Right now, however, his soldiers were not happy. In fact, they were quite pissed off.
Bastian stood in the snowy courtyard, facing the soldiers. They stood in a neat formation. They did not complain. But Bastian saw the scowls. Heard the angry breathing. Saw the clenched fists.
He addressed his troops with a booming voice. "Nobody wanted to be here today. I get it. You were all enjoying Christmas at home, and the last thing you wanted was your officer calling your MindLinks, telling you to haul ass back to base. But right now I need you here. We received a warning. And we must defend Fort Liberty."
A few soldiers glanced at one another.
"Sir?" asked a private. "What's going on?"
"You don't need to know!" snapped Alice. "Your job is to follow orders and shut up."
Alice wore full battle gear too. With her body armor, helmet, and hefty Gideon rifle, she looked like she could take on a Red Dawn division. By herself. Her towering height and muscular frame made her look even fiercer. Her two blond braids spilled out from under her helmet, and war paint adorned her cheeks. The company's senior NCO, Alice was older and tougher than the other enlisted marines. She knew how to keep her troops in line. Bastian could think of no one better to command at his side.
"Sir, there are rumors going around," said a soldier, a scrawny farm girl with freckled cheeks. "Something about aliens. I saw it online." She gulped. "Are the aliens coming here, sir? I'm worried about my mom. She's alone on the farm."
Alice approached the young private. She placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'll send a drone over to your farm. We'll watch over your mother. Don't worry."
"So it is aliens then?" asked another soldier, this one a corporal with big ears and crooked teeth. "When do we get to kill 'em?"
Alice spun toward the corporal. "First kill the lice in your hair, Harrington. I can hear them chirping from here."
A few soldiers laughed.
"All right, all right, knock it off!" Bastian said, but he was stifling a smile.
Every good officer needed a strong NCO at his side. Bastian commanded the company, but without Alice, it would fall apart. She was the glue that held the Badgers together. He gave the orders. But Alice kept things running. She made sure the troops were disciplined, trained, well armed, always at the ready. If you missed target practice one week, Alice would show up and give you hell. If your gun wasn't oiled, your boots not polished, your hair not trimmed, you had Alice Allenby to deal with.
But she did more than yell. She took care of her troops. If somebody had trouble at home, showed up after a weekend with an empty belly, Alice made sure they got first dibs at the mess hall—and she gave them battle rations to take home next weekend. If a soldier had no home to go to, Alice made sure there was always a weekend bunk with a warm bed, a meal cooking in the galley, and a listening ear. To her, the troops were like younger siblings. She was tough on them. Sometimes she made their lives hell. She also loved and protected them.
Bastian was proud of all his soldiers. But deep in his heart, he was most proud of Alice.
"All right, split up into your platoons," Bastian said. "We're a bit understaffed today. But we're going to guard this base. First platoon will guard the main gate. Second platoon—you guard the armory. Third and fourth platoons—you walk patrols along the outer walls. I hope you got your beauty sleep last night, because we're on duty until tomorrow morning."
A few grumbles rose, but Alice silenced them with a glare.
"All right, get to work!" Bastian said.
He left the courtyard. His platoon commanders would take things from here.
They would have to defend Fort Liberty alone. And Bastian had something even more precious to protect. Rowan.
* * * * *
As troops moved into defensive positions around the base, Bastian walked toward the barracks.
Fort Liberty was reasonably fortified. It wasn't exactly Fort Knox, but they could hold their own. A concrete wall surrounded the complex, topped with barbed wire. Guard towers rose at regular intervals. There was only one gate, facing south. Within the walls lived the Freedom Brigade, outcast from space.
This wasn't just a military base. It was a second home. To all of them. Fort Liberty often felt like a town. There was a basketball court, a mess hall, a chapel, even a movie theater—at least if a big concrete room with a projector and folding seats could be called a movie theater. Bastian had spent his childhood hopping between the starship Freedom and the King family ranch. But since joining the marines, he had spent most of his days here. Twelve years now. Ever since he flunked out of flight school, breaking his father's heart.
He entered the concrete building in the center of the base—the troop barracks. Normally thousands of people moved up and down these halls. Today the place was eerily silent.
He approached his personal bunk. The room was even smaller than his office, and that was saying something. But it was his and his alone. For a marine, privacy was a luxury. As a company commander, he enjoyed this privilege. Most marines shared a room with several other soldiers, sleeping in bunk beds.
But hey, they have homes to go to for Christmas, Bastian thought. I'm not shedding any tears for them.
He entered his room, where he found Rowan sitting on the bed, playing with a plush octopus. Charging Bear stood guard beside her, his rifle hanging across his back.
"I couldn't get the full brigade," Bastian said. "But we got two hundred of the toughest soldiers on Earth along the wall. Whatever the hell is going on, we're safe."
"Daddy, you said a bad word," Rowan said.
"Sorry, sweetie." He scooped her up into his arms. "You're being very brave. Are you protecting Bear?"
The girl rolled her eyes. "Daddy! Bear is a giant. He's even bigger than you. Even bigger than a dinosaur."
"I know, but you need to protect him, because even though he's so big and strong, he gets really scared."
