Starship Freedom

by Daniel Arenson

  "We have to get out of here," Mike whispered. "We have to escape." His voice rose. "We have to get out!"

  Boris shook him. "Calm down, dammit! Come with me."

  The Russian dragged him off the galley. They passed through a round doorway, entering the engine room. A narrow bridge stretched over a sea of pumping pistons. Engines rumbled in the depths, and gears turned like battling metal nautiluses. Steam flowed through pipes along the walls, and gauges spun like the eyes of madmen.

  The two men climbed a ladder, leaving the churning, grumbling engines, and entered an observation lounge. Here they faced a large bay window, six feet tall and almost as wide.

  This was no electronic porthole. There was no HUD. No computer system. This was a normal window. Simple reinforced glass.

  They saw the same view.

  Thousands of clawed starships, dark and craggy and oddly organic. They were closer now. Red lights blazed on their hulls like arachnid eyes. They swam through the darkness like predators of the cosmic ocean, great barracudas ready to strike, to devour humanity.

  Boris muttered curses in Russian. Mike didn't understand the words, but it didn't sound pleasant.

  The Russian approached a communication panel, tapped a few buttons, and lifted a receiver. He returned to speaking English, his accent thick. "Attention, incoming vessels! You have reached Rubicon Space Station, an outpost guarding human space. You may advance no farther."

  "You might as well speak Russian," Mike said. "They probably can't understand any human language."

  Boris snorted. "Of course they know English. Your Hollywood movies have probably reached other galaxies by now, American." A joke. But his voice shook.

  For a moment only the humming of the station's engines filled the observation lounge.

  Then a sound came through the speaker.

  A horrible sound.

  A shriek. A cry of pure malice. A banshee cry. A ghost's scream. The howl of a demon clawing free from the womb of hell.

  Mike covered his ears, grimacing. Boris cursed in Russian again.

  The sound grew louder and louder, higher and higher in pitch, until the control panel shattered. Sparks flew.

  "It short-circuited the goddamn speakers," Boris said in a mixture of anger and awe.

  The alien ships moved even closer, looming before the Rubicon. Their red portholes glared like wrathful eyes. They were so close now Mike could see movement inside their portholes. Creatures scuttled in the alien starships like maggots in rotten meat. Terrible creatures. Creatures with long legs, with strings of saliva between gleaming fangs, with staring, accusing eyes.

  Mike couldn't see much more from here, only these snippets of nightmares. It was enough.

  He turned and ran.

  "Where are you going?" Boris called after him.

  "To the hangar bay!" Mike cried. "I'm getting into my spaceship and flying the hell home!"

  "Dammit, hold on!" Boris said. "We have to warn Earth."

  But Mike was already running along the bridge, heart pounding, sweat dripping. The pistons pumped all around him, bang, bang, banging metal against metal, and they seemed like demons, like monsters from a dark forest. A pipe vented steam, the scream of a dying soul. The gauges spun like a thousand white eyes on an iron face, watching, mocking him.

  A nightmare.

  Just a nightmare.

  This whole space station. This whole life. It was the anxiety again. Just the anxiety. It couldn't be real. Hell couldn't be real. Monsters couldn't be real. They were just the shadows under the bed.

  Tears filled Mike's eyes. He cursed himself for being such a coward.

  Words echoed in his ears.

  We have to warn Earth!

  Yes. Yes, of course. He wouldn't neglect Earth. He'd warn them. He'd send a message—from his starship! First Mike had to get out of here. He had to be flying home. There was time for warnings later.

  As he ran through the station, Mike passed a few more portholes. Something was happening outside. Hatches like dark mouths were opening on the alien ships. Spiky spheres like sea urchins were emerging, rolling toward the space station. Bombs? Shuttles? Biological weapons? Or were those the aliens themselves? Mike wouldn't wait to find out.

  He kept running.

  Through a porthole, he saw a spiny pod racing toward the station hull. A second later, a thud reverberated through the station.

