The Fighter Queen

by John Bowers

  "Good morning, Colonel."

  Landon nodded. "In all the excitement yesterday, I didn't get your name," he said.

  "Ursula Negus," she told him.

  "How long you been a prisoner?"

  "Since 37."

  "Pretty rough?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You're Vegan."

  "Yes, sir."

  Landon stared at her a moment, remembering another Vegan girl. He shook it off.

  "Looks like you and I are the ranking Fighter Service people in this outfit," he said. "Any objection if I make you my adjutant?"

  "None at all, Colonel."

  "Good. Because I'm gonna need your help."

  Twenty minutes later, Landon stood surrounded by all the Marine and infantry officers from the prison camp. In addition to himself and Negus, there was Capt. Easton, two Fed Infantry lieutenants, and six Star Marine officers, one of them a major.

  "Basically," Landon told them, "we're in an untenable situation. We made good our escape, but we don't have shelter, we have very few weapons, and our food supplies are only good for about a week. If the Sirians haven't learned of our escape, they will by the end of the day, and then they'll mobilize everything they can spare to track us down. I expect air patrols and satellite surveillance, so we have very little time. Krieger and his guards have probably broken loose by now, and they’ll be sounding the alarm." Landon had ordered the prison guards locked in a reinforced basement under the administration building. It would hold them for a few hours, but not much longer … Krieger was a resourceful commander.

  He gazed at each of them in turn, noting their mixed expressions.

  "I'll say this right up front, so there's no confusion," he said. "I am the highest ranking officer present, which legally puts me in command. I'm responsible for the lives of nearly a thousand people here, but I need your help. I'm not trained or experienced in surface operations, and you people are. We all have to work together if we're going to survive, so I can't tolerate any inter-service squabbling. Does anyone have a problem with that?"

  He surveyed them again. A few expressions seemed to relax. Capt. Easton smiled his cynical smile.

  "Are you saying, Colonel, that you're giving us autonomy?"

  "Not completely, no. I need to stay in the loop, to oversee the overall picture. But I am going to rely on each of you to perform as if you were in command. I need you to be professional and responsible. We've all been out of the fight for a number of years, but we're back in it now, so we have to be sharp."

  Easton nodded, as if it made sense to him.

  Landon glanced to his left, where Willis and Yamaguchi stood just out of earshot. "Corporal!"

  They both looked up, and he waved them over.

  "You all know Willis and Yamaguchi," Landon told the group. "I've worked with them in the camp, and I trust them. They're going to be my liaison with you. So treat them accordingly.

  "Now, Captain Easton — your command is fairly intact, isn't it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then you will operate as a single unit. Organize your men however you see fit, but make sure they're ready to fight when the time comes."

  "They're itching to do just that, sir."

  "Good." Landon turned to the ranking Star Marine. "Major Zimmer, how many Star Marines do you have by exact count?"

  "Five hundred ninety-seven."

  "And you have five officers under your command. Form yourselves into a battalion. We can't arm you yet, but as soon as we do, you'll be our primary strike force."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Any questions?"

  There were none.

  Landon continued. "As of right now, the Southern Command is in business. Our first priority is to find a place to get all these people out of sight from overhead surveillance. Unfortunately, no one here knows the first thing about the terrain around here, or where any settlements are located. We have seven private vehicles, so I want Captain Easton to assign seven teams of four men each. They'll use the vehicles to do some scouting, try to locate some locals who can …"

  "Colonel?"

  Landon stopped and looked around. Waukena was sitting on the edge of the hover vehicle, her legs dangling over the side.

  "I know the area, Colonel," she said. "I was born in the Outback."

  Saturday, 20 February, 0241 (PCC) — The Outback, Sirius 1

  Landon's first objective had been met. The caverns Waukena led them to were located another hundred miles to the southeast. The area was even wilder than where they'd been, but with more hills, gullies, and low ridges. They found hundreds of caves, most of them never explored, and within two days had dispersed the entire force over an area of several square miles. Even the vehicles were under cover, which would make it difficult for satellite surveillance to spot them.

