Starship Freedom

by Daniel Arenson

  They had built that building quickly during the war. Everything happened quickly back then. The United States and other democracies scrambled to form an alliance against the rising tide of Red Dawn. As millions were dying, as cities burned, the free people of the world gathered in the ruins. They united. They formed a great wall to break the tidal wave of equalism.

  Some people complained that Alliance Headquarters was based in the United States, one country, while the Alliance comprised dozens of nations. But back then, everything happened so fast. The United States had led the coalition, so the headquarters remained on American soil, and the current high commander was an American.

  Still, Americans formed only half the staff. Many officers from great nations served in the headquarters on the ground, and they served here aboard the starship Freedom. King and Jordan, the Freedom's two most senior officers, were both American. But Sergeant Major Darjeeling, the senior NCO aboard the Freedom, was English. And Colonel Gal "Spitfire" Levy, who commanded the starfighter fleet, was Israeli. Mimori had been built in Japan. There were officers and NCOs from twenty-three other nations aboard.

  All swore allegiance to the Alliance high commander.

  Who was not answering his phone.

  Finally an android down on Earth answered the call. She materialized here in the cabin aboard the Freedom. Another hallucination. The android appeared as a pretty young woman in a white uniform, her blond hair held in a sensible ponytail.

  "Welcome to the office of the Alliance high commander! Please be aware that our office is closed for the holidays. Have a Merry Christmas and—"

  "Get Archer on the line," King growled. "This is Commander James King calling."

  The android smiled sweetly. "Oh, the hotel manager! Yes, of course." She tilted her head. "Going over the heads of the admiralty? I'm not sure that's according to protocol. I'll have to file a complaint. If you're willing to sign a form, I—"

  "Get me Archer on the line."

  "I'm afraid he's on holiday, sir. If you don't mind filling out a request form, I can queue you in for a call in early February. Would mornings or afternoons work better for you?"

  King hung up on her.

  Goddammit.

  He looked at Jordan and Mimori. His second-in-command and the personification of the ship he stood in. They stared back, silent.

  "We've done all we could to raise the alarm," King said. "Only to be dismissed. Mocked. Turned away. Us, the soldiers who won the war." He clenched his fists, and his lip peeled back in a snarl. "We're alone."

  Jordan placed a hand on King's shoulder. "Not alone. We have one another. Us in this cabin, and the thousands who live and work aboard the Freedom."

  "And you have the Freedom herself," Mimori said. "Me."

  "Whatever is out there at the Rubicon, if it comes here, we'll be ready," Jordan said.

  King shook his head sadly. "I wish I could agree. But we have no ammunition aboard this ship, aside from a few personal pistols. No Maccabee torpedoes for the Angels of Liberty. No missiles for our Eagles' wings. No bullets for our machine-gun turrets. Our single Goliath projectile is hollow—just a fake for tourists to photograph. We're no warship. We're a museum."

  "No," Mimori said. "We're heroes. From the ashes of defeat, when the war seemed lost, we rose and brought hope to mankind. If new darkness falls, we will shine our light again, and we will ring the bells of freedom."

  "I never knew you were a poet, Mimori," King said.

  She smiled. "I've studied your old war speeches."

  "Our old bulldog does have a poet's soul," Jordan said, smiling too.

  But King did not smile. His frown only deepened. His old war wound ached.

  "This is probably nothing," King said. "Probably just an astronaut too deep in space, too lonely, imagining monsters in the dark. Odds are we're safe. But soldiers do not win by playing the odds. They win by preparing for any eventuality. They win by expecting the worst—and facing it head-on. We are still soldiers. They might call us showmen, carnival barkers, entertainers. But I know that we're still soldiers, and we will not ignore this danger. The Freedom was a military ship once. We still remember what happens to those who do not prepare for war."

  Jordan lost his smile. He had grown up in Los Angeles. He remembered what had happened to his city. He nodded solemnly. "We're still soldiers. A bit older. A bit slower on our feet. But soldiers still."

  "My hull is still thick and strong," Mimori said. "I don't mean the synthetic skin of this interface. I speak to you now as the starship Freedom herself. I am unarmed. But I am armored. And I'm ready to shield the people inside me—whatever danger might come."