  More spiky spheres flew.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  The monitoring drone was still hovering outside the station, filming the Rubicon's exterior. The drone broadcast the scene across monitors near the ceiling. Dozens of spiky vessels were attaching themselves to the station like barnacles. Circular saws emerged from the alien machines, spinning, buzzing, carving through the Rubicon's hull.

  Mike ran faster down the corridor, heart hammering. The Rubicon was a labyrinthine station, originally built for a hundred occupants. Mike got lost, had to check a map on the wall, then kept running. He made another wrong turn. Damn this labyrinth! Damn this whole place.

  As he raced down a tubular corridor, a circular saw burst through the hull.

  Mike screamed.

  Sparks flew across him, sizzling against his blue Alliance uniform. The station was breached! The air was not fleeing. The alien boarding vessels must be latched on tightly, sealing the openings they were carving.

  Boarding vessels? Yes, it had to be. Mike had watched enough science fiction movies to recognize what was happening.

  Aliens were real. And this was an invasion.

  The saw pulled back. A circular piece of hull crashed down, leaving a gaping hole. Long black legs reached into the station, tipped with claws. Red eyes gleamed like drops of blood.

  Mike ran down the hall, slammed a hatch shut, and locked it. For a moment he leaned against a bulkhead, panting. Sweat drenched him.

  Screeches rose behind the hatch, deafening and furious, demanding blood.

  Somewhere in the depths of the station, a human voice echoed. Russian curses. Mike felt a moment of guilt. He was running for his life, leaving the Russian behind. Well, it was every man for himself now. Mike would deal with his guilt later.

  I'm a coward, not a hero, Mike thought. But right now only cowards can survive.

  Finally he reached the hangar bay, a cavernous room strewn with crates, pallets, and scattered tools. The space station's shuttle awaited there, a boxy little vessel nicknamed the Mouse. It was no larger than an antique sedan. The Mouse would carry Mike to Pandora's Chariot. Once on the starship, he would fly right back to Earth and never look back.

  Mike took a step toward the shuttle when spinning saws burst through the airlock.

  He stumbled back. He felt the blood drain from his face.

  The blades kept spinning. The sparks flew in fountains. Mike wanted to turn tail. To return to the corridors. To run and hide.

  But he stood his ground.

  There was no point running. The aliens were everywhere, swarming through the Rubicon. Their screeches echoed through the halls. Their clawed feet scraped along the decks. Their laughter echoed.

  Mike knelt and lifted a wrench from the deck. He raised it like a club.

  All my life, I was scared, Mike thought. Of schoolyard bullies. Of my bosses. Of my own mother. No more.

  The airlock burst open.

  For the first time in his life, Mike Bawden the coward refused to run.

  The creatures entered the station.

  Against every instinct in his body, Mike stood still, staring at them, holding the wrench. A single tear trailed down his cheek.

  * * * * *

  Spiders, was Mike's first thought. They're spiders.

  Several aliens clattered into the space station. They reminded Mike of black widows, hairless and gleaming. But unlike Earth's spiders, these aliens were massive. They were as large as horses.

  They scurried closer. Claws like katanas tipped their legs, scraping the deck. Their jaws u
nhinged, revealing rows of fangs. They had shark mouths. Hellmouths. Mouths that could swallow you whole if you were lucky. Mouths that were more likely to rip your flesh off the bones, killing you in slow agony. Each spider had eight eyes, round and red, the pupils slitted. Horrible intelligence shone in those eyes, calculating and vicious.

  But the worst part was their bodies. Spikes rose from their bloated backs, impaling a variety of heads. Every head belonged to a different species. Some heads still grew matted fur. Other heads sported scales or feathers. Some heads were mummified, and some were just skulls draped with strips of flesh.

  Hunters, Mike thought. They're galactic headhunters.

  He remembered, as a child, reading in National Geographic about tribal headhunters of Earth's past. One photo still haunted his nightmares sometimes, even now in adulthood. A photo of heads on spikes. The nightmare had risen from the page. Here it rotted before him.

  "S-s-stand back!" Mike stuttered. He gulped and raised his wrench. It shook in his hand. "You c-cannot enter this place!"

