by John Bowers
"What about adoption?" he heard himself ask.
"No, Oliver. This baby isn't just Jeremy's, it's also part of me. I can't turn my back on it any more than you turned your back on Bradley. You did what you had to do for him. I'll do the same for this one."
He felt his lungs constrict as tears threatened. For a moment he was unable to speak.
"I love you, Rosemary," he said finally.
"Oliver, I love you, too. And I love little Bradley as if he were my own."
The message was clear. Oliver could see it in his mind, though his heart was having trouble; Rosemary was willing to accept his child, but he wasn't willing to accept hers? What kind of sense did that make?
He closed his eyes for a moment, battling his own emotions. He instinctively knew that if he let Rosemary walk away now, he'd never have another chance.
He took a deep breath and placed his hands on her shoulders again.
"Rosemary …"
She watched him closely.
"When the baby is born," he heard himself say, "if I were to adopt it, then it wouldn't be Jeremy Mason's kid, would it?"
Her eyes glistened, and her lips parted. "Oliver, are you sure? There can't be any mistake about this."
He saw the hope in her eyes, and any lingering doubt was erased.
"No mistake. You lost your whole family, and I've lost most of mine. We'll rebuild the Lincoln clan from the ground up, and we'll start right here." He managed a grin. "Deal?"
She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him fervently. As they stood and held each other, he knew he'd made the right decision.
"So what are you going to name the baby?" he asked a minute later.
"If it's a girl," she said, "Victoria."
He nodded approval. "And if it's a boy?"
"My dad's name was Johnny."
Oliver nodded again.
"Johnny Lincoln," he said. "Kind of has a ring to it."
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, the first published book of The Fighter Queen saga.
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.
Another book in 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!”
A Vow to Sophia
"Jesus Christ! Major, I see Sirians! At least a dozen — no, fifteen, no, eighteen! Bearing three four two, offset zero one six! They're heading straight for us! Let's go get 'em!"
Landon sounded at once puzzled and frustrated.
"Nothing there, Lieutenant! I'm not picking up a blessed thing!"
"No, sir, they're not on Ladar! I see them! I'm looking at them with optics! I can't tell their speed, but their range is about ten thousand miles. And they're coming fast!"
Landon was silent for a long heartbeat.
"Are you sure, Lieutenant?" She heard the uncertainty in his voice.
"Yes, goddammit! Sorry, sir, but yes! It looks like a full squadron!"
She punched buttons on her console, locking the enemy's position into her targeting equipment. Then she issued the first combat order of her life.
"Input: shields up, full EMP block; execute!"
* * *
Robert Lando
n had a decision to make, and little time in which to make it. The girl in his gun turret might be the hottest student ever to qualify in training, but she was still green as grass. His own threat screens showed nothing, yet she was adamant that the enemy was closing. He didn't have optical equipment, so couldn't judge for himself if what she was seeing was accurate. What he did know was that the enemy had been repeatedly successful in ambushing his fighters without being detected.
For long seconds he sat undecided. Then he realized he had little real choice; he'd cleared her to fly in the face of Hinds's objections, so did he trust her or didn't he?
"Give me those coordinates again," he said.
She repeated them a little breathlessly. "They're a couple of degrees above the Plane of the Ecliptic, Major," she added, "in clear space."
Well, that was something. If he had to maneuver — and he would — he wouldn't have to worry as much about the garbage floating about in the Belt. The downside was that it gave the enemy a clear shot, with nothing for him to hide behind.
Landon chinned his throat mike. He was still on low-freq inter-ship.
"All sections, Lone Wolf. Enemy squadron sighted on optical …" He gave coordinates and range. "We're going to engage. Do not fire until ordered. Wing sections, do not converge until you have the enemy flanked. Let's go get 'em."
Landon began a steady acceleration toward the still invisible enemy, his wingmen following suit. He continued to watch for Ladar signatures, but saw nothing. His own Ladar was in passive mode, so maybe they wouldn't pick him up, either — unless they already had.
* * *
Onja watched the Sirians (or Vegans — she had no way to tell) as Landon accelerated to clear the top of the Belt. The section on their left wing was also moving, far enough out of position to avoid detection, yet close enough to support her. She could see all eighteen enemy ships still on course, as if out for a training exercise. She prayed she could get close enough to fire the first shot.
Her arsenal was loaded. In addition to her twin lasers, her main battery consisted of torpedoes. She carried four pairs of Yin-Yangs and eight standard torps. The Yin-Yangs were a marvel, and the best hope of most fighter crews in open-space combat; they fired in pairs, one falling behind as the other accelerated toward the enemy. They had a habit of changing course several times before reaching their target, confusing enemy gunners as to their intentions. At the last moment, the Yin would drive straight toward the target and explode a few miles short, releasing a powerful, directed electro-magnetic pulse (EMP) that fried the target's shield generators. With shields down, the target was then vulnerable to the Yang, which carried the main warhead.
Onja had never used them, of course, but they worked like magic in the simulator. She'd talked to a few gunners since arriving at 131, but so far none had been able to use them effectively. She hoped to change that.
"Input:" Onja said suddenly. "Shields down, execute."
"What the hell are you doing!" Landon sputtered in surprise.
"They haven't spotted us, Major. Their shields are down, too."
"Well, good for them! You want to give them equal opportunity?"
"No, sir. But shields emit radiation, and they will detect us if we leave them up. I recommend you order the wingmen to drop theirs, too. We'll get the first shot, then raise them again. It won't matter then, because once we shoot, they'll know we're here."
Onja's blue eyes were glued to her optics, blood thundered through her veins. It all made perfect sense to her.
"Range six thousand," she reported. "Major, ask our wingmen to drop their shields, please."
