by John Bowers
Onja was electrified. If she'd hated Sirians before …
"How long," she whispered, "do the soldiers fuck them before they shoot them?"
McColm shrugged.
"Depends. Sometimes they die in bed, can't take the duty. If they're still pretty strong, they might go three, four months. Maybe even six months."
"When a woman is marked for final disposal, is there ever a chance she might be released? Given her freedom? Let her live out the rest of her life without being fucked to death?"
The aging officer shook his head emphatically.
"No way!" he snorted.
Onja stared at the hateful little man with glazed eyes.
"God damn you!" she whispered. "That woman is my mother!"
"In your belly, Vegan slut!" McColm sneered.
Johnny and Osato were rooted to the spot as Onja, with a scream of animal rage, attacked the prisoner like a Vegan hypercat. Her lunge butted him off his chair and he struggled in panic as she leaped on him. With all her strength, she battered him in the face with the butt of her laser pistol, smashing tooth and bone as, screaming insanely, she slugged him four, six, ten, twelve times. Her gorgeous face a mask of fury, her right arm worked like a piston as she brought the pistol down against her target again and again.
It was Johnny Lincoln who managed to wrap his arms around her and drag her off, shoving her against the wall where he held her in an iron grip as she struggled hysterically to go back and finish the job.
"I'll kill you, goddamn you!" she shrieked. "You fucking bastard! Let me go, Johnny! I'll cut out his fucking heart!"
Osato wrenched the pistol out of her grip before she could accidentally kill someone she didn't want to kill, but she continued to lunge against Johnny's grip, taxing his strength to the max. McColm lay writhing in agony, his face smashed beyond recognition, his nose relocated, one eyeball bulging onto his cheek. Johnny dragged Onja out the door, still struggling, kicking, screaming.
"God damn you, you fucking Sirian son of a bitch!" she shrieked.
Johnny pinned her against the corridor wall with his own body, panting as he tried to calm her. She finally stopped struggling and sagged against him, weeping out of control. Twenty-seven years of anguish, fear, worry, and hatred powered her emotions as the tears poured down her cheeks in a flood, her chest aching with the pain.
Johnny held her, buried his face in her short spiked hair, trying to hold back his own tears. He'd never seen her like this, had never seen her inner feelings so nakedly displayed. She was the Fighter Queen, the CO, the Major. The woman his father had died to save, almost a legend in his mind. Now, for the first time, he got a true sense of what lived inside the iron exterior of the woman he'd always known as Aunt Onja. If she was cold and calculating and fearless in battle, inside lived a terrified little girl he had never imagined.
When her hurricane had run its course, he kissed her on the cheek and whispered comfort in her ear, though she gave no sign that it had any effect.
Osato stood nearby watching, and when it was finally over he offered her the laser pistol again. Red eyed and sheepish, she took it and hung it back on her belt.
"Are you better now, Major?" Osato asked gently.
"I hope so," she whispered. Then she looked up at Osato briefly. "Hell of a way for an officer to act, isn't it, sir?"
Osato studied her silently for a moment.
"I'd just say it's too bad that Colonel McColm is so clumsy," he said. "Fell off his own rack. You'd think a Confederate officer would at least have minimal coordination of hands and feet, wouldn't you?"
She nodded gratefully and swallowed, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.
"I wanted to kill him," she said. "If Johnny hadn't stopped me …"
"If we didn't need the intel he can give us," Osato replied, "I'd be inclined to lock you in there with him for another five minutes. As it is, he'll probably be executed as a war criminal."
She nodded weakly, still sheepish.
"Good."
* * *
"There's no record that your mother was actually killed," Osato pointed out to a much subdued Onja when they returned to his office. "The last entry only says final disposal was pending. That was about eight months ago. With the space strikes and the invasion, it may well be they never got around to killing her."
Onja nodded slowly.
"Maybe they just never recorded her final disposal," she said, "for the same reasons."
