by John Bowers
"Maybe so," she said quietly. "But sometimes that isn't good enough. I didn't save your dad."
"That wasn't your fault! You were outnumbered!"
"And who's to say you and I wouldn't be outnumbered some day? I'm only human, Johnny, and as I get older my reflexes will start to go."
She saw tears forming in his eyes, and slid an arm around his shoulders.
"Listen, you have a whole lot of people here who love you, who need you. Both sides of your family have already suffered enough. The Sirians murdered your Aunt Victoria, your dad was killed in action, and then your Uncle Rico was killed at Periscope Harbor. I don't think they could bear losing you, too. I know I couldn't."
She kissed him on the cheek.
"Now let's get up to the house. I think everyone is waiting for us."
* * *
Colorado in autumn was even more beautiful than Onja remembered. She'd visited half a dozen times over the past fifteen years, any time the war gave her a chance to get back. As she piloted a LincEnt hovercar higher into the mountains toward the Lincoln mansion, she marveled at the reds, yellows, and auburns that splashed the forest below. The weather was cool but hadn't turned cold yet, and the late afternoon sun cast deep shadows in the lee of the higher peaks. The outside air was fresh and invigorating.
Oliver Lincoln III crossed the front lawn to meet them as Onja put the car down inside the oval driveway. Oliver looked a little thinner, she thought, but he was now sixty-four years old. The years had taken none of his fire, however. His eyes glinted mischievously as she shut down the turbines and climbed down.
"Did he pass muster?" Lincoln asked the petite blonde, nodding toward his grandson.
"Don't tell him I said so," Onja winked, "but he executed the sweetest touch-and-go I've ever seen."
Lincoln beamed at her; Johnny's grin shone like a sunrise.
"One thing," Onja cautioned, turning to the boy. "You dropped under glide path at least a mile from the runway. I mean, you really dropped under, down to fifty feet."
Johnny nodded. "That's how I get that touch-and-go effect. I hit the runway at such a slight angle you can barely feel it."
Onja lifted an eyebrow. "What happens if you lose an engine? You won't have the altitude to reach the runway, and not enough spin-up time to climb out."
"I'll use rockets."
"Not at fifty feet, you won't. The blowback from the ground will throw you out of control. You'll be dead before you can correct."
Johnny frowned as he recognized her logic. Oliver reached over and gently slapped the back of his head.
"Thought you knew it all, didn't you, boy?"
"Jeez, Aunt Onja! How come you know so much? You're not even a pilot!"
"I flew with your dad, and lot of other good pilots since then. You pick up things."
Another woman walked up, a dark, slender lady with hair the color of coal. Onja smiled happily and embraced her.
"Angela! How good to see you!"
"Welcome home, Onja," Angela Martinez said. "I'm sorry I missed you this morning. I hope my son hasn't been boring you with his flying obsession." She winked at Johnny.
"Not at all. How've you been?"
"I'm doing fine, all things considered. You look fit and healthy. You haven't gained a single pound!"
"I guess it's the nice thing about combat — the stress is good for the waistline."
Angela laughed as they strolled toward the mansion. She and Onja had once been adversaries over the love of Johnny's father, but had come together as sisters after his death.
"So tell me, Angela, how many marriage proposals since we last met?"
Angela laughed again. "Not a single one. And I'm not looking for any."
"Oh, come on! You're still young, and pretty as ever."
"There was only one man for me, Onja. What about you?"
Onja shook her head ruefully. "I lost two of them," she said. "And my line of work isn't exactly conducive to domestic life."
"Maybe when the war is over?"
"I doubt it. But I’ll tell you what — when you get married, I’ll think about it. How does that sound?"
Angela laughed. "We can have a double wedding."
* * *
Inside the mansion, Onja spoke to Oliver alone.
"Has Johnny been talking about enlisting when he's eighteen?"
Oliver nodded grimly. "All the goddamn time."
"Talk him out of it."
