by John Bowers
"Almost twenty-seven years."
"He'd be an old man by now."
"Yes, sir."
"And we've been bombing the shit out of Reina for nearly two years. Even if he was alive when we started, he could have been killed."
Onja felt heat on her cheeks and her eyes narrowed with anger.
"Have a heart, Jack. For god's sake, if it was your father you'd want to know!"
"Yes, I would. I'm not unsympathetic, Onja. I'm just pointing out that the odds are against your finding him. And if he is alive — well, as you said, we have Reina now, so he should be perfectly safe for a few more months."
"What difference does it make to you if I go now or three months from now? For Christ sake, my squadron is nearly full strength, and I'll only be taking Lieutenant Royal with me. One fucking week!"
"Permission denied," he said flatly.
Onja took two steps forward and placed her hands flat on his desk, leaning into his face.
"Is this revenge? For breaking up your little love tryst with Lieutenant Smith?"
"No. This is leverage. If you want to go look for your daddy you know exactly what I want in return."
She straightened slowly, her heart throbbing with rage. Trembling, she breathed deeply for several seconds.
"Fuck you, Hinds!"
She turned and walked out the door.
Hinds watched it close behind her.
"If it's the last thing you ever do," he murmured.
Wednesday, 17 February, 0241 (PCC) — Jefferson Fleet Base, Missibama, Sirius 1
Ursula Negus lay shackled to her rack in a starcrete barrack, one wrist attached to the frame by an E‑cuff. She was exhausted, but sleep wouldn't come. Her body was sore, her mind numb; there'd been nine today, hard young men whose idea of a good time was to brutalize a woman chained to a bed. It was the same every day. She'd been here almost four years, with very few days off.
Sleep was her only escape.
Ursula had gone through a period of extreme self-pity after her capture, which gradually gave way to a burning hatred. That bastard Hinds was responsible for where she was today. She'd served him faithfully for eleven years, putting up with his insufferable bullshit, giving him all the sex he wanted, any way he wanted it, believing him when he promised to take her with him on his climb to the top.
Ursula wasn't ambitious, but she didn't want to spend her entire career in a gun turret, either. She was no Onja Kvoorik, and had looked forward to a day when she could let her thirty‑something body relax in the relative safety of a rear area. But when Hinds finally got that next promotion his promise had meant nothing. He told her he had no say in the matter, but she knew better — he could at least have requested her as his aide.
Hinds had used her to his own ends, causing her to make enemies of those she would rather have had as friends. Because she was his enforcer, everyone had hated her.
It was Johnny Lincoln who'd pulled the plug on her bitterness. One night on the hangar deck of Sadat he'd proved that some men could accept her as a person without trying to get her pants down. Afterward she tried to salvage what she could, and managed to make amends with Johnny's gunner. Once she realized what made Onja tick, she couldn't bear to have her as an enemy.
They were, after all, both Vegan.
But Onja had requested a transfer upon her return from medical leave, and Ursula saw little of her after that. She wondered if Onja was still alive, still killing Sirians.
She hoped so.
The Sophia Alps, Vega 3
The towering, jagged peak of Mt. Sophia stabbed straight up into the frigid blue sky for forty‑three thousand feet as the PulsarFighter banked left and skirted it to the north, keeping ten miles of clearance to avoid the powerful winds that stormed the peak even in summertime. Other, lesser peaks stood like sentinels guarding the magnificent pinnacle, some soaring over thirty thousand feet, higher than anything on Terra. Between them dipped valleys and chasms filled with snow and ice. These were the Sophia Alps, the most famous mountain range on Vega.
Onja Kvoorik stared at them through the Solarglas windows of the top gun turret with a bursting heart, drinking in their beauty as Tommy Royal skillfully wound his way between the towering crags.
"Down there," she said, "that valley on the right. The one that runs southeast?"
"I see it, Major."
"That's Royal Meadows. It used to be called the Slaughter Pen. Back in '96 the Vegan Guard trapped four Sirian divisions in there and wiped them out. It took two days, but they killed over fifty thousand men."