"That's also possible. But without any evidence to the contrary, I think we should proceed on the assumption that she's still out there somewhere. I'll put out an alert to all units and have them watch for her. We've liberated several thousand Vegan women. She may already be in Federation hands."
"I appreciate that, sir."
"And if we don't have her yet, we'll find her."
"General, I still need to check the database for my sister."
She turned to the terminal again, brought up the search menu, and keyed in her sister's name: PEDERSEN, SONJA. This time there was only one match, and the portrait left no doubt that it was the right girl. She was a stunning teenager with long hair who looked enough like Onja to be her twin.
Unlike her mother, Sonja had only been sold once, to a man named Simonian, aged forty-three, in 0214 for 79,000S. Four years later she'd been deeded to Simonian's son, age twenty-five. There were no further title transactions, but at age twenty-two, and again at twenty-six, the young slave had given birth to her owner's children. After the second baby, she'd been hypno-protected against pregnancy.
That was the final entry.
Onja dared to hope; the Simonian family lived in Jackson, Missibama, about ninety miles from New Birmingham. There was an address.
"Our troops are in Jackson right now!" Osato exclaimed. "But the city isn't secure yet."
Onja stood up, her jaw set.
"That's where I'm going, General. I have to find this address. Right now."
"Onja, she may have fled the city. Lots of refugees out there right now. There's no guarantee …"
"Right now, sir!"
Osato nodded slowly, not surprised.
"All right."
"If I could trouble you one last time — I could use a hovercar."
"I'll do better than that," Osato told her.
He reached for his vidphone.
Chapter 22
Jackson, Missibama, Sirius 1
Stark flashes split the black Sirian night as Onja Kvoorik, Johnny Lincoln II, and six Star Marines picked their way carefully along a rubble strewn street in Jackson, Missibama. The air stank of ozone and gunfire. Smoke and heat swirled oppressively in miniature cyclones with each blast of laser and projectile weapons, the dust clogging their sinuses, stinging their eyes. Onja wore a combat helmet borrowed from the Marines, and an IR contact on her left eye enabled her to see through the darkness well enough to make out objects and detect movement. She carried her laser pistol in her right hand, a slug rifle slung over her left shoulder. The air sang with steel as bullets ricocheted off buildings and armored vehicles; her headphones babbled incessantly as infantry officers talked to their men, their language spectacular with profanity.
The Star Marines and their armored support were locked in a life and death struggle. Men inched slowly forward, forced to fight for every yard; entrenched Confederates poured laser and steel back from hidden positions. Medics were overwhelmed as they tried to evacuate the wounded, the streets were slippery with blood.
It wasn't exactly what Onja had expected; she'd come to Jackson to find her sister, but Sonja's last reported address was smack in the center of the battle zone. To get there meant joining the fight, and Onja wasn't willing to wait for the battle to end; laser and explosives made no distinction between military and civilian, soldier and slave. If Sonja was in there, she might be dead before it ended.
Led by a Star Marine corporal named Meyer, a battle-weary boy of nineteen who looked forty, the little party moved cautiously from stree
t to street, trying to skirt the worst of the fighting. They crawled through broken buildings, down dark alleys, and when there was no other way, exposed themselves briefly on the streets. Once they dived into a littered basement as a heavy machinegun hammered at them, and Onja landed next to a dead body, her hand slipping in blood that oozed from the corpse.
They were stranded in the basement for over an hour, breathing the stench and the sweat, tasting the fear. Not until a Star Armor tank crawled into the middle of the street and hosed down the machinegun did they dare move. They raced for cover at the end of the block, finding refuge in the ruins of a shopping mall where they moved from cover to cover as they proceeded on their way.
Twenty square blocks were a jumble of friendly and enemy positions, and they were forced to make their way by inches. Twice they were challenged by Star Marines, and drew fire once, thankfully without injury.
As the long night wore on toward daylight, Onja became more fatigued than she'd ever thought possible. The strain was incredible, and she looked at the young men in Star Marine uniform with new respect.
"Give me a gun turret and open space any time!" she muttered to Johnny during a brief break. "This kind of combat sucks!"