  But they were hardly prepared for a long duration. Landon ordered all food and water rationed, but even with one meal a day, they were good for barely two weeks. At the first opportunity, he cornered the slave girl again.

  "Waukena, we need food, weapons, and a source of water. I know there probably aren't any weapons in this region, but there has to be water. Right? We need to know where to find it."

  Waukena looked puzzled.

  "Water is everywhere," she said. "All you need is a drill."

  "But we don't have one. Are there any springs around, places where the water comes to the surface?"

  "You don't need one, Colonel. Just get a drill."

  "Waukena, we don't have a drill."

  "But we can find one."

  "Where?"

  "At the depot."

  Landon stared blankly, as if she'd lost her mind. "What depot?"

  "The military depot."

  He shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

  She smiled. "Remember I told you about my Sirian officer? He was the commander of the depot for several years. I lived in a mining camp not far away. That's where he found me."

  Landon glanced at Ursula, who was listening. Her eyes were wide with hope.

  "Okay, let's back up. Tell me about this depot — what's it for?"

  "It's for the army. The army uses this area for maneuvers, and the depot supplies everything they need."

  Landon felt a chill of alarm — were any Confederate units training in the area now?

  "What do they have there?"

  "Everything — food, weapons, fuel, equipment. Including water drills." She smiled helpfully.

  "Is the depot still there? You've been gone for awhile."

  "I don't know. But why wouldn't it be?"

  Landon took a deep breath, considering. "How many troops were stationed there?"

  "Not many. About like Camp Hope."

  Landon looked at Ursula again. "Jesus Christ!" he whispered. Then, to Waukena, "How far is the depot from here?"

  She shrugged. "Not far."

  Monday, 22 February, 0241 (PCC) — The Outback, Sirius 1

  The light from the campfire extended twenty feet in all directions, revealing a neat stack of prospecting equipment near a battered hover rover. On a PortaBunk beside the rover, a scrawny slave girl slept wearily. All three moons were up, two low on the horizon, but Dog One was high overhead, casting a dim silvery light across the landscape.

  Tripod Sam burped gently as he finished the last of his stew and set the plate on the ground. It had been a long day and he was tired, but he always enjoyed a final hour in front of the campfire before turning in. He uncorked a small flask of Lightning and took a shot, then leaned back against his PortaBunk and looked up. The sky was clear overhead, brilliant with stars, including several dozen that moved in a straight line. Those would be ships in orbit; he'd heard a rumor that the Feddie fleet had arrived, but it didn't concern him. He had no quarrel with the Federation, as long as they didn't interfere with his prospecting.

  Well — he'd also heard that Feddies didn't much cotton to holding slaves, but they'd have to see about that; nobody was gonna take Sam's woman from
him. He was sixty-two years old, rough and gruff and dirty, and there wasn't no way he'd ever get a woman any other way.

  Maybe he did have a quarrel with the Feddies, come to think of it.

  Sam took another swallow of Lightning, let it settle before breathing, and sighed in contentment. Well, it would take the Feddies a couple of years to capture the planet, if they could even do it. Hell, he might not even live that long, so why worry about it?

  He lifted the flask to take another swallow, then stopped. He blinked in surprise at the four men who'd stepped into the glow of his campfire, two on either side of him. All four carried rifles, and they were watching him intently.

  Sam sat up slowly, looking from one man to another. They were all in their thirties, far as he could tell, and they didn't look like Outback rats. A couple wore pieces of what looked like military uniforms, but he wasn't familiar with the design.

  "He'p yew fellers?" he asked.

  One of them hunkered down on one knee, bringing his eyes level with Sam's. He must be the one in charge.

  "We saw your campfire," the man said in a strange accent. "Thought you might give us some information."

  "Information?" Sam scratched his bushy grey beard. "Hell, I got plenty o' that. Who exactly are yew fellers?"