  King nodded, satisfied. The commander of a starship was only as good as his crew and his ship. And King had an excellent crew and ship.

  "I'm going to start contacting the senior officers and NCOs," King said. "I'm implementing a complete lockdown of the starship Freedom. All civilians, tourists and staff alike, will report to their cabins. All military personnel will enter a state of yellow alert. I'll be closing down all tourist facilities. And the Christmas gala is canceled."

  "Grinch," Jordan quipped.

  Mimori nodded at King. "Should I begin to relay your orders to the ship's officers?"

  "I'll do it myself," King said. "This should come from me."

  Jordan leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. "Jim, if you're wrong about this, if this is just a false alarm … there will be a lot of very angry people down on Earth. Christmas is the busiest tourist day of the year."

  "I won't compromise the security of my ship to make a buck," King said.

  "Still, the backlash could be severe," Jordan said. "Both from our bosses and from the public. Not to mention the civilian contractors who run the spas, casinos, and the other entertainment facilities. They have powerful lobbyists. To close a premier tourist attraction on Christmas because of a cryptic message from the Rubicon …"

  "That's what the Rubicon is there for. To warn us of threats to the solar system."

  "On paper, yes," Jordan said. "We both know the Rubicon was always a publicity stunt. Just a way to get one American and one Russian to sit in a room together without killing each other."

  "Nevertheless, the Rubicon sent a warning. And military protocol demands that I take it seriously." He put a hand on Jordan's shoulder. "If this is a false alarm, I'll take the heat. I'm retiring anyway. You'll begin your command with a clean slate."

  Then King remembered. He had planned to officially announce his retirement at the gala tonight. The same gala he just canceled.

  I guess I'm staying on board for a little longer, he thought. He heaved a long, raspy sigh. It hurt.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Starship Freedom

  High Earth Orbit

  14:42 Christmas 2199

  The aerie was famous, at least among British royalty. Located on the bottom deck of the starship Freedom, it was an exclusive lounge for starfighter pilots. Emily, the granddaughter of a starfighter pilot, had heard many stories about it. King Robert—back when he was Prince Robert the intrepid pilot—used to drink, play, and socialize there.

  When Emily entered the aerie, she expected to find a sophisticated club. Oil paintings would hang on the walls, she had imagined. A chandelier would glow. A butler in a tuxedo would be serving wine, while the pilots reclined in giltwood chairs, smoking pipes, stroking their mustaches, and discussing the issues of the day.

  After all, her grandfather used to haunt the aerie. Naturally, Emily had imagined a place worthy of a king, a club of class and sophistication.

  Of course not.

  This was the Freedom, after all.

  "I don't think we're in Buckingham Palace anymore, Toto," she told her drone.

  "I should think not!" Niles said. "This place is positively ghastly. Do you think there will be a bar fight? Oh dear."

  "I think it's wonderful," Emily said. "We need a place like this in the palace."

  "Heavens no!" Niles
bristled, his gemstones clinking. "We certainly don't want Buckingham Palace to become a hive of ill repute."

  Standing at the doorway, Emily admired the aerie. The smell of beer and cigar smoke filled the air. Pinups covered the walls, depicting scantily clad women lounging against starfighters. Emily blushed to see them.

  The lounge was packed, and nobody had noticed her yet. The Freedom's Flock, the starship's complement of stunt pilots, filled the place. At least she assumed those were the stunt pilots. They wore blue flight suits, so it seemed a safe assumption.

  A few pilots were shooting pool. Others were drinking at the bar. A couple of men were arm-wrestling while one slipped a coin into an old-fashioned jukebox. "Thunderstruck" by AC/DC began to play. The song was centuries old, but Emily, a buff of historical music, recognized the tune.

  "We put on a good show today, didn't we?" one pilot was saying, examining a pool table. He bit into a pickle. It snapped.

  Nobody had noticed Emily yet. The cigar smoke was apparently concealing her.

  "I put on a good show," said another pilot, a portly man with pink cheeks. "You, Pickles, flew like a one-winged chicken."

  Pickles snorted. The origin of his nickname was clear. The pilot reached into a jar, pulled out another pickle, and bit with relish. "Me, a one-winged chicken? You, Meatball, fly like a one-legged elephant."