Johnny, tense with fear, fervently agreed.
An hour before daylight, they found themselves in a housewares shop at the end of the shopping mall.
"Major," Cpl. Meyer said, "the address you're looking for is on the next block." He pointed. "I'd say it's one of those houses across from that park."
The houses sat in a silent row behind broad lawns pocked by shell craters. Through her IR lens Onja could make out surprising detail, and felt her strength return at the thought of her sister being this close.
Maybe.
"Trouble is," Meyer added with a grim expression, "we're already past the front line. The Marines haven't advanced beyond the last block. That's enemy country over there."
"You mean we have to fight our way in?"
He nodded. "That, or wait until the grunts catch up." He looked at her hopefully.
"Corporal, I'm not going to ask you to take your men out there," Onja told him. "You've taken a serious risk already, and I'm grateful. But I'm not waiting for anybody to catch up."
" I can't let you go out there alone, Ma’am."
"It might be safer for one person," she pointed out. "Six Marines and two fighter people make a pretty big target, but one shrimp of a woman is harder to hit."
Meyer grinned wearily.
"Major, you may not be very big, but you're no shrimp. You can fight at my side any time."
She kissed him on the cheek.
"And you can fly with me any time. You and your men are the bravest I've ever seen."
She imagined that he blushed, but it was too dark to tell, even with IR lenses.
"If you want to go over there, Ma’am, we're going, too," he said. "But we gotta do it now. It'll be daylight in an hour, and then it'll be too dangerous."
"You're the expert, Corporal. Let's go."
* * *
Onja’s pulse throbbed in her temples as she crawled across the fragment strewn lawn of the house across the street. The ground heaved with concussion from nearby explosions, and bits of hot metal rained down as shell fragments sprayed the entire neighborhood. Cpl. Meyer was only a blurred form in the darkness, inching ahead with his laser rifle cradled in his elbows. Onja could see only the soles of his combat boots and the outline of his helmet as he moved with methodical determination toward the house that was still ten yards away.
They were totally exposed on the wide lawn, covered only by darkness. Onja felt like jumping up and making a run for it, but if any Sirians were inside the house, that would be suicide.
Movement in the middle of the block — half a dozen shadows running from cover to cover, angling in their direction. Meyer flattened out and Onja followed suit. The Marines hadn't penetrated this far, so these had to be enemy soldiers. As Onja filed away that item, a laser beam from down the street lanced through the night and one of the runners fell. Two others answered with laser of their own, and Onja's party lay absolutely still, frozen with terror as laser shots smoked overhead, briefly illuming the entire block like tiny searchlights.
"Jesus!" Johnny swore behind her.
The Sirians reached cover, and the shooting stopped, except for heavy machinegun fire behind them. Meyer didn't move for almost a minute, nor did anyone else.
Suddenly, Meyer leaped up and dashed for the house, flattening against the side. He called softly to the others while his eyes scanned in all directions. Everyone made it, hugging the wooden siding, panting from fear and exertion.
"Thank god!" Onja whispered. "I was feeling pretty naked out there in the yard."
"Don't relax yet! There still may be Confeds inside." To his men, he gave terse instructions. "Frazier and Phil stay here. Rest of you, remember, when we get inside, no grenades. And don't shoot any women. Everybody else is a target. Got that?"
They nodded gravely.
"Keep behind me, Major. I don't want to have to explain to General Osato why I lost you."
"You're in charge."
"Most likely any noncombatants will be in the basement, but there's no way to be sure. Here we go."
Meyer peered around the corner of the house, sweeping the back yard, then stepped out and sidled toward the door. Its window had been broken by concussion, glass crunched underfoot. Onja stayed two feet back, laser pistol in hand, cold sweat sliding down her face. Meyer crouched at the door and tried the pressure plate. To Onja's surprise the door slid into its groove, leaving a gaping hole. Meyer looked inside for a long time, then suddenly dived headlong into the darkness. Onja held her breath, but there was no burst of fire.