"Jesus! Sounds like the Guard was a tough outfit."
"They were the best," Onja said sadly. "They had heart."
She stared at the rugged country below for a moment. "My aunt was killed somewhere down there."
"Your aunt?"
"She was in the Guard. A lot of girls fought. She was twenty years old."
"So how come they lost?"
Onja compressed her lips in a flash of resentment, then sighed.
"They were outnumbered, outgunned, out-supplied — and nobody came to help."
"Damn shame."
"Tommy, if the Federation had done the right thing back then, you and I wouldn't be here doing the job now."
There was a moment of silence.
"Well, that's too bad, Major. But if that were the case, I would never have met you. So it ain't all bad."
Onja allowed herself a thin smile. She'd been flying with Tommy Royal for eighteen months now, and he was madly in love with her. He made no secret of that, and though he knew as much of her history as she'd chosen to tell him, he still hoped in vain that some day she would feel the same.
"Keep your eyes on the road, Lieutenant. What's our ETA?"
"About nineteen minutes."
She tore her eyes away from the view outside and studied her combat holos again. The sky around them was clear, nothing for several hundred miles, and she left the AI to watch for trouble as she leaned back in her harness and tried to still her heart. The moment she had awaited for twenty‑seven years had arrived.
Vega was almost defeated. Two million Federation troops were on the ground, seven-tenths of the planet had been liberated, and the rest would follow in a matter of weeks. Sirius itself was under constant attack from Federation spacecraft, day and night. The Confederacy was digging in for a final, last‑ditch defense, but military analysts believed the war would be over in three years or less.
It had only taken twenty years. Onja smiled grimly as she remembered standing in the parade ground at AB-131 so long ago, a wide‑eyed cherry, listening to Major Landon tell them it would take a lifetime.
Major Landon – dead.
Johnny Lincoln – dead.
David Coffey – dead.
Steven Langley – disabled.
Mark Brown – dead.
Dennis Penn – battle fatigue.
Rodney McLeod — best forgotten
Good men. Solid pilots who weren't afraid to get in close. There'd only been one Johnny Lincoln, of course. No other man alive or dead could handle a Lincoln fighter like the heir to the Lincoln fortune. Not even Tommy Royal, who came closest.
How could Tommy possibly expect her to fall in love with him? With her record of killing off pilots, she'd have to be a fool.
She closed her eyes as memory flooded her. It was nineteen years since Johnny Lincoln had ejected her in the heat of battle against the Sirian carrier. The pain of his loss had faded, but never completely left. To this day she still loved him, and knew she dared never let herself love another man. The old heads had been right when they said only a fool fell in love with her pilot. She'd done it twice, and it brought her nothing but pain.
She didn't need any more pain.
Reina, Vega 3
It was a mild spring afternoon in Reina, Vega’s capital city. The sky was clear, the weather cool, humidity low. The PulsarFighter touched down on the runway and turned onto a taxiway that led to a parking apron near a temporary building
erected by the Federation Star Marines. After shutting down all systems, Lt. Royal and Onja Kvoorik climbed down from their fighter and stood on the tarplast, stretching their limbs and breathing deeply of the cool air.
Onja looked carefully in all directions, taking note of the destruction that had preceded the spaceport's capture. On all sides stood gutted hangars and repair shops, and at least half the main terminal lay in ruins. Wrecked air and spacecraft had been dozed into a heap a few hundred yards away. Only the runways appeared undamaged, but of course they had been repaired.
"Looks like our people did a number on this place," Tommy Royal remarked, and Onja nodded, her steady blue stare recording everything.
"I was afraid it would be like this. Too bad the damn Sirians couldn't have just left things intact and surrendered."
"They'll never surrender. We'll have to kill them all."
"This is the same spaceport I left from," Onja told him quietly. "Twenty‑seven years ago."
"It probably changed a lot in twenty‑seven years."
