picture of a young woman.

  "This is Onja Ka-vorik," he said by way of preamble. "She's a Federation Fleet fighter officer. Not a pilot, but a gunner."

  He swung around to scan the faces of the men at the table. Every last one was leaning forward, intent on the feminine portrait.

  "The Feddies," Draper continued, "call her the Fighter Queen."

  "That girl is a Vegan!" a senior captain blurted. "By all that's holy, I swear she's a Vegan!"

  Draper nodded grimly. "Indeed she is. We don't know a great deal about her yet, but our agents have managed to learn a little. She was born on Vega under our occupation and somehow got off the planet when she was about twelve years old. Ka-vorik is her adopted name; we don't know who she was before that, but we are still lookin' into it."

  The fifteen officers around the table barely seemed to hear him. All were familiar with the characteristics of Vegan women, knew that Vega had centuries earlier bio-engineered its population for physical perfection (something to do with the worship of their pagan Sophia goddess), and a few even owned Vegan slaves. But this girl, in an enemy uniform, was so stunning as to take their collective breath away.

  "I'd shore as hell hate to git killed by some honey like that 'un!" another officer breathed. "She ought to be in somebody's stable!"

  No one laughed — they were all thinking similar thoughts. The woman in the picture was a classic Nordic beauty — wide-set, sky-blue eyes; medium-high cheekbones; full, pouty lips; creamy white skin topped by short, spiked, snow-blonde hair — and a penetrating gaze as cold as arctic ice.

  Draper, annoyed that the holo was distracting his audience, thumbed a switch to turn it off. The men all seemed to slump back in their chairs, as if the holo had held them magnetized. Draper scanned their faces once more.

  "The Feddies are damn proud of this little whore," he told them solemnly. "And well they might be. No one, on either side, has come close to her in combat kills. As near as we can calculate, she has official credit for more than four hundred fifty of our combat fighters, one destroyer, and two troop transports. She also participated in the destruction of one of our carriers, the David Duke, though she didn’t get credit for the kill.”

  He paused significantly, to let that sink in.

  "What else do we know about her?" Vaughn asked, to keep the briefing on track.

  Draper recapped. "Born on Vega, smuggled to Terra at age twelve, adopted by a family in Norway, joined the Feddie Space Force the same day we attacked the Federation. Served in the asteroids, later on Luna; went on medical leave after bein' wounded when the Duke was destroyed. Fought at Alpha Centauri, was wounded again, then took part in the Feddie assault at Periscope Harbor.

  "She's now thirty years old and has refused promotion at least twice, because she wants to keep on fightin'. She likes it! She's been quoted as sayin' her mission in life is killin' Sirians. She's the best gunner they’ve got, and we need to stop her."

  Draper sat down, his face flushed with anger. Vaughn took the meeting back.

  "Well, gentlemen," he said quietly, "as you can imagine, this Vegan bitch is an enemy of the Confederacy. As of today, we are publishin' a memo. One million sirios, dead or alive. Any fightin' man who can kill or capture the Fighter Queen will receive the reward, tax-free. If he can take her alive, she will be awarded to him as a personal slave.

  "Are there any questions?"

  Now available

  The exciting prequel to A Vow to Sophia

  The Fighter King

  Just before dusk on 29 April, the barrage stopped. Heads came up, eye contact was made, and Oliver's helmet radio sprang to life.

  "Take your positions! Confederate infantry approaching!"

  "Let's go!" Oliver shouted. "Into the trench! Let's go! Let's go! Pedersen! You're with me"

  They boiled out of the bunker, spreading down the trench and taking up firing positions. The squad to their right was setting up a machine gun.

  The trench was a wreck; entire sections had caved in, and what was still intact was littered with debris from the bombardment. As Oliver and Pedersen peered down the slope from the nearest firing post, bullets began to whiz past them. Oliver saw flashes of gunfire on the hillside opposite, and wondered how the Sirians had fared with the minefields.

  "Keep your head down," he told Pedersen. "Don't give them a silhouette."

  But he had to expose himself to get a look down the hillside, and saw a line of infantry moving upward, perhaps three hundred yards away. It was a skirmish line, ragged but unbroken. Too many to count, but it looked like at least a battalion. He put glasses to his eyes and muttered a curse.

  "What?" Pedersen demanded, her dark eyes wide with fear. "What is it?"

  "Serf troops," he told her.

  "What's a serf troop?"

  "Black, brown, oriental men. The Sirians use them in the front lines to soak up our fire. On Sirius they aren't even allowed to hold citizenship. They're treated worse than slaves. But out here they have to die for Sirius, to save the white troops."

  "Why do they do it?"

  "My guess is they don't have any choice. Probably their families are being held hostage."

  Pedersen looked troubled. "So what do we do?"

  Oliver lowered the glasses and pulled the arming lever on his Stockholm 12mm.

  "We kill them."

  * * *

  Fire from the opposite hillside intensified. Oliver ordered his men to keep down until the last possible moment, then chinned his helmet radio.