Bear said nothing. His facial expression remained stern. Rowan giggled.
"Daddy, you're silly."
Bastian put her down, then turned toward Bear.
"You all right, bud?" Bastian said.
Bear's eyes remained dark. "Let's step into the hall."
Bastian nodded. Leaving Rowan in the bunk, they stepped outside. They stood in the corridor.
"What is it?" Bastian asked.
"What you said was true, Bastian. I'm scared. Yes, I'm a big, strong man, but that spider scared me. Something is coming. A great evil."
Bastian shuddered. "I feel it too."
"I don't know if these are demons, aliens, or something created in a lab," Bear said. "But the words of the old stories return to me, and yes, I'm scared. We're facing a long night, Bastian. The long, dark night of humanity."
Bastian looked through the door into his bunk. Rowan was watching a cartoon. Danger Dogs. Her favorite. He could hear the familiar theme song. An image flashed before his eyes like a waking nightmare: a spider wrapping her in webs, ready to feed.
"I must man the wall with my troops," Bastian said. "When this long, dark night comes, I must stand on that wall. I must cast back whatever evil comes." He looked at Bear. "I can't stay here with Rowan."
The giant squeezed Bastian's shoulder. "I'll guard her. With my life. Nobody will get past me."
Bastian nodded, then pulled his friend into an embrace. "Thank you. You've always been there for me and my family. You are my family, Bear. You're my brother."
The giant nodded. "Always. Now go man that wall, brother. I'll stay here and watch the little one."
It broke Bastian's heart, but he walked away from the bunk. Away from his daughter.
He left the barracks, crossed the courtyard, and climbed onto that wall. As he stood guard, a chill ran through him. He could still smell the spider. He could still hear the thing's dying words.
"We … are … the rahs. You … are … meat. Humanity will fall!"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Starship Freedom
High Earth Orbit
17:35 Christmas 2199
King walked through the winding corridors of his starship, heading toward the bridge.
Around him, the ship was in chaos.
Soldiers bustled back and forth. Yellow lights flashed along the bulkheads. Speakers kept announcing: "Yellow alert, yellow alert. All military personnel report to your stations, all civilians return to your bunks. Yellow alert, yellow alert …"
Back in the war, they could enter lockdown within moments. Now it took an afternoon. Seeing the ship's lackadaisical response to an emergency underscored how far they had fallen. Truly, the Freedom was no longer a warship.
As King walked the ship, soldiers stopped, pressed themselves against the bulkheads, and stood at attention. Once he walked by, they rushed onward. Tourists filled the corridors too, gawking.
"That's him!" whispered a tourist in a Hawaiian shirt. "There, that's Commander King!"
A few tourists took photos.
"Is there a problem, sir?" asked a woman. She held a plush Freedom the Frog doll; you could win them at the carnival on deck 31. "Sir! I paid good money for this trip. Why must we return to our bunks?"
"Oh, give it a rest, Karen," said her husband, a potbellied man with a bushy beard. "We're getting our money's worth here. A proper military drill! Just the way they used to do 'em." He gave King a brisk salute. "Wonderful show, sir! Wonderful."
King grunted. He had asked Darjeeling to send the tourists to their bunks. But it was a large ship. Thousands of tourists clogged the Freedom this Christmas. Darjeeling was facing a monumental task.
"Return to your bunks," King rasped at the tourists. "This is not a drill."
A helpful corporal happened to be walking by. Thankfully, the young soldier approached the tourists, soothed them with soft words, and began accompanying them to their bunks.
"I'll take care of this, sir," said the corporal.
King nodded. "Good man."
He kept walking. The metal labyrinth coiled onward. In a ship as large as the Freedom, it took a while to get anywhere.
It was both the blessing and bane of the ship—her sheer size. A commander couldn't simply pop down from the bridge to engineering. The two departments were a kilometer apart. That was assuming you could travel between them in a straight line. Which you could not. A labyrinth of corridors and shafts, twisting and turning, ran through the ship like ant burrows. It could take an hour to cross the ship by foot.
They had developed workarounds. The MindWeb let them talk anywhere on the ship. And there were seven Mimori units aboard, ready to help in different stations. In recent years, King had rarely left the prow. He didn't need to. Roaming these halls today reminded him of how massive the Freedom truly was.
And of how she had declined.
He passed by the Dinogolf. Ignoring the wailing alarms, teenagers were putting golf balls between the legs of animatronic dinosaurs. Two teenagers were making out under the brontosaurus. King walked by a Middle Eastern restaurant where androids were belly dancing on stage. One corridor with broad windows afforded a view of the wave pool. A few tourists were still swimming.
King could still remember when all these decks were military. When soldiers lived and worked in these cabins and caverns. Heroes.
How has this happened to my starship? King wondered.
He too had declined, perhaps. Withered away. Become something he was never meant to be.
The decline had been so easy to ignore, to pretend it wasn't happening. A series of compromises. Every compromise another cut.
One day, three years after the war, the order had come. Turn the Freedom into a museum. King had agreed. It would save his ship from being scuttled and sold for scrap metal. Instead, he could share his beloved Freedom with the world. He could show the people what honor and courage meant, show them the halls of glory. He rejected positions at Alliance Headquarters, rejected the command of other ships. A captain should stay with his ship. So he had stayed.