"I don’t know. I was just a kid, and it was night."
Tommy looked uncomfortable, as he always did when she talked about her past. She'd learned over the years that talking about it was healthier than suppressing it, so he'd heard far more than he wanted to.
"Where do we go from here?" he asked.
She led the way into the temporary headquarters, returning the salutes of two Star Marines who guarded the entrance. A staff sergeant at a desk looked up at her with questions in his eyes.
"I'm Major Kvoorik," she said. "I have an appointment with General Nash."
The sergeant rang the general's office, spoke briefly, then led the way toward the back of the building. He knocked once on the general's door, then opened it and ushered them inside. Onja and Tommy stopped in front of General Nash and saluted. He waved them to chairs.
"So you're the famous Major Kvoorik," Nash said with a pleasant smile. "I've heard of you for years. It's nice to meet you at last."
"Thank you, General."
Nash was a slender man in his late fifties — weathered face, thinning hair. Onja had heard of him, too. He'd commanded the initial invasion of Vega and through use of some brilliant tactics had cut off vast numbers of enemy troops and forced their surrender, saving countless lives and shortening the ground war by as much as a year. He was a man Onja could respect.
"Your request came to me yesterday from General Osato," Nash told her. "I have to tell you it's the most unusual request I've had yet. I knew we had a few Vegan nationals in our armies, but I certainly never dreamed that you were from here."
"Yes, sir."
"I want to cooperate with you in whatever way I can. Unfortunately, we're overburdened with military matters, and I don't have any staff to spare. But you're welcome to conduct whatever search you would care to, as long as you stay within the operational area. The shooting hasn't all stopped yet, and there are still a few pockets of resistance out there. Is this the first time you've made planetfall?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I know these are your people — or they used to be — but not all Vegans are happy to see us. This is a different generation than the one you knew, Major. They're more Sirian than Vegan, so watch your step. I'm going to assign you a couple of Marines as bodyguards. A little extra firepower can't hurt if you should run into trouble."
"Thank you, sir."
"Do you have any idea how you want to proceed?"
Onja nodded.
"This was my hometown, sir. I thought I would try to locate my old neighborhood, see if there are any survivors who knew my family. It's a long shot, but I think it's worth a try. Also, I would appreciate access to any databases you may have captured."
"Absolutely. We're still going through them, of course. There are mountains of data to look at, and it may take months. But we can run searches for you. The family name was Kvoorik?"
"No, sir. Pedersen.” She spelled it for him. “My father's first name was Adam."
"I'll put my people on it. Should have something to report by the time you get back."
"Thank you, sir."
Nash rose and shook hands.
"Not at all, Major. I wish you success in your mission."
They went back outside to find two wiry young men in Star Marine fatigues waiting for them. Neither was older than twenty, but each had the grim look of men who'd been in combat. Both carried laser weapons and one had a machinegun slung over his shoulder. Their fatigues were clean, but their helmets were battered and dusty; Onja could only guess at what they'd been through.
They stood beside a military command hover, a four‑seater with a heavy‑calibre machinegun mounted on a tripod in the center. When the general said bodyguards, he hadn't been kidding.
As Onja and Tommy came out of the building and approached the two Marines, Onja saw them look in her direction. Their eyes widened perceptibly.
"Jesus!" one whispered.
"Are you Major Kvoorik?" the other asked when Onja reached him.
"Yes."
"Major, I'm Corporal Lansing and this is Private Ferrier. We've been assigned to escort you on your mission."
"Thank you, Corporal. This is my pilot, Lieutenant Royal. Did anyone tell you what we're doing?"
"No, Ma'am. Our orders are to keep you safe. Anywhere you want to go, as long as it's within the OA."
"Very good. We're ready when you are."
The two Marines mounted the hover, Ferrier taking the controls. Onja sat beside him in the front and Tommy climbed in the back with Lansing. Onja gave Ferrier the name of a street, he looked it up on his map display, and they set out.