  "Lieutenant, this is Lincoln. Can you get some artillery on that slope across from us? We're taking small arms fire, and when that skirmish line gets here it's gonna get hot."

  "Stay on the line, Lincoln. I'll see what I can do." Lundgren was gone for twenty seconds, then came back into Oliver's headset. "On the way. Let me know if you need it adjusted."

  Before Oliver could reply, he heard a sound like the rustle of dry leaves rattle through the sky above him; the first salvo hit the hillside. It was a little short.

  "Raise it fifty yards," he reported. "I mean, fifty meters."

  Thirty seconds later, the second salvo landed.

  "Drop ten meters and let 'em have it!" Oliver shouted.

  The third salvo was right on target, and as shells began pouring into the hillside, the small arms fire died away.

  "Now," Oliver said, "can you put something on that skirmish line?"

  "We're monitoring that," Lundgren told him. "Don't worry about it."

  Oliver looked down the slope again. The grade was steep, but climbable. Vegetation had been cleared to deny cover to the enemy, but there were depressions and occasional boulders. Even so, the Sirians making their way upward looked terribly exposed. They were only two hundred yards out now, still climbing. At the base of the gorge, Oliver saw another battalion getting ready. They would soon follow.

  "When we open fire," he told Pedersen, "take your time and aim your shots. No need for full auto until they get closer. Got that? This is just like a rifle range."

  "Except the targets can shoot back," she remind
ed him.

  He grinned at her. "You'll do okay. Just remember your training."

  Pedersen gazed down the slope at the oncoming Sirians and Oliver sensed her tension. He remembered his first real combat, and sympathized.

  "Right now," he said, "it's best to keep your head down. Wait until they get closer."

  "How much closer?"

  "A hundred yards or less."

  She heaved a deep sigh and settled down into the shelter of the firing post. Artillery still blossomed on the hillside opposite, and there was conversation over the helmet net, but otherwise the situation felt almost normal.

  Oliver checked the rest of the squad. They were all veterans by now, and waited patiently, unhurried. Oliver quietly gave them instructions and they nodded.

  The Sirians hit the first minefield; artillery had destroyed some of the mines, but most were still active. The skirmish line wavered as dozens of men died in fiery agony. Oliver peered through his glasses, saw their hesitation.

  "Giordino! Four AP rounds into that line. Hit 'em where they're bunched up!"

  Within seconds, Giordino placed four anti-personnel rockets into the Sirian line with deadly accuracy. The explosions further disrupted the Sirians, causing many to seek cover. Officers yelled and cursed to get them moving again. Oliver had noticed the officers earlier — they were all white. He wondered what infractions they had committed to get themselves assigned to a serf unit.

  Now he laid his Stockholm on the edge and took careful aim. Without a scope it was a difficult shot, but not impossible. Just as the first cluster of serf troops began to struggle up the hillside again, Oliver took out the nearest officer, blowing off the top of his head. As the body landed heavily and skidded downhill, half the serf soldiers dived for cover again. They began firing up the slope, and bullets kicked along the edge of the trench.

  Oliver ducked and waited. When the fire slacked off, he took another look and saw another officer kicking the frightened serfs to their feet. Before he finished the job, Oliver put a round through his heart. A few yards to the right a third officer was leading a platoon up the slope, and Oliver nailed him in the leg, felling him as the femur shattered and his thigh folded.

  The Sirian advance stopped cold. At least a hundred men tried to go back, only to run into the minefield again. Trapped, they seemed uncertain what to do. Then the parabola guns began to hit, dropping thirty rounds a minute along the length of their line. Screams filled the gathering dusk, and Oliver truly felt sorry for the men on the slope. When the P-guns finally stopped, most were dead or dying, the rest scattered prone across the hillside, too demoralized to move.

  But two hundred yards down the slope, another battalion was already moving upward.

  * * *

  "Incoming!"

  Oliver dragged Pedersen down with him as the first salvo of rockets slammed into the hillside. Heavy concussion and hot fragments hammered the Guardsmen in the bottom of the trench; Oliver tried to breathe through his mouth, and as wave after wave of rockets hammered the hillside, he became aware that Pedersen was screaming. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her tight, struggling for air as each nearby explosion seemed to constrict his lungs.

  Someone was shouting in his helmet radio, but he couldn't make out the words. Only when the rockets suddenly stopped and he looked up did he realize what was happening.

  "… sleds!" Lt Lundgren was shouting. "Infantry sleds! Fire at will!"

  Oliver stumbled to his feet, bringing his rifle to bear. His ears still rang, but now the Sirian strategy was clear. As he shouted his squad to its feet, he saw at least twenty sleds hovering just yards below the trench; the rockets had been covering fire to allow them in close, and now Sirian infantry were leaping out and converging on the trench. Tripod lasers on the sleds were pouring condensed light into his men.

  He heard someone scream.

