His eye twitched. The pain was bad today.
He walked across his cabin. Shelves covered most of the bulkheads, made from real wood, a luxury aboard a starship. Thousands of books topped the shelves—actual books, ink and paper. In the year 2199, paper was antiquated. Some of these books were centuries old, original editions, lovingly maintained over the generations. About half were novels, the other half history books. Literature and history were sisters, after all; both were forms of storytelling. Literature was the storytelling of the imagination. History was the grand story humans wrote upon the world.
Antique naval instruments nestled among the books. A brass astrolabe, a masterwork of gears and gimbals, rose beside a copy of Moby Dick. A telescope wrapped in leather, dating back to the nineteenth century, rested among parchment maps. A model sailing ship, a replica of the HMS Beagle, sailed inside a glass bottle. King had painstakingly built the ship himself.
He walked past these mementos, which he had collected during his decades of service, and faced his tall mirror. The scar was an ugly white today, a blazing streak across his neck like a comet's tail. He touched it gingerly. It hurt. The wound was thirty-five years old. And it still goddamn hurt.
"Maybe I should have died that day," he whispered. "Maybe I should have died by your side, Dad. You died a soldier. I lingered on. Look what I've become."
He examined the rest of his reflection.
On the surface, he still looked every inch the soldier. He wore a navy-blue uniform adorned with brass buttons, polished cuff links, and a braided aiguillette. Golden eagles shone on his shoulders—the insignia of a commander. Medals and service ribbons hung on his chest, earned during the third world war.
He was a tall man, powerfully built. His jaw was wide, and his steel-gray hair was buzzed short. His soldiers called him a bulldog. Partly because of his stubborn nature. Partly because he looked a bit like the animal, tough and mean but noble too.
Yes, in his heart, he was still a soldier. Despite everything.
He turned away from the mirror.
"They say you're a tourist attraction," he rasped, speaking to his ship. "They say I'm nothing but a carnival barker. But dammit, to me you're still a warship. And I'm still your commander. For one day more."
It was more than just Christmas today. It was an anniversary. Thirty-five years since he won the war. Since he lost his father. Since everything changed. Thirty-five years and the pain still lingered. And he didn't just mean the pain in his throat.
He approached his desk and lifted a model of the starship Freedom. The real Freedom, the ship inside which he now stood, was a full 1,500 meters long. Nearly a mile. This model in his hands was no larger than a newborn baby.
He spun the model over and over in his hands, examining the mighty exhaust ports, the broadside cannons, and the legendary railgun that thrust out from the prow. He remembered flying on this ship to battle long ago. He remembered the glory of victory, even if nobody else did.
"You're beautiful, girl. You made me proud. You're a museum now. But to me you'll always be a fighter."
* * * * *
A knock sounded on his door.
King put down the model starship. "Come in."
The door slid open. Lieutenant Commander Larry "Phantom" Jordan, XO of the Freedom, entered the cabin.
An XO was the second-in-command of a starship. King could think of nobody better for the job. Jordan was a tall, slender man with dark skin, white hair, and a strong jaw. He wore a meticulous dress uniform, the navy-blue fabric adorned with service ribbons and polished buttons.
He smiled when he saw King and, oddly, began to sing. "O holy night, the stars are brightly shining …"
His voice was deep and mellifluous. After all, Jordan was an amateur opera singer.
King snorted. "At least you're not singing the happy birthday song." He coughed. "I hate that damn song."
"You got lucky, old man," Jordan said. "To be born on Christmas is a special treat. You get to hear me singing far better music." He cleared his throat and kept singing. "Fall on your knees, O hear the angels' voices …"
It was funny, King thought. He himself could barely speak over a whisper. Jordan could sing like an angel.
"At least you're a better singer than you're an officer," King said.
Jordan laughed. "I see you're already embracing your role as a grumpy old man. Happy birthday, Jim. How does it feel to be sixty?"
"Everything hurts and I'm tired," King said.