A year later, another order. Open a restaurant. After all, the tourists needed something to eat. All right then. King had compromised. Let them grill burgers and serve ice cream aboard. Even commanders liked burgers. Why not?
A year after that, they asked him to open a movie theater. Only to show reels of the war, of course. Fine.
After that it never ended. The flood gates had opened. Civilian investors came up, gobbling up ownership of deck after deck. Then it was spas, haunted houses, even a strip club. A goddamn strip club on his beloved ship. Freedom the Frog appeared in commercials on Earth. He also walked around the ship, signing autographs and taking photos—a teenager in a fluffy green suit.
A series of compromises. A thousand cuts. And now King was dying.
He wondered: Was this why, on his last day, he had ordered a yellow alert? Was it less about the warning from the Rubicon, more about wanting to salvage whatever remained of his dignity? To be a true soldier one last time?
King didn't know.
These days, he didn't even know himself.
But one thing he had to admit. This felt good. This felt right. As he marched down the corridors, a soldier again, he felt twenty years younger.
I hope that's not why I'm doing this, he thought.
* * * * *
He entered the prow of the ship, and the crowd of tourists thinned out.
Finally.
Goddamn, I hate walking the midsection, he thought.
Normally he avoided the place. Hell, even the stern, with its roaring engines and punishing heat, beat the midsection. But the aerie, where he had visited the pilots, was located on the bottom of the midsection. To get there and back, King had traveled through thirty decks of tourism.
But now, ah—relief. He was back in the prow.
All of the Freedom was his home, but the prow was special to him. If all the Freedom was a sprawling castle, the prow was its central tower, the haunt of the king.
The Freedom's prow was built around the Fist of Freedom. The railgun sprouted from the midsection, thrusting out its mighty rails. Science labs, ops rooms, war rooms, ATLAS stations—they all sprang up around these prongs like mushrooms around tree trunks. The railgun was five hundred meters long. But for three hundred and fifty meters, the prow hugged them.
There were no tourists here. The prow was dedicated to science and command. It was true during the war. It was true now.
The prow was bustling today. Officers ran back and forth. Machines hummed inside war rooms. Gears turned. ATLAS sensors swept the sky, displaying information on countless screens.
Finally King stepped onto the bridge.
"Commander on deck!" cried the guard at the door. The man saluted.
King returned the salute and marched across the bridge, heading toward his station.
The bridge was built deep inside the prow, safe behind several layers of armored bulkheads. Along with engineering, it was the most protected section of the Freedom. It would take several nuclear torpedoes to breech the ship this deep.
The Freedom's design was revolutionary. Back during World War III, older warships had flown to battle with bridges built near the outer hull. Some of those bridges even had windows. Windows! None of those ships came home. A single enemy blast was enough to breach the hull and kill the bridge crew. The Alliance had learned quickly. Aboard the Freedom, the bridge was the safest place on the ship.
The Freedom was revolutionary in another way. In the old days, warships had separated the bridge and CIC. The bridge was dedicated to navigation and helm control. The CIC, or Combat Information Center, controlled battle operations. The commander and XO split their duties, one officer manning the bridge, the other overseeing the CIC. In a bold move, the Freedom combined both navigation and combat operations into a single hub, allowing the commander and XO to work in perfect concert. This reorganization proved itself in World War III. Today most modern warships followed that standard.
Across the Freedom's bridge, King's officers we
re busy at work. Some were wearing their parade whites, complete with gloves, bow ties, and ceremonial sabers, all ready for the Christmas gala. Others still wore the simpler blue service uniforms. Aside from the guard at the door, they did not snap to attention nor salute. During yellow alert, they were to focus on their tasks, avoiding normal courtesies such as salutes and attentions.
They knew the rules. But most of the crew had never experienced a yellow alert. The Freedom hadn't gone to an elevated alert status since World War III.
"Give me an update," King said, reaching his station.
The bridge was purely utilitarian. Aside from a coffee machine, it was all business. The deck was diamond-plated steel. Cables and pipes ran along the bulkheads. Computers hummed. A dozen officers stood at their stations, busy at work. There were no potted plants, no bright colors, no carpets—just metal and plastic and glass. The bridge was about getting work done. Even the coffee maker, the single luxury, was deemed essential to full crew functionality.
Monitors glowed everywhere. They covered the bulkheads and hung from the deckhead. Some displayed stats from the starship—life support, crew positions, shield strength, and more. Other monitors displayed ATLAS stats; the telemetry system connected to probes and sensors across the solar system. Real monitors. Green font. Black backgrounds. Good and simple data without the frills. No need for fancy holograms, splashy interfaces, or hallucinations.
Some modern ships no longer used monitors. The crew relied purely on their MindLinks. The neural implants connected to MindWeb, downloaded the data, and displayed it as a floating hallucination. Even that might soon be obsolete. In a few years, they said, a new generation of MindLinks would download knowledge directly into the brain, bypassing the visual cortex. You'd simply know what you needed to know.
Starship Freedom Page 18
