Starship Freedom

by Daniel Arenson

  "Yawing as hard as I can, sir. I …" The android strained. "Hold on …"

  The ships raced by each other.

  Only a few klicks apart now.

  Too close. Too close!

  One of Bloodlust's enormous steel claws, a weapon the size of the Burj Khalifa, scraped across the Freedom's starboard hull.

  Mimori screamed and clutched her side.

  The Freedom jolted.

  The bridge crew swayed on their feet.

  What monitors were still active flashed red.

  Mimori fell to her knees, holding her side. "It hurts. Help. Help me. It hurts."

  King stared at one monitor, but it flickered, then died.

  "Somebody give me a damage report!" he barked.

  Jordan looked up from a workstation that was still operational. "The claw ripped our midsection open along decks 23, 24, and 25."

  "Tourist bunks," King said.

  "The ship is venting air fast!" Jordan said.

  King knelt by the android, who was still holding her side. "Mimori, are you with me?"

  She looked up at him, pale. She nodded, still holding her side. "Yes."

  "Seal off decks 23 to 25 in the midsection," King said. "All hatches, vents, everything—seal them off!"

  Jordan stepped closer. "Jim, there are hundreds of tourists in there. They'll suffocate."

  "Most are already dead," King said. "The rest are dying. If we don't seal the breach, the entire ship will depressurize."

  "We need time to evacuate tourists from those de—"

  "Sir, they're coming in for another assault!" cried a tactical officer, interrupting the XO.

  "Mimori, evasive maneuvers!" King said. "And seal those decks now. That is an order, Mimori."

  A MindLink message appeared on high priority, hovering before King, drawing his attention at once. Only senior officers had permission to do that.

  "Sir, this is Mimori Unit 3 in the midsection." A hallucination of a Mimori unit appeared before him. Her uniform was torn and charred. A gash on her cheek revealed whirring electronics. "I'm working on sealing the breaches. My bridge counterpart will focus on evasive action."

  The hallucination vanished. Mimori Unit 1, here on the bridge, was still kneeling on the deck. She had her eyes closed, and her arms were moving like a conductor. She was still piloting the ship.

  The beloved Freedom was hurt. But she was still flying.

  They soared, dodging more claws.

  "Sir, it's Spitfire, calling from the Eagle hangar!" came a call on the MindLink. "We're all loaded up here with chaff and ready to fly."

  The Freedom swerved, dodging a plasma spray. Both enemy clawships were coming in fast. The Venom, the black clawship, was spurting plasma. Meanwhile, the Bloodlust seemed determined to ram the Freedom and claw her apart. Dear old Hel'rah probably got a kick out of it.

  The Freedom flew faster, yawing, rolling, desperately trying to avoid death by fire or steel.

  "Spitfire, fly!" King said. "Focus all Eagles on the Venom! Launch everything you got at the Venom! Go!"

  The Bloodlust is mine, King thought, fists clenched. I'm taking you down myself, Hel'rah. You threatened my granddaughter. You hurt my ship. You murdered hundreds of my passengers. I'm going to crush you under my boot like the bug that you are.

  "Here we go!" Spitfire shouted and laughed. "If we don't make it, see ya in hell, Commander! Woo!"

  King watched the video feed from the probe. On the starboard hull, the hangar airlocks opened. The Eagles emerged to fight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Starship Freedom

  79 million kms from Earth

  04:27 December 26, 2199

  Spitfire shoved down the throttle. Her starfighter stormed out the hangar, flying to battle.

  Two hundred more Eagles soared with her, etching trails of white light.

  They left the Freedom behind. Before them loomed the beasts. Two gargantuan clawships. The Eagles were like a swarm of hornets flying toward two charging bulls.

  Oh hell, Spitfire thought.

  Terror flowed over her like icy waves. Her hands shook on her yoke.

  She had clocked countless hours in her Eagle, the best starfighter in the galaxy. But only as a stunt pilot. Never in battle.

  None of them had ever fought a battle.

  She directed the flock toward the Venom, the black clawship. Venom was smaller than the Bloodlust, but at two kilometers long, she was still colossal, larger than any starship humans had ever built.