"So business as usual. I've known you for … what, forty years now? I swear you've been a cantankerous old geezer this whole time. You probably came out of your mother's womb complaining about the thermostat in the delivery room."
"I was born on a farm, actually," King said. "In an old farmhouse in Nebraska." A wistful air touched his gravelly voice.
And I intend to die there, King thought. Soon I'll be back home.
The memories filled him. The swaying fields of wheat, spreading as far as the eye could see. The taste of corn right off the stalk. The smell of crisp morning air flowing over the prairies. He had been serving aboard this starship for most of his life. It was time to go home, to breathe the fresh air and wake up under the blue sky, not above it. He had earned this. Earned some peace.
Jordan nodded, and his smile softened. He understood. Jordan could always understand him.
The two men came from starkly different backgrounds. King had grown up on a sprawling ranch in Nebraska, the son of a prominent family that had fallen on hard times. Jordan had grown up in the hellscape of twenty-second-century Los Angeles, raised by a single mother. He had never known his father.
But the Alliance didn't care about your background, your family name, your race or creed. In the Alliance, you started equal to everyone else. Only your mettle mattered. Both King and Jordan had distinguished themselves as fighter pilots during the war, eventually rising to become senior officers, leaders of men. Some would call them war heroes.
And today we find ourselves stuck in a floating museum, King thought. Two old war dogs banished to the doghouse. I've been rotting away here for too long. I grew old here. But I won't die here.
Jordan held out a wooden box. "I brought you something, Jim. A birthday gift. It's also your Christmas gift. Thank God you were born on Christmas. I only need to buy you one present a year."
King accepted the box. "What is it?"
"Diapers for your old ass," Jordan said. "Open it, old man! Open it and take a look."
King couldn't help but laugh—a strained, hoarse sound. The pain flared. He winced. Ignoring the old wound, he opened the box.
Inside was a framed photograph.
A photograph of himself, a plucky young starfighter, standing by his father, the previous commander of the starship Freedom. Father and son both wore battle uniforms. They were smiling at the camera, guns in hand, two proud soldiers of the Free Alliance, ready to fight the Red Dawn for the freedom of humanity.
A date was scrawled below the photo. Christmas, 2164.
The day they won the war. The day they paid the cost of freedom.
The day the Russians took you from me, Dad, King thought. Pain clutched his neck as if the knife was slicing him again. The day my heart broke.
King looked up from the photograph.
"Where did you find this?" he whispered.
"My personal archives," Jordan said. "You know how I've always wanted to write a book about the war?"
"You've been saying that for thirty years," King said.
Jordan snorted. "Well, maybe if you gave me a day off now and then. I'm still doing my research. I was leafing through files from the war, studying our battles, analyzing our tactics. And I came across this photo. I took it myself. God, I was young and handsome back then. Even more than now. Pity I'm the one behind the camera. In the chaos of battle, I must have misplaced the photo, forgotten all about it. Well … here it is again. I figured it would make a good gift."
King stared at
the photo. Him, just a young, cocky pilot. His father, the commander of the Freedom, the great general who had led the Alliance to victory against the Red Dawn. But there was more in that photo. There were older memories. His father taking him fishing by the river. Teaching him to box. Shaking his hand on his wedding day, then pulling him into a crushing hug. The photo depicted only one moment in one day, but it was like a single thread that unraveled a rug. The memories all came spilling out in a thousand colorful threads.
Look at that kid in the photo, King thought. Look at me. Just a dumb hotshot. If I had known what the years would bring … If I had known what would happen to her …
"Jim! Are you all right?" Jordan put a hand on his shoulder. "Does the photo disturb you?"
King blinked a few times. He looked up from the photo at his old friend.
"It's wonderful," King said. "Thank you, Larry."
He placed the framed photograph back in the box. He wasn't ready to hang it up yet. Not here. He would hang it up at home among the fields of wheat. He would hang it in the house his father had built.
* * * * *
"And I have something for you, Larry," King said. "A little Christmas gift of my own."
Larry Jordan raised an eyebrow. "When did you turn into Santa? You never bought me a gift before."
