The Fighter Queen

by John Bowers

  But now …

  Now it was truly over.

  April-May 0240 (PCC) — Luna Base 1, Luna

  If Johnny Lincoln II had thought the drill instructors on Terra were tough, he revised his opinion after meeting Major Dunn. Dunn was a hard-ass from day one, screaming at the trainees as if they were raw boots, only worse. Not even the DI's at Loveland had been as bad.

  Several candidates dropped out the first week, another handful the second, and by the end of the third Johnny was seriously thinking about it. As hard as he was on the others, Dunn seemed especially intent on making Johnny's life as miserable as possible.

  Johnny wasn't the only one who noticed it.

  "That cocksucker really hates you," Phil Martin told him one evening as they crawled around the latrine floor with brushes in their hands. "What'd you do to him?"

  Johnny shook his head, wondering the same thing.

  "I think it's because I was born," he said ruefully.

  Martin wiped his forehead with the back of a hand, dipped the brush in a soapy bucket, and continued to scrub.

  "If I don't get some sleep soon," he said, "I'm gonna eat the terrain on my next flight. I almost fell asleep in the cockpit this morning."

  Johnny kept scrubbing. He'd been worried about the same thing. That, and his hunger. They'd missed chow again, barely. Already in the chow line, he'd whispered a comment to Phil about nothing at all — and Phil had laughed. Dunn was there in a heartbeat, screaming in Johnny's face — and sent them both to latrine duty.

  That was four hours ago.

  Fuck!

  Finally Phil sat up and looked around. The fixtures and tile work were gleaming, the entire room smelled like a soap factory.

  "Christ!" he sighed. "How perfect can we get it?"

  "Dunn said keep at it until he relieved us."

  "When? Tomorrow?"

  Johnny began to wash out his brush. "He isn't a very good pilot," he said.

  "Who? Dunn?"

  Johnny nodded. "He's sloppy. I don't think he ever really learned the PF. You handle it better than he does."

  Phil grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment." Phil had struggled with the PulsarFighter.

  "It is. You're a much better pilot than he is. He's the worst living pilot I ever saw."

  Another hour passed before Dunn relieved them and when Johnny fell into his bunk, still hungry, he was asleep in seconds. His dreams were all about going home — and staying there.

  Five hours later they rolled out for another day of Advanced Flight.

  Johnny felt trapped again. The other trainees were mostly new to space flight, still green in general. He was years ahead of them all, yet he was forced to endure the measured routine. Twenty years ago his dad had avoided all this, but today the Fighter Service had plenty of trained pilots, the war had moved across the galaxy, and the urgency was gone. He had no choice but to ride it out.

  One thing Dunn did well was formation flying, and it was one thing Johnny had never done. He picked it up in a few days, which seemed to anger Dunn. When other people screwed up, in addition to chewing out the offender, he invariably got around to chewing on Johnny as well.

  "I'm getting pretty goddamned sick of you, Lincoln!" he bellowed one afternoon after a practice flight when Johnny and Phil had almost collided. Phil had forgotten to set his proximity software as he flew Johnny's wing, and drifted to within ten feet of him before pulling away. Dunn had seen the whole thing.

  "You think you're god's gift to space flight? Is that it?"

  "Sir, no, sir!"

  "You're a fucking smart-ass, Lincoln! Do you hear me! I said did you hear me!"

  "Sir, yes, sir!"

  "Why don't you just drop out, Lincoln?" Dunn demanded, as he did virtually every day. "Huh? You think you're pretty hot shit? Do you? You think you're something special here? Eighteen years old, flying with the men? Big stud back home? Showing off for all the girls? Is that what you're doing, Lincoln? Showing off for the pussy? Well I got news for you! You are a pussy! You hear me, Lincoln? You're a pussy and a queer!"

  Johnny trembled, at the extreme edge of his self-control. He wanted to drive his fist down that ugly fat fuck's throat. Tears of rage formed in his eyes as he stared hard at a rivet on the opposite wall.

  Dunn smiled.

  "You gonna cry, Lincoln?" he asked, his voice suddenly soft. "Am I hurting your feelings, little boy? You wanna go home to your mama?"

  "Sir, no, sir!"

  "Well, she ain't there, boy!" Dunn bellowed. "She's in my quarters right now, waiting to suck my dick!"