  Switching to full automatic, Oliver poured a stream of fire into the bottom of the nearest sled, only to see his bullets ricochet off its armored hull. Then the sleds skimmed away into the dusk, leaving behind dozens of enemy troops.

  "First Squad! Open fire!"

  The enemy clusters were only ten yards away, chugging up the slope like Olympians. Pedersen was already firing, pouring lethal streams of steel into the onrushing Sirians. Oliver joined her, switching magazines every few seconds. To his right and left the chatter of automatic weapons was deafening.

  Just yards in front of the trench, men were falling in heaps, but more still struggled upward. Even so, it was clear the Vegans were winning. Just a few more to kill …

  Something landed in front of Oliver with a thud, and then exploded. He felt himself flung backward as if by a giant fist, and crashed against the far side of the trench. Light flashed before his eyes, his head pounded, and for a moment he thought he was dead.

  Just before his world went black, he could hear Pedersen still firing …

  … and screaming.

  Endlessly.

  Another book from the exciting Fighter Queen Saga

  Star Marine

  Rico slammed against the side of his berth as the lander took a hit. His eyes jerked open and sweat poured into them, his mouth leaching dry as he waited to see if they were going down. The lander shuddered violently, seemed to skew sideways, but kept flying, though the ride was ten times rougher than before. He trembled with blind fear and prayed faster, too scared even to cross himself.

  He heard the deafening shriek of giant lasers for a brief instant, then felt the craft dive steeply, and realized they'd passed through the saddle. They should reach the runway any second now. Deceleration shoved him forward; he heard men moaning and muttering curses.

  "Fifteen seconds, Delta!" Captain Connor shouted in his headset. "We have an engine fire, so the minute we touch down, get moving. Remember the drill — everyone deploy to starboard. Ten seconds! Get ready!"

  The second wave descended into an inferno of burning landers and ASC fire; shredded Star Marines decorated the pavement. The lead ship, carrying Delta Company, touched down heavily and began to skid as ground fire churned the pilot into hamburger. The co-pilot managed to fire reverse thrust, then he was killed, too. Converging streams of steel chewed into the lander from three directions, as it swept sideways off the runway, the wing and nose jets competing for control. Hundreds of holes suddenly appeared in the fuselage and dozens of Star Marines were hit. Rico saw daylight and heard the popcorn sounds of slugs ripping through metal. Men shouted, others screamed. Rico rolled off his berth to the deck and strangled in his own saliva as centrifugal force pinned him against a lower berth.

  The skid stopped only when ground fire blew off the landing gear. The Lincoln lander collapsed onto its belly and sat shuddering under conflicting thrust from its jets.

  "That's it! Everybody get the fuck out! Go! Go! Go!"

  Deafened by the volume of fire outside, Rico scrambled to his feet. The deck was awash with blood from dozens of casualties, but the survivors somehow made their way to the rear exits. The starboard ramp had buckled and was jammed; Star Marines in full combat gear slammed into each other in the narrow passage, blocking all movement. Men continued to fall as bullets ripped through the fuselage. Rico felt a rising panic as the smell of blood and sweat overwhelmed him; the little ship was shaking like a wet dog, the screaming jets pushing it forward and back.

  “Get to the other side!” Capt. Connor bellowed. “Back up, goddammit! Use the portside ramp! Move it! Move it!”

  Somehow, over the shouts and the panic, Connor’s voice pierced the consciousness of the trapped men, and they began to separate. Men fell back, looking for the access hatch to the port side, but the lights had gone out and few found it.

  The starboard engine, already burning, exploded. Flame and fragments boiled through the front of the ship, adding to the confusion, but the lander shifted under the blast, and the starboard ramp suddenly popped open. Men saw daylight and, moving in an undulating wave, boiled out the side of the
ship, tumbling to the ground the best way they could. Rico hit the ground and rolled, catching a lungful of relatively fresh air. Above him, the Lincoln lander was almost completely engulfed in flame, though Star Marines were still pouring out like pills spilled from a bottle.

  “Goddamn thing’s gonna blow again!” someone shouted. “Those fuel tanks – we gotta move!”

  Rico looked around, his heart pounding in his ears. Ships still dropped out of the sky in the face of heavy ASC fire, other ships burned on the runways; every which way he looked he saw bodies. Bullets chewed the tarplast all around him, snapping like a Colorado hailstorm. Directly in front of him, at least ninety yards away, were the hangars and repair shops. The wrecked lander blocked his view of the terminal and parking lots, where the heaviest fire seemed to be coming from.

  The portside engine exploded, washing him with choking heat. He glanced around and saw the lander shuddering backward, now pushed only by the nose nacelles, which were still firing reverse thrust. Over a hundred men hugged the ground, stunned into inaction, and Rico realized most of them would be barbecued when the fuel tanks cooked off.

  “Delta Company!” he shouted, “Follow me!”

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prolog

  Book One: Induction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Interlude

  Book Two: Evolution

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Book Three: Invocation

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23