"Well, I didn't buy this gift." King lifted the model of the starship Freedom off his desk. He turned it gently in his hands, smiling. "She's not exactly something you can buy in the store." He handed the model to the XO. "She's yours, Larry."
Jordan took the model, frowning. "This model? Damn, Jim, it took you a year to build this. It's been sitting on your desk since—"
"Not the goddamn model," King growled. "I'm giving you the ship. The real ship we're standing inside right now." He pounded a boot against the deck. "The starship Freedom. She's yours, Larry. I've decided to retire. I'm going to officially announce it tonight at the Christmas gala." His growl dropped to a whisper. "I'm giving you the Freedom. I know you'll take good care of her."
Jordan stared at him, silent for a long moment.
"Jim," he finally said, voice soft. "Are you sure?"
King's throat tightened, and it wasn't just the wound this time. "We fought a war together, Larry. We were two young officers, full of piss and vinegar. We flew starfighters into the Red Dawn fleet. We stormed the strongholds of the enemy in jungles and deserts. We lost brothers-in-arms. And we saved the world."
Jordan nodded. "Those were the glory days."
King heaved a sigh. "And then we grew old. We watched our warship turned into a floating museum, and we stayed here. We did not abandon our beloved ship. Even as we watched her degraded, shamed, turned into a pale shadow of herself—we stayed. Do you know why?"
"Because we're too dumb to get a job anywhere else?" Jordan asked, a bit of mischief sparkling in his eyes.
King snorted. "Speak for yourself." He chuckled. It hurt. "No, Larry. We stayed because the Freedom is special. This old girl won the war. She might be a museum now. But she's still the best damn starship in the fleet."
Jordan saluted. "I'll take good care of her, Jim. I'm honored. And I'll miss you."
"Ah, cut the sappy crap," King snapped. "You've been waiting for this day for thirty years."
Jordan laughed uproariously. "Yes, I admit it. It'll be nice to get rid of your cranky old ass." He squeezed King's shoulder. "How will you spend your retirement?"
"I'm going home, Larry. Back to Nebraska. Back to those golden farms. I … I was never a good husband. Never a good father. I neglected my wife, and … Well, that's in the past. Diane is gone now. And my son hates my guts. But I have a granddaughter, and maybe … maybe I can still become a family man."
Jordan's eyes softened. "Bastian doesn't hate you. Why don't you call him, Jim?" The XO's voice was warm and soothing like old whiskey. Somehow even when he was speaking it sounded like a song. "Call your son."
King turned away. "He doesn't want to talk to me."
"He's your son. He loves you. Maybe he doesn't realize it, but he loves you. Call him, Jim. It's Christmas."
King harrumphed. "All right. Anything to shut you up."
"Shut me up? You love my deep, beautiful voice. Admit it. You'll miss my singing on that farm."
"Ha! Finally I'll have some peace and quiet." King opened a drawer on his desk. "Before I call my kid, I need a drink. And you're drinking with me. I've been saving this bottle for a special occasion."
He lifted the spherical bottle. The drink swirled inside, stirring up whirlpools of amber, burnt sienna, and faded ocher. For a moment the round bottle became a miniature planet.
Jordan's eyes widened. "Martian ale. That's expensive stuff."
"Expensive and old. Almost as old as we are." King pulled two glasses from the cupboard. "Sit down. I'll pour you a glass."
Jordan checked the clock on the wall. "It's seven thirty in the morning."
"Come on, Larry. It's Christmas."
The XO nodded. King poured. They raised their glasses.
"To freedom!" King said.
"And to the Freedom, our beloved girl," Jordan said.
They drank. The ale was strong and sweet and burned down King's ruined throat. The war wound blazed.
As King looked at the bottle, at the amber liquid swirling inside, he remembered flying on this very starship to Mars. Remembered emerging from the hangar in his starfighter, roaring into a hellscape of enemy fire. Remembered trudging across the desert, fighting the enemy at every step. An old bottle. Old memories.