  Johnny flinched, his fists clenched.

  "She sucked my dick all night last night!" Dunn roared. "She licked my balls, too! Your mama has a sweet mouth, Lincoln! She's the best cocksucker in the whole goddamn Federation! Did you know that?”

  Johnny's body raged against his control, which grew thinner by the second. His eyes twitched rapidly, still on the rivet. His chest heaved for air.

  "I SAID DID YOU KNOW THAT!"

  "Sir, no, sir! The trainee did not know that, SIR!"

  Dunn studied him from two inches away, his eyes narrow with hatred.

  "Want to hit me, Lincoln?" he asked, quiet once more. "You want to take a swing at me? Would that make you feel good?"

  Johnny stood silent, almost rocking on his heels, sweat sliding down his cheek.

  "I asked you a question, Mister! Do you want to take a swing at me?"

  "Sir, YES, SIR!"

  Dunn's eyes widened in mock surprise.

  "Then why don't you, boy? Go ahead. Hit me."

  Johnny's fists clenched, unclenched. His control had thinned to a millimeter.

  "Go ahead, asshole! Take a swing at me!"

  "Sir, no, sir!"

  "Why not? Why don't you hit me, Lincoln?"

  "Sir, the major isn't worth it, sir!"

  Dunn actually looked more disappointed than angry. He turned and walked away, then spun around and came back.

  "I knew your old man, Lincoln. Did you know that?"

  "Sir, no, sir!"

  "I was his squadron commander, Lincoln. That's right. I was his first CO. Did you know that?"

  "Sir, no, sir!

  "You think your old man was a hero, Lincoln?"

  "Sir, yes, sir!"

  "Really? Is that what your mama told you? That he was a hero?"

  "Sir, yes, sir!"

  "Your mama told you that? Your whoring, butt-fucking, cock-sucking, piss-drinking, shit-eating, bitch-cunt of a mama? She told you that?"

  Johnny closed his eyes.

  "Sir, no, sir! The Federation Congress told the recruit that, sir! When they gave him the Medal of Honor, sir!"

  "He was a no good son of a bitch, Lincoln!" Dunn screamed. "Your old man was a piece of shit! He was a faggot! He was a lousy fucking pilot, a smart-ass, a danger to his squadron, a traitor to the Federation, and a queer! He wore women's underwear, he ate shit, he sucked dick, and he was a fucking coward! Do you hear me, Lincoln! DO YOU HEAR ME?"

  Johnny's muscles were sore from the strain of not swinging on Dunn. He could barely breathe. For the first time in his life he wanted to kill. He was unable to reply.

  "DO YOU HEAR ME, LINCOLN?"

  "Sir —" Johnny panted with the strain. It was an effort to remain standing. "Yes, sir," he managed finally.

  "Your old man was not a hero!" Dunn was losing momentum. "Do you understand? He was not a hero! He was a queer! Say it! He was a queer! I want to hear you say it!"

  "Sir —" Johnny choked.

  "SAY IT!"

  "Sir — no, sir!"

  Furious, Dunn demanded two hundred pushups, ordered Johnny to skip two meals, and grounded him for three days.

  That night, for the first time since joining the Fighter Service, Johnny Lincoln II wept.

  Chapter 8

  Sunday, 17 May, 0240 (PCC) — Reina, Vega 3

  "Adam Pedersen?"

  Adam was helping Inga pack their belongings as they prepared to lea
ve the city. The door had been left open, but he hadn't heard anyone approach. He turned slowly, his body stiff with age.

  "Yes, I'm Adam Pedersen."

  The SE man was in his twenties, hard in the face, a cynical look in his eyes.

  "I have a warrant from the Sirian Elite Guards," he said. "Yew are under arrest."

  Inga clutched Adam's arm, her blue eyes wide with fear.

  "Arrest? Why? What has he done?"

  "Come with me, Mr. Pedersen."

  Adam stared at him a moment, then turned and kissed Inga on the cheek.

  "You wait here," he said. "I'll be back soon."

  "Adam! Do you know what this is about? Tell me!"

  "I'm sure it's a misunderstanding. They probably want some other Adam Pedersen. Finish the packing, I'll be back soon."

  He went down the lift with the SE man, who didn't even bother to E-cuff him.

  "Do you know what it's about?" Adam asked as they reached the street.