  "I'm Sergeant Murphy."

  "Sergeant, huh? Confederate Army?"

  Murphy didn't reply at once, nor did he smile.

  "We'd like your cooperation," he said. "Mister …?"

  "Call me Sam."

  "All right, Sam."

  "What would yew like to know?" Sam glanced from one to the other. "How much yew willin' to pay?"

  Murphy took a deep breath and rocked back on his knee.

  "At the moment, payment isn't an option. If your information has any value to us, we might arrange something later."

  Sam frowned and scratched his beard some more.

  "Don't rightly know if I kin trust ye," he said.

  "We don't know if we can trust you either," Murphy replied. "Maybe we should put each other to the test. You tell us what we need to know, and we'll move on from there."

  Sam's eyes narrowed. "Yew ain't Confederates, are ye?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Who, then? Convicts? Deserters?"

  "No."

  Opposite where Sam sat, the girl stirred and sat up, blinking at the strangers.

  "Who's the girl?" another of the men asked.

  "She's private property!" Sam barked. "She ain't fer sale!"

  "Slave girl?" Murphy asked quietly.

  Sam met his eyes again, and didn't like what he saw in them.

  "She ain't never tried to run, so I reckon it don't matter one way or t'other. What's it to yew, anyway? Everybody around here keeps one or two."

  "All right, Sam," Murphy said quietly. "Let's get down to business. You know this area pretty well?"

  "Reckon I do."

  "Been here long?"

  "Thirty-six year'."

  "You know where the depot is, then?"

  Sam's eyes narrowed again. "I reckon."

  "How many men are stationed there?"

  "Why the hell yew wanna know that? Yew fellers Feddies?"

  "How many, Sam?"

  "Don't rightly know. Dozen or so."

  "Has the army been conducting any maneuvers around here lately?"

  "No, not lately."

  "How long since the last time you saw them?"

  Sam didn't like this line of questioning, but also didn't like the look of the strangers. They all had a deadly intensity about them, and he was unarmed.

  "Well — I ain't rightly shore. Might be six months, might be a year."

  "You're sure about that?"

  "Yep."

  "If there had been maneuvers during that time, you would've known about it?"

  "Hell, yes! You cain't miss them hovertanks when they git started. Hear 'em for miles! Artillery, too."

  "Do you know of any Confederate units of any kind stationed around here? Other than the depot?"

  "Well, now — if I tell yew that, and it turns out yew're Feddies, that might make me a traitor, wouldn't it?"

  "That's one way of looking at it," Murphy agreed. "Another way might be that you're a patriot, helping free the Sirian people from Confederate bondage."

  Sam laughed out loud, a snort that ended in a phlegmatic cough.

  "Reckon I ain't never heerd nothin' any funnier'n that!" he declared.

  "So what's the answer, Sam? Any military outfits in the area?"

  Sam shrugged. What the hell, if these four fellers wanted to take on the depot, they'd just get theirselves kill't anyhow.

  "I don't know of any," he admitted. "Except air patrols. Them space fighters pass over here just about ever' day."

  Murphy nodded, apparently satisfied. He stood.

  "Thank you, Sam. You've been most helpful."

  Sam also stood, and glanced at each face in turn.

  "So when do I git paid?"

  "Right now, Sam. If it turns out you've been truthful with us, we'll let you keep the slave girl. If you lied, we'll be back."

  Reina, Vega 3

  Onja's search continued for a week. With Tommy Royal at her side and Cpl. Lansing covering her six, she went through computer logs and civilian records in an effort to discover the fate of her father. NordTek, his weapons factory, had been obliterated by Federation bombing. People who might have been able to answer her queries had fled the city or been killed. Sirian records had been destroyed. She located and interviewed several Vegans named Pedersen, but they proved to be no relation to her family. By the end of the week she was out of options.

  And then a wild card turned up.

  "One of my people ran across the name Pedersen this morning," General Nash told Onja as she sat in his office admitting defeat. "It may not mean anything, but what the hell. He's a Vegan soldier. He was captured about a month ago up in the Alps."