  The Venom yawed in space, turning toward the starfighters. Her ring of claws bloomed open, revealing a flaming gullet. The alien dreadnought almost seemed to be smiling. It was the sort of smile a predator gave its prey—just before feasting. It seemed to Spitfire less like a starship now, more like a god of the dark.

  I'm going to die, Spitfire thought. I'm going to die out here in space, far from home. We all are.

  Visions flashed before her eyes. Not MindLink hallucinations but memories. Her little hilltop apartment in Haifa, overlooking the sea. Her mother, collecting fallen pine nuts in the garden. Her grandfather, fixing his little machines. Her pet dog, a mutt named Schnitzel, wagging his tail. Her nephews and nieces playing in the yard, laughing, leaping onto Spitfire.

  She would never see them again.

  MindPlay hovered before her, showing the positions of her pilots. Their voices rose, filling her mind.

  "What the hell are we supposed to do, loop-de-loops?"

  "We have to get out of here. We have to run!"

  "We're not fighter pilots! We're gonna die here. Oh God, we're all gonna die."

  Spitfire took a deep breath. She gripped the yoke more steadily.

  Calm yourself, Gal Levy! she thought. You are a colonel in the Alliance Fleet. Your father was a fighter pilot. His father was a fighter pilot. Your family has flown in battle for centuries. You will face this enemy!

  "Freedom's Flock!" she said. "This is Spitfire, your flight commander. I know you're scared. But today you are all warriors! Charge that clawship and fire your chaff! With me—fly!"

  "Let's rock!" somebody cried. It was Pickles. Sarcastic Pickles with his bionic eye and sardonic smile.

  "Let's kill these sons of bitches!" roared Meatball, the beefy pilot with the pink cheeks.

  "Come on, charge with Spitfire!" cried Katana. The Japanese pilot laughed. "For death and glory!"

  The Eagles soared. All of them. Babyface. Honey Badger. Dingo. Razor. Snoopy. All the rest of them. They knew one another by their call signs. They were a family. Today they were warriors.

  Facing them, the Venom spewed her plasma.

  "Scatter!" Spitfire cried. "Peacock formation!"

  The Eagles branched apart, each starfighter drawing an arc through space. They often used this move in the shows, drawing an enormous peacock tail in space, every starfighter etching another feather.

  The plasma jet stormed between them, tearing through their luminous wakes.

  From a distance, the plasma jet had seemed slender, a flaming blade in the dark. But now, flying so close, Spitfire saw that the torrent was thick and engorged. It could swallow a starfighter like a fire hose washing over a fly.

  "Zebra formations!" Spitfire said. "Fly toward the enemy!"

  The Eagles yawed toward the clawship. They charged.

  As they flew, the Eagles rose and fell, zigzagged and bounced, drawing lines through the sky like zebra stripes. The formation was meant to dazzle the audience, drowning the eyes in optical illusions of crisscrossing wakes. Spitfire just hoped it would distract the enemy.

  The Venom yawed left, then right. She seemed unsure where to attack.

  "It's working!" Pickles cried. "We're bamboozling the heck out of—"

  "Watch out!" Spitfire cried.

  The Venom rolled, spraying plasma, swinging her blade of fire through space.

  The crackling torrent tore into a starfighter.

  Pickles screamed, ejecting just in time. His starfi
ghter exploded. Pickles tumbled into the distance, still strapped into his seat. His MindLink went dark. He was either dead or unconscious.

  "Pickles!" Meatball cried.

  One starfighter broke out of formation. Meatball charged at the enemy. The Venom turned toward him.

  "Meatball, get back in formation," Spitfire snapped.

  "I've had enough with these spiders!" Meatball cried. "I'm gonna—"

  The plasma washed over him.

  His Eagle exploded.

  Another avatar went dark. But this time they saw no pilot eject.

  "Meatball?" Spitfire whispered. Nobody answered.

  Fear washed over Spitfire. Her fingers began to shake, her pulse to quicken.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the Freedom far away, battling the Bloodlust, the other clawship. The Freedom was hurt, still leaking air. Plasma was spraying her hull. She was taking a pounding.

  A third starfighter burned.

  Curly's starfighter this time.

  Curly—silly Curly with his jokes and cigars and wide smile.

  Curly—gone.

  Spitfire began to pant. Her breath shook. Panic was setting in.