  Meatball, the beefy pilot, gulped down beer. "Ah, whatever. You're full of crap as always." He wiped suds off his lips. "Hey … they say the princess of England was watching from one of those shuttles. You believe that?"

  Pickles snorted. He tapped the side of his head. Suddenly his left eye glowed red. A bionic implant. Laser beamed out from the eye, tracing angles between several billiard balls.

  "Yeah, Meatball, whatever you say." Pickles squinted, adjusting the laser from his eyeball, plotting his pool shot. "And I heard the queen was watching from the whorehouse porthole."

  A third pilot, an Asian woman with long black hair, stomped forward and crossed her arms. "Hey, Pickles! It's cheating if you use your bionic eye like a laser pointer."

  "Shut up, Katana, it's part of my body," said Pickles, looking up from the pool table. The laser from his bionic eye swept upward, blinding a few pilots. People cursed. A dart went wide, hitting a pinup girl over the bar.

  Everyone started arguing and laughing. Emily watched with wonder from the doorway. She had spent her life among prim and proper royalty. Seeing these daredevils in their natural habitat seemed so alien and marvelous. Granted, these pilots were officers of the Alliance, themselves something of royalty aboard the starship. Not many soldiers became officers, let alone pilots, let alone starfighter pilots. But Emily supposed that when you were the princess of England, anything short of tea with the queen seemed a bit lowbrow.

  If she found this place a bit rough, Emily couldn't even imagine what Niles was thinking. The drone just hovered there silently. Probably too mortified to speak.

  Darjeeling, who had accompanied Emily here, stepped forward and cleared his throat.

  The flock all looked up.

  Emily smiled hesitantly and waved.

  A few cigars fell from a few mouths.

  "Ah, shit," said Pickles. "The princess is here."

  He turned off his bionic eye and managed a clumsy bow, knocking over his jar of pickles.

  "Sirs, ma'ams, officers of the fleet!" boomed Darjeeling. "May I introduce to you a special guest aboard our starship." He removed his cap. "Her Royal Highness Princess Emily, Duchess of Sussex, Lady of the White Rose."

  "Hi." She smiled and curtsied.

  Pickles bowed before her. "Pardon, Your Majesty! Or is it Your Highness? I'm from New York. I don't know shit about royalty, but— Hey, welcome aboard!" He grinned, scooped up his jar, and held it out. "Want a pickle?"

  Meatball, the heavyset pilot, shoved the smaller Pickles aside. "Don't offer the princess of England a pickle! She's not a peasant like you." He held out a beefy hand for Emily to shake. "The name's Bob. But the boys call me Meatball. It's because I cook good meatballs."

  "It's because you look like a meatball," Pickles said.

  Emily shook Meatball's hand. He had a warm, crushing grip. "Hello. It's nice to meet you. Nice to meet you all."

  * * * * *

  A few more pilots introduced themselves. Katana was petite but fierce, and her eyes gleamed with savage intensity. Snoopy, a young female pilot with blond hair, only smiled shyly, too meek to even talk. Curly winked and kissed Emily's hand. Honey Badger and Babyface strutted around, trying to impress her, while Tenderfoot only blushed and nursed a beer. There were a bunch more, each boasting a silly nickname. Emily didn't know their real names. Around here, the pilots went by their call signs.

  My grandfather was known as Charming, she remembered. Appropriate for a prince.

  Soon Emily was laughing with the flock, refusing the beer (and pickles) but laughing at the jokes. Honey Badger, the tiniest pilot in the crew, began to croon. Meatball grunted and tossed an apple core at the diminutive singer.

  "You'll really teach me to fly a starfighter?" Emily said, laughing.

  Pickles nodded. "Sure, babe. Anything for the princess of England. I tell ya, the boys back in Brooklyn ain't gonna believe me."

  "Ah, don't fly with that putz!" said Meatball. "I'll give ya a flight in my bird. You'll see what real flying's like. And I don't even need a bionic eye to find my way."

  Pickles blew cigar smoke at him. "That's right, Meatball, 'cause you always just follow my wake."

  The larger pilot laughed. "Whatever, Pickles, we all know that your mother—"

  "What the hell is going on here?"