  One alien stepped closer, claws scraping across the deck, scarring the metal plating. The spider had unique colorings. While the other aliens were black, this one had a gray body and red legs.

  A grin spread across the alien's face. A hideous grin full of teeth. A grin as wide as Mike's arm span.

  And then the alien spoke.

  "Hello. My name is Hel'rah of the Great Web. Are you … human?"

  The alien had a voice like a trapped soul moaning in a dungeon. A voice like a storm on a lost world beyond a black hole. A voice like childhood's end. A deep voice. A masculine voice. The voice of the angel of death, calling you to your final home.

  Strange. After all, they did speak English. Boris was right.

  Mike forced a shuddering breath.

  Be strong. Be brave. Be human.

  "Go back!" Mike said.

  Hel'rah began to laugh. A laughter like rolling boulders. Like shattering bones. His gray abdomen jiggled as he laughed, jangling the impaled heads. "I was hoping for a worthy adversary. Instead I find maggots. Just maggots. Your species will be so easy to devour."

  Mike would never reach his starship. The aliens stood between him and the shuttle. He was going to die here, he knew.

  But he could give his death meaning.

  He could still warn Earth.

  He glanced toward the back of the hangar bay. There—by the far wall. A control panel. He could send a message.

  Earth was billions of kilometers away. Even at the speed of light, the message would take a day to reach Earth. But it was something. It gave Earth time to prepare. It gave humanity hope.

  We need hope, Mike thought. Hope is the only thing that can hold the monsters at bay.

  He took a step toward the control panel when another alien clattered into the hangar.

  This one came from deeper inside the space station. The spider must have breached the hull elsewhere, then made its way here through the labyrinthine corridors. The creature was black, and rows of blinking eyes ran along its abdomen. It was smaller than Hel'rah but still the size of a piano.

  "Master …," hissed the blinking beast. "Look what I found."

  The alien was holding something. A bundle of silk like cocooned prey. Blood dripped from the bundle onto the deck.

  The cocoon was wriggling. A hand burst out, tearing the strands of silk. A face emerged from the casing, covered in blood, unrecognizable.

  "Blow the reactor, Mike!" the trapped soul cried, struggling inside the cocoon. "Blow this station up and take the bastards with you!"

  It was Boris. Boris—wrapped in a cocoon. Boris—mutilated, bleeding, maybe dying.

  "I-I don't know how," Mike whispered.

  Blinking its many eyes, the black spider stepped toward its larger brethren. It bowed, laying the cocoon down.

  "A gift, Lord Hel'rah!" said the spider with many eyes. "I found this specimen in the engine room, trying to blow up the reactor core."

  Mike guessed the spider was speaking English for his benefit. Nice of it.

  Hel'rah, the gargantuan gray spider with red legs, leaned over the cocoon and sniffed. "These things stink. What kind of enemy is this? I bet they taste like tunnel swine."

  "I ate one of its arms, my lord," said the spider with many eyes. "The taste is fine. This species will feed our empire. The ones on this station are not soldiers. There is no eresh in killing them. But once we reach their world, we will face true battle."

  Hel'rah licked his chops. Saliva dripped down his fangs and hit the deck, sizzling. "I will judge their taste."

  With his two front legs, the giant spider lifted the cocoon.

  "Let him go!" Mike cried, swinging the wrench through the air.

  The aliens ignored him. Hel'rah lifted the cocoon over his jaws. Boris wriggled, screamed, then begged.

  Hel'rah gripped the Russian's head between two claws. Slowly, almost delicately, Hel'rah lowered Boris into his jaws. He bit down hard.

  The bite ripped through Boris's neck. The spider gulped down the Russian's body. He kept the head in his claws.

  Mike stared, frozen, unable to even breathe.

  Boris's head was still alive. Still alive!

  It stared at Mike. It blinked. The mouth moved, wordless.

  Mike had heard that severed heads could live for a few seconds. As a child, he had read a book about the French Revolution. The author claimed that after a guillotine execution, the severed heads remained alive in the basket for a moment, blinking, trying to speak.

  Well, apparently it was true.