"We've been over it and over it, but he's as headstrong as John ever was. I told him he can have a great career as a test pilot, or even a commercial pilot, but he's dead set on going to war."
Onja frowned. One of the greatest tragedies of her life had been losing Johnny's father. Johnny II was all that was left of the man she'd loved, and she couldn't bear the thought of losing him as well.
"Well," she said, "we've got three years to change his mind."
* * *
Onja had arrived in Colorado that morning, her first leave in more than two years. Her adoptive parents had died some years earlier, and the Lincolns were the only family she had left on Terra. Oliver Lincoln III treated her like the daughter he never had, and their relationship was all the more special because Oliver, in his youth, had fought the Sirians when the Confederacy invaded Vega 3.
When she arrived, Onja had been shocked at the sight of Rosemary Lincoln, whom she remembered as a beautiful, vibrant woman of middle age. Rosemary had lost at least thirty pounds and was now just a shadow of her former self. She was still lovely at sixty-two, her hair the color of roasted coffee beans, but her health had deteriorated badly. She had little energy and had to rest often. Onja had asked Oliver about Rosemary's condition that morning. He confided that Rosemary's heart had weakened over the past year until she was barely hanging on.
Onja found Rosemary on the veranda, resting weakly on a chaise lounge, gazing at the rose garden she was no longer able to maintain. As the Norwegian blonde settled down opposite her, the older woman smiled.
"Onja, dear. Did you and Johnny go flying?"
Onja smiled. "Yes, we did. He took me halfway across North America and scared the hell out of me."
Rosemary smiled, but didn't have the energy to laugh.
"He's been looking forward to this day for months," she said. "All he could talk about was flying with you. I hope he didn't scare you too badly."
"Actually," Onja admitted, "it was fun. There were a few moments when he pulled some maneuvers I didn't know he was capable of, and that's when I gained a few gray hairs. But he executed every one."
"I worry about him. In your professional opinion, is he as good as he thinks he is?"
"Very few pilots are as good as they think they are, but Johnny comes really close. He has a few rough edges, but he has his father's natural ability. I don't think you need to worry too much."
"Thank you, dear. It helps to hear you say that."
"How are you feeling, Mrs. Lincoln?"
"Please, you must call me Rosemary."
"Of course."
"I tire easily, but otherwise I feel fine. Thank you for asking. How long are you going to be with us?"
"A few days, maybe a week. My squadron will be getting replacements, then we're returning to Beta Centauri."
"Was it bad, this last one?"
Onja shook her head. "Bad enough, but the early days were worse, I think."
Rosemary turned her gaze fully on her guest.
"Onja, have you considered getting out of the service? You've been fighting for fifteen years. And it still isn't over."
Onja shook her head again.
"I worry about you, dear," Rosemary added.
"Thank you. But I can't quit."
The older woman was silent a moment. "We heard the enemy has put a price on your head," she said quietly. "A million sirios."
"It's five million now," Onja told her. "They increased it not long ago."
"And that doesn't frighten you?"
"No. I have a des
tiny. In the beginning I wasn't sure I'd live long enough to fulfill it, but after all that's happened, I'm starting to think I will."
Rosemary's head tilted. "A destiny?"
"Yes. A vow to Sophia. Did Johnny ever tell you about my mother and sister?"
"Oliver told me. It was a terrible thing."
Onja gazed at her hands, frowning at the memory of her mother and sister taken away as slaves.
"I was twelve years old," she said. "A few months later my father smuggled me off the planet, and that's how I ended up in Norway. The night I left Vega, just minutes before I left, I made a vow to Goddess Sophia, that somehow, before I died, I would find Mother and Sonja and set them free. I had no idea how I could ever fulfill that vow, especially after coming to Terra. But when the war started, I realized the answer had been provided."
She turned to Rosemary again, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.
"Everything I've done since then has been aimed at that goal. That's the reason I'm so determined to defeat the Confederacy, why I take so many risks. I have to get to Sirius, and there are only two ways I can get there — as a slave, or as a conqueror."