She crawled inside after him, two Marines following her. Johnny entered next, followed by a fourth Marine. Meyer crouched against a wall in what looked like a kitchen. He waved Onja out of the way, then led his men down a hallway.
Onja looked at Johnny's face, saw his fear, but when he caught her eye he smiled and lifted a thumb hopefully. Johnny was all right, Onja decided. He was so much like his father that it spooked her sometimes.
She reached for his hand …
… and jerked in terror as grenade fragments exploded through the wall above their heads. Before the sound died they heard the hammer of a machinegun and the chirp of at least two laser weapons. Meyer was shouting, someone was screaming, then it was suddenly quiet. A choking cloud of smoke boiled into the kitchen.
Johnny led the way down the hall, keeping low, pistol ready, and they found the room where the grenade had gone off. Two of Meyer's men lay dead; the third was sobbing in agony as Meyer leaned over him, cradling his head. In another doorway, his clothes smoldering, lay a dead Sirian.
Meyer spun around as they entered, but held his fire just in time. He turned back to his mate. Onja hurried forward and knelt on the other side of the wounded Marine, taking in the glazed eyes, watching as the young man gulped for air, his jaw muscles rigid with pain.
"Hang in there, Lopez," Meyer begged as he fumbled for a medical cartridge and injected it into the dying man's arm. "We'll have a hoverstretcher here in a minute," he said. "Just hang on, man!"
Onja's wide blue eyes found Meyer's face and she shook her head. He nodded, but continued to reassure his buddy as the young man's body jerked convulsively. Onja leaned over the fallen soldier and, removing her helmet, pressed her lips against his grimy forehead.
"You did a good job, Lopez," she said softly. "You're a good Star Marine. You're the best."
Astonishingly, the young man's eyes refocused for a second as he shifted his gaze to her face. He stared at her for perhaps ten seconds, still panting in pain, then another tremor shot through him. His back arched in agony, then he was gone, his eyes still on her face, but totally blank.
Onja lowered her head and fought to keep a grip on her emotions. Meyer leaned back and stared at the ceiling, breathing deeply. After a long moment
he removed the dead man's datatags and stood up.
"The house is clear," he told Onja quietly, all business once again. "We have to check the basement now."
Onja looked up at him.
"Corporal, I'm sorry," she said.
"He was a Star Marine. He was doing his job."
She nodded, biting her lip.
There was no obvious entry to the basement, but they searched until they found a trap door under a large chair. After sliding the furniture aside, Meyer knelt by the door, waving Onja and Johnny to one side. He lifted the door slowly and leaned back, waiting — but nothing happened. Onja tensed with dread. What if Sonja wasn't there? Maybe the general was right; maybe she'd fled with the refugees. Lopez and the others could have died for nothing.
"Is anyone down there?" Meyer called. "This is Corporal Mark Meyer of the United Federation Star Marines! We're not here to hurt you. We're looking for a Vegan woman named Sonja Pedersen."
Total silence, save the steady thunder of combat down the street. Onja gripped Johnny's arm. Meyer waited thirty seconds, then repeated the statement. Again he waited, then shook his head.
"If anyone is down there," he said, "we'll have to do it the hard way." He reached for his belt and removed a small flare. Onja's heart sank.
"I'm Sonja Pedersen."
Onja almost screamed. She covered her mouth with both hands as her skin tingled with disbelief.
"Hello?"
Meyer leaned over the trap door.
"Are you down there alone?" he asked.
"No." The woman's voice was faint, as if she were at the far end of a room. "There are three of us."
"Sonja!" Onja leaned over the hole and called down, her voice slightly hysterical. "Sonja! Is that really you?"
"Yes." The woman sounded puzzled. "Who are you?"
"Sonja!" she cried. "It's Onja! Your little sister!"
They heard a gasp.
"Goddess Sophia! Onja? Is it really you?"
"It's really me, Sonja! I came all the way from Terra to find you. Thank god! I can't believe it!"
"Come out where we can see you," Meyer called. "I'm going to lower a flare down there. It isn't dangerous, so don't be afraid."