  Onja's spirits lifted.

  "Where can I find him?"

  "In the POW camp, about half a mile from here. Like I say, it's probably another dead end, but …"

  "What's his first name?" she asked.

  "Axel. Axel Pedersen."

  Onja's heart leaped.

  "My grandfather's name was Axel!" she cried.

  Twenty minutes later she and her bodyguards stood in a small room in the prison compound facing a thin young Vegan who stared back at them with smoldering eyes. He was slender and blond, remarkably like her father's side of the family.

  "Are you Axel Pedersen?" Onja asked him point blank.

  "Who wants to know?" he replied sullenly.

  "Answer the goddamn question!" Lansing snarled, nudging the prisoner with his laser rifle. "It's not very smart to risk your life now, is it? With the war over?"

  "The war will never be over!" the prisoner spat. "Sirius will slaughter you!"

  "Yeah? They've had twenty years to try. But here we are."

  "That's enough, Corporal!" Onja ordered. She turned to face the Vegan again. He was no more than seventeen, smooth faced and painfully good looking. "Do you know a man named Adam Pedersen?"

  "What's it to you?"

  "Do you?"

  The boy stared at her sullenly for a moment, his lip curled. Then he nodded. "Yeah."

  Onja willed herself to remain calm.

  "Is he the same Adam Pedersen who owned NordTek?"

  "Yeah."

  Onja closed her eyes for a moment. It was too good to be true! She was getting close! Oh, so close!

  She opened her eyes again. "Are you related to him?" she asked.

  The Vegan soldier nodded again, then lowered his eyes and chewed at his lip.

  "Yeah. He's my father."

  Chapter 17

  POW Compound, Reina, Vega 3

  Onja Kvoorik dropped into a chair, too stunned to speak. She stared in shock at the young Vegan soldier in front of her, her mouth open, a million thoughts racing through her head. Her entire body tingled.


  "Your — father?" she whispered.

  He looked at her with a mixture of hostility and curiosity.

  "Yeah. That's what I said."

  "Goddess Sophia!" she murmured. "How old are you?"

  "Eighteen."

  She tried to do the math. He would've been born in 0223, or thereabouts. Johnny Lincoln II was actually older!

  "What's your mother's name?"

  He scowled at her. "That's none of your business! Who the scorn are you, anyway? You're Vegan. What're you doing in that uniform?"

  "What's your mother's name?"

  "I'm not telling you any more."

  Lansing nudged him with the rifle again. "Listen up, boy! You answer the major's questions or you'll have to answer mine. And I ain't nearly as nice as she is."

  Axel Pedersen glanced at Lansing's battle-weary features, then turned back to Onja.

  "Why are you asking about my family? Are they in trouble with the Federation?"

  Onja shook her head slowly, barely able to think.

  "I just want to find Adam Pedersen," she said.

  "Why?"

  "Because he's my father, too."

  Private Pedersen's eyes narrowed.

  "That's impossible!" he said. "My sister is a slave on Sirius. She was taken before I was born. I never even met her."

  Onja nodded. "Yes, that's right. But I'm the other sister."

  "What other sister?"

  "The younger sister. Onja."

  He shook his head. "I never heard of any Onja."

  "That's probably because your father — our father — reported me missing to the SE before he had me smuggled off the planet. He wouldn't have told you about me."

  "I don't know what you're talking about! Dad worked for the SE! He would never do anything like that!"

  "He would and he did."

  "Bullshit!" He nodded at her nametag. "Your name isn't even Pedersen."

  "This is my adopted name."

  "You're lying."

  "Then how come I know so much about your family? Your sister's name was Sonja. Her mother … my mother … was named Marie. Daddy owned NordTek, which was founded by our grandfather, whose name was also Axel. Haven't you ever seen a holo of Sonja? She and I looked almost like twins."

  He peered closely at her, then nodded slowly.