  Be calm, Spitfire, she told herself. Be cool. You are the child of warriors. You are a daughter of Earth. You can do this.

  "Bumblebee formation," she said. "Swarm and attack!"

  The Eagles swarmed.

  Bumblebee formation basically meant—charge like hell.

  It was an in-joke among the flock. What to do if a tourist shuttle annoyed them too much? Fly like bumblebees! Swarm, swarm! Just a joke.

  Now it meant life or death.

  The Venom stormed toward them, plasma spurting. Another Eagle exploded.

  But scores of Eagles still flew. Swift starfighters. Legendary machines. The famous starfighters that won World War III. They were now painted red and blue. They were now stunt vessels, unarmed.

  But they were still damn fast.

  They swerved around the plasma.

  The fiery jet arched toward Spitfire.

  She executed a spiraling barrel roll, dodging the assault.

  The Venom flew closer.

  A claw extended, sweeping toward Spitfire. That claw was a kilometer long. Spitfire soared in a straight line, then looped around the claw, dodging the gargantuan blade.

  Yes. They were fast. They were agile. These pilots were daredevils. And maybe, after all, that wasn't a handicap.

  Spitfire flew in spirals around the plasma beam, corkscrewing closer toward the Venom.

  She had no missiles. No bullets. No bombs. But she had a trunk full of chaff. Forks. Spoons. A few butter knives. It wasn't much. But in space, flying at these speeds, objects carried immense kinetic energy. Every starfighter pilot had heard horror stories, some maybe just urban legends—a single grain of sand in space or maybe just a fleck of paint peeled off some hull, slamming into a starfighter, shattering the hull, and killing the pilot inside. Many times, when flying her Eagle, Spitfire had looked back toward the Freedom, had seen the scars on the starship's armor. Some of those scars were a meter deep. Just tiny fragments of junk, floating in space, slamming into the ship at hypersonic speed. It turned even specks of dust into bullets.

  Well, Spitfire had more than dust in her trunk.

  She roared closer toward the Venom. Closer. Closer still.

  The clawship yawed toward her, sweeping her claws, ready to slice Spitfire's starfighter apart.

  Spitfire kept flying, heading toward that craggy black hull.

  At the last second, she executed a quick, perfect dime flip. Within an instant, she was facing the other way.

  Dime flips were tough moves, impossible in the air, hard even in space.

  Spitfire did it perfectly.

  "Eat my dust," she muttered, opened her back hatch, and hit the thruster.

  Her engine roared.

  She blazed on full afterburner, leaving a trail of flame.

  From her back hatch, she released the chaff. Cutlery flew toward the enemy ship.

  At the sight of spinning spoons and forks, Spitfire had to laugh.

  The chaff hatch was meant to confuse heat-seeking missiles. These starfighters had used it successfully in the war. Now, instead of aluminum strips, cutlery flew toward the Venom—and impacted.

  The cutlery plowed into the clawship's hull.

  Knives, forks, spoons—they carved into the metal armor like maggots burrowing into old wood.

  All around the Venom, the Eagles were unleashing their chaff. Eagles? Next to this alien dreadnought, they seemed as small as bees. And they kept stinging the great, lumbering beast.

  Unfortunately, none of the chaff did serious damage.

  The Venom's hull was damn thick.

  A claw came swinging toward Spitfire.

  She cursed and tugged the yoke. Her heart leaped. Too slow. She was too slow! Why had she paused to look at the hull? The claw came closer, streaking toward her, she pulled hard left, and—

  The claw clipped her wing.

  Spitfire screamed.

  The wing shattered. Her Eagle careened through space. Alarms blared through the cockpit.

  "Spitfire!" a pilot cried.

  "Spitfire is down! Our colonel is down!"

  "I'm fine, I'm fine!" Spitfire said. "Close one."

  She struggled with the yoke, steadying her flight. Thankfully, she didn't need wings. They were only necessary when flying in an atmosphere. In space, they normally just carried missiles, but she didn't have any of those anyway.

  She flew back toward the Venom. The plasma beam was slicing downward, carving through a formation of Eagles.

  Spitfire executed another flip, exposing her rear to the Venom, and released more chaff. The cutlery slammed into the clawship, driving into the hull. Again—it did no significant damage.