He refilled his glass. He drank again. That had been a long time ago on a faraway world. And finally now, a sixty-year-old man with a ruined voice and too much weight on his shoulders, James King was going home.
CHAPTER TWO
Buckingham Palace
England
07:45 Christmas 2199
Her Royal Highness Princess Emily, Duchess of Sussex, Lady of the White Rose, was about to see her Christmas wish come true.
At seventeen years of age, Emily was finally going to visit the starship Freedom.
She had dreamed of this all her life.
She walked through Buckingham Palace. Her dress swished, the cobalt fabric embroidered with sparkling silver stars, a suitable outfit for a day in space. She smiled wistfully. The palace was always resplendent, but on Christmas, a special magic filled it. Christmas trees shone with lights, adding to the majesty. Bells rang through the palace, and the smells of cinnamon, candy canes, and pine filled the air. Snow was falling outside, and the fireplaces crackled, filling the palace with warmth.
This was not only the grandest palace in England, arguably in the world. It was Emily's home. She had been born here. Raised here. She knew every corner of Buckingham Palace and the magical secrets it contained.
She had been born into wealth and royalty. And she wanted to see another life.
My grandfather was born here too, she thought as she walked through the festive halls. But he joined the military, and he fought in a war. He served aboard the starship Freedom. It is thanks to him and his courage that we're here today.
She paused by a towering painting framed in gold. Emily admired the artwork. The oil painting depicted her grandfather, Robert the Second, King of England. He was young in the painting, wearing a resplendent military uniform, standing by a porthole that gazed out upon the stars. All her life, Emily had found this painting fascinating. It was different from the thousands of other paintings that hung on the palace walls. In the other paintings, royals appeared standing inside palaces, or perhaps riding horses in the countryside. But the painting of King Robert II was unique. It was the only painting to portray a royal in space.
That painting depicts him aboard the Freedom, Emily knew. And today I'll finally get to stand where he stood. Where he fought.
"Emily, we should make haste," said Niles, her drone. "The shuttle is about to arrive."
"Oh shush." She waved the drone aside. "There are two crimes you should
never commit against an Englishwoman. Never serve her cold tea, and never interrupt her navel-gazing."
The drone recoiled, floating backward in the air. "Serve cold tea? What do you think I am, a battle-droid? I would never!"
"Ah, but interrupting—that you're an expert at."
Niles floated a little higher, huffing. He was roughly the size and shape of an American football, though he would never admit it, referring to himself as a prolate spheroid. He boasted a silver shell studded with gemstones, and two blue cameras served as his eyes. To Emily, he looked a little like a floating Fabergé egg. She had mentioned that once. Once. Dear old Niles had sulked for a week, mumbling about being a fine work of English robotics, not an egg. And certainly not a Russian egg, thank you very much.
She admired the painting for a little longer, mostly just to annoy Niles.
Then Princess Emily continued walking down the corridor, passing by suits of armor, more oil paintings, and Christmas trees. Finally she reached the palace gateway, a masterwork of iron and gold, adorned with rampant lions holding miniature crowns.
The King's Guards waited here, dressed in full regalia, complete with their tall bearskin hats. Emily smiled at the sentinels as they bowed. She stepped outside into the sunlit courtyard.
The Victoria Memorial rose ahead, a towering monument of marble and gold. Unveiled in 1911, it featured a Winged Victory standing majestically atop a globe, golden and resplendent. Other bronze statues, featuring ancient warriors and gods, rose across the palace grounds. King's Guards marched and rode horses. The Union Jack flew proudly. Some people called the British monarchy an anachronism. But to Emily, this was a symbol of pride. It was consistency in an era of rising, crashing tides of storming history.
"Over the past century, we fought a third world war," Emily said softly, perhaps speaking to her drone, perhaps to herself. "We joined the Alliance, the great union of free nations. We faced the Red Dawn and withstood them. We endured. Great Britain is the shield that guards civilization. But the starship Freedom … ah, the starship Freedom is the sword that strikes our enemy's heart."
Starship Freedom Page 3