  "No. My job is to bring yew in. That's all I know."

  Adam nodded. He had a pretty good idea what it might be; only once had he ever defied the Sirians, but he'd taken steps to cover his tracks. His secret had remained undiscovered for twenty-six years. It was the only thing he'd ever done that they could hold against him, but if they'd somehow figured it out, he was in serious trouble.

  * * *

  SE Major Holt sipped a cup of coffee as Adam stood before his desk. He was a thin man just shy of forty, trim and impeccable in his ebony uniform, a poster boy for SE efficiency. He stared at Adam as if he were a rodent. He made no offer for Adam to sit.

  "Before we start," Holt said quietly, "I am required to point out that yew have no rights in this investigation. Yew are required to answer all questions or inquiries, and to divulge any pertinent information that may aid in this investigation. Is that clear?"

  "Yes."

  Holt nodded, still eyeing him suspiciously.

  "How long yew been working for us?" he asked.

  "Forty-four years. Since 0197."

  "Have yew ever breached contract with the Confederacy in any way during that time?"

  "I think you know the answer to that, Major. You have the records."

  "I'm asking yew, Mr. Pedersen!"

  "No, I have not.”

  "Have yew ever deceived the Confederacy in any way?"

  "Of course not.”

  "Have yew ever lied to the Confederacy?"

  Adam shifted his weight to relieve his aching spine. "Oh, maybe, once or twice. I seem to remember days when one of your people asked me how I was doing, and I said I was doing well when I really wasn't."

  Holt's mouth curved in a cynical smile.

  “Mr. Pedersen, why don't yew cut out the pig shit and jist tell me the truth?"

  "Which 'truth' would you like me to reveal?"

  "Tell me about your family."

  "Inga? What do you want with her? She's much too old for your slave markets."

  "Let's go back a few years. Let's talk about your first wife."

  "Marie? Well, I haven't seen her in almost twenty-seven years. Your people took her from me. And my daughter as well. I'm sure they're living the good life as slaves on Sirius, if they're still alive."

  Holt crossed his legs.

  "Tell me about your other daughter."

  "I only have one daughter."

  Holt's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Oh, really? You don't remember a second girl? Named Onja?"

  Pedersen felt a chill in his gut at the name. He took a deep breath and nodded.

  "Yes. There was a girl named Onja."

  "And where is she now?"

  "I presume she's dead. She went missing not long after my wife and daughter were taken."

  "You reported her missing?"

  "Yes. To a Major Buckner, I believe. He was my controller at that time."

  Holt nodded again, staring at something on his desk.

  "And this Major Buckner — what did he do about it?"

  "He told me he'd look into it, but warned me not to hold out too much hope. Lots of girls went missing in those days, and very few were ever recovered. Your soldiers murdered thousands of them."

  "And yew think that's what happened to this girl? This Onja?"

  Pedersen cleared his throat as pain swelled in his chest.

  "I hope not," he whispered. "But I never saw her again."

  Holt was silent for ten seconds, letting the tension mount. He leaned his head back, his eyes exploring the ceiling.

  "Do yew git much war news, Mr. Pedersen?"

  "A little. It's mostly propaganda. I understand our side is winning."

  "Have yew heard of someone the Feddies call the Fighter Queen?"

  Adam shrugged. "I may have."

  "The Fighter Queen, Mr. Pedersen, is a Feddie heroine. She's the most successful gunner on either side, and my information says she's killed more than thirty-six thousand Sirians."

  Pedersen merely stared at him; what did this have to do with anything?

  Holt touched a switch on his desk that dimmed the lights, then a second switch. A holo-viewer projected an image into the air above the desk.

  "Do yew recognize this person, Mr. Pedersen?"

  Pedersen's eyes narrowed as he focused on the holo. For two or three seconds it meant nothing to him, then his skin began to tingle. The holo was that of a young woman not more than eighteen years old. The girl was featured from the neck up; the picture looked like a mug shot, or perhaps an ID photo taken by a military recruiter. The face was distinctly Vegan — wide-set blue eyes, full lush lips, wide cheekbones, and long, flowing, snow-blonde hair that cascaded richly down her back. The girl looked almost angry, her eyes penetrating, no hint of a smile.