"I see. So …"
"I can't quit. Not until the vow is fulfilled."
Chapter 2
Early May, 0237 (PCC) — Camp Hope, Missibama, Sirius 1
Col. Robert Landon strode down the center corridor of Barrack 34 toward a knot of men congregated outside one of the cubicles. They were Fed Infantry, and he knew most of them by name. A couple straightened to a semblance of attention as he approached, but the rest eyed him warily. The door to the cubicle was open, and the sounds of a woman in distress drifted out to him.
"What's going on here?" Landon demanded.
No one answered, but he hadn't expected them to. He pushed his way through the doorway and stopped, taking in the scene at a glance. The cubicle was a duplicate of every other prison quarter in the camp, an eight-by-ten room with two narrow bunks, a wardrobe, and a footlocker.
On the floor between the bunks a young woman lay naked, her slender thighs in the air, bent at the knees. Two infantrymen knelt by her head, holding her down, while a third labored between her legs, his eyes closed, groaning in ecstasy as his pale white buttocks moved rhythmically forward and back. The girl twisted in pain, her thick black hair spread across the floor under her head. Her skin was almost black, but she had almond eyes and prominent cheekbones. Like many serf-slaves on Sirius, her ancestry was such a mixture that even she probably didn't know what it was.
"Please stop!" she wailed in misery. "You're hurting me!"
None of the soldiers paid her any attention. Landon's rage boiled over.
"Ten hut!" he bellowed. "On your feet, soldier!"
The three men looked up in surprise. One rose unsteadily, but the one raping the girl simply blinked in astonishment.
"I ain't finished fucking her yet, Colonel!" he protested.
Landon grabbed his collar and jerked him to his feet, slamming him against the wall. He resisted the temptation to smash his fist into the man's face, and instead turned on the crowd who stood watching.
"Clear out of here! Everybody! You're all on report, and I will be speaking to Captain Easton about this! Anybody who is still here in thirty seconds will be written up for a star-court!"
Several of the men edged away, but few looked happy about it.
"What the hell, Colonel," a sergeant grumbled. "She's just a slave. Sirians gave her to us. Most of the men haven't had her yet."
"This party is over!" Landon roared. "If you say one more word you will pay the consequences."
The sergeant scowled angrily but took his leave. Within moments the room and the corridor were clear. Landon turned and knelt by the girl.
She had rolled over onto her side, her knees drawn up to her chest, and lay weeping. Landon saw a smear of blood on the floor where she had lain. He put a hand on her shoulder, but she flinched and drew away.
"It's okay now," he told her gently. "They're gone, and I won't let them hurt you again."
She continued to sob, as if he hadn't spoken. Landon tried to place her, but hadn't seen her before. She must be from the new shipment of girls who'd arrived a few days earlier, sex slaves to keep the prisoners docile.
It was uniquely Sirian, to provide women for prisoners of war. Early in his captivity, in another camp, Landon had resisted this practice, ordering the prisoners under his command to refuse the women. The result had also been uniquely Sirian — the prisoners weren't punished, but the women were, the men forced to watch. After seeing four women beaten to death with electro-whips, Landon had relented, and his men accepted the girls.
It was a form of rape. The ladies were slaves and had no say in the matter. The men, though usually willing, also had no say. But both men and women usually approached it as a matter of mutual agreement. This was the first time Landon had witnessed brutality from his own side.
Landon took the young woman by the shoulders and forced her to sit up. She turned her face away from him, but he gently pulled her onto one of the bunks and laid her down.
"Look," he said quietly, "I'm sorry this happened to you. It isn't going to happen again. I'm taking you to my quarters where they can't get at you. I can protect you there."
Slowly she opened her eyes and looked at him; he saw the glitter of fear. He shook his head.
"You don't have to sleep with me," he told her. "Just rest and get well." He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. "What's your name?"
She closed her eyes again, and for a moment he thought she wasn't going to answer. Then, weakly, in a voice with a heavy accent, she replied.