  This just isn't going to work, Spitfire thought.

  She watched a claw slice an Eagle in two. The pilot screamed, then fell silent. A pilot Spitfire had trained with, laughed with, drank with.

  They were all her friends. Her soldiers. Dying.

  They kept badgering the Venom, hurling the only weapons they had. Just cutlery. Scarring the hull but doing no more damage.

  The Venom turned in space. She began accelerating toward the Freedom, which was battling the much larger Bloodlust in the distance. Apparently, Venom was bored with fighting the Eagles, realizing they were no threat.

  The Freedom was barely hanging on. A second clawship would tip the balance.

  I must stop this clawship, Spitfire knew. At any cost.

  She shoved down the throttle, lurching forward on a spurt of afterburner. She raced alongside the Venom's scarred hull. Spitfire shoved the throttle down as far as it would go. She gained speed. She outflew the clawship, speeding toward its prow.

  A hidden claw burst out from the Venom's hull like a switchblade.

  Spitfire screamed and yawed hard, desperately trying to dodge the weapon.

  The claw slammed into the tail of her Eagle. She careened.

  She gripped the yoke, tightened her lips, and kept flying.

  "You will not destroy the Freedom," she vowed, flying faster.

  Claws took down another Eagle.

  "I am Gal Levy. I am Spitfire. I am a soldier of Earth. And I will stop you!"

  In her Eagle, missing a wing and tail, she shot past the Venom's prow. The great plasma beam crackled at her side, wider than her starfighter, racing toward the Freedom. The heat bathed her. Her Eagle creaked as the heat expanded its components.

  Spitfire hit the afterburner. She was almost out of fuel now. She jolted forward at hypersonic speed, racing alongside the plasma torrent, moving farther, farther ahead of the Venom. She left all her other pilots behind.

  Finally, halfway between the Venom and the Freedom, Spitfire spun around.

  She faced the incoming Venom, this gargantuan vessel. The clawship suddenly seemed to her like a beast. Like the head of a dragon. The hull was all cr
aggy black skin. Portholes blazed like red eyes. The claws thrust out in a ring of horns. The jaws opened, spurting flame. A dragon. A dragon of the depths. Before this reptilian goddess, Spitfire was so small. Just a speck of dust.

  But even a speck of dust, at the right speed, at the right angle—it could topple dreadnoughts.

  "I am Gal Levy. I am Spitfire. I am a soldier of Earth. I will win!"

  She let out a battle cry, shoved her throttle all the way down, and charged toward the beast.

  The dragon roared in the darkness.

  The stream of fire arced toward her. A whip of flame.

  Spitfire yawed.

  She rolled.

  She executed loops, dives, barrel rolls, flips. Wherever the plasma blade sliced, she dodged it. She kept charging. A medieval knight on a horse, charging toward the fire-breathing dragon. She would slay the beast.

  She flew closer.

  Closer still.

  She dodged every assault. She flew faster than she had ever flown. All her aerobatic moves—she executed them one after the other, moving like lightning, swerving over and under the plasma jet.

  The Venom unleashed more firepower. Jagged black missiles like shards of obsidian flew at Spitfire. She dodged them. Photon bolts hurled at her. She swerved around them. Spinning saw blades rolled toward her starfighter. She rose, fell, whipped between them.

  She was putting on a show.

  She was performing for a crowd.

  The moves were natural. She heard the applause.

  She saw them die. The faces of her friends. Her flock.

  She stood at her father's grave.

  She was Gal Levy, the little girl with skinned knees, with angry eyes, with bruised little fists. The little girl from the hills with so much rage.

  Today she was a soldier.

  Today she was lightning.

  The Venom unleashed everything at her. And Gal Levy flew through the gauntlet, streaming toward the flaming gullet in the center of the beast.

  Among the ring of claws it shone, swirled, gurgled. A collapsing star. A cauldron of molten souls. A portal to a land of endless fire and dark, beautiful agony. The core of the Venom. Her mouth. Her pulsing heart. Her Achilles' heel.

  From this pit, Venom spewed her dragonfire. Spitfire flew closer. Closer. Skimming the blade of fire. The heat melted her remaining wing. It grazed the side of her Eagle. The paint burned off. The hull dented. The canopy creaked. She kept flying. Faster.