  "Or this person?" Holt changed the picture, and the same girl stared back at Pedersen — only this time the hair had changed; instead of long, flowing tresses, it was short, spiked, close to her scalp. Now she was wearing a charcoal uniform, the bars of a third lieutenant on her shoulders.

  "What about this person?" Holt asked, changing the picture once more.

  The final holo had been taken years later. The same girl, now a woman, with the same expression and hairstyle, gazed out at him. Her face was fuller, more mature, but had lost not an ounce of its Vegan beauty. The insignia on her shoulders were captain's bars.

  Adam Pedersen had no more strength to stand. Without being invited to do so, he sank into a chair. Tears ran down his cheeks, his chest convulsed with emotion. His baby was still alive!

  "Goddess Sophia!" he whispered.

  "She's thirty-seven years old, Mr. Pedersen, and she's the most wanted woman in the galaxy. General Field Marshal Vaughn has placed a price on her head. Ten million sirios, dead or alive."

  Pedersen heard the words, but they meant nothing to him at the moment. He couldn't take his eyes off that face.

  Major Holt gave him thirty seconds, then snapped off the holo. He leaned back in his chair and pointed a finger at him.

  "Yew lied to the SE, Mr. Pedersen. That is some serious shit. Yew lied to the SE!"

  Camp Hope, Missibama, Sirius 1

  Landon answered a knock at his door and was surprised to find Kevin Willis and Rocky Yamaguchi standing there. He waved them inside.

  "Nice quarters, Colonel," Yamaguchi said.

  "It's a place to sleep."

  The men nodded at Waukena, who sat on her bunk in a skimpy nightgown. She smiled at them, but they seemed ill at ease.

  "What brings you two out this time of night?" Landon asked.

  The two Star Marines shifted uncertainly.

  "Well, Colonel, we, uh —"

  "It's Captain Easton, sir," Willis said. "He's sort of building an empire here in the camp."

  "I'm aware of it. A lot of the men were under his command back in the Infantry."

  "Yes, sir. And those men are campaigning for him."

  "Against you," Willis added.

  "I didn't know we were having an election," Lan
don said.

  "No, sir, we're not."

  "What's Easton's problem?"

  "He thinks you're kissing Krieger's ass," Willis said.

  "He's going to fuck things up," Yamaguchi added. "He's full of big ideas, and we think he's gonna get some people killed."

  "What kind of ideas?"

  The two men exchanged glances.

  "A breakout."

  Landon reacted visibly. "A breakout? And go where? This whole planet is enemy territory!"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Jesus Christ!"

  "That's how we feel," Willis said. "We all want to get out of here, but what's the point? Until our people get here …"

  "Colonel," Yamaguchi said, "I know there's some bad feeling between the different uniforms here, but … well, me and Willis want you to know that we'll stand with you, if you need us. Not only that …"

  "Most of the men in this camp are Star Marines," Willis said. "If it comes down to it, the Star Marines will stand together, with you."

  "We'll make sure of it," Yamaguchi added. "We have a lot more respect for the Fighter Service than the Infantry anyway."

  Landon shook his head.

  "I don't want this to turn into Marines versus Infantry," he said. "That would make a fine holo, wouldn't it? Federation troops taking sides against each other!"

  "We may not have a choice, sir. Infantry don't much like Star Marines, and they don't like the Fighter Service, either. That puts us on the same side."

  Landon put a hand on his shoulder. "I really appreciate the two of you coming to tell me this."

  They looked embarrassed.

  "We just figure you've been a prisoner longer than the rest of us, so you know the best way to survive, sir. With the war almost over, none of us wants to get smoked just because some would-be Napoleon gets the big-head."

  Landon nodded. "And neither do I. Keep this to yourselves for now, but keep me posted. I'd rather settle the issue without trouble, if possible."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good night, Colonel."

  Sirian Elite Guards HQ, Reina, Vega 3

  Major Holt sat on the edge of his desk and stared at his prisoner.

  "How'd yew do it, Pedersen? How'd yew git her off the planet?"

  Pedersen sat serenely, still aglow with the revelation that his baby was alive. For twenty-six years he'd lain awake nights, wondering if she'd actually made it. He'd paid a considerable sum of money, had prostituted himself by sleeping with an SE woman who loved his Vegan body, in exchange for the treason that had now come full circle. All that, with no assurance that the plan had actually worked, that Onja had made it safely to Terra.