A Vow to Sophia
Sample
"You sent for me, Major?"
Walters nodded. He indicated Onja, who stood, and made the introductions. The two women shook hands.
"I'm going to step outside for a few minutes," Walters said. "If I don't hear any glass breaking, I'll assume the two of you are getting along." He winked and walked out the door.
Onja stared at the black woman and felt her stomach knot. This wasn't going to be easy. How could she say it...?
"You want my pilot, don't you?" Denise said.
Onja blinked at her candor, but felt herself nodding.
"Yes. Is...is that going to be a problem?"
Denise looked her up and down, like a wife inspecting her husband's tart.
"And what am I supposed to do? Retire?"
"Captain..."
"Denise. No bullshit between us, okay?"
Onja swallowed, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks. She hadn't expected the other woman to be so blunt.
"Denise," she said slowly, "I —"
She stopped. Nothing that came to mind made any sense.
"I don't know what to say," she said finally.
Denise smirked, nodding slowly.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Nineteen."
"I'm thirty-three. I've been a gunner most of my adult life. You think you can just waltz in here and take my pilot?"
Onja said nothing.
"Tell me why you want him."
"I've reviewed his record," Onja said. "I think he's probably the best pilot in the Terra-Luna sector."
"And now you want him? What gives you that right?"
Onja's tongue traced across her lips. "Fifteen kills," she said.
Denise nodded grudgingly. "I'll give you that. But I have five of my own. What makes you think I wouldn't do as well as you if I had the same opportunity?"
"Maybe you would. But my simulator scores suggest otherwise."
"I ask you again — what gives you the right?"
Onja wondered if she should be getting angry, but tried to put herself in the other woman's place — how would she feel if the situation were reversed?
"General Osato gave me permission," she said.
"That don't make it right, honey."
Silence reigned for fifteen seconds.
"Do you hate the Sirians?" Onja asked finally.
"Sure. So what?"
"Have you ever met a Sirian?"
"No, but I met five Vegans one afternoon. They're all dead now."
"I mean face-to-face," Onja said patiently. "Like you and I are right now."
"Of course not. Have you?"
"Yes. I was born on Vega, Denise. I lived under Sirian rule until I was twelve years old. I had a mother and a sister. When I was twelve they were taken away from me, and I've never seen them since."
Denise stared at her, at a loss for words.
"They were taken to Sirius," Onja told her. "If they're still alive, they're slaves of the Confederacy."
Denise blinked, hardly daring to breathe.
"Do you know what that means? To be a slave? It means being ripped away from your family and taken to a place you don't want to be. It means never seeing your loved ones again. It means being raped by men who care nothing about you, every day, every night, whenever they choose. You lose your freedom, your dignity, your right to choose."
Onja's eyes glimmered.
"That's what it means to be a slave to the Confederacy," she finished. "I've met the enemy, Denise. I hate the enemy more than I love my own life. My entire purpose for living is to kill Sirians, and anyone else who serves the Confederacy. I can do more to destroy Sirius than any other single individual can do. But I have to stay alive to do the job."
Denise cleared her throat, her voice suddenly hoarse.
"I'm sorry about your mother and sister," she said.
Onja nodded. "I don't want to come between you and your pilot," she said softly. "You can still sleep with him, I don't care. But I need him. For a while, anyway."
Denise stared at the floor for a moment, then shrugged.
"Well, I don't have any say in the matter, do I? You have permission from General Osato."
"Yes, but I wanted to speak to you first. It only seemed right."
Denise looked her square in the eye.
"He's too young for me, anyway," she said. "But he's a hell of a nice kid. And you're right — he has a god's touch in the cockpit. I've never seen anyone come close to him."
"I hope we'll be friends."
"Hey, I don't like it, okay? But I don't own him. As for you and me? Let's just give it time. That work for you?"
Onja felt suddenly sad. She nodded.
"And don't waste his talent," Denise added. "If you take him, make it count. You better be the best goddamned gunner in history."
"I am good," Onja said. "I'm the Fighter Queen."
"I've got a fix, Johnny," Onja murmured, her voice almost sleepy. "Range nine hundred miles."
"Input: call off ranges continuous. Execute."
"Range nine hundred miles, range eight fifty, range eight hundred —"
Johnny was startled to see blue light flash over his head, a streak of lightning as straight as a pencil line against the blackness of space.
"Not yet!" he called. "They're too far away …"
"That's one," she said softly, and the light blazed again, then again. Johnny stared at his HH in dismay. Three of the blips on that holo had fragmented, and as the blue light flashed again a fourth disintegrated like an aspirin under a hammer.
"My god!" he breathed.
The range was now six hundred miles, and Onja flipped her laser banks back to recharge as she wrapped a slender hand around the cannon grip.
"Closer, Johnny!" she said, peering into her tracking holo. As the range hit two hundred miles she opened up. Inside the turret the recoil of the 29mm was much stronger than it seemed from the cockpit, but Onja's body was braced in its hydrocushion and as the turret shuddered under powerful recoils she hardly moved, only her legs vibrating as they rested on the turret's directional controls. For three long seconds she fired in short bursts, adjusting her aim three times, conserving ammunition as she sprayed three enemy fighters with deadly explosives. Her blue eyes stared unblinking into the target sights; her hand didn't so much as quiver as she made installments on an old debt that would never be paid in full. |