"I don't think so, Lieutenant. In fact …"
"Range fifty-eight hundred," she said, ignoring him. "They'll be detecting us any minute, Major. Sir, please trust me on this!"
He didn't respond immediately.
"Range fifty-six hundred."
The GalaxyFighter's ion drive whined steadily as the Asteroid Belt fell away behind. Onja's tongue traced across her lips. She offered a silent prayer to Sophia.
"Range fifty-five hundred. They haven't spotted us yet."
Her fingers began flipping toggles, arming her weapons. She selected two pairs of Yin-Yangs and set them on standby. She watched the tiny numerals spinning in her optics, her breath coming faster. Her threat board was still clear. Maximum optimal range was five thousand miles, and she was closing on fifty-four hundred. As the numerals spiraled downward she took a deep breath, let half of it out, and gripped her laser control.
* * *
Landon felt a rising sense of alarm, as if things were happening beyond his control. This whole thing felt wrong, somehow; he'd engaged the Sirians twice before, both times at close range with asteroids all around him. This was different, and scary. His gunner sounded very sure of herself, but she'd never done this before, so was he making a mistake by trusting her?
What if Hinds was right?
Landon almost jumped as a laser beam flashed above him, streaking out across space toward the enemy he couldn't see. It flashed again, then again.
"Goddammit!" he shouted. "What the fuck're you doing!"
The laser flashed a fourth time, then he heard his gunner issuing orders to the AI.
"Input! Shields up, full Ladar sweep, execute! They've seen us, Major! Full power! Let's get the rest of them!"
He heard the turret whining.
For a dumb five seconds he could hardly believe his eyes. His Ladar went to full power and his HH was suddenly alive with enemy signatures. He counted fourteen, and saw ghosts of four others that looked as if they'd been destroyed.
"Range forty-nine hundred! Let's go, Major! Let's go, let's go, let's go!"
"Jesus!" he grunted. "All sections, Lone Wolf — activate full Ladar! Fire at will!"
He went to full thrust, his wingmen following.
* * *
Capt. Nakamichi had been right, all those months ago at Travis. Onja had mastered aerial combat at Travis, but at Luna 1 had learned that none of it mattered when fighting in space. With no atmosphere for the control surfaces, a fighter's mobility was extremely limited, and therefore vulnerable. You didn't turn away easily when the enemy fired at you; turning meant bone-jarring acceleration in another direction, usually ten G's or more, and it took time to get out of the path of incoming ordnance. Speeds were so high you rarely, if ever, saw the enemy at all and, as in the ancient art of jousting, once you passed him he was gone. You usually got one pass, and if anyone was left on either side, it took time to reverse course and re-engage.
Onja had no intention of letting the enemy get past her.
As Landon poured on power and she felt her weight increase, she unlimbered her torpedoes. The first pair of Yin-Yangs rattled out of her tubes and sped on their way, twisting and winding toward the enemy. Ten seconds later she released the next pair, aiming them at the other side of the enemy formation.
The shield generator whined, and she saw sparks on her screen as enemy lasers bounced off the shields. Torpedoes would be headed in her direction, but she was ready for them.
Range forty-four hundred.
She watched the enemy fighters closely on her optics. According to her training, the Sirians hadn't perfected their shield technology; they had to drop shields briefly when using their lasers. With both hands on her laser controls, she gently worked her crosshairs, keeping half a dozen targets within millimeters of the center. She saw a flash, and with the sensitivity of a surgeon, nudged her crosshairs in time to return fire. The Sirian flashed and blossomed, and a second later she hit another one. That was six for sure.
Only twelve left.
* * *
Landon felt terribly vulnerable. It was twelve against eighteen, but his flight of four was the enemy's primary target. The fighters on his flanks might finish off the enemy, but the odds were good that his section would be smashed before they got within range.
Still, he had cause for hope. Against all logical expectation, his gunner had quic
kly knocked out six of the enemy, making the odds exactly even. No matter how it ended, that was more Sirians than the fighters of 131 had killed in a single engagement since the war started. Maybe she really was as good as she claimed.
"Incoming, Major. I've got nine torpedoes on my screen, ETA two minutes."
Well, that was no surprise. The Sirians would've launched the minute they detected him. There was nothing he could do about it, of course. You couldn't maneuver away from torpedoes, and even if you tried, it would happen so slowly they could easily adjust and take you out. Landon felt sweat slide down inside the collar of his pressure suit.
Through his cockpit window he saw something flash in the distance. Immediately his radiation sensors began to register, and he realized it was one of the Yins, delivering an EMP strike to the Sirians. Four seconds later a weaker flash followed — the Yang. On his HH, another Sirian fighter turned into a fragmented graphic. Seven down.
The range was just over four thousand miles. His wingmen were launching now. Another brilliant EMP flash, followed by a weaker explosive strike, signaled the death of an eighth Sirian.
"Torpedoes, ETA one minute." Onja sounded deadly calm, as if giving him a weather report. "Stand by for countermeasures."
The shields would hold against a standard torpedo warhead, but each hit would weaken them. Too many hits would bring them down and ruin your whole day. Nine inbound torps against four fighters — depending on how they were targeted, all four ships in his section might survive, but if too many went after the same fighter, someone was going to die.
Thankfully, shields weren't the only defense.
Onja's body felt electric as adrenaline coursed through her bloodstream. Far from leaving her weak and trembling, it served to steady her nerves, focusing her concentration, sharpening her mind. While waiting for the enemy torpedoes to come within range, she checked the enemy fighters again and saw that most were now operating without shields. The Yins had done their job; the Sirians had been too close together, allowing a single EMP blast to affect several fighters.