"Waukena."
* * *
The camp commandant was Jeremiah Krieger, a good-humored man of thirty-five whose talent for command was wasted in the POW camp. He'd been an infantry officer once, ten years ago, leading a battalion of serf troops on Alpha Centauri. Late in that campaign, embroiled in a desperate defense against Federation Star Marines, he'd held out for seventeen bloody days, losing sixty-eight percent of his command. Finally, thrown back into a position he couldn’t possibly defend, he’d requested permission to withdraw.
Instead, he was ordered to attack.
It would have been suicidal, with no advantage to be gained. Serf troops or not, his men had suffered enough; they trusted him, and had fought well. He didn't refuse the order, but simply disobeyed it. Under cover of darkness, he ordered what was left of his command to withdraw.
Krieger's family was well connected, so he wasn't cashiered. But he would never again command combat troops. Landon liked Krieger. He might be the enemy, but he was a man of honor.
Landon knocked on Krieger's door and waited. It opened silently, and he stepped inside. Krieger was at his desk.
"Come in, Colonel. Sit down. What can I do for you today?"
"You can surrender your command," Landon replied, taking a chair. "I promise your men will be well treated."
Krieger smiled. "Not today, Colonel. Perhaps another time." It was a standing ritual between them, one they performed at each meeting. "Our weekly meeting isn't due for two more days, Colonel. Is there a problem?"
Landon's rage had faded over the past couple of hours, but he was still angry. He pinned Krieger with narrowed eyes.
"A little while ago," he said, "I had to pull several of my men off a girl they were raping. I didn't particularly enjoy that."
"Then you should have let them alone."
Landon's cheeks pinked. "You know what I mean, Major. We've discussed this matter before. I am categorically opposed to having slave girls in the barracks!"
Krieger nodded. "Yes, we have had this conversation, haven't we? And you know the answer already."
"Goddammit, Major —"
"The girl is a slave," Krieger interrupted. "That's what she's here for. She has no choice in the matter and neither do you."
"Consensual sex is one thing, but this was a gang rape. Your policies are turning my
men into monsters."
Krieger's eyes narrowed.
"Are you sure about that? How do you know the monster wasn't already in them? Maybe we're just now exposing it."
Landon scowled, aware that Krieger was toying with him.
"I know you’re a decent man, Major," he said. "I know you don't agree with the Sirianization policy, although you do have to enforce it. So let's cut out these games, shall we?"
Krieger shrugged. "And what do you propose? That I tell your men they can only screw the girls when the girls want to be screwed?"
"Exactly."
"Isn't that a little bit ridiculous? The girls know they get pelvic exams every week, and if there is no evidence of sexual activity they will be whipped. So the girls are always going to 'want to', aren't they? So what have we accomplished?"
Landon gritted his teeth. He knew Krieger was right; it was a no-win situation.
"I don't want my men to lose their morals," he said weakly.
"Don’t you think that's already happened?"
Landon sat breathing heavily, shaking with anger. Krieger leaned forward.
"Look, Colonel, you have the authority to punish your own men for any infractions they commit, as long as it doesn't contravene Confederacy orders. Do what you think you must. But my orders are that the prisoners get a sex ration. I have to obey that order, and I will. I know you don't approve, but there are practical reasons for it, not the least of which is that it keeps insurrection in check. Men who are getting fed and getting laid every day are reluctant to rock the boat. So don't expect me to prohibit your men from raping a slave girl. I simply couldn't justify it to my own superiors.
"Is there anything else you wanted to discuss with me?"
Landon slowly shook his head.
"Good." Krieger reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a document, a microwave transcription. "I have another memo from the KK for prisoners to work in the lunar mines. They want fifty niggos or other non-white Feddies delivered for transport within thirty days."
Landon felt his stomach churn. His face drained of color.
"A request?" he asked. "Or an order?"
"An order. From the KK."
Landon swallowed, waiting.