Reina had been badly mauled by the war, and in some places entire city blocks were nothing but heaps of rubble. Ferrier seemed to know the city layout — he found streets that were open, skirting the devastation as much as possible. He took them toward the river, then paralleled it as he wound his way through what had once been a lovely and picturesque city.
Onja looked for familiar landmarks, but finding them was difficult. Reina had once been open and spacious, but Sirian influence had transformed it into a snarl of teeming buildings and confusing streets, and the face of the city was badly scarred by recent fighting. Once, against the skyline, she spotted the Queen's Clock Tower, a famous tourist attraction that had fascinated her as a child. It was still standing, though part of it had been shot away. A little later they passed the Temple of Sophia; its roof was blown off, but Onja could see the goddess standing in the center behind the broken columns that fronted the structure.
She had no head.
Chapter 13
Jefferson Fleet Base, Missibama, Sirius 1
Ursula Negus moaned in ecstasy as the young Sirian had his way with her. Her arms around his neck, she dug her heels into his back and kept time with him, drenched in his sweat and hating it, but compelled by her hypno-conditioning to milk him for every ounce of pleasure she could get.
That was the worst part — actually enjoying the rape. She hated herself for it, but had no choice in the matter. And it was every day, all day long. One man every hour, sometimes two, until at the end she was so sore she could barely walk.
The dormitory held twenty-four racks. Fourteen were occupied, but Ursula was the only Vegan and thus attracted more attention than the others. If she ever got out of here alive, she swore to herself nine times each day, she would never have sex again.
Ever.
The soldier climaxed, shuddering like a dying man, then lowered himself to her and lay gasping. Ursula continued working him, struggling for her own release, but he pulled back before she got it. She lay panting in frustration, her dark eyes blazing at him.
"Travers, you prick! I didn't finish yet!"
"Fuck yew, Feddie!" Travers laughed. "If I leave yew a little hungry yew'll be wantin' me again."
"You bastard!"
Travers wasn't the worst of them. Only nineteen, he was assigned to guard the slaves and take ca
re of their needs. He wasn't one of the regular customers, but helped himself after the office staff had left. Though she was more than twice his age, Ursula was his favorite.
He climbed off the rack and slipped into his utilities. Ursula sat up and wiped herself down with a towel, still angry and frustrated. As soon as he had his belt attached, Travers reached for the E-cuff and prepared to shackle Ursula to the bed again.
"Yew need anything before I put this on?" he asked.
"Yeah. I need to visit the head."
"Speak now, or forever hold yewr water," he grinned.
He led the way down the hall and stood guard in the doorway while she took care of business. Ursula finished and was washing up, Travers studying her body, when the laser batteries two hundred yards away suddenly opened up. The air became electric; Ursula could feel the hairs on her skin prickle with static. She glanced at Travers in alarm. He was looking at the ceiling, his mouth open.
"What's happening?" she asked.
The laser thrummed again, the floor shivering ever so slightly; the air charged again with static. Travers glanced at her with fear in his eyes.
"Must be a strike," he said. "Come on, let's get you back."
He hustled her back down the hallway to the dorm. They could hear explosions now, and the whoosh of GAMS as the ASC batteries opened up.
They reached the dorm and had just stepped inside when an enormous explosion rocked the barrack, throwing Ursula to the floor and Travers against the wall. The other women screamed in terror.
Travers recovered quickly enough, but his hands were shaking and Ursula realized he was close to panic.
"Travers, you've got to release the girls!" she said urgently. "You can't leave us shackled here to die! At least give us a fighting chance!"
"I can't!" he panted, holding in his fear with an effort. "I have no orders to do that!"
"Fuck your orders!" Ursula shouted. "Dead women won't do the soldiers any good!"
Travers shoved her back toward the rack, and was about to fasten the E‑cuff over her wrist when another explosion, this one even closer, threw them both off their feet. Women shrieked in panic and jerked frantically at their E‑cuffs in spite of the electric jolts that sent agony down their arms.