  The voice boomed from the back of the aerie.

  Everyone scrambled up and snapped to attention. Even Darjeeling, who had been enjoying a cup of tea at the bar.

  "Commander on deck!" Darjeeling cried, saluting.

  Emily rose too, though she wasn't sure why. She stared toward the shadows at the back of the lounge.

  A tall woman stepped into the light. Her brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, freckles adorned her nose and cheeks, and her eyes burned with fury. She was a pilot too. She wore the same blue flight suit as the others. But five golden bars topped each of her shoulders. She was a colonel, outranking everyone else in the room.

  She's young to be a colonel, Emily thought. She looks like she's still in her thirties.

  Darjeeling stepped toward Emily and bowed his head. "Your Highness, may I introduce Colonel Gal Levy, known by her call sign Spitfire. She commands Freedom's Flock." He turned toward Spitfire. "Ma'am, may I introduce Princess Em—"

  "I know who she is," Spitfire said. "And I don't give a damn. I didn't come here to grovel or curtsy or kiss ass. Pilots of the Alliance do not bow before royalty. Let alone a teenage girl." She glared at the rest of the flock. "Pickles! Meatball! You get that?"

  The younger pilots gulped.

  "Um, yes, ma'am," Pickles began. "It's just that—"

  "Quiet!" Spitfire roared. "No excuses. I'll have you scrubbing space barnacles with your bare hands."

  Pickled loosened his collar, cringing. "Yes, ma'am."

  Emily stepped forward. "Miss Levy, if I caused any trouble, I apologize. I didn't mean to step on any toes."

  Spitfire spun toward her, eyes flaring. "You will call me Colonel Levy, or you will call me by my call sign. Is that understood? This is a military vessel, not your precious palace."

  Emily stepped back again. "I'm so sorry, Colonel Levy. I just wanted to come and thank you. For the show you put on for me. For—"

  "For you?" Spitfire laughed. "We didn't put on a show for you. There were thousands of tourists watching. Most who didn't need to book an entire shuttle for themselves. You're nobody special, Princess."

  Emily's eyes stung. Surprisingly, she found herself close to tears. She wasn't used to being scolded like this.

  "How dare you besmirch the princess's honor?" Niles demanded, flying toward the colonel. A hatch open
ed on his body, and his slender pointer emerged. "Now stand down, ruffian, lest my rod finds your backside!"

  Spitfire stared at the drone in disgust. "Will somebody get this jeweled football off my deck?"

  Niles bristled, jewels rattling. "A football? I assume you mean the crude American game, the one where hulking brutes toss so-called pigskins." The drone shuddered. "I shall have you know that I'm a prolate spheroid, and my jewels are worth more than your life."

  "Shut him up or I shoot him down!" Spitfire said, reaching for her sidearm.

  "Pardon, Colonel," Darjeeling said, stepping closer. He held out his hands in a placating gesture. He was twice Spitfire's age, but she outranked him, so he was treading carefully. "Now let's be fair. Princess Emily isn't to blame for what happened. She wasn't even born back then."

  Emily wasn't sure what the sergeant was talking about. She would ask him later. Right now she wanted to make amends.

  "I don't know why you're cross at me, Colonel Levy," Emily said to the tall pilot. "If I've offended you—"

  "Don't flatter yourself." Spitfire snickered. "It takes more than a spoiled princess to offend me. Did you really think you could prance in here after what your grandfather did?"

  Emily tilted her head. "What did my grandfather do? He's a war hero."

  Spitfire snorted. "Is that what they teach you at your fancy princess school? That Runaway Robert was a war hero?"

  "Everyone knows King Robert is a war hero!" Emily said. Finally some anger rose in her. To insult her was one thing. But to insult her family was far worse. "He earned many medals in the war. King Robert has his problems, yes. He can be sulky, moody, withdrawn. The war was hard on him, and he never fully healed." She raised her chin and squared her shoulders. "But he's an honorable man, a fine king, and a proud veteran."

  Emily took deep breaths, reeling after her speech. Truth be told, she had always found her grandfather intimidating. But she also loved him, and she would defend him wherever he was besmirched. Darjeeling, bless his heart, pressed his cap to his chest and nodded his agreements.