  Hel'rah swiveled his eight eyes backward, looking at his bloated abdomen. A forest of spikes rose there, impaling his collection of rotting heads. Hel'rah found one free spine near his thorax. With a swift, brutal movement, he slammed Boris's head onto the spike, adding it to his gruesome trophies.

  Boris's head gave a final silent gasp, and then his eyes rolled back and gazed lifelessly.

  Hel'rah licked the blood off his lips.

  "The taste is … serviceable," the alien said. "Bring me the other one. I'll keep him alive for my mother. She might like these humans more than I do."

  Mike finally snapped free of his paralysis.

  He made a run for the control panel.

  Boris had told him to blow the reactor, to take the spiders down with him. Mike didn't know how to do that. But he did know how to contact Earth.

  Since he got here, he had been sending messages to his wife and children back home. He would send them one last message. A message of his love. And a warning.

  Tears rolled down his cheeks. A lump filled his throat. He thought of them. His sweet wife. His two adorable daughters. They were the lights of his life. He thought that being away for several years was the worst thing he could imagine.

  His mission at the Rubicon had turned out so much worse.

  The aliens saw where he was going. They began to chase him. Their claws clattered across the deck.

  Mike ran faster. He reached the control panel. He grabbed the receiver.

  He had been calling Earth every day. He just had to tap a single button to call his most recent contact.

  His wife.

  The message would take a day to reach her. It would have to do.

  "Beverly, I love you. It's me, Mike." The claws were coming closer. He spoke faster, voice shaking. "Aliens are real, Beverly. Monsters are real. A fleet. An enemy fleet, heading to Earth. Tell the army! Tell them to get ready. I love you. I love—"

  A claw drove into the control panel, shattering the machinery.

  Steaming breath washed over Mike, reeking of rotten meat.

  Mike turned around slowly. He found himself staring into the eyes of the beast. Hel'rah stood before him, his grin dripping blood.

  "Please," Mike whispered. "I have a wife. I have kids. Please let me go."

  A claw thrust and impaled Mike's belly.

  He screamed.

  The claw lifted him off the deck. Mike w
riggled, skewered on the spider's leg. The pain pulsed from his wound, flowing across the rest of his body, a red supernova of agony.

  "Oh, don't worry," Hel'rah said, his voice dripping mock concern. "A stomach wound is a slow death. You'll live for another few hours. Maybe even a few days. I would never dream of bringing my mother dead meat."

  Across the hangar, the spiders laughed.

  They carried Mike across the bloody deck, through the hole in the hull, and into their shuttle. They took him to their starship. They paraded him through a pulsing dark cavern full of watching red eyes. A cavern like a temple. Finally they laid him before a goddess of many claws, and she fed upon him. Slowly. Finger by finger. Toe by toe. Nose and eyes. But they left the ears. Maybe they wanted him to hear his own screams.

  He would die eventually. He prayed it came soon. And as they ate him alive, Mike clung to one last comfort.

  He had done his job. He had fulfilled his mission. He had watched the darkness for monsters, and he had sent a warning to Earth. Maybe that gave Earth a chance. Maybe humanity could still be saved. Because monsters were real. Because terrors did lurk in the dark. And for a brief moment at the end of his life, he had shined a light on them.

  His own light was fading now. The sun was setting on his life. He had lived that life as a coward. But perhaps Mike Bawden died brave.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Starship Freedom

  High Earth orbit

  07:00 Christmas 2199

  James "Bulldog" King, commander of the FAS Freedom, would miss his starship.

  Today was his last day in uniform.

  He passed his hand along a bulkhead, caressing his beloved ship.

  "Forty years," he rasped. He could only speak with a rasp. "It's been a long ride, girl."

  His throat hurt. Talking always hurt. The old war wound had never healed right. Even now, decades after the war, his throat ached whenever he spoke. But dammit, he would say goodbye to his ship.

  "Farewell, old girl." He pressed his palm against the bulkhead, feeling the faint vibration from the engines, hearing the comforting hum of the machinery deep within the starship. "I'll